Lady of the Two Lands

by Elizabeth Delisi

  “Because you are of my blood. You sprang from my stock. Though the link is distant, my blood runs truer in your veins than in any who came before you.” The woman stepped closer. “Only you can right this grave injustice. You must protect Tuthmosis. He is but a boy, and without me to protect him, he is helpless.”

  “Now you’re saying I’m Egyptian? You must be crazy! I’m as American as they come. Just who are you anyway?”

  “I am King’s Great Wife, God’s Wife of Amun, Lady of the Two Lands—Hatshepsut.” Hatshepsut reached out and touched Hattie’s cheek with a feather-light touch, but Hattie felt it in every fiber of her being, like an electric shock.

  A gasp died in Hattie’s throat. Her head swam, her heart pounded; blackness rushed up to engulf her, and she surrendered to a force she didn’t understand and couldn’t overcome.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hattie awoke with regret. Her head pounded fiercely, the potent scent of incense still lingering in her nostrils. She groaned, but hesitated to open her eyes. She didn’t know if the crazy woman was still there—and if she were, what she might do to Hattie next.

  “Amun be praised! She lives!” A heartfelt, deep male voice broke the stillness of the room. “Are you all right, Majesty? Do you know your name?”

  “H…Hattie,” she croaked, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut. The deep voice sounded nothing like the ghostly woman who’d claimed to be Hatshepsut.

  “Open your eyes and let me gaze into them, I pray you,” the voice commanded.

  Hattie opened one eye slowly, then the other. A breathtakingly handsome man bent over her, his long, dark hair hanging down around his face. Concern etched lines across his broad forehead and from his aquiline nose down to his sensual lips. Deep brown eyes widened in puzzlement as Hattie’s gaze met his. “Majesty! Do you not know me?”

  Her thoughts swam in futile circles. What had happened to her? Where was she? Who was this man? She was sure he wasn’t on the museum staff, and he didn’t have the efficient manner of a paramedic. Shouldn’t he be asking her the name of the President, or the day of the month? Had he called her “Majesty”? What did that mean?

  She glanced over his shoulder and around the room. Whitewashed walls, covered with vividly-painted scenes of stylized ancient Egyptian figures spearing fish, baking bread, and making offerings to the gods, rose up to meet a midnight blue ceiling, dotted with stars. Good, she was still in the museum—somewhere in the Egyptian wing, though she didn’t recognize it immediately. The crazy woman must have run away when Hattie fainted.

  She turned her attention to her companion. “Nay, I do not know you. Were you the one who found me in the storage room? If so, I thank you.”

  The man frowned. “Majesty, I caught you in my arms when you swooned at the funerary rites for your husband, the Great God, may he live forever. I feared you were dead, your ka flown to the gods. Thank Amun I was wrong. I know nothing of a storage room. Such rooms are visited only by servants.”

  Hattie stared up at the man bending over her. He appeared to be entirely sincere, but she couldn’t make sense of anything he said. What husband? What funeral? Servants? She struggled to push herself upright for a better look at her surroundings, but she was still weak and her head swam dizzily. Instantly, his strong arm encircled her shoulders and he gently helped her to a sitting position.

  Her eyes widened as she looked around the small room again. Colorful figures marched across the rough walls and floor, and stars gleamed from the ceiling. Two small, high-set windows in one wall let in streams of sunlight and sparkling dust motes, while several tightly woven baskets of various sizes lined the opposite wall. A curtained door in one wall and an uncurtained door in another appeared to be the only exits.

  She lay on a low, uncomfortable bed, covered with a scratchy linen sheet. She saw no other furniture in the room, save the wooden stool on which her companion sat. Absolutely nothing looked familiar. “Where am I?” she cried, forcing down the panic that threatened to rise in her throat. “Am I in the museum? Where have you taken me?”

  “You are in your own bed chamber, Majesty,” the man said soothingly. “You have had a great shock today. Please lie down.” He gently pressed her back into a reclining position.

