by Jasmine Walt
My unusually sluggish mind finally caught up, screaming about what was important, and it wasn’t the impending volcanic eruption. “Your childhood home?! You grew up in Herculaneum before Mount Vesuvius erupted? That’s . . . that’s impossible! You’d have to be over two thousand years old! This can’t be real!”
It’s not real . . . it’s not real . . . it’s not real . . . Scrunching my eyes closed, I repeated the mantra for a long moment. When I reopened them, I hoped to find myself standing in my apartment, my impossibly ancient grandpa gone, and sanity and reality firmly reestablished around me. I was sorely disappointed.
“Alexandra, calm down.” My grandpa’s fingers regained their strong grasp on my hand, acting like an anchor to something tangible, to something real. But touching him was almost as disconcerting as considering the possibility that everything he’d told me was true. He wasn’t the steadiest of anchors.
Wide-eyed, I stared at Alexander, taking dozens of deep, slow breaths.
“I know your Nejerette traits have been manifesting. You must feel like you’re losing your mind, noticing physical changes with your body—possibly heightened senses—and seeing things that happened in the past. You’re having dreams that feel like memories, but they couldn’t be your memories because you were never there, correct?”
Incapable of forming words, I nodded.
“This is all real, Alexandra. You aren’t human . . . you’re Nejerette.”
As much as my mind wanted to disagree, the logical part of me assessed every piece of evidence—the dreams and visions, the healing, my eyes—and drew the only possible conclusion. Alexander Ivanov, my thirty-looking two-thousand-year-old grandfather, was telling the truth. Nuin, the Nejerets, the “echoes”—it was all real.
Decisively, I nodded. I still felt queasy and a bit crazy, yet at the same time, I felt more stable than I had in weeks. I had the explanation I’d been seeking . . . and I had people. I belonged.
Alexander let out a relieved breath. “Wonderful! You wouldn’t believe how long it takes some people to accept the truth.”
I cleared my throat. “So, um . . . what now?”
He smiled. “Now, we watch, and eventually, you learn. Look.” He spun me around, leading me to a wide doorway. Beyond, the geometric pattern on the tiled marble floor changed as it led out to a manicured garden filled with shrubs, brightly colored flowers, and waving palm trees. Past a carved stone banister at least thirty yards away, the tiled ground dropped off, revealing an undulating, rich, blue mass—the Bay of Naples.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the tangy sea air. It seemed so pure compared to the polluted air of my time. “So we can smell, too? Not just see and hear things in these . . . these ‘echoes’?”
Alexander looked at me with surprise. “Not everyone can. Many talents that used to be common have faded from our gene pool. Being able to smell in the At is almost nonexistent among those born during the last several centuries.” From the way he said “At,” I wondered if it was the official term for the echoes. In Middle Egyptian, it meant “time,” so it made sense.
“Well . . . I can.” I felt pride at excelling, but it was tinged with sadness; even among my own people, I was doomed to be a little different. I glanced away, uncomfortable with Alexander’s measuring look.
Before I could point out that it wasn’t polite to stare, the sound of sandaled feet slapping against marble tiles drew my attention. Two small boys, one with brown hair and one with blond, squealed and clattered onto the patio. They tried not to giggle as they struck at each other with wooden swords. After a particularly deadly fake stab from the blond boy, the brown-haired boy staggered to the ground with melodramatic gasps.
“The victor . . . is that . . . ?”
My grandpa responded wistfully, “Me? Yes. My brother and I were playing our equivalent of ‘cops and robbers.’ It was more like ‘Alexander the Great and the Persian Heathens.’ They terrified us more than modern human scholars understand. Ah . . . but looking back, I think we could have focused less on the Persian threat and more on the religious strife within our own society. But I suppose no civilization, no matter how grand, is meant to last forever.”
It was my turn to stare at him. “You miss it.”
Gently, he squeezed my hand. “It was home. It’s part of who I am—I’ll always miss it. Someday you’ll understand.”
