Another Pan

by Daniel Nayeri

  Peter began mumbling to himself. “It can’t be,” he said. “How close did you get?”

  “It looked about that big.” Wendy made a fist.

  “Hah!” Peter laughed, almost triumphantly. “You weren’t even close. Distances in the underworld are bigger than they look. You’d have had to go in using a completely different part of the overworld. There’s no way she’d put one of the five mummies near the base. No way.” He shook his head vehemently. “In the last overworld, Elan’s temple was halfway in the middle of the pyramid. I had to go in through a construction site. Get it? Because Elan was a builder. . . . It always corresponds like that to the overworld. The pyramid is like a leech. It gets its energy from the world above it. It can’t survive without a host, so the two worlds share lots of features. It’s a good thing, ’cause I can use clues from the five stories to find my way — like a construction site for Elan the builder.”

  A leech. Wendy thought about the eerie feeling she had lately, even before today’s events, every time she walked through the halls of her school. She thought about all the creepy similarities she had already seen between the two worlds.

  “So the gates . . .” John started, his voice a bit weak.

  “As far as I know, there are five major gates,” said Peter, “each with a guardian and one of my mummies. The rest of the labyrinth is just designed to keep intruders confused.”

  The way he said my mummies felt uncomfortable to Wendy.

  “Do you have more?” she asked. “If you have all five, you’ll be immortal. Is that true?”

  “It’s all true, Wendy,” said Peter.

  “Do you have any of the others?” asked John.

  “Just the second one . . . sort of,” said Peter.

  “I figure it should be in a desert. That’s where Garosh went to die, or not die,” said John.

  “Yeah, I know. I had it.”

  “What happened?” asked Wendy. “Did you make it past the gatekeeper?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Peter smiled. “That wasn’t a problem. But then —”

  “The death god,” whispered John.

  “Death goddess,” said Peter. “If we’re gonna get technical.”

  So that part was true, too — the Anubis legend that all the scholars studied was wrong, and the obscure five myths lore about the Dark Lady was real. They had just seen her. John had even touched her.

  “Anyway, I had to hide the second batch of bonedust inside the labyrinth,” said Peter.

  “You hid an entire mummy?” John asked. “Must be one heck of a hiding spot.”

  “Uh . . . yep,” said Peter proudly. “No one’s ever gotten closer than I have. Why do you think she’s after me?” Wendy saw a serious look, a hatred, overtake Peter’s features. This was obviously an intensely personal grudge, and one that Wendy could understand. Peter didn’t just want the bones. He wanted revenge — to defy her, the way a child wants to defy a selfish mother. “I hid it in the best possible spot. . . .”

  “How about a hint?” said John, his tone not all that hopeful.

  Peter laughed. “I’ll just tell you, kid. It was in the mouth of a giant sphinx.”

  “So that’s why you want to go back,” said Wendy.

  “Wanna come?” said Peter, grabbing her hand. “It’s the biggest adventure in the world.”

  Wendy blushed. “We should clean up the blood. Someone must have heard the noise.” They stood up, taking one last look at the door that had served as the gate. On the other side was just another utility closet.

  “We were almost killed,” Wendy mused as they prepared to leave.

  “Nah,” said Peter, relishing his success as if it were something much bigger, a victory over all forces of evil, a blow to every power-mad teacher and abandoning mother and wicked, black-hearted nanny. “That was Peter one, Dark Lady zero.”

  “How about a half point for nearly ripping my arm off?” said John, rubbing where his gaping wound used to be.

  “No,” said Peter. “One–zero, me.”

  A turning knob, a clicking lock, and the echo of a door slowly creaking open — a door without the Eye of Ra to mark it.

  When the children had cleaned up the mess and left the basement, Nurse Neve crept out of the basement broom closet, wiped her pale, squinty face with her handkerchief, and walked back into the school.

