Cries from the Lost Island

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

  “Who are you?”

  As people streamed toward the cook tent, the man shoved me hard one last time, then he jumped to his feet and ran away.

  By the time I’d managed to twist around to search for him, I was surrounded by archaeologists asking me what had happened, questions I almost didn’t hear.

  My gaze had fixed on the only movement out there in the starlight. A dark slender form slowly walked back toward the temple. I put my hands over my ears to block the harsh voices bombarding me, and shouted, “Shut up! Be quiet!”

  I needed to watch her, to listen for her voice. She had her head down, as though unbearably sad and alone.

  “Move!” I heard Roberto order. “Get out of my way!”

  As he shouldered through the crowd to get to me, a din of uneasy conversation broke out among the archaeologists. They kept casting uncertain glances my way and hissing to one another.

  Roberto finally reached me and dropped to one knee to my left. Brown hair framed his frightened blue eyes. “What happened, Hal? Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re bleeding.”

  He helped me to sit up, which was the first time I actually felt my head wound, probably from having my head slammed into the table leg. Or from my crash into the tables? Warm blood ran down my left temple.

  LaSalle Corbelle and Sophia Mallawi appeared at the rear of the group of students and instantly a pathway opened in the crowd as people moved back to allow them to get to me.

  Corbelle made it first. She crouched beside me and studied me with concerned eyes. “Hal, you’re hurt. What happened?”

  “I—I was attacked. A man hit me from behind. Knocked me to the ground.”

  Roberto rose to his feet and glared out at the gathering of students. Fists balled at his sides, he looked ready for a fight. “What cowardly piece of shit did this? Jones, where are you?”

  From the pale halo of light in the rear, Jones called, “I didn’t do it! It’s midnight. I was sound asleep in my tent, like he should have been.”

  Midnight?

  My gaze shot up to the sky, trying to see the stars to verify that he was right, but there were too many flashlight beams blinding me. How could it be midnight? I’d only been wandering around for thirty minutes or so. Not four hours?

  Sophia Mallawi worked her way around the legs of an overturned table and knelt to my right. The gray in her dark hair winked in the roving flashlight beams. “Come on, Hal. Let’s get you to my tent. I have a medical kit there. We need to take care of that head wound right away. You’ll probably need to stay with us for the night, so we can monitor you.”

  As Sophia and Roberto took my arms to help me to my feet, Corbelle grabbed a handful of my shirt. “I have a nurse on my crew. Let me take Hal to see her.”

  “No, he’s our student, and we promised to take care—”

  “I want to go with Dr. Corbelle,” I said as I staggered sideways into Roberto.

  Roberto grabbed me to hold me up. “We’re going with Dr. Corbelle,” he announced.

  “That’s not a good idea,” Sophia said angrily. “You should come with me!”

  “Not a chance.” Roberto stared down Sophia Mallawi long enough to walk me out of the murmuring crowd.

  When we reached the other side, Dr. Corbelle led the way in front of the line of tents. Every person in Pelusium must be awake. Tents glowed all across the field camp, and I saw yawning students making their ways back to their beds.

  Roberto hissed, “I’ve been looking for you for hours! I was worried sick. Where were you?”

  In a voice too low for Dr. Corbelle to hear, I answered, “With Cleo.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When we reached Corbelle’s tent, the first thing that struck me was the size. It was as small as our tent. I’d just assumed she had a huge tent, like Moriarity’s.

  When she threw back the front flap, the white glow of the solar lamp hooked to the roof pole flooded out. “Go in, Hal. Sit down. I’ll go find our nurse, Lacey.”

  “Okay.”

  I ducked inside, followed by Roberto. A rumpled white sheet covered her sleeping bag, which must be what she slept under on hot nights like this. She’d stowed her backpack near the flap. I noticed that all the zippers were closed, which was probably a reflection of her fastidiousness. Nothing was out of place. Stacks of books and manuscripts were neatly arranged in the northern corner.

  I slumped down on her sheet. Really shaken. The combination of supernatural terror mixed with the rage and helplessness of being attacked had left me feeling shattered. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

  Roberto knelt in front of me, his face a mask of confusion and fear. “You saw Cleo?”

  “She—she came to warn me. She told me not to come back to camp because they were waiting for me.”

  Quietly, Roberto said, “Let’s keep that tidbit to ourselves, okay?”

  God, I felt miserable. Letting my head fall forward, I forced myself to breathe in and out. “I’m not totally stupid, Roberto.”

  He sank down cross-legged in front of me. “I just meant that it might give people the wrong idea—”

  “Really?” I asked in exasperation. “You think?”

  Hiking boots pounded the sand outside, hurried steps. Dr. Corbelle and a black-haired woman in her mid-twenties ducked into the tent carrying a small bag, which made it downright crowded. The canvas walls shook as they tried to find a place to sit beside me.

  Roberto headed for the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

  I watched him duck through the flap and took a deep breath to steady my nerves.

  “Hi, Hal. I’m Lacey Borden,” the woman said as she scanned my head wound. She had a flat nose and a dimple in her chin. “How’d you get this?”

