The Pyramid Prophecy

by Caroline Vermalle

  When church bells finally tolled in the distance, it felt like I was awakening from a long, peaceful sleep.

  7

  Everything that followed, passed in a blur.

  All too soon, I ascended the church steps, holding onto Gigi’s fragile arm. The doors of the great Church of the Madeleine opened and the angelic voices of an invisible choir spilled out, taking my breath away. I took careful steps down the aisle, trying not to gape in wonder at the sight all around me. Millions of candles floated in mid-air, their glow soothed the blue, the gold and the marble of what looked less like a French church and more like an ancient Roman temple. Hundreds of pairs of eyes gazed at me; the crowd seemed to stretch beyond the gigantic columns, into the painted frescoes and ornate detail of the walls. Benevolent rays of light cascaded from the zenith of the domes above, as if coming from the heavens.

  And at the end of the aisle, dwarfed under the monumental sculpted altar, was Seth, beaming.

  My heart pounded beneath the ancient necklace; I barely noticed Gigi letting go of my arm. In an instant, I was beside Seth. His eyes sparkled with emotion. I hadn’t expected to see him so vulnerable.

  The priest began his sermon but I struggled to concentrate. All I could think of was how magical everything was. Everything was bigger and more extraordinary than anything the little girl in me could have imagined. This moment was beyond fairy tales, beyond dreams. My chest was bursting with the need to talk to my mother, to find a way of telling her “Everything turned out alright, Mama.”

  Tears filled my eyes and my throat. Then the priest turned to say Seth’s name.

  I heard my prince say “I do”.

  For a second, I thought I saw a shadow cross over the priest’s face; but it was only a candle that had gone out, leaving behind a ghostly helix of smoke that spiral-led upwards towards the heavens.

  “Jessica Desroches,” the priest proclaimed, “do you take Seth Pryce to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

  As I was about to answer, I caught sight of Thaddeus. I hadn’t noticed him before, although he was right behind Seth. He looked straight at me, his face sombre, his eyes shining a fierce silvery light.

  In a split second, my mind flooded with the images of the dead man in the Louvre, the double reflection of Thaddeus on its glass case, my head resting on Gigi’s lap, the meaning of true love, my mother washed away on a wintry beach. Love, life and death all crystallized in this one instant, when my voice was suspended in silence, the promise it hid illuminated by a million candles. As the milliseconds turned to dust, my gaze was pulled skyward by an invisible hand, to the figures towering above the altar.

  Saint Mary Magdalene, eyes downcast, hands outstretched, was letting go of her mortal self. And, lifting her to the heavens beyond, five formidable angels, their dazzling white wings as tall as a man.

  Then, in an instant, as if ascending from a great depth, the church around me, with all its splendor, luxury and gold, rushed back in. As everything coalesced into focus, words finally took form in my mouth.

  “I do.”

  Seth let out a silent breath, his trembling hand reaching for his stomach, then quickly falling by his side again. To shut down the murmurs and whispers creeping on the cold stone floor, the priest bellowed, “The ring is the outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible love that binds your two hearts together.”

  It all became a blur again, the sermon reaching me by fragments. Soon, the ring was on my finger and the gold reflected the monumental shape of Mary Magdalene above.

  “Jessica and Seth, you have pledged yourselves to each other by your solemn vows and by the giving of rings, before God and these witnesses.”

  The word ‘witness’ made me glance in the direction of Thaddeus, bute had entirely disappeared from my line of sight. It felt like a relief.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man separate.”

  Seth cupped my face with his hands; his fingers brushing the skin of my neck sent waves of warmth to my spine. When he kissed me, his lips tasted of joy and tenderness. My happiness was so complete it felt like I was taking flight.

  Our kiss would be the last thing I would ever remember.

  8

  I am on a boat, sailing on a green river.

  The sky above is a strange shade of black; stories in an alphabet I don’t understand, written in blue ink, appear in the firmament like constellations, and morph as we progress on the emerald current. Rays of light brush against my bare skin every now and then, as if there is a hole in the black veil. On the banks, giant centipedes slide into the water.

