Inkarna

by Nerine Dorman

  “And you didn’t have suspicions, listening to their cheesy Russian accents?”

  She shakes her head.

  This chills me, suggesting Alexei’s activities may run higher than I’d like to consider. Pay-offs to cops. Ouch. “And I was fucking his sister? Sorry, Ash was… He almost deserved to be put out of his misery.”

  Marlise’s expression is pained.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—” As if I’m doing a better job. “This is coming out all wrong.” I need to change the subject. “What’s the time now?”

  “It’s half-past eight.”

  “I need to go check something out.”

  “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

  Gingerly I get my legs over the side of the bed. “I absolutely have to.”

  “Go where?”

  “There’s a library in Wynberg, run by the Rosicrucians. I need to get there.”

  “Um, Ash, the car isn’t working.”

  “Damn. I’ll catch the train.”

  She rises abruptly. “You’re crazy! You just about kill both of us with that crazy stunt, and now you want to go out, when you can hardly stand?”

  “Marlise,” I warn. “I don’t know what’s happening right now. I’m clutching at straws. Someone’s just tried to kill me. I need to do something. If I carry on lying here, I’m going to wind up dead.” Or worse, because there is worse than dead, as far as I’m concerned.

  That urgency has me on my feet despite the overwhelming nausea and dizziness that assails me. Marlise watches me for about a minute before she, too, starts dressing.

  “I’m coming with,” she explains.

  “Don’t you have studying you have to do or something? I don’t want to be responsible for you wrecking your life on my behalf.”

  The look Marlise shoots my way is positively venomous. “I’m not a child.”

  I should feel guilty. In fact, a small twinge almost has the word sorry tumble from my lips. “Suit yourself.” I shrug.

  “Are you going to at least eat something before we go out?”

  “Are you offering?”

  A small hiss escapes her and something about her annoyance makes me flash a smile at her—mother hen. I’d be beyond foolish to say that to her face but if I can’t find something to laugh at in this entire messed-up situation, I’d be buggered.

  That smile works its charm. Marlise offers a tentative one in return.

  “I was thinking, since I made some money yesterday, and since you’re insisting on tagging along, the least I can do is buy you coffee and a muffin along the way. Is the electricity still out?”

  She nods.

  We make quite the pair as we exit her room, me limping as if I’ve recently returned from a prize fight and Marlise with her arm around my waist, as though she could somehow stop me from toppling over, should the occasion arise.

  I catch my first glimpse of her father, who was enjoying his cup of cigarette on the veranda until we come round the side of the house. Marlise doesn’t look anything like the tall, austere man still wrapped in a well-worn blue dressing gown. His scowl is enough to curdle milk and he vanishes into the house before I can bid him good morning.

  “I guess I’m even less popular than I was yesterday.”

  Marlise’s smile is more a grimace and she tightens her grip on my arm to tug me through the front gate.

  This winter’s morning is crisp, the sky hazy and the sun not doing much to raise the ambient temperature. Of last night’s drama, the only sign is a patch of blood, a rusty, gooey puddle where one of the men fell. We walk past quickly, but neither of us can stop ourselves from looking at the smear and sharing a glance. Will the cops still question her? This is possible.

  Moisture coats everything, the leaves turning to a brown mush in the gutter and, despite all the horrors, it feels good to be out and about, the air cold in my lungs and my breath pluming before my face.

  We wait for about half an hour at the station. The only distraction to our mutual silence is a phone call Marlise receives.

  She frowns when she answers. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number. My name’s not Lucy. No. Not. Lucy. I’ve told you this before.”

  “Who was that?” I ask when she stuffs her phone back in her pocket.

  “Just some old granny. She calls every other week. Insists on talking to Lucy.” Thank the Neteru it wasn’t the police. I can’t help but glance about to check whether we’re being watched.

  Then the cables overhead start singing and the silver Metrorail train pulls in. The office is still closed so we embark without purchasing tickets. At this stage, I couldn’t really be bothered if the security guards decide to hassle us. I’m too tired. In fact, it’s Marlise who nudges me awake as the train screeches into Wynberg.

  “You should have stayed in bed,” she mutters.

  “We’re here now.” I shove my hands in my pockets but I can’t shake that chill lodged in my marrow.

  If Wynberg is horrid at night, it’s worse during the day, when I can see how badly some of the buildings are in need of a lick of paint. Bins overflow with garbage leaking noxious liquids onto the tar, and the blanket-shrouded forms of vagrants look more like corpses strewn outside shop fronts. I buy us watery instant coffee with day-old doughnuts from Joe’s Milk Bar near the police station. I have to say “Excuse me” twice before the Indian proprietor deigns to notice us. He’s too busy paging through a dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine.

  Luckily where we’re headed is nowhere near this filth, a Victorian-era homestead set in the older, historical part of the suburb. The distance is far enough from the station for me to start seeing double, and I stop often to catch my breath while Marlise glares daggers at me.

  She doesn’t have to say, I told you so.

  “Just wait ’til you get there,” I tell her. “It’s a stunning building.”

  “It’s a Sunday. Who’s going to let us in?”