  “I’m not sure. It either happened when I crashed into the tables, or when my attacker slammed my head into a broken table leg.”

  “How old are you, Hal?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “May 22nd, why?”

  She held up a hand with three fingers out. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Three. Look, I don’t have a concussion. I’m just bleeding.” Warm streamers continued to pour down my face and splat on my Levis.

  “Is your vision blurry? Are you sick to your stomach?” She took her flashlight and shone it in my eyes, no doubt checking the size of my pupils. If one was larger, it meant I had a concussion.

  “No. No blurriness and no nausea. Really, I’m okay.”

  Lacey frowned at me, but hesitantly said, “For the moment, I believe you. I think this is just a laceration. Head injuries bleed like crazy. Let me treat that wound.”

  Dr. Corbelle was sitting in the background to my left, watching me, but she said nothing while Lacey opened her bag and drew out a package of wet wipes to cleanse my wound. The ointment she applied as a final touch burned.

  As Lacey closed her bag, she said, “I want to see you first thing in the morning. And if you have any dizziness, nausea, or double vision tonight, I want to see you immediately. My tent is the last in line to the north. You understand? Send Robert to come get me.”

  “I understand, and I will. Thank you for your help. I really appreciate it.”

  Lacey pulled aside the tent flap and said, “Did you hear that, Robert?”

  “Yeah, got it. I’ll beat feet for your tent if he pukes or thinks I’ve been cloned.”

  “Good.”

  Dr. Corbelle said, “Thanks, Lacey. I’ll bring Hal to your tent in the morning.”

  “Good night, all.”

  Lacey crawled out of the tent, leaving me alone with Dr. Corbelle.

  Narrowing her eyes, Corbelle said, “Look at me, Hal. I want to know the whole story. What happene
d tonight?”

  “Could I . . . Would you mind if I tell you tomorrow? I’m pretty shaken.”

  When I crawled toward the doorway, her question stopped me. “One of my students said she saw you climb out of the temple. Is that true? And don’t lie to me.”

  I turned back, and my gaze locked with hers. No matter what, I wasn’t going to tell her the whole story. I had no idea who my friends were.

  I sat down again. “Yeah, it’s true.”

  “What were you doing there? It’s dangerous at night.”

  I gestured helplessly with one hand. “Exploring the tunnel that leads to the corridor covered with cartouches. Didn’t mean any harm, I was just curi—”

  “Stop.” Her expression had turned deadly serious. “None of the tunnels in the temple have been excavated more than a few feet deep. There is no corridor covered with cartouches.”

  A hollow floating feeling came over me. I stared at her with my mouth half-open. “But I saw . . .” I never finished that sentence.

  I bowed my head and massaged the back of my neck. The muscles felt like knotted ropes. That made it simple. It was perfectly obvious now. There was no corridor. No Cleo. I had imagined it all, conjured both from the depths of my historical imagination. What a wretched excuse for humanity I was. My grief and pain were manifesting themselves in ever worsening hallucinations.

  But it was so real. . . .

  “Which tunnel, Hal?”

  “The one closest to the sarcophagus.”

  Corbelle sat back, and her gaze thoughtfully drifted over the tent for a few seconds. “Are you sure it was that tunnel?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Probably nothing, but that’s a strange tunnel. I found it five years ago. When everyone else was afraid to come to Egypt, I came just to excavate the temple.” She leaned toward me. “That tunnel was the only one that had been bricked up. When we got behind the meter-thick wall, the floor was scattered with a peculiar artifact.”

  “What artifact?”

  “Rare ceramic cartouches of Dionysus. They are absolutely unique. I’ve never seen anything like them. It was as though someone had tossed them down the stairs before the final brick was shoved into place to seal the tunnel.”

  I swallowed hard. “Do you have something I can draw on?”

  She looked around, pulled a notebook from the stack of papers behind her, and handed it to me. She had the most intense blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Dr. Corbelle examined my every move as I sketched.

  When I thought I’d gotten it right, I handed her the notebook. “That’s the cartouche that was stamped into the plastered walls of the corridor.”

  She glanced up at me, then back at the sketch. “I understand that you’re quite a historical scholar. Have you ever seen this symbol before?”

  “No. I mean, I know it’s Dionysus, but—”

  “You sure you’ve never seen this before. Maybe in a book?”

  “Never.”

  When she tossed the notebook to rest on the stack of papers and focused on my face, I knew she was trying to make up her mind about something. “I noticed you were talking to Sarah Wadsworth today. Did she tell you about the tunnel?”

  I shook my head. “Did she help excavate it?”

  “No, but she’s a member of my crew. People in camp talk. I can’t figure out how else you would know about this cartouche. You’ve been here barely a day and you—”

  “Then it is the same cartouche?”

  “It is. Yes.”

  An unpleasant tingle ran up my spine. I covered my face with my hands and tried to figure out what was happening to me. Either I was in the middle of a temporal rift the likes of which would have stunned Captain Kirk, or . . .