“I can accept the visions or echoes or whatever . . . I get it, I’ve seen enough to know this isn’t just a hallucination. But what’s with the really great aging perks?” I asked, unable to hold in my curiosity any longer. Alexander looked amazing for a guy who’d lived through two millennia.
Alexander tightened one side of his mouth as he thought. “I’m much more a philosopher than scientist, but as far as I understand it, some other genetic traits are linked to the Netjer-At chromosome. First, and inconsequentially, our dentition patterns are two-one-two-two.”
I recalled from my undergraduate anthropology classes that the standard pattern for humans was two-one-two-three: two incisors, a canine, a couple of premolars, and three molars. “So, no wisdom teeth?” I asked.
“Correct. It generally holds true among carriers as well, though for you to be Nejerette, Alice must have been a carrier, and she had wisdom teeth on the bottom. Poor girl had to have them removed when she was a teenager.” He shook his head at the memory. “Ah . . . but more importantly, we exhibit exceptionally enhanced cellular regeneration. This suspends the aging process and dramatically increases both our senses—seeing, hearing, etcetera—and our ability to heal. I believe you’ve recently experienced this?”
I nodded, recalling that Dr. Isa had been aware of my remarkable healing ability and hadn’t been surprised. Is she Nejerette, too? I wondered.
“You must’ve been starved afterward? Lost weight? Possibly looked ill or older for a number of days?” At my responding nod and frown, he continued, “Have you noticed any other physical changes?”
“Yeah, my skin is lighter, if that’s even possible, and pretty much perfect. I mean, I have no blemishes, no moles, no scars—nothing. And my eyes have become . . . I guess ‘brighter’ would be the right word. Now they look reddish-brown instead of just brown.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s all normal. Your appearance may change as the years pass and your body continues to renew and heal, though, for the most part, you should stay the same. You might get a little taller, or stronger, or a number of other things. Also . . .” He hesitated before adding, “Alexandra . . . the women of our kind, Nejerettes, can’t bear children.”
My stomach dropped, like a plane abruptly losing altitude. The reaction was unexpected. I’d pretty much written off having kids when I’d committed to a life of gallivanting around the globe from excavation to excavation, but hearing it was a definite impossibility saddened me.
“Why not?” I asked.
“The regenerative abilities interfere with the growth of the fetus, inevitably leading to spontaneous abortion. Usually the fertilized egg never even attaches to the Nejerette’s uterine wall,” he explained, equally scientific and sympathetic.
I shook my head. Something wasn’t adding up. “Then how do we reproduce?”
“Through the men. It’s always been through the men. Usually our children are normal humans, either carriers or non-carriers—but if a Nejeret mates with a female carrier, the child has a small chance of manifesting, of becoming Nejeret or Nejerette. Between a male carrier and a female carrier, producing a child capable of manifestation is very rare, but possible. The last must have been the case with you. I really didn’t expect you to manifest.”
I frowned. “Couldn’t you, you know, test people’s DNA for the Nejeret chromosome? Then you’d know for sure and could prepare people so the change would be less”—I paused, searching for the right word—“traumatic.”
Alexander’s eyes filled with sorrow. “Your situation is unusual, Alexandra. It’s unfair, I know. For certain political reasons, I was allowed to search th
e future At to see if there was any chance of Alice’s children manifesting. There was absolutely no sign that either you or Jennifer would become Nejerette.” He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I’m sorry, I’m not answering your question very well. You see, the mutation isn’t genetically traceable until an individual comes of age, until they manifest, so it’s impossible to predict, even with modern technology. There was no way to know this would happen, and no clear explanation for why it did.”
“Hmm . . .” I said, thinking about the man—my biological father—I’d watched break into the fertility clinic. Is it possible that he’s Nejeret? Is that why he swapped the sperm samples? Did he know Mom was a carrier? I considered telling Alexander about what I’d seen, but it didn’t seem like the right time. Not that I thought any time would seem like the right time to relay such weird information, but still . . . this wasn’t it.
“Come, I’ll show you something you’ll enjoy,” Alexander said, misinterpreting my thoughtful silence as sadness.