  “I’ll sweet-talk our way in. Besides, there’s always someone there, especially on the weekends. Not busy, but if I have a bit of time to speak to the librarian, they’ll let us in. There’s a fireplace in the study and they serve hot chocolate during winter.” There are ways to allude to my being a member of House Adamastor, which the Rosicrucians consider some sort of obscure Hermetic organisation.

  Marlise raises a brow. “How come I’ve never heard of this library?”

  “Not many people have. Only the right people ever find out.”

  She offers a soft snort of disbelief then sips her coffee from the Styrofoam cup and grimaces.

  The road is almost as I remember it from the last time I was here. It’s a relief to know that people exist who value the historical integrity of some of the old stately neighbourhoods. Or maybe I’m just overly fond right now of clinging to anachronisms.

  “So, um, where is this infamous library?”

  This brings me up short and I look around, searching for familiar landmarks. The problem is, the library was situated in a row of almost-identical houses, The Alexandrian is shaded by two massive magnolias, but it’s the missing trees that have thrown me off. I’ve been looking for those gnarled trunks and have walked right past.

  The trees have been reduced to stumps covered in pot plants. The house has also been painted a tint of lime. I turn back, quickening my pace until I reach the front gate, Marlise at my side.

  The name plaque, with its ibis motif is missing. The place looks decidedly residential with its swing set and a children’s slide on the front lawn.

  “I-I don’t understand…” Choking disappointment squeezes my throat.

  “It doesn’t look like your library even exists, Ash.”

  “It was here. Really. I still came here the week before…before I died. Leonora was with me. We were reading up on ancient Enochian chants. There had been talk of a meeting between…” It’s all in the past. No use clutching at the memories.

  “Well, it’s not here now. This has been a waste of my time and
you should be in bed, resting.”

  I stare numbly for a long while, ignoring Marlise’s fidgeting and sighing next to me. If I don’t give myself this moment, she’ll know how on the verge of crying I am, and it won’t do for anyone to see Ash lose his composure. After all, men aren’t supposed to show emotion, are they?

  * * * *

  For the rest of the Sunday I allow Marlise to fuss over me. I don’t want to tell her I’m already feeling a lot better. Even my side doesn’t ache so much, although it’s still bruised. She mentions again that we should move in together, but I divert the conversation to a safer topic without hurting her feelings.

  It’s frustrating knowing she’s right about me resting and I relax, drink the tea she brings and enjoy the food she prepares: the ubiquitous toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwiches which appear to be her forte. We watch movies on her laptop, film renditions of a few of the books on her shelves. I marvel at the detail of the special effects compared to the films I saw at the drive-in with Leonora. Not in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined this level of sophistication and, not for the first time, I find myself wondering what changes will have occurred the next time I return.

  That’s if there’s a next time. And that’s if the Inkarna of House Adamastor allow me to return. It takes a great deal of collective energy for us to punch through to the material world. I should feel honoured that I was allowed to return directly after my first departure, but they were adamant after their initial misgivings of my ability. I need to find out why Richard—Siptah—never returned to Per Ankh. But how am I to figure out what happened to him, if my own life is such a mess?

  I must admit I had not been very enthused to discover that Meritiset had been his lover in two previous lifetimes, but she had reacted with grace at my arrival. Besides, we have an eternity. Ordinary folk don’t. What are the attachments of a life bond, after all? Yet still, I sense there was some resentment on her part that I punched through to the material realm before her, that I was selected and not her. But we are not to go against the will of the council. Some of them have been knocking around since the age of Ramses.

  And here I am, now, without any of my past resources, trying to solve a greater mystery than one missing Inkarna. While they conduct their searches in the Tuat and beyond, trawling for echoes, dipping even in the Sea of Nun, I am to sift through for clues here. Not an easy job at best and now, with the worst having happened, I’m not even sure I know where to start. My only qualification: the culture shock wouldn’t be as overwhelming as it would be for one of the elders who had experienced an absence of a century or more.

  I should sleep. I know I must. Exhaustion clings to me, dragging me down to oblivion, but to give in to that impulse is to surrender to the snapping nightmares lurking in the shadows.

  “Go to sleep,” Marlise says on more than one occasion when I nod off only to jerk awake when I realise I’m losing the struggle.

  “Can’t,” I mumble, rubbing at my eyes or rising to go splash water on my face.

  I haven’t spent any time on my meditations. This is a bad thing. I’m not thinking straight, the lines between my physical, emotional and intellectual selves blurring into a tangled mess. A simple meditation, that’s all I need, but how do I explain this to Marlise without scaring her with the details of esoteric practice? This is the other problem with my present situation. I don’t have a single moment to myself. I don’t have opportunities for self-reflection. There is no chamber, no private space I can call my own.

  The situation can’t continue to stagnate.

  “I know what will help me, actually us.”

  This perks her up and she shifts on the bed so she can look me in the eye. With her hair in a loose ruddy wave about her shoulders, she seems so young.

  “Part of our practice in the old days was to meditate. It helps calm the soul, put things into perspective. I need to start doing this again and I think it would be…beneficial if you also partake of the activity, especially if you’re planning on consorting with the likes of me.” I give a dry laugh at that thought.