  “Hal, don’t worry about this.” She gently placed a hand on my shoulder. Her fingers were warm. “Though you’re not showing signs, I suspect you’re suffering from a mild concussion. Someone mentioned the tunnel and the cartouche, and after you were attacked, you mixed up the memories. Adrenaline has a way of reshuffling the brain. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I’m sure you’re right.”

  She gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze and removed her hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to pick you up around six in the morning and take you to Lacey’s tent for another evaluation.”

  “Fine.” My hands started to shake. I clenched my fists to stop it, but not before Dr. Corbelle noticed.

  “Let’s change the subject, okay? I need to know about your attacker. You said it was a man. Did you see his face?”

  “He was muscular and had a deep voice. That’s all I can tell you. He kept me pinned facedown the whole time.”

  Wind buffeted the tent. The solar lamp above us started swinging, casting odd shadows over the glowing walls.

  “Why did he attack you? What did he want?”

  I hesitated only a moment, but it was long enough to make the lines at the corners of her eyes tighten.

  “He thought I was carrying an artifact.”

  “An artifact? One you’d stolen from the site?”

  “An artifact I brought with me from Colorado. It was found here several years ago by Hassan Mallawi, supposedly in the grave of Cleopatra’s Sem priest.”

  She gave me an indulgent smile. The white glow of the lantern turned her deeply tanned face into burnished bronze. “That’s amusing. I knew Hassan. He was a very good archaeologist, but I doubt that even he could have identified the specific priest assigned to carry out the Opening of the Mouth ritual for Queen Cleopatra. It’s not like they wore signs around their necks.”

  “Roman slaves wore collars bearing the names of their masters.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Dr. Corbelle stopped. A somber tone entered her voice: “Why would your attacker have suspected that you had that particular artifact?”

  “His daughter was my friend. Before she was murdered, she gave it to me.”

  She paused. “Is this . . . Wait a second. Is this part of Hassan’s crazy theory that his daughter was the reborn Queen Cleopatra? Dear God, that’s what got him and Maggie killed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dr. Corbelle tilted her head back to stare up at the tent roof, while she apparently contemplated what to tell me. “Okay, look, I don’t know the whole story, so I probably shouldn’t say anything—”

  “I need you to tell me, please.”

  Instead, she asked, “First, you tell me something. Did your attacker say why he wanted the artifact?”

  Words rushed out of my mouth before I considered the ramifications: “No. But Dr. Moriarity brought Samael here to help him find the Sem priest’s grave, so he can put the bagsu back in the skeleton’s hand—which is where he thinks it came from.”

  “Why?”

  “Apparently, when you see the dagger in the Sem priest’s hand, it gives you a clue to the location of Cleopatra’s grave. Moriarity told me he wants to become a legend, like Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon. Both he and his wife have demanded that I give them the dagger.”

  Dr. Corbelle shifted her intense gaze away from me—which was a relief—and focused instead on the starlit darkness visible through the tent flap. “Good God, I hope this isn’t part of that bizarre cultish crap Sophia was involved in.”

  “What bizarre cultish crap? How did it get Hassan and Maggie killed?”

  She ran a hand through her hair, as though stalling. “Hal, I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this—”

  “Please. I need your help.”

  It took another ten seconds before she said, “There’s a legend that if Cleopatra can be reborn in the perfect vessel, the perfect body, she will rally the people of Egypt and launch an apocalyptic rebellion that will lead to Egyptian world domination.”

  “But Hassan didn’t believe that. Cleo told me her father wanted her
to reach the Island of the Two Flames.”

  “That may be true, but his sister Sophia did believe it. She talked openly about it, and she was gaining a following. People had started to flock around Hassan’s daughter every time he took her outside. That really upset people in the government. I think they were waiting for Hassan and Maggie that night.”

  “I think Moriarity believes it, too.”

  “He’s never struck me as the cult type. How do you know?”

  “He told me he wants Cleo to be reborn.”

  I wondered why Cleo had never told me about any of this. Maybe she didn’t remember? Or maybe it was too painful.

  “Did you give Jim or Sophia the bagsu?”

  “Wait . . .” I was really shaking now. “Is that why Cleo was killed? I thought it was because someone wanted the dagger. Was it really because someone thought my Cleo wasn’t the ‘perfect vessel’?”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled the words: “Tell me the truth. Tonight, did you think your attacker was Jim Moriarity?”

  I flexed my fingers. I’d been clenching them for so long that they’d started to ache. “I thought . . . It might be.”

  “Did you give him the bagsu?” Dread filled her voice.

  “No.”

  She exhaled the word, “Okay. Where is it? Is it safe?”

  “I really need to rest. Good night, Dr. Corbelle. Thank you for your help.”

  When I turned for the doorway, she said, “One last thing, okay? The Royal Ontario Museum has its own private security. I think you need a bodyguard. Let me assign one of my people—”

  “I haven’t seen any private security guards.”

  “Glad to hear it. They’re supposed to be invisible. Most of my crew doesn’t even know they’re there. But they’re good. Promise me you’ll think about it?”

  “I will. Thanks. Again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I crawled to the doorway where I ducked out into the warm night air and stared at my best friend. Roberto didn’t say a word, but I could see his worried expression. He didn’t like it that I’d told Corbelle about the dagger.