The swirling colors surrounded us again, and after a short time, we were standing in a very familiar backyard—Grandma Suse’s. Seven flowering apple trees were scattered near the edge of an expansive lawn. A young girl, maybe eight or nine years old, giggled gleefully in the middle of the vibrant, green grass. Barefoot, she danced around with a slender branch, pretending to fence with an alternate version of the man holding my hand. Her long, brown hair flew around her as she twirled and lunged, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. “I’ll get you, Persian beast!” she howled.
“Mom?” I asked in disbelief. I was watching my mom, one of the girliest women I’d ever known, sword fight with her father. “Are you playing ‘Alexander and the Persians’ with my mom?”
My grandpa smiled proudly. “She loved being Alexander and destroying the evil heathens.”
“You do realize your ancient prejudice could have turned her into an anti-Persian fanatic, right?”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “People are people. She knew it was a game.”
“Luckily,” I grumbled, then grinned. “She looks so happy, so carefree. I’ve never seen her laugh like that.”
He nodded solemnly. “When she and Joe learned they couldn’t have children together, it killed something inside her.” The heavy emotion in Alexander’s voice made me want to hug him. He loved my mom so much, but had abandoned his life as her father because of what he was. And one day, she would grow old and die . . . my mom, but also his daughter. Morosely, I wondered how many children he’d fathered over his two millennia, watching their births, lives, and inevitable deaths. Did he have any Nejeret children, any aunts and uncles with whom I could explore the At?
With a reluctant sigh, Alexander turned to me. “There is one last thing I must show you. I apologize, Alexandra . . . it won’t be pleasant.”
“Okay. What is it? Should I be afraid?”
“I can’t tell you what it is—that’s against the rules, and, well, nobody really knows exactly what it is. And yes, you should be very, very afraid.” With those final, ominous words, the swirling colors surrounded us again, fading to utter blackness before the sensation of steadiness returned.
But it took longer than usual. Even without the rainbow of light flowing in cascading tangles, the inky world heaved and lurched. I heaved and lurched, and eventually I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the uncomfortable motion would stop. An eternity seemed to pass before it finally did.
“Open your eyes,” Alexander said, releasing my hand. When I did, I was surprised to find that I was again sitting at the kitchen table in my cozy apartment.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I proclaimed, rising and lunging toward the garbage can. Sure enough, as soon as I reached the plastic receptacle, I vomited . . . repeatedly.
Alexander handed me a wad of paper towels once I no longer seemed in danger of a heaving relapse. Grateful, I took the offering with shaking hands and wiped my mouth. I tied off the garbage bag and tossed it down the trash chute across the hall from my apartment door.
“Care to explain?” I asked, stomping back into the apartment. “Or is that against the rules too? And whose rules?” I briefly disappeared into my bedroom to retrieve my toothbrush, waving at Grandma Suse as I passed through. She was propped up on the bed, reading.
“Well?” I asked when I returned to the living room seconds later. I shoved my toothbrush into my mouth and started vigorously scrubbing away the taste of sickness.
My grandpa watched me gravely. “At least you’re still conscious. I passed out the first time I saw it—the Nothingness. It seemed jerkier this time, though that may have been my imagination.” He sighed. “It’s the future, Alexandra, and not far off. Come the twenty-first of June, the Nothingness takes over the At.”
I stared at him for several long seconds, then spat into the kitchen sink and rinsed my mouth with a handful of water. “What are you saying?” I croaked. “Time stops, or something? Is the world going to end on the summer solstice . . . in six months?”
“Deus, I hope not. We’ve been working to avert whatever disaster might happen. It could be as simple as us being cut off from the At after the solstice. There is, of course, a prophecy and a potential savior—or destroyer—but it’s all very convoluted and likely will end up circumvented and proven irrelevant. Beyond that, I don’t think we’ll be able to do anything until the twenty-first June. We’re not used to operating blind, but this time we have to.” He shook his head, obviously frustrated by the situation.