  In the halls of Marlowe’s underworld, the dark nurse moved in secret. In the school corridors, too, she walked unseen, the way all aging, plain-faced women without public accolades go unseen. She was hindered by the frailties of this most ordinary of human bodies, but she could see that Peter had found his way back. And he had brought others, intruders looking for fame, fortune, long life. With her broken eye, the darkness watched them, assessed them. Now there were two who had used the bonedust to heal themselves, and she could afford no time for rest. Until the boy had all five mummies, death would not be conquered, and so the Dark Lady held the most powerful bonedust close. She might be weak, but she had once used this very body to accomplish epic things. She didn’t need to be a stunning governess to conquer worlds, because Neferat was so much older, more experienced. She could do it all again now. She sat in her attic office, the one she had requested from the school, and coughed blood into her napkin.

  The moths, these tiny messengers, circled around frantically, looking for approval from their mistress, sharing in the stench of her gloom. She was beginning to like this humbler form — it was a subtle disease infecting the school, a forgettable nurse in moth-eaten blue, seemingly harmless but in truth the crucial lulling ingredient in a dark trinity. In the meantime, let the children play in the underworld maze. Let Peter play his games just as he had done when he was a child, a wayward, unrepentant child who rejected her plans for his own. Let them all come a little closer. Each time they opened a gate was a brand-new opportunity to infect the world with malice, hatred, and sorrow. Every time someone new entered, another soul could be corrupted forever.

  It wasn’t that John was invisible in the halls of Marlowe; that would have been too easy. And he wasn’t exactly an object of scorn; that would have been too maudlin. No, after his attempt at reinventing himself, Marlowe had prepared the perfect torture for little John Darling, who couldn’t help how smart he was (well, maybe he could stop darting his hand up every time the teacher asked a question). And he couldn’t help that his dad was a brilliant and respected, and only slightly kooky, professor at the school (well, maybe he could stop reminding everyone all the time). And especially, John couldn’t help the fact that everybody knew he had his pick of top colleges even though he was only thirteen and college was five years away (well, three years for him, actually, and before the aborted Facebook makeover, he kinda blogged about it).

  It must have really ticked off all the upperclassmen angling for leadership positions and teacher recommendations that this thirteen-year-old freshman (accelerated into high school, naturally) had already aced the SATs. Not just aced them; he really beat the living crap out of that Scantron. John was the king of computations, the sultan of smarts. He was a badass of books. No matter how much he fought it, he was a big . . . fat . . . nerd.

  OK, he was a big fat nerd. Whatever. He couldn’t help it. This sucked. Maybe he could help it. He shouldn’t be so arrogant about his brains. But then, if he wasn’t, it felt like he didn’t have anything to bank on. He wasn’t ripped like Connor. And it wasn’t like he had a phone full of contacts calling him the “Great One” all the time. He wasn’t six feet tall like Peter, with chicks licking his neck and a crew of boarding students helping him live a real-life Egyptian fantasy. He didn’t have that smirk. Geez, John really hated that smirk.

  So basically, John was doomed to be invisible to everybody, until he decided to make his talents known (which just happened to be unbridled genius), and then he was the object of scorn. And if he tried to be someone else, more scorn. Sweet.

  Just three more years and I’ll be someplace where prodigies get the girls, thoug
ht John as he skulked down the hall through passing period. Hundreds of classmates were gabbing, grabbing books from lockers, laughing, playing jokes, and doing ninety-nine other things that didn’t involve John. Some guy bumped John’s arm as he chased his friend, sending a tingling feeling all the way up to John’s shoulder. John couldn’t tell if he’d been hit in the funny bone or if this was some aftereffect on the arm that had been mangled yesterday. John rubbed his forearm. It was fine. In fact, it was better than fine. It was a weird thing to say, but it felt new. Even the burn mark he’d gotten from a Bunsen burner last year seemed to be faded and gone.

  The bell sounded for next period, and everyone had a buddy to walk with. John still hadn’t made it to his locker. It was so freaking difficult just to navigate between all the stupid cliques standing in the middle of the halls, getting in the way. John had to zigzag the whole time. As the space cleared, John heard a few girls in an animated discussion.

  “Ommagod. He was soooo hot; he should be in a musical!”

  “I know, right? He’s so college.”

  “Tell us, Wendy, are you dating? What about Connor?”

  “And isn’t dating RAs against the rules?”

