Misplaced

by SL Hulen

  “What did he say?”

  “You will never be mine.” He could barely get the words out. “Your fate is not with me.”

  “Oh,” she sighed. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Taking him into her arms, she covered his face with kisses, and he hugged her tighter. “Ben says I should bring you to meet him. If we stand as one, there’s a chance our fates might be read differently.”

  She leapt to her feet. “Let us not waste another minute.”

  “We can’t ask him any time we feel like it; it doesn’t work that way.”

  “But someday you will be their leader. Mustn’t he do as you say?”

  “No one controls Ben, least of all a half-breed like me.”

  The clouds moved overhead, casting the barn into a murky light, and it began to rain. Not he earth-pounding drops of water that Khara knew from home, but a gentle, silver mist that enveloped the barn and trees.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said, looking at her with an expressions that was something of a challenge. “Ben’s visions will be best then.”

  “As you wish.” Her mind began to race. If Ben could speak to spirits, perhaps he knew about the Guardians of the Sky. Maybe he knew of Nandor’s people. In this Land of Enchantment, the list of strange circumstances multiplied almost daily—the Journey of Death, the Royal Road. What if the corridor to the past was closer than she thought? If anyone would know, wouldn’t it be Oliver’s shaman? She was determined to ask.

  Slowly, Oliver’s dark mood subsided and his dimples returned. “You’ll get to meet my mother.”

  Khara’s nerves jabbed unfamiliarly. A mother could be protective—jealous even. Not that she knew this firsthand, but she had heard terrible stories from the palace slaves. What if Oliver’s mother found her unworthy?

  “I’m warning you, these ceremonies are still kind of a big deal on the reservation.”

  “What is a big ‘big deal’?” she asked. Oliver often said things that were difficult to understand, and “big deal” was one of them. He also used expressions like, “I’m gonna ace this test.” Celeste had showed her the ace in a deck of playing cards but that had not been any help. He was particularly fond of “bummer,” which he used often and never in the same way. Ignoring her question, he brushed her cheek with his finger. Khara smoothed his dark hair back, admiring the way it parted so perfectly in the center.

  “The phases of the moon, the changing of the seasons,” Oliver murmured, taking her hand. “We still honor these things.” He traced concentric loops in her palm. “The symbol for the Apache is a circle. One day, the circle will close and we will belong to ourselves again. There will be no alcoholism, disease, no poverty.” Looking beyond her face, beyond the barn, beyond the present, he spoke quietly. “I’ve never managed to fit in. On either side. Heck, I used to get stopped by the sheriff just for walking home.” Lost in painful memories, he yelled, “Hey, Cochise! Get your ass home!”

  Khara leaned against him and listened to his pounding heart. The rain fell harder on the roof, and the air grew colder with each passing minute. Her thoughts alternated between concern for Oliver and worry at the prospect of meeting his mother.

  “I used to dream about what it might be like to be white, but it’s probably no easier.”

  Taking his hand, she kissed it. “And yet your spirit remains generous. You are,” she paused, trying to remember the word Victoria had used; it came to her. “A miracle.”

  Color rushed back into Oliver’s cheeks. “What are you going home for? Stay with me forever.”

  “If only I could. Trust me when I say my reasons for returning home defy explanation.”

  Home. Now it was the season of Peret, the time of low— water, when the crops were harvested. Granaries, filled to near— bursting, would be cause for celebration, except that the days of mourning for pharaoh were not yet over. Any celebratory act was treasonous. Music and happy conversation were forbidden. Should a couple fall in love, their union was cursed by the gods; their children would suffer deformities—large heads or shrunken limbs could practically be counted on. It seemed that no matter which gods were consulted, she and Oliver were doomed.

  Leaving the warmth of his arms, she walked to the barn door. The rain fell heavily in sheets now, taking with it the view of the main house. Khara stepped outside, turning her head to look at the sky which, except for a small gloomy patch, was hidden by trees. Egypt was warm earth and blue sky.