“So . . . the world might be ending, but probably isn’t. There might be someone who can save us all, but we don’t know. And that person might destroy us all instead. Great . . . I love being dependent on such reliable people,” I said dryly. In reality, I didn’t like being dependent on anyone, reliable or not.
“That’s my girl!” Grandma Suse exclaimed softly as she emerged from my bedroom. “I told you she’s feisty, Alex. She gets it from my side. She’ll be a good addition to your little group of world-savers,” she said, sounding like she was talking about something no more serious than a baseball-card-collecting club.
My grandpa acquiesced grudgingly. “Perhaps, but only after she’s trained.”
“Uh . . . do you guys mind not talking about me like I’m not here?” I asked.
Grandma Suse patted my cheek as she shuffled to the table. “Certainly, sweetie, as soon as you serve us dinner.”
Snorting, I wondered if Alexander brought out the best or worst in my grandma. I settled on both.
14
Dates & Plans
“I’m sorry, Lex, but I must have misheard you. What did you just say?” Marcus asked. From the sound of his voice, I knew he’d taken the remarkable effort to swing his desk chair a full one-eighty degrees. Pulling him away from the handwritten journal he’d been examining had been an impossibility all morning. At least, it had been, until Dominic asked me why I was so distracted.
For the past four hours, I’d been helping the severe, slightly sullen Project Manager select the excavation field school’s final candidates. He and I were crammed together at my desk, shuffling folders around. Much to his chagrin, I’d been touting a view of “if they can manage a trowel and brush without scratching a relief or shattering an artifact, let ’em in” . . . which would have left us with about four hundred participants. We needed to narrow it down to twenty.
I swung my comfy leather chair around to face Marcus. “I said, ‘I met my grandpa for the first time last night.’ What’d you think I said?”
In true Marcus Bahur style, he ignored the question. “Isn’t that a bit odd, meeting one’s grandparent in one’s”—he paused, examining my face—“mid-twenties?”
You have no idea how odd meeting Alexander really was, I thought.
Marcus wasn’t the only one intrigued by my extended family. Dominic had been frozen with shock since I’d first mentioned meeting my grandpa. Suddenly returning to life, he blurted, “I just realized . . . Neffe . . . I
forgot to tell her . . .” as he rushed out of the room.
Frowning, I watched him leave before returning my attention to Marcus. “Yes, it’s odd. Which is why I’m distracted by it.”
Almost imperceptibly, Marcus’s eyes narrowed and his mouth puckered. “I see. Would you like to accompany me to lunch, Lex? I thought I might stop by the Burke Café for a bite and coffee.”
“Uh . . . sure,” I said noncommittally. I had no clue how he’d gone from “What do you mean you just met your grandpa?” to “Let’s grab lunch.”
“Wonderful,” he said, gently closing the leather-bound book on his desk and rising to don his coat. “Shall we?”
Still sitting, I watched him, confused. “Oh! You meant right now? But it’s only—” I peeked at my phone. “—a quarter after eleven.”
“And yet, I’m famished.” He lifted my purple pea coat off the back of my chair and held it out like I was a child getting ready to go play in the snow.
As entertaining as it was to see Marcus standing there like a glorified coat rack, I hardly had a choice. Besides, I was pretty damn hungry, too. I stood and allowed him to settle the coat around my shoulders. I did, however, slap his hands away when he spun me around and tried to button me up, earning a small, secretive smile for the effort.
Our ten-minute stroll to the café was amicable, filled with remarks on the unusually pleasant weather—it wasn’t raining for once—and on how different the campus was now that the undergrads had returned from winter break. We were the epitome of friendly colleagues—which is why I was stunned when, just outside the café’s door, Marcus reached for my hand and twined his long fingers with mine. The warmth of his hand burned into my palm, climbing up my arm toward my erratically beating heart.
I stopped mid-step. “What are—”
“I would be most appreciative if you would play along, Lex. I’m sure it won’t be too painful,” he said, his black-rimmed amber eyes shimmering in the winter sunlight. Without waiting for a response, he pulled the glass door open and pushed me through ahead of him.