Cries from the Lost Island

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “You want to become a legend?”

  “And have my name spoken with the same reverence as Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon, who discovered King Tut’s tomb? I wouldn’t mind that a bit.”

  Ignoring him, I considered what he’d told me.

  Per Usiri meant “House of Osiris,” and Per Amun was “House of Amun.” Two very different gods with vastly different functions in ancient Egyptian society. Osiris was the god of death. Amun was the life-giver, the creator, sometimes invisible, like air.

  To ancient Egyptians, then, the two sites would have been symbolic opposites, one representing death and the other life.

  “What does your mysterious medallion have to do with all this?”

  An almost smug look crossed the professor’s face. “Oh, it isn’t just any medallion, Hal. It’s part of a magical formula. It was found on top of a ‘bagsu,’ a ceremonial dagger that signified the mastery of dangerous power. The medallion was like a name tag. It identified the bagsu as belonging to Cleopatra VII. The bagsu created a supernatural doorway—”

  “So you think the medallion verifies it was found in her grave?”

  “That’s the first possibility.” He gave me a knowing smile. “Keep in mind that Queen Cleopatra always wore a dagger at her hip, inserted into her belt. Scholars have assumed it was for self-protection, but also in the event that she needed to end her life in an honorable way. I disagree. Which brings us to the second possibility. It may have come from the grave of her Sem priest.”

  “Her Sem priest?”

  He leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees and stare out at the mountains. “The ‘Opening of the Mouth’ ritual.”

  “The Opening of the Mouth ritual,” I repeated, astonished. I was eleven when I’d first come across a reference to that ritual. A bagsu had been found in the tomb of Tutankhamun. I’d seen pictures of the magnificent artifact. “Then that particular bagsu would have been associated with Amun, correct? Not Osiris?”

  He gave me a nod of approval. “Correct. That’s why it makes more sense that Antony and Cleopatra were buried in Per Amun. She was, after all, believed to be the reincarnation of the goddess Isis, and the city of Per Amun was dedicated to Isis. At the very end, Cleopatra ordered her loyal servants to hide her body and secretly bury her with Antony. You remember Plutarch’s words, of course.” He left the question dangling as though this were a classroom test.

  In the back of my mind I could hear Cleo’s voice reading Plutarch’s version of Cleopatra’s agonizing last days. Plutarch had written that Cleopatra had wept over Antonius’ dead body and begged her servants to hide and then bury her body in secret with Antonius.

  . . . since out of all my innumerable afflictions not one is so great and dreadful as this short time that I have lived apart from you.

  I had often asked Cleo which of many versions of the story were true, but she’d only gotten tears in her eyes and answered that she could not speak of it, except to say that she couldn’t bear to enter the afterlife without him. I’d spent years researching the different versions to try and decipher why the subject was so agonizing for her.

  “I remember. But didn’t her servants, Iras and Charmion, die with her?”

  “She had many servants, Hal. Probably hundreds of them. And a select few would have been responsible for secretly burying Antony.”

  “What does that have to do with the Opening of the Mouth ritual?”

  He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Every ancient Egyptian ruler, including Cleopatra, carried a bagsu for his or her Sem priest. After death, the priest was expected to take the bagsu and perform the Opening of the Mouth ceremony that created a doorway that allowed the soul of the dead to enter a living body in this world.”

  Which was way different from what Cleo had told me. She’d said the dagger opened a channel of light that led the soul out of Duat and to the Island of the Two Flames. But maybe it could be used for both. How did I know?

  I lifted my eyes to stare up at the icicles hanging from the roofs down the street.

  Moriarity leaned closer. “Listen very closely. Cleo’s father either pulled the medallion and dagger from Cleopatra’s hand or her Sem priest’s hand. If so, the dagger must be returned. Her Sem priest had vowed on his life to make sure she was reincarnated in a new body.”