  Not wanting to take another breath of the remorseful mood that had taken over the barn, she turned and suggested, “Let’s go to the house.” Taking Oliver’s hand, they sloshed through the grass to the gravel pathway, where she pulled away. Throwing him a challenging look, she ran ahead, the biting drops of cold rain spurring her on. She reached the back door first, but Oliver was only steps behind. Before she could turn the handle, he planted a wet kiss on her face. “I love you,” he blurted. There was a long pause. “Don’t you love me?”

  A smile was her response.

  “Won’t you say it back?”

  Say what?” she inquired innocently.

  “You can’t say it.”

  “You’re being childish. Let’s get out of the rain.” Without another word, she went inside. The kitchen was empty except for a raw chicken bobbing in water in one side of the sink. Above the pitter-patter of the rain, Khara heard a man’s voice, and entered the main room cautiously.

  The angry voice came from the new satellite television station. It should have been a relief, but in the dim light, Victoria’s face was colorless, her brow knitted tightly. Engrossed by the TV, Celeste seemed not to notice her and Oliver standing in the doorway.

  “This is bad,” Victoria said, shaking her head, “very bad.”

  Without another word, Khara and Oliver sat near Celeste. On the screen, a dark-complected, middle-aged man shook a straw hat and ranted.

  “Who is he?” Oliver asked, confused.

  “Dr. Shenouda,” Victoria whispered.

  Suddenly, the bracelets filled the entire screen. Khara stifled a gasp. “How is this possible?”

  “I don’t know,” Victoria answered.

  “Quiet!” Celeste demanded.

  If the light of fanaticism shining in Dr. Shenouda’s eyes made Khara nervous, his words filled her with pride. His forceful presence loomed large as he asserted that, once again, Egypt’s stolen treasures had briefly surfaced in the United States, only to vanish in the underground antiquity market. Shenouda’s face made clear his disgust. “When will unscrupulous collectors understand these artifacts belonged in Egypt?” he asked rhetorically.

  He went on to suggest, smugly, that countries with so little history of their own could not fully comprehend the severity of these crimes. History was not for sale at any price, and Egyptian artifacts belonged to Egypt. The furious cadence of Shenouda’s voice was music to her ears, though she knew better than to say a word. Victoria and Celeste had led her to believe the United States was among the most powerful civilizations of this time. Perhaps they were mistaken.

  Khara’s satisfaction was short-lived. As the head of the antiquities council continued to speak, a wave of doom emanated from the television. The objects of this most recent investigation belonged to a princess whose name had been lost to the desert and the sands of time. After digitization and careful study of the photos, the bracelet’s engravings and cartouches revealed they belonged to a mysterious princess, one previously unknown—a daughter of Pepy the Second, who had lived more than four thousand years ago. What the bracelets did not tell him was her name, but that was only a matter of time, Shenouda asserted.

  He went on to describe an extensive search recently begun for the stolen bracelets. The investigation would be relentless and continue until the smugglers were brought to justice. There was nowhere to hide, he said, pointing directly into the camera. Russia, Italy, China, had all volunteered to aid the effort. ICE, a federal law-enforcement agency unde
r the US Department of Homeland Security, had pledged to do everything in their power to return the bracelets to their rightful resting place. Suddenly, Dr. Shenouda’s eyes softened as excitement replaced anger. He revealed that the bracelets had never before been catalogued. To the archaeological world, this was a monumental and exciting puzzle. The photo of the bracelets had come to him from a conscientious American Egyptologist who, unfortunately, had been found murdered. At this very moment, he continued, the police and army had closed the Valley of the Queens and, in conjunction with his department, were scouring the desert for her tomb. Highly trained security staff had been placed at every possible entrance or exit to the country.

  Victoria turned to Khara, her voice heavy with despair. “We’ll never get there now.”

  Oliver tilted his head to the side, and looked as though something dear to him had gone missing. “I don’t understand Khara, what’s this got to do with you?”