  “We have arrived,” Anubis says.

  The boat is still in the middle of the large river. I am about to ask where we are, but the water suddenly boils, and becomes a giant green eye. In an instant, dozens of figures surround us, looking down on our boat.

  “Bow, my sister, before Osiris, Lord of the Underworld and just Judge of the Dead. Bow before the forty-two jurors.”

  I stand in the centre of a vast cave in the middle of where the green river flows. The jurors are sitting in niches on the cliff face. The green eye is filling the void on the dark horizon.

  I obey and bow, my gaze lowered.

  A terrible and yet familiar scent awaken my senses. The shadows move to reveal a beast; a grotesque mixture of a crocodile, a hippopotamus, and a lion.

  “Ammut will devour you if you do not tell the truth,” Anubis says.

  I want to say that I am telling the truth, but I have no voice, yet the black dog understands me all the same.

  “We shall see when we put your heart on the scales.”

  And with these words, he plunges his claws into my ethereal chest.

  9

  A man with a long, curved beak writes in blue ink, sits opposite me. It’s Thoth, the god of writing and magic, keeper of the Moon, watching a set of scales. In one of the scale’s trays, a feather, soft as a mother’s skin.

  The Feather of Truth.

  In the other, my heart, still beating. With each successive beat, it transforms. From red to blue, then from dull to shiny as legs grow from its flanks. Its back smoothens and divides into two wings.

  My heart has turned into a scarab.

  Anubis, Thoth and the green eye of Osiris observe the two trays of the scales, rising and descending in turn.

  I feel the breath of the beast, its vile scent chilling my core.

  A baboon suddenly swings on the chain, upsetting the scales and further delaying the moment of truth. He laughs maniacally and shouts, “If your voice is true, my sister, your heart-scarab will be as light as the feather of Good and Evil. And you will enter, blessed, into the Fields of Reeds. However, if your voice is false, your heart-scarab will be heavy, and the beast will devour your stinking soul. Have you told the truth, my sister?”

  I know who he is.

  Hapi, son of Horus, keeper of the lungs of the dead, warden of the throne. In a shriek, he jumps on my shoulder. Together we watch as the see-saw motion of the scales slows, up, down, up, down. The links of the chain creak and their song mingles with the distant sound of the green river.

  When the trays stop, there is no sound at all.

  The scales are perfectly aligned.

  The beast grunts.

  “Your voice is true,” Thoth says.

  Then Horus the hawk, the sun in one eye and the moon in the other, appears before me. He smiles at me and takes me by the arm. He guides my steps towards a pinkish, orange light whose warmth fills my empty chest. A few more steps and it illuminates my fingers, my hand, my arm. On the horizon, I see infinite fields bathed in a benevolent sunrise. I feel whole again, and my soul expands with bliss.

  A scream tears the fields apart. Hapi, terrified, points at the scales and screeches,

  “The heart!”

  A
hubbub fills the great cave as the jurors stand up to watch. The trays of the scales are moving again.

  Osiris’ eye darkens, and the big blue scarab, my own heart, starts speaking in a tongue I do not understand.

  “Chapter Thirty of the Book of the Dead is missing!” Thoth growls.

  “The heart!” Hapi sneers, his monkey eyes burning a hungry fever. “The heart will betray!”

  * * *

  I:10

  * * *

  I am the powerless witness to my heart-scarab’s betrayal.

  The orange light which has spun between my fingers has vanished. Now the walls shake with the bellows of outraged jurors and Hapi’s amused sneers.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk, my sister,” he hisses. “Did you not heed what was written in Chapter Thirty of the Book of the Dead? Before it is weighed, travelers must always silence their heart, for it is a great traitor. This court has never witnessed a heart’s own testimony. What fate awaits you, my sister?”

  The voice of Osiris fills the cave. “Your voice is true. But your heart-scarab refuses the orange light. You must go back.”

  I do not understand. The baboon on my shoulder stops whistling. The emerald water ripples with the whispers of the jurors.

  Anubis is already at my side, pulling me from Horus, dragging me towards the boat. I want to struggle, but my body is only ether.