  Despite the hot cup of coffee I’d just finished, I was starting to get cold. Really cold. A sense of impending doom was forming inside me: If my Cleo was the reincarnated Queen Cleopatra, then her Sem priest had succeeded, perhaps against Cleopatra’s will. But in any case, the priest no longer needed the dagger. Unless . . .

  I turned to Moriarity. “Then, if the Sem priest holds the dagger in his hand, Cleopatra will be reincarnated forever? Over and over?”

  “Yes. Do you understand now? She can live again.” Moriarity stared at me with the strangest eyes—eyes that seemed to suck my soul down into a bottomless whirlpool of darkness. Very softly, as though talking to himself, he said, “Will you help me?”

  In the back of my mind, I heard Cleo telling me that the dagger had to be in her hand for the channel of light to open. She didn’t want to live forever. She wanted to die forever. My responsibility was clear. No matter what happened, I could not allow Moriarity to give the dagger back to the Sem priest.

  “I need to think about it.”

  “All right, but if you decide to go to Egypt, you’re going to have to be in better shape. Archaeological fieldwork is not for the fainthearted. You’re going to have to lose—”

  “My dad has an exercise room. Weights, stair-step, treadmill. I’ll work out, okay?”

  Moriarity sighed and gazed up at the snow blowing across the slopes in the distance. “All right. In the meantime, the sheriff’s report said you saw a turquoise-colored creature with a crocodile head and red hair in the forest. Are you sure it was turquoise?”

  My skin crawled. It had been a matter-of-fact question. No patronizing bullshit intended. “That’s what I’d call it.”

  “The color is very important. Ancient Egyptians had five different shades of blue. While it may have been Ammut—by the way, there’s an Ammut cult in Denver, a real bunch of lunatics—the only major supernatural figure with turquoise-colored skin is Set.”

  “Set?”

  “Yes, he’s very old, one of the oldest and most powerful of Egyptian gods. Six thousand years ago he was portrayed as a crocodile-headed god. He’s the brother of Isis. So perhaps he came to guide Cleo’s soul to Duat.”

  “If it was Set, why would he be dressed in an Egyptian Army uniform?”

  Moriarity shrugged. “He was the god of war. Maybe he wanted to adopt a more modern look.”

  “The god of war is interested in fashion?”

  I had no idea where this conversation was going.

  He continued, “But if the color is more azure, it might be Horus. Personally, I hope it was Set. On a cosmic level, since Cleo was the reincarnated Isis, he would be her brother and protector.”

  I felt like I was floating, as though my soul were drifting out of my body.

  His eyes had a bizarre glitter now. “Don’t you want to come to Egypt with me?”

  I shifted on the bench to face him.

  “Would you mind if my friend, Roberto, comes, too? He’s my only friend now. I don’t want to be alone in a foreign country.”

  Moriarity straightened. He looked away from me while he considered the ramifications. He did not look happy. “You won’t be alone, Hal. Both Sophia and I will be there.”

  “I don’t know you very well. I want to have a friend along. If you don’t mind, sir.”

  “Is that your condition for going with me? Roberto has to come along?”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Moriarity bowed his head for several moments, and his cheeks vibrated as he ground his teeth. “Will h
is parents agree?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  If I knew Roberto, he’d torment them until they did. Which probably wouldn’t take that much effort. They definitely wanted him out of the house, and a trip to Egypt would be far more socially acceptable than shipping their son off for a lovely vacation at the Juvenile Detention Center.

  Moriarity bent forward and braced his elbows on his knees. He seemed to be scowling at the mountains. As the sunlight shifted, the fine haze of snow blazed and drifted down the slope like gold dust. “One last thing.”

  I braced myself. “Yes?”

  “If nothing else convinces you, think about this: I suspect Cleo was attacked by someone trying to find that medallion. Which means, if you have it, they will come for you next. You’re far better off out of the country for a while.”

  Time seemed to stop between two heartbeats. Nothing moved.