  She refused to speak. One of the cats jumped from the mantel, landed with a soft thud, skirting humans and furniture with equal caution. Celeste looked yearningly at the stairs, and Victoria switched off the television and remained silent.

  Oliver crossed his arms. “Well?”

  “It’s rather complicated, dear,” Celeste intervened.

  “With all due respect, Ms. Celeste, I’m asking her,” Oliver responded.

  “This,” Khara said, holding up her arm so he could see the bracelet, “completes the set.”

  He cocked his head. “You’re smuggling artifacts out of Egypt?” he inquired incredulously.

  “Of course not. The bracelets are mine.”

  “That guy just said they were made for a pharaoh’s daughter. Did he not also say the bracelets are over four thousand years old?”

  Khara glanced at the floor for a moment, as though gathering strength for what came next. “I am the daughter of Pepy the Second.”

  “Don’t play with me, Khara.” Oliver appealed to Celeste and Victoria. “Why is she talking such nonsense?”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Khara stated simply, though there was a pleading note to her voice.

  Celeste was on her feet, shuffling toward him. “Instead of using only your intellect, consider what your heart is telling you.”

  Victoria could not hold back any longer. “As unbelievable as it sounds, her guardian sent her into the future to protect her.”

  He rolled his eyes and stepped away from Khara. “Right. She’s four thousand years old, and I’m Geronimo. Women have strange ways of dealing with things.” He looked from Celeste to Victoria, and finally back to Khara. “It’s pretty clear you’ve been keeping something from me. My mother used to say an Apache’s heart is made from the mud of a river, while the white man’s was chiseled out of granite. The stone half of my heart,” Oliver said quietly to Khara, seemingly unaware they were not alone, “says that you’ve never trusted me. No wonder you can’t tell me you love me.” He reached out to her, and then pulled his hand back. “The way you always seem to be holding something back—it makes sense now.”

  Her expression of futility, her inability to defend herself— Victoria recognized it all and cast a desperate look at Khara. Do something!

  Oliver took a deep breath. “I guess there’s not much else to say.” After few agonizing moments, he spoke to Victoria. “You’ll look after her, won’t you?” Before she had time to answer, he nodded to Celeste. “Ma’am,” he said. Before he left, he stopped to kiss Khara on the forehead. “Whoever you are, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  She would have preferred an angry slam to the hollow clicking sound the screen door made. Moments later, Oliver strode past the window, wet hair plastered flat to his head, an injured expression on his face. He focused straight ahead, seemingly intent on ignoring the three women watching him.

  Shortly afterwards, they heard gravel spray as the truck sped away.

  “Why did you let him leave like that?” Victoria asked, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Among the three of us, we could have made him understand.”

  “He’ll be back,” Celeste reassured her.

  Khara shook her head and a sighed, “It’s for the best.” But her gallant words hid nothing. “You were right,” she admitted. “Relationships do make everything more difficult.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven Victoria

  Victoria went into the dining room to be alone. Her assumption that Dr. Shenouda knew more about the origins of the bracelets than he had revealed could be counted on. The words “relentless” and “investigation” tortured her with visions of disaster. How am I going to get us to Egypt now?

  Israel seemed the logical choice, though Victoria balked at the thought of flashing Khara’s fake passport under the nose of the Magav, Israel’s legendary border police. They would probably meet with less scrutiny in Jordan, maybe even Sudan. This was not her forte; she knew next to nothing about the policies of Arab countries. Would they give a second thought to a couple of female tourists on their way to see the pyramids? What if ICE was already on their trail?

  A croupy cough interrupted the barrage of thoughts as Celeste joined her at the table. Khara sat in front of a window with a view of the driveway, tearless and silent, her head bent toward the glass like a wilted flower.

  The clouds departed as unexpectedly as they’d come, leaving a damp chill behind. Gloom permeated the dining room, thick and heavy. To escape it, Victoria rummaged through the fridge and put together a plate of bread, cheese, and salami. She set it down in front of Celeste. “You’ve got to eat something before you take your medicine,” she reminded her.

