Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  page and picked it up. Maybe she was being silly, but she

  would not risk having her story washed away by rain. If

  she watched where she walked, she could find her way

  back out again . . . maybe.

  No noise but the thunder filtered through the labyrinth.

  Birds flitted in and out of the shrubs. By the walls, the

  grass was knee-high, but a path was kept clear down the

  middle. As the sunlight dimmed beneath the assault of the

  upcoming storm, she hurried faster, counting the pages as

  she gathered them. She wanted to be certain that none of

  them were lost.

  The sunshine was brighter in front of her, glittering

  off the page that was held in place by a small stone. She

  tossed aside the stone and picked up the paper. As she

  straightened, she realized she had reached the center of

  the maze, for in front of her was an open area with a pond.

  She stared in disbelief. The green walls surrounded

  an oasis she had not guessed could be found in its innermost

  section. Verdant grass woven with pansies dropped down

  toward a pool that reflected back the maze’s walls and the

  sunshine fighting to hold its own against the blackening

  sky. In the center of the pool was a small island.

  “Oh, my!” she gasped as she stared at the single

  building on the island. She could almost believe she had

  been transported back to Egypt, for on either side of the

  door stood a statue. Even from where she stood, she could

  see one was Thoth and the other Ra. The god of the moon

  and the god of the sun guarded what was a much smaller

  version of the temples she recalled from her childhood.

  This one was not almost buried in the desert sands, but

  instead surrounded by late-blooming flowers and decorated

  with silk drapes flapping listlessly in the fickle wind.

  She put her hand over the necklace beneath her gown

  as she walked out of the maze and toward the water.

  Lightning flashed overhead, but she did not pause. She

  knelt to pick up another page which was held at the water’s

  edge, like the previous one, by a rock. Directly in front of

  it, stepping stones led to the temple.

  She crossed them, drawn not only by the sheet of paper

  set on the scales held by Thoth, but by her curiosity of this

  piece of Egypt recreated here. Walking up to the temple,

  she realized the stone roof was not quite as high as the

  maze’s walls. That allowed the temple to be hidden until

  one reached the maze’s heart.

  “The heart,” she whispered, touching the stone feather

  on the other side of the scales. In Jaddeh’s tales of the

  ancient gods, it had been believed the heart of a dead person

  was weighed by Thoth in judgment. If the heart was lighter

  than a feather, entrance to the joys of the underworld was

  granted.

  Lightning crackled overhead, and Darcy pushed

  through the silk to get out of the storm. She would have to

  stay here until it passed. With a laugh, she reached back

  out and plucked the page from the scale.

  She sat on the stone floor and restacked the pages

  neatly. Scanning through them, she frowned. The most

  recent page she had written—the scene of the lovers

  surrendering to their desire—was not among them. She

  set the pages on the floor and looked through them and

  her notebook a second time, wanting to make certain the

  last scene had not gotten put in the wrong place. It was

  not here.

  Rising, she went to the statue of Ra. If the page had

  been on his outstretched hand, it had been blown away by

  the strengthening wind. The silk swirled around her as

  she looked in both directions. She jumped back when

  thunder crashed only seconds after a flash of lightning.

  The sky grew darker, and she sank back to her knees.

  She should have waited until after the storm passed before

  she came out here. To be here in the dark . . . She glanced

  up at the ceiling that was decorated with what looked like

  hieroglyphics, and she shivered. So much stone above her

  in the darkness. She closed her eyes as shudders streamed

  across her.

  The darkness. She could not stay here in the darkness.

  Jumping to her feet, she gathered up her book and the loose

  pages. She had to get back to the house. Risking the

  lightning was better than remaining here in the dark.

  “Running her hand up his deeply tanned skin, she

  whispered, ‘Open your heart to me.’ His arms enfolded

  her to him as he whispered, ‘Open all of yourself to me,

  Beloved of Thoth.’”

  As the words to her story resonated through the small

  temple, Darcy whirled to see Simon emerging from the

  shadows in its depths. In his hand was a single page.

  “She raised her arms and welcomed him against her

  breast, and she knew all that was familiar would never be

  the same.” He looked up at her as he walked toward her,

  then continued to read, “Every day to come would be

  different because of this man for whom her desire was as

  powerful as a Nile flood. It was perfection.”

  She should chide him for taking her book and tearing

  out the pages . . . and reading it. Yet as she heard her words

  in his deep voice, she could only listen and recall the vivid

  images that had been in her mind when she wrote them.

  Vivid images which made her feel alone as never before.

  Now as his voice’s echo was swallowed by another

  thud of thunder, those sensations exploded through her

  again. She was once again standing as Meskhenet had stood

  looking upon her lover within the darkness. Like

  Meskhenet, she understood all she risked by remaining

  here and was willing to jeopardize it.