  “I don’t have the medallion, Professor. Really.”

  Moriarity scanned my face, trying to tell if I was lying. “Well . . .” he said as he rose to his feet. “If you don’t, Cleopatra is doomed. Right now her soul hovers in the nether regions of Duat. Do you want to condemn her to that fate? Or get that dagger to put in the grave of her Sem priest so he can bring her back to the light and warmth of this world?”

  He gave me a long hard stare, flipped up his blue hood, and walked away down the street.

  If Plutarch was right, Queen Cleopatra had been desperate to join Marcus Antonius in the afterlife. But someone had stopped her by reincarnating her soul in a new body. Someone had kept the greatest lovers in history apart for over two thousand years.

  Cleo told me that Ammut and her priests were responsible.

  Far down the street, I heard feet crunching in snow and children laughing. Moriarity turned the corner and was gone.

  When I knew he couldn’t hear me, I whispered, “I want to help her get to the Island of the Two Flames.”

  I sat there for a long time, just watching my breath frost in the air.

  I’m going to Egypt. . . .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thirty minutes later, Roberto trotted up to my house and rang the doorbell. When I opened the door, he said, “You scared the holy shit out of me. That was some bizarre phone message you left. What’s going on?”

  “Come in.” I walked into the kitchen where I started pacing in front the plate glass window.

  My parents liked their lines clean and sharp, the corners empty, blinds, no curtains. Everything was a perfectly orchestrated painting of vanilla and peach, my mother’s favorite colors. And because they hated artificial lighting, the large window that overlooked the street allowed natural light to fall across the waxed oak floors during the summer months when the sun cleared the high peaks.

  Roberto looked around. “Your parents out?”

  “Yeah. A meeting with Moriarity and the police. I’m not invited because it’s about me.”

  Removing his leather jacket, Roberto hung it on the back of the chair and sat down. As he propped his elbows on the table, stringy brown hair fell around his freckled face. “You okay?”

  “God, no. I’m starting to think I really am crazy.”

  “Is that what you meant in your message? When you said your nightmares had stepped into your waking world.”

  I tried to choose my words carefully. “I . . . I stopped by Starbucks on the way home. She was there, Roberto. Sitting on our bench, as though waiting for me to come out of the shop.”

  Roberto tried to look calm, but I saw the hard swallow go down his throat. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “A girl with shoulder-length black hair sitting on the bench. I couldn’t see her face because she had her back to me.”

  “Well . . . What did she want?”

  See, that’s what a good friend does. He doesn’t tell you you’re suffering from a dissociative episode. He asks what the figment of your imagination wanted.

  “I don’t know!” I shouted. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  Walking back and forth through the slanting window light, I was creating a kind of strobe effect across the kitchen, but my nerves were so shot I couldn’t sit down. “Not a word.”

  “If she had her back to you, and she didn’t say anything, how do you know it was her?”

  “I know her, Roberto. I know the way she moves!”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “All right, Hal. Don’t freak on me. Did she act normal?”

  “Normal?” I said, as though it was a foreign word that I didn’t quite understand.

  “Sure. I mean, Cleo would have turned around and smiled at you when you walked out of the store, right? Did she?”

  I shook my head. “Why does that matter?”

  “Well, if you were just making her up, she would have acted normal, right?”

  “How do I know? Cleo’s dead and that probably changes a person.”

  Roberto blinked at me. “Okay, what happened next?”

  I clenched my fists at my sides and saw it all again in my mind. “She walked away. When she got to the intersection, she broke into a run. After she disappeared around the corner, I heard three rifle shots and screams.”

  Roberto nodded like a psychiatrist humoring a mental patient. “Just like that day.”

  “Yes, just like that day!”

  “Yeah, okay. Chill. I get it.” Roberto got to his feet and exhaled a long breath, before announcing, “I’m having a glass of your mom’s fancy wine. Want one?”

  “No.”