  John realized that the three girls with their backs to him were facing his sister. They were three of the richest witches at Marlowe. All they ever cared about was shopping on Daddy’s plastic. To them, cachet was cash. The only sin was not to be in. They’d all had work done. They all thought the Darlings were peasants. And John hated them completely. But Wendy had been hanging around them a lot more since dating Connor. Even though she had heard them call her Trendy Wendy as a joke, she still tolerated them. She played like she didn’t care, but John thought that Wendy had been really lonely since their mom left.

  John perked his ears. “No, we’re just friends,” said Wendy, “We met outside school.”

  “Outside school?” said one of the girls. “Like, was he cleaning up?”

  “RAs don’t clean, stupid,” said another one.

  Wendy interrupted. “He was just hanging with his advisees.”

  The girls were still confused. “I don’t get it. Boarders hanging with staff? Why?”

  “He’s pretty hooked up,” said Wendy. “And it’s not like they have parents around.”

  “They have bodyguards.”

  “Nope,” said Wendy. “Not allowed in the dorms.”

  “Wow, it’s like olden times.”

  “He almost kissed me,” said Wendy, for a moment forgetting caution. It was almost as if she wanted them to tell Connor.

  “He did not!”

  Their voices were full of glee, and suddenly Wendy looked nervous. “Not really,” she backtracked. “Well, almost, but I didn’t let him. I’m with Connor.”

  They didn’t pay attention to the recant. “I bet he has a tongue ring.”

  “It’d be so romantic if he got fired because of some illicit affair.”

  Wendy shook her head vehemently. “No! Do not say anything. If he gets fired, he won’t have a job or money . . . and there’s nothing going on, OK? I lied.”

  “Figures,” huffed one of the girls.

  “I’ve seen him hanging around that Hispanic chick.”

  “She’s not his girlfriend,” said Wendy. “I don’t think he’s into labels.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What does he write on his profiles? Single? Seeking? What?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wendy. “I don’t spend that much time checking online profiles.”

  The girls were boggled. One of them pulled out her handheld device to make sure she still had hers and they hadn’t teleported to the Land of Lame.

  “Okaaaay,” said one of the girls. “Well, you’ve got to dish the rest on this Peter sometime.”

  “Yeah, OK,” said Wendy.

  “Come on, girls, let’s go somewhere . . . else.”

  The girls walked away. Obviously they were finished with Wendy and weren’t inviting her to join them. As they left, John could hear them whispering about Peter, about how insane it was that he’d almost gone for Trendy Wendy when he could have had one or all three of them. That would have been way more college of him.

  John hurried around a corner before Wendy could notice that he’d witnessed the scene. The halls were empty now. John would be late to class. He heard Wendy’s slow steps on the marble tiles. He leaned on the wall, waiting for the sound to recede. The mud column and the stone step were gone now. Marlowe looked pretty much normal. But that strange feeling, the weird smell, and even a few moths were still hanging around, reminding them that Marlowe was still attached to the underworld. No one noticed, of course. Once or twice, a janitor was called to find the source of the smell, or more fumigators were hired, but that’s it. John didn’t want to go to class. He didn’t hesitate very long. He knew what he wanted to do instead. Cutting class was new to him. But dreaming about being the kind of guy who cuts class, well, that was a rerun.

  He was still daydreaming when he crashed into Connor Wirth, right by Connor’s locker. He dropped his gaze and tried to think of something cool to say. Ten seconds passed. Too late. John waved weakly and kept walking.

  “Hey . . . John.” Connor’s thick voice called him back.

  John turned. “Huh?” John was trying to play it cool, hoping desperately that Connor wouldn’t offer him another Wendy-inspired charity outing he couldn’t afford. Connor had an amused look on his face.

  “Dropped something.” Connor held up a shiny piece of metal. It was John’s Swatch. It had a broken clasp that he hadn’t bothered to fix, so it kept falling off his wrist at inopportune moments.

  John shuffled over to Connor and took the watch, doing his best to avoid eye contact. This sucks, thought John. Now he’ll think I didn’t get the watch fixed because we’re poor, which we totally are not. These people need to get some perspective.