  “But the green river flows only in one direction,” Thoth protests.

  “Then our sister’s soul will go with her Night Traveler,” Osiris declares.

  The words in blue ink stop moving. The silence is disturbed only by the gentle lapping of the water against our boat. Everything in the universe holds its breath. Even the beast.

  The voice of the heart-scarab rises again. But what it says doesn’t sound like a statement; more like a long wail. The heart’s tale of woes seems to enthrall everyone present. When it comes to an end, Hapi’s face is streaked with tears.

  An animated murmur ripples through the cave like a shiver: “The Prophecy! The Prophecy!”

  Anubis glances, almost anxious, towards the eye of the judge. Thoth has stopped writing; he slowly looks up to the sky. Soon, everybody’s gaze move skywards. Mouths open in disbelief.

  The blue ink spells only one word. Its large letters turn into pure, golden light.

  It seems to cast a spell on gods and beasts alike. Everything is still; even the river has stopped flowing. Then a lone voice wails.

  “War is coming! Our enemies have entered the House of Osiris!”

  The rumours of bad omens seep into every corner of the cave like an icy fog. I can’t take my eyes off the word in the sky. I don’t know what it means, I can’t recognize the alphabet. One letter could be shaped like a pyramid but I cannot be sure. Yet it speaks to my missing heart. The lines it draws suggest a map, showing me the way home. A home I haven’t lived in yet.

  “Silence!” Horus bellows.

  Hapi sinks his claws into my shoulder.

  “The House of Osiris is not at war,” continues the hawk. “Yet.”

  “Why is Ma’at summoning the Prophecy now?”

  “Because Ma’at has chosen our warrior.”

  Suddenly, my ethereal body is burning. The fire within me grows until I look around. All eyes are on me.

  “It can’t be! She is not ready!” a juror cries out.

  “None of them ever are,” Osiris retorts. “They must become it. She will become it.”

  “Does she even know her purpose?”

  “None of them ever do. They must seek it. She will seek it.”

  A whole chorus of voices spill out from the jurors’ niches. “Who will ensure that the Night Traveler follows the right path? Is the heart true? Is she really the chosen one?”

  Suddenly a thundering echo erupts, engulfing the river and its swarming banks.

  “How dare you question Ma’at, goddess of truth? How dare you question her Prophecy?” The green eye has nearly turned black with anger. It scans each one of the jurors, silencing them with his unforgiving stare. Once every single objection has been squashed, he declares:

  “The Truth must not be told.”

  “The Truth must not be told,” the forty-two jurors dutifully repeat.

  Then the gigantic eye of Osiris turns to me, filling me with burning ice.

  “My sister, you have earned the Fields of Reed, the scales of Ma’at have told us so. They will be your home when you are returned to us. Until then, you must attend to your heart’s unfinished work, and fulfil the Prophecy of Ma’at.”

  “When will our sister be returned to me?” Horus asks.

  “When the Night Traveler finds the path, and lets her go.”

  “Who will ensure the Night Traveler finds the path?”

  “Anubis’ messenger.”

  Horus turns to Anubis, who nods solemnly. Horus lowers his eyes and whispers, “Thus it shall be.”

  With this final, unchallenged proclamation, the eye dissolves into tumultuous waves; Anubis grabs hold of the oar of our boat and manoeuvers it against the flow of the current. I turn back one last time to see Thoth holding my scarab heart and lifting it up to the black sky like a precious offering. Soon there is nothing left of my tribunal other than darkness and raging waters. Hapi digs his claws into my shoulder again, so as not to be thrown off the boat. The storm is monstrous, and Anubis bears his teeth, planting the oars in the green froth at our flanks, to keep us afloat. My eyes open wide to comprehend what we are heading for.

  A vast and angry maelstrom.

  Overwhelming pain gradually invades all my limbs, my skin, my senses, my mind. I can feel my body again, but the price to pay is too great. I turn to Anubis to beg to return, but his eyes are elsewhere, filled with horror.

  We are no longer alone in the boat.