  Celeste watched the door. “Later,” was her only comment as she tiredly pushed the plate away.

  As Victoria tidied the kitchen, visions of border crossings flashed through her mind’s eye, all ending badly. Throughout the evening, Khara remained a muted version of herself.

  At three o’clock in the morning, Victoria woke alone. Rising quickly, she threw the top quilt around her shoulders. She found Khara sitting on the porch steps with Heather of Scotland at her feet, watching the sky. “It’s time I went home.”

  “I’m working on it. It’s going to be more difficult now, especially if US Customs is looking for us.”

  “Perhaps,” she said rather abstractedly, and Victoria knew she had been pondering this, “there is another way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tonight,” she replied, a single word that filled the air with mystery, “the moon wanes. If Oliver’s shaman is truly a bridge from the spirit world to this one, he may be able to help us.”

  It was not the answer Victoria had hoped for.

  “I know nothing of Apache rituals. You will come, won’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Victoria didn’t believe anyone could help, but a distraction would be welcome. In the meantime, she would rack her brain for a new plan to get them to Egypt. She returned to bed, tormented with worry. It took everything she had to wait there until Khara left the cabin for her sunrise prayers. At the main house, Victoria hurried past Celeste with a quick “Morning” before flipping on the television.

  A waxy-looking anchorman on the BBC reported about the smuggling of Egyptian artifacts, and the screen cut to live footage. A reporter stood outside Victoria’s office asking Maggie if it was a front for smuggling artifacts into the United States.

  Microphone in her face, Maggie’s eyes flashed. She commented, “With municipal and state elections not far away, allegations like this are commonplace. This one, however, is ludicrous and unfounded. But at least,” Maggie smiled innocently, “the perpetrator showed some imagination. The Center for Help has an excellent reputation. I hope Customs and Immigration Services will thoroughly investigate the person who supplied this information. I understand that it was reported anonymously.”

  Maggie had handled the situation like a pro, but it was obvious that Arlan Mieley was making good on his threats. Nothing was going to stop h
im until the last bracelet was in his filthy hands. She’d underestimated him again. As she stared at the television, a far more insidious thought took shape. What if Mieley had realized that the real treasure, a thousand times more valuable than a piece of jewelry, was the Egyptian princess who wore it? Victoria went to the kitchen, and Celeste’s expression told her that she already knew.

  “He’s trying to flush us out,” Victoria admitted as she collapsed into a chair. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why don’t you try letting Khara do some of the thinking?” Celeste asked. “She’s risking every bit as—”

  “Seriously? So far, her best idea is to crash a Mescalero celebration so she can ask the shaman for some hocus-pocus words of wisdom. Not exactly what I’d call of plan of substance,” Victoria replied indignantly. Her tone softened when she added, “I’m sorry, but this is the modern world we’re dealing with.”

  “Says you. And for your information, I think it’s a good idea. I’ve lived here thirty years; the Mescalero are my friends. I don’t take it personally, but I’ve never been invited.”

  “Because of who we are?”

  Of Celeste’s gallery of smiles, her crooked one was Victoria’s favorite. “Not at all, my girl. It’s because of who we are not.”

  Strange, isn’t it?” Victoria mused. “How easily discrimination can swivel in any direction.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she took one of those meaningful breathe-from-the-core stretches she’d learned in yoga; concentrating on the low hum of the refrigerator, the ticking clock, but mostly to Celeste’s hoarse breathing. It was not the most pleasant sound, still she found unexpected comfort in it. Try to separate what you know from what you feel, she told herself, and the answers will come. When at last she opened her eyes and found Celeste staring at her strangely, it took several moments to put into order, the events that had brought her here.

  On the counter was a bowl of Granny Smiths for a pie Lila had promised to show her how to bake. Victoria scooped it up along with a vegetable peeler and went outside. She placed the earthenware bowl next to her on the bench quietly, lest she wake the geese dozing in the grass nearby.