  Confused, she decided she must have hit her head harder than she thought when she fainted and fell in the storage room. That would explain the strange woman as well—she was nothing more than a hallucination. Tom would certainly get a piece of her mind the next time she saw him. He had some nerve, leaving the door locked with her sitting inside! At least I haven’t broken any bones, she thought, passing a shaking hand across her face.

  Suddenly, Hattie jerked her hand away as if it had stung her. Staring at it, she felt the blood drain from her cheeks. It wasn’t her hand. It was attached to her arm, moved when she willed it, but it didn’t look like her own ink-stained hand with practical, short fingernails. It was a little smaller, golden-brown, with slender fingers and elegant, oval nails. Horrified, she threw back the sheet that covered her. A brief moment of dismay at discovering she was totally nude gave way to panic when she saw that the slim, sun-browned body lying on the bed looked nothing like her own pale, freckled frame. She reached up to her head and pulled a long lock of hair down in front of her eyes. It was wavy, like hers, but much longer and, instead of chestnut brown, it was a rich red-gold color.

  “What has happened to me?” she cried, her voice breaking. “I demand that you tell me, right now!”

  Her companion pulled the sheet up under her chin and said in a low, comforting voice, “Everything is all right, Majesty. You have suffered a great loss. You need to sleep.” He lifted an alabaster goblet to her lips. “Drink,” he urged.

  Obediently, she sipped. The liquid in the cup tasted strong, sweet and alcoholic. She sank back onto the bed. Her head buzzed and the pictures on the walls swam into indistinct blurs. What had he put in the wine? Had he drugged her? She fought to keep her eyes open.

  “Sleep, Majesty,” the man whispered.

  With his warm hand gently stroking her hair, Hattie stopped struggling and dropped off into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  “Fool! Are you incapable of performing even the smallest task?” The stocky, shaven-headed priest strode back and forth in front of a cringing guard kneeling on the floor, head bowed.

  “I am sorry, holy one,” the guard whispered, glancing up. “I did as you instructed. Amun help me, I put the poison into her cup. I saw her drink it, I swear by Amun! I know not why she still lives.”

  “Well, something went wrong because she is not dead. Did you spill any of the poison? She fell to the floor in a swoon but did not die. Mayhap the poison was not at full potency.” The priest’s gaze bored into the hapless guard’s eyes.

  “Nay, holy one, I did not spill any. I swear by the sacred name of Isis!” He bowed his head again, trembling violently. “She must have a charm or amulet, something to protect her. I know not what.”

  “Ast! Go, then…go. I have no further use for you at this moment. But I warn you—speak of this to no one, or I will personally feed you to the crocodiles.” He flapped his hand at the guard.

  The guard rose and bowed deeply, then scurried from the room as if the devils of Set the Devourer were after him.

  “I can see I must be more careful,” the priest muttered. “I must take this task to myself. Lesser ones cannot be trusted. The next time, I shall not fail.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Hattie awoke from a pleasant dream of lying in a man’s comforting embrace. She didn’t know who the man was, but in her dream, his presence made her feel safe and protected. She was loathe to return to reality.

  At last, she opened her eyes. White stars on a blue painted ceiling swam into view. She groaned. Maybe she had a concussion, and was hallucinating. Hospital rooms didn’t have painted ceilings, and surely she would have been taken to a hospital by now—if anyone had found her. Was she still lying unconscious on the storage room fl
oor and this was a dream? Or was she in the hospital, and all this a painkiller-induced hallucination—the crazy woman, the painted chamber, the body that wasn’t her own, the gorgeous man?

  Her gaze wandered around the room, coming to rest on her ever-present male companion seated across from her. Already, he seemed her only friend in a strange land. Was he a doctor, or was he a figment of her imagination?

  Noticing her eyes open, he rose and strode to her side. “How do you feel, Majesty?”

  “Better, I think,” she said tentatively. Her voice sounded odd to her, higher and lighter than usual. Weak from shock, probably. “I am thirsty. May I have something to drink?”

  “Of course, Majesty. Right away.” He walked to the doorway and clapped his hands. “Nesi!”

  At once, the curtain over the door was pushed aside and a dark-haired young woman stepped into the room. She wore a long white dress, but she was most definitely not a nurse—her dress was draped to expose one small, tanned breast. “Aye, Lord?” she said, bowing her head.