  Crouched in the shadow of the little cabin, there is a woman, a satisfied grin drawn on her sublime features. She wears a blue war crown, and her eyes are two empty sockets filled with a moonlit sky.

  The monkey, hypnotized, yelps.

  “The Queen warrior! Nefertiti!”

  Paralyzed by pain and horror, I contemplate jumping into the water. But it is already swirling around us, pushing us down into the black hole of the maelstrom. Its edges are smooth and silvery like a mirror. As the monkey screams again, I catch my reflection in the water.

  I am myself again. I have a body. I am no longer a ghost.

  But my hair is grey. And my eyes are as green as the green river swallowing us all.

  Suddenly Hapi jumps on me, baring his teeth. In one violent push, he forces his muzzle into my lungs. I draw a painful gasp.

  I can suddenly breathe.

  With breath comes my voice.

  With my voice come words.

  They are the only thing left when our boat disappears into the dark, watery void.

  NEX exists, amen, I am sane? Time, axis. The main exit is... I am the main exit, former saint, inmate, east, east, east! Main exit... is me! NAME EAST I AM SIN MEATS XIII SIXTINE I AM I AM SIXTINE EAT SIN I AM SIXTINE I AM SIXTINE I AM SIXTINE

  I am Sixtine.

  II

  10

  Nasser Moswen ran, panting down the halls of the Egyptian Museum of Cairo, the loud echo of his steps pregnant with malignant urgency.

  Some visitors had paused in their dawdling, throwing off anxious looks: the museum was just a step away from Tahrir Square and stood amongst gutted buildings that were now nothing more than cinders. Egypt was still in the throes of a revolution and, barely one year before, the museum had been ransacked and its mummies decapitated.

  The small man continued to run. His mouth dry, his crimson face bathed in sweat, a cell phone grasped in one clammy hand. He zigzagged clumsily between the ancient statues and windows smudged with dust.

  With luck, he would be at the Four Seasons hotel in twenty minutes. He swore a silent oath under his mustache and continued his marathon towards the large door that led out onto the street. He took the steps four at
a time and sprinted for his car.

  Nothing seemed unusual in the streets of Cairo. The ripped sidewalks and twisted pipes from clashes a year before were now part of the ordinary landscape of the Egyptian capital.

  It was absurd, Moswen thought. The world should have slowed down, like when one watches an accident unfold. His own life was slipping away, he was so sure of it, and it made him sick.

  But if he did not arrive at the Four Seasons in time, it would be even worse.

  He started his battered and rusty car and sped off, foot to the floor, into the dense traffic that jammed into the neck of the 6th of October Bridge. He hooted and pounded on his steering wheel all the while pressing “Redial” on his phone.

  “Four Seasons Hotel. How may I help you?”

  “Has Dr. Al-Shamy arrived?” Moswen screamed.

  “Room number, please?”

  “No, no, no, I called earlier. Dr. Al-Shamy. He’s giving a press conference in the Champollion room. It’s urgent, I must speak to him immediately!”

  “Please hold.”

  Moswen overtook a truck and avoided an oncoming SUV by inches, creating a cacophony of horns and shouting to accompany the music from the Four Season’s switchboard.

  “Sir, I am sorry but the press conference has begun, and we are not able–”

  “I am Dr. Nasser Moswen, the assistant curator at the Egyptian Museum, Dr. Al-Shamy’s deputy. It is of the utmost importance, I repeat, the utmost importance, that I speak to him. It’s a matter of national security–”

  “Beep beep beep.”

  No network coverage. In a rage, Moswen cursed and tossed the phone onto the ripped passenger seat.

  Soon, the massive facade of the Four Seasons loomed up against the blue sky. He drove up onto the sidewalk and almost jammed the horn before finally coming to a screeching halt in front of the hotel entrance. He knew his way to the Champollion Room, his boss’s favorite venue for his many press conferences. As he rushed into the cavernous lobby and then shot past several hotel employees, all dressed in their signature gold and black waistcoats, he felt their disdainful looks as if his race against time had no place in this cosseted world of wealth and privilege.