  “You should get that fixed,” Connor said as he handed the watch to John. John glanced at Connor’s six-thousand-dollar timepiece and sighed.

  “Oh . . . yeah . . . well, no point,” John muttered. “I have three other ones at home . . . way better ones . . . back at my house . . . well, not my house. My dad’s. Actually, not his either because he sort of works for . . .” John trailed off. He was doing himself no favors.

  “Cool,” said Connor. “Listen, man, I’m gonna head to class. But good luck with that.” Connor smiled and walked away.

  John skulked off in the opposite direction, now completely determined to skip class.

  John snuck through the hallways of Marlowe. The only noises were the muted sounds of teachers trying to speak above their class. It didn’t take him long to reach the door to the basement. Here, he paused. It was on those stairs yesterday that he had been attacked. John instinctively looked over his shoulder, down the long hall, to make sure no one was there. Then he descended the stairwell.

  The basement was no longer the mad mess it had been just a few weeks ago. Thanks to him and Wendy, most of the crates had been broken down and recycled. The exhibition pieces had been cataloged and were sitting in organized rows.

  John walked straight to the book. He didn’t waste time marveling at it. He didn’t sniff it or treat it like a delicate pastry. He was a lone wolf. He was Indiana Jones, exploring the hidden dangers of the labyrinth alone. No man could ever keep up with him. No woman could ever understand him. He tucked the book under his arm and ran out of the basement. He wasn’t sure where he would go, but he wanted to see something new. He wanted to explore an uncharted part of the underworld. He paced in the empty halls, hoping that the answer would come to him. When he was outside Barrie Auditorium, the future home of the Egyptian exhibit and the book, he got an idea. I’ll know what piece of the underworld matches with Barrie before anyone else. If they want to go, I’ll have to be the guide. If some unsuspecting kid opens the gate accidentally, they’ll call the Johnny to save the day. It didn’t cross his mind that the Egyptian names of the hours weren�
��t exactly the slang-of-the-moment at Marlowe.

  Inside the auditorium, John wasted no time looking around. He was just relieved that it was, once again, deserted. No one ever went into the auditorium unless there was a required event going on. It was the most deserted place in Marlowe — plus it was always stifling hot, since the air-conditioning was always off in the cavernous room to keep costs down. He had no desire to linger. He said the words, and he watched the message appear. It wasn’t anything to dwell on. When he saw the Eye of Ra appearing above a door leading offstage, John’s confidence waned for an instant. Then he remembered that smirk. The smirk that Peter had had when he looked danger in the face. The smirk he’d had when he’d come and saved John’s life. Geez, thought John, did he have to save my life? It was so humiliating.

  John didn’t want to think about it. He closed his eyes and rushed through the door. He knew he had passed through to the underworld when a hot wind met him like a punch. Sand scraped at his face. John opened his eyes. It might have been the first time he was grateful he wore glasses that looked like lab goggles. In front of him spread a desert so vast that it looked like an ocean. The dunes were undulating in the wind like golden waves. Gone was the pillared clutter of the ruins. Gone were the green hedges twisting and turning away from the fire pond. The sunless sky poured some kind of burning light, like a lamp; the sands shone back in an eerie way that left John feeling cold. John stood and wondered. Then he laughed to himself, thinking of the giant sandbags attached to the pulleys backstage. The auditorium was the only place in Marlowe with sand.

  This was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to be a hero, traveling by foot through a barren desert. The cinematography would be stunning. His grizzled face would be so renegade. This beat advanced biology class by about a googolplex.

  John tried to step into his new role, but his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down. The sands had shifted around him. He had sunk in to around his knees. John panicked.

  “Help! Help!” he yelled. The sound died in the lifeless plain. John tried to lift his feet out, but each time he lifted one, he had to shift his weight to the other, causing it to sink deeper. He grabbed one leg and tried to yank. No use. He was breathing heavily. Maybe it was an asthma attack. This sucked. He was going to die during advanced biology class. How could someone who had read so many comic books, played so many desert levels, surfed so many websites on survival scenarios, be this terrible at the actual experience?