  “Bring bread, dates, and wine for Her Majesty.”

  “Aye, Lord.” Nesi left the room as quickly as she had entered.

  Hattie shook her head, trying to clear it, but succeeded only in making it pound. Something strange had happened to her, and she couldn’t make sense of it. The young woman called Nesi was not the only one dressed in an odd fashion; she herself lay naked under the coarse sheet, with no recollection of anyone undressing her. Which is probably just as well, she mused.

  Her companion’s clothing was strange also, though not unpleasant. He wore a pleated white kilt fastened low on his lean hips. He was shirtless; his bronzed chest bare and smooth. A wide collar of gold and golden armbands accented his broad shoulders, muscular arms and torso. Definitely not a doctor’s garb!

  His speech sounded odd, archaic. She couldn’t put her finger on just what was different, though. Did he have an unusual accent, or an old-fashioned vocabulary? If only her blasted headache would go away, perhaps she could figure it out…

  Comprehension slowly dawned. He wasn’t speaking English. It wasn’t French. It wasn’t Spanish. It was no language she had ever heard spoken. But if that were true, how could she understand him? How could he understand her? For, as strange as it seemed, she appeared to be speaking the unknown language as well. If this was a dream, it was the most bizarre one she’d ever had. She had no idea her subconscious was so inventive.

  “I am confused,” she whispered, massaging her temples with both hands. “I do not…I do not remember what happened to me. Can you tell me?”

  The man pulled up his stool next to her bed and sat. “You have not been yourself since your husband, the Great God, died,” he said, sympathy warming his voice. “You have not eaten or slept in days. You are distraught. I will assist you in any way I can, Majesty.”

  Hattie smiled, her bottom lip trembling. “Thank you. Mayhap, with your help, I will remember what…” She shook her head, then winced at the pain throbbing behind her eyes. “Where am I?”

  “In your bedchamber, Majesty. Have I not told you this?”

  “But this is not my…oh, never mind. Where is my bedchamber? I mean,” she added hastily, “in what city is this house?”

  The man smiled. “That question I can answer easily, Majesty. You are in your royal palace in the city of Thebes.”

  Thebes. Hattie was no scholar, but even she knew Thebes was in Egypt. Was this man crazy—or was she? Was someone playing a nasty practical joke on her? If it were Tom, she’d never forgive him. First, the mysterious woman who claimed to be Hatshepsut, and now this.

  “Where is Tom?” she demanded. “Tell him I want to see him at once. This has gone on long enough. Tell him I do not find this humorous.”

  “Tom?” The man’s voice sounded puzzled. “I regret that I do not know anyone called Tom. Who is he—a servant of the Great God’s, mayhap? It is not the name of a nobleman, of that I am certain.”

  Nesi returned to the room at that moment, bearing a tray of round, flat bread loaves and dates, and a flagon that Hattie supposed held wine. She placed the items on a lidded basket beside Hattie’s bed and silently backed out of the room, bowing.

  “Bread, Majesty?” The man tore off a large piece from one of the loaves and held it out to her.

  “In a minute.” She tried another avenue of investigation. “Why do you keep calling me Majesty? Why do you not use my name?”

  The man’s strong brown fingers toyed with the chunk of bread. “It would not be seemly for me to use your name, Majesty.”

  “But you do know my name?” she persisted.

  “Of course, Majesty. You are Hatshepsut, King’s Great Wife and God’s Wife of Amun.”

  Hatshepsut? Now, she knew she was dreaming. The illustration she had been drawing of Hatshepsut’s coronation and the sight of her glittering necklace must have been on her mind when she passed out—that was why she dreamed she’d spoken to Hatshepsut, and why this man called her by that name.

  A great wave of relief swept over her, leaving her limp in its wake. Sooner or later, she’d rouse from this bizarre dream. In the meantime, she might as well play along and enjoy herself. What could it hurt? At the very least, she’d have a fascinating story to tell Tom when it was all over. After she was through chewing him out, of course.