  Roberto pulled open the door to the wine cellar and trotted down the stairs to the basement. A few seconds later, he called up. “The really filthy bottles are the good stuff, right?”

  “They’re the ones my parents save for special occasions. I guess so.”

  Roberto trotted back up the stairs with a dust-covered bottle and blew the filth off onto the kitchen floor. “Here’s a 1992 cabernet with a cool name: Screaming Eagle. At least it’s American. I hate that French shit.”

  Roberto opened and closed drawers until he found the corkscrew. After he’d pulled the cork, he smelled it like a professional, set it on the counter, and opened the cabinet door to pull out two fancy wineglasses.

  “I said I didn’t want one.”

  “Yeah, I’m not deaf.”

  After he’d filled both glasses, he walked back and set them on the table. “Let’s dissect this, okay?”

  I sank down onto one of the chairs, “You’re not going to tell me I need to check myself into an asylum, are you?”

  “’Course not.” Roberto lifted a glass and took a dainty sip of wine, which he swished around his mouth before swallowing. “Where’s the sugar?”

  “What?”

  “The sugar.”

  I pointed to the flowered sugar bowl on the counter. Roberto went to get it, then dumped a bunch into his glass and stirred it with his finger. After he’d sucked his finger clean, he nodded approvingly and sat down again. “How many girls with black hair do you think live in Colorado?”

  “I would know Cleo anywhere. It was her.”

  “Hey, I believe in ghosts, so I’m not saying it wasn’t her—but I just want you to think about other possibilities.”

  “Like what? Either I’m seeing a ghost, or I’m delusional. There are no other possibilities.”

  “Sure there are. For example, maybe somebody’s pulling a fast one. Maybe you’re being conned.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone do that?”

  “Money, for one.”

  “Money? I’m sixteen. I don’t even own a car. What could I possibly have—”

  “Not from you, bright boy. Your parents. Your mom is a trust-fund baby. She’s worth, what? A couple of million?”

  “My mom?”

&n
bsp; “Christ, you are such a babe-in-the-woods when it comes to the real world. Your parents own a Lexus. At every Christmas party your mom wears rubies the size of meteorites. On the phone, you said Dr. Who offered to take you to Egypt with him. Who’s paying for your trip? Surely not him.”

  I inhaled a breath and held it while I considered the implications. Nobody had talked about that, at least not with me. But somebody must be paying for the trip. “My parents, I guess. Why?”

  “How much are they paying? Just for your room, board, travel, and being babysat by Moriarity for a few weeks? Or are they paying for their genius son to be trained by a professional archaeologist? Hell, Moriarity may even be giving you college credits for your work. So figure your parents are also covering college tuition, fees, and books, and the total has got to be pretty high. And just maybe he hinted that it would be nice if your parents donated a chunk of cash to help fund his excavation. You know, as a thank you. Because without him they’d have to put Hallucination-Hal in a straitjacket, and that would certainly cost more.”

  Tucking my hands into my jeans pockets, I balled them into fists. “Yeah, maybe. So what?”

  “Well, Hal, what if your parents backed out? Moriarity could lose a lot of cash. Sooo . . . what’s the best way to make sure they don’t back out?” He pointed a finger at me, then lifted it and made circles in the air around his right ear.

  “Make them think Moriarity is my last hope?”

  Roberto gave me a decisive nod. “And he has to be coaching them. ‘Poor DID Hal. He’s never going to get well without a once-in-a-lifetime trip to the Land of the Pharaohs. You don’t want to take that chance, do you, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens?’ Crap like that always works on parents. That’s how Hornsby got his Porsche. I swear to God his therapist was in on it. Six months later Dwight sold the Porsche to the guy for a song.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yeah, the story was all over school. You were just so wrapped up in Cleo that you missed it.”

  That was probably true. Cleo had been my whole life. The love of my life. Cleo and the ancient world were all I had ever really cared about. “What did Dwight do with the money?”