  Her gaze becomes distant. Even if she says no, that’s also fine, but it would help if I were able to recruit a willing partner. Is she initiate material? Should I tell her where this path leads? Am I being selfish?

  I had not at first believed Richard. He’d caught me in the Inkarna snare with almost the exact same innocent suggestion. What harm can a little meditation do? I suppress the second laugh that wants out. At present I need all the help I can get, and Marlise has already seen more than ordinary folk should. It’s already too late for her. If I don’t school her, she won’t be able to deal with any of the other strangeness coming our way.

  And there will be further strangeness. Of that I have no doubt.

  “Okay,” says Marlise. “What do we do?”

  This is a small step in the right direction.

  “Oh, it’s quite simple.” I make my answer sound flippant, though I know it’s anything but.

  An hour later I’ve managed to get the room into some semblance of a ritual chamber. We’ve tidied away as much as possible. Ideally, we’d need a space almost bare of furnishings, but this will have to do. It helps that the room itself is plunged into darkness once the lights are off and the curtains drawn.

  And there’s no dearth of candles. For this I select two new, each in an identical holder—two crystal blobs that look like they belong to a fancy dinner service.

  Marlise has taken the phone off the hook, as per my instructions, and she’s put a do not disturb sign on the door—not that her family would disturb what’s going on in this room. For all they know, we regularly engage in sordid acts of fornication and, right now, I’d prefer it if they think the worst and stay away from me.

  We sit next to each other on a blanket thrown over the floor, to keep some of the chill at bay. Marlise surprises me by having frankincense in stock, which I bid her place on her incense burner. Soon the fresh resin scent fills the room and it’s easy for me to slip into my past, recalling the beautiful chamber I maintained in the Simon’s Town chapter house.

  It’s all still there. If I find out what went wrong there’s a chance I can re-establish House Adamastor’s sanctuary.

  Eager to please, Marlise settles, our knees almost touching, and easily follows my instructions to slip into rhythmic breathing. Soon we maintain the measured inhalations and exhalations that take one’s body and mind into a trancelike state. Quietly, so as to not alarm her with the alien words, I begin to chant, words drawn from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, a hymn to Weser, or Osiris, as he is most commonly known.

  It amazes me that Ashton’s lips will form the Middle Egyptian words, “…thou sendest forth the north wind at eventide…” It is even more fantastic that I can draw upon these ancient phrases as though they are freshly scribed on my heart and tongue. That is our gift, to tap into the old words that hold the most power. There are benefits to being an immortal librarian.

  I can recall the pylons of Per Ankh rising from the opalescent waters bathed in starlight. Lotuses add their sweet scent to the evening air and, for a moment, I can take those first faltering steps along the causeway. Sothis blinks low on the western horizon. Oh, Per Ankh! My souls’ rest! Are you lost to me for eternity?

  Static mars this vision and I falter, the scene dissolving into Marlise’s room. We are not alone. A darker shadow forms in a corner by the dresser, to our right. At first I think it’s a trick of the light, but the candles are guttering even though there’s no breeze. It’s as if the very darkness is trying to smother their fire.

  That horrible, familiar buzz begins in my ears, the same I encountered beneath The Event Horizon. Whatever entity lurks with us, it gives off the exact same signature as the one that sideswiped me.

  Marlise’s breathing grows irregular. Stay in trance, I will at her, but she gives a small gasp next to me and I know she can see the thing, too.

  “Ash?” Her breath mists. The room is a lot colder th
an it should be.

  “Just sit perfectly still, Marlise. Don’t say anything. Let me handle this.” I try to sound more confident than I feel. I’ve never had to deal with angry spirits before, and my heart feels as though it will explode from the fear.

  “I, Nefretkheperi of the Inkarna, of House Adamastor, demand to know why you trouble me,” I say. It is best to speak with authority; that much I’ve heard.

  The shadow shudders when I speak. It bubbles and bulges until it forms a man-sized shape. The head and shoulders are clearly defined, but the rest of the features remain nebulous.

  “You stole my life!” The voice echoes in the room, hollow. The thing raises an arm, the fingers unformed, and it points directly at me. Judging by the startled squeak that escapes Marlise, she’s heard this as well.

  “It is not your life anymore, ghost. You forfeited that. You must proceed to the Hall of Judgment. You are no longer wanted here.”

  A roar, as of thunder building before a lightning strike, fills the room. It’s hard not to flinch. Any instant now this unquiet spirit will summon enough daimonic power to dash both myself and Marlise against the walls until we are reduced to a bloody pulp. This time I may not escape, and I certainly don’t want Marlise to get hurt.

  “Your pontificating and bluster doesn’t frighten me,” I say to the ghost. “And mashing us into a pulp won’t work either. Say what you must then let us be done with this. Know this, however, you can’t have your Kha back. You forfeited that right by bringing about great isfet, by going against the tenets of Ma’at.” This last I state with great vehemence, the pain Isabelle and Marlise must have suffered adding weight to my words.

  A distant wailing, as of winds speeding across a desolate landscape, reaches our ears. With a soft implosion, the entity collapses in on itself and the candles flare briefly before settling into ordinary tongues of flame.