  “I see. Of course. Well, I would prefer that you call me Hattie. Majesty is too formal. I care not for it,” she said, in what she hoped was an imperial tone.

  “I dare not presume, Majesty,” the man protested.

  “Presume. I command you.” She struggled to hold back a smile.

  “Very well, Majes—Hattie.” The man stumbled over the unfamiliar name. “In truth, I have not heard you called thus since your childhood.”

  “My childhood?” Incredible! But then, it made a perverse sort of sense—Hatshepsut, Hattie. How convenient! She was rather pleased with the inventiveness of her subconscious. “Tell me about the funeral rites for…for my husband,” she urged.

  “Ah, Majes—Hattie, a glorious sight indeed! Priests of Amun escorted the Great God in all his splendor on his journey across the Nile and to the Necropolis. They performed the necessary rites and spells to insure His Majesty life eternal. Once in the tomb, the High Priest performed the Opening of the Mouth.” The man paused and cleared his throat. “At that moment you cried aloud and collapsed, and I fear I can tell you no more. I caught you in my arms and returned you across the river—here to the palace—certain you had died of grief.”

  “Died. Aye, you said that. But I am not dead.”

  “Nay, you are not, and I confess I do not understand. I waited with the body for the…waited with you until Hapuseneb, High Priest of Amun, could come to take you to the Necropolis, but something detained him. Just as I was about to send for him again, you awoke. Amun be praised,” he added quickly.

  Hattie’s heart beat faster and her pulse raced. The details of the funeral rites were unfamiliar, yet they sounded plausible. And Hatshepsut’s titles were a mystery to her—she had only heard her referred to as pharaoh—yet she had heard them twice now, once from the crazy woman and once from this man. If this was indeed only a dream or a phantom of her subconscious mind, how could she suddenly know details and historical facts she had never read or learned? Was she inventing things that only sounded correct? Or were they actually facts buried in her subconscious?

  If it were a dream, it was the most vivid one she’d ever experienced. She saw light glinting off the gold around the man’s neck and biceps; she smelled the sharp, sweet scent of the wine. She pinched herself, hard, and her arm stung fiercely. Was it possible to feel pain in a dream, in a phantom body? What if this was all real? What if it wasn’t a dream or a hallucination, but somehow she had truly been transported back through time to land in Hatshepsut’s court?

  Even if she had been transported back in time, who was she? She wasn’t Hatshepsut, so why would this man and the servant believe she was? She was Ha
ttie Williams, from Chicago. Yet she didn’t look like herself. Did she look like Queen Hatshepsut? And if so, why? Hattie groaned. She had many more questions than answers—and she wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to know those answers.

  Her companion had said he feared Hatshepsut had died during her husband’s funeral. He had seemed genuinely shocked when she opened her eyes. Was that the key? Had Hatshepsut actually died during her husband’s funeral? Had Hattie somehow taken her place? But that didn’t make sense. The real queen had lived to rule as pharaoh. Hadn’t she? What was it the crazy ghost had said—that her life and destiny had been cut short? But that didn’t agree with the small amount of Egyptian history Hattie knew.

  “One more question, Mister…” Hattie frowned. What was his name? Had he told her? “I am sorry, but I fear I have forgotten who you are.” She gestured at her aching head. “I am not myself. Will you forgive me?”

  “I would not presume to judge you, and there is nothing to forgive, for you have been gravely ill. I am Royal Tutor to your daughter, Princess Neferure.”

  A daughter. The plot had become ever more twisted and tangled. Hattie sighed, massaging her temples again. “Of course, you are my daughter’s tutor…but what is your name?”

  “My name is Senemut, Hattie. Do you not remember me?” He seemed distressed, though her previous lapses of memory had not appeared to bother him.

  Hattie’s mouth dropped open, and a flush burned her cheeks. Oh, yes, she knew him now. Not from personal acquaintance, but from what little she had learned of Hatshepsut’s life. Her stomach lurched as she realized this was not a nightmare produced by her subconscious. This was real! She didn’t understand how it had happened, or why, but somehow, in some fashion, she had been transported into the past, into the life and the body of Hatshepsut.