  Simon bent and placed the page where she had stacked

  the others on the floor. Lightning flashed, emphasizing

  every sharp angle of his face. She stared in astonishment,

  wondering when Kafele had taken on his features.

  Searching her memory, she could not recall how that had

  happened. Now she could not envision Kafele except with

  Simon’s eyes that were as green as Thoth’s and as

  captivating as Meskhenet had found her lover’s.

  “Welcome to Egypt,” he said in a hushed voice.

  His words, so commonplace and so absurd, freed her

  from the spell cast upon her by the story that haunted her—

  the story she could not finish. As quietly, she asked, “What

  is this place?”

  “A folly built by my father years ago for my mother

  who was even more enchanted with the East than he is.”

  He smiled. “Maybe as much as you are.”

  “The maze appears much older than your father’s

  lifetime.”

  “It is. Folklore suggests it was here even before

  Rosewood Hall was raised, and it was the work of those

  ancients who raised the stones in the woods.”

  “A holy place?”

  “So it’s said because of the spring which creates the

  pool within it.” He went to the wall opposite the doorway


  and lifted down some pieces of pottery. Coming to her, he

  placed them carefully on her palm. “These were found

  here.”

  Darcy turned them over her hands. The edges were

  not sharp, but eroded by their millennia beneath the earth.

  “Your father’s workmen found these when the temple was

  being raised?”

  “My mother found them.” He chuckled. “She was

  much like you, Darcy. She wasn’t afraid of getting her

  hands dirty with work others would have considered not

  proper for her station. She tried to identify them, but all

  she could determine was they were old.”

  When she handed him back the pieces, he set them in

  the nook on the wall. Lightning brightened the interior. In

  the thunder that followed, she heard rain splattering on

  the statues outside the temple as it tried to find its way in.

  The silk draperies kept it at bay.

  Simon sat on the floor beside the single page. Holding

  his hand up to her, he drew her down next to him. He took

  her notebook and, opening it, reached to put the page within

  it. As soon as he had, she snatched the book from his hands.

  Again she held it to her chest. To protect it or for it to

  protect her? She could not guess.

  “You shouldn’t have looked at this,” she whispered.

  “Why are you hesitant to have me read it, Darcy?” he

  asked, his voice once again a low, deep caress. “I thought

  you planned to have this book published.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But I can’t read it?”

  “It isn’t finished.”

  “No?” He gently took the book and opened it. He ran

  his finger along the last line in the middle of the page. “‘It

  was perfection.’ A lovely ending to your story.”

  “It doesn’t end there.”

  “Then tell me the rest.” He stretched out on the floor,

  leaning on one elbow.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll share its ending with no one.”

  She plucked the book from him and closed it. “Neither

  will I, for I don’t recall how it unfolds from this point.”

  Light caught her eyes. Not from the lightning still slicing

  through the sky, but the fragile clouds of light that drifted

  close each time she was tempted to open her heart to Simon.

  Open her heart?

  Meskhenet and Kafele had used those words in their

  story. Were they her words any longer, or did they belong

  to the characters who seemed to have more life than any

  of the others she had penned?

  Even as she watched, the two clouds took their place

  near the roof. Her eyes widened when she saw the small

  ball of light that had never moved from above her bed

  until she came to Rosewood Hall.

  “What are you looking at?” Simon asked.

  She did not answer as the ball slid up through the

  hieroglyphics and into the stone above it.

  “They’re back,” he said when she remained silent.

  “They?”

  He pointed to the lighted clouds floating just below

  the ceiling. “Our ghosts. I would offer to shoo them away,

  but I don’t know how one rids oneself of a ghost.”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Let them stay.”

  “While you tell me the end of your story?” he asked,

  his smile returning.

  “I told you I couldn’t remember how it ends.”

  He untied the ribbons of her bonnet, drawing it off

  and leaving her skin quivering in the wake of his touch.

  “Remember? Aren’t you making up this story out of your

  imagination?”

  “This is a tale Jaddeh—my father’s mother—told me

  when I was very young.” She ran her fingers along the

  pages. “I find I don’t remember the ending of the story.”

  “They lived happily ever after?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe they did.

  This isn’t a fairy tale, but a story passed down through the

  many generations of my father’s family. A cautionary tale,

  I believe, although the ending eludes me.”

  His hand on her arm turned her to face him. In his

  eyes was the intensity that created fire in them when he

  was deep in his research. As he sought the answer to a

  puzzle that refused to give up its answer. Was that how he

  saw her? As a puzzle hiding the truth from him? He knew

  more of her secrets than anyone in England, and she knew

  so little of him. A devoted son, an ardent scholar, a good

  friend . . . and a passionate lover.

  She looked hastily away, frightened by her own

  thoughts. The tale Jaddeh had told was of the distant past,

  not of this time when England was so far removed from

  life upon the shores of the Nile. She could not let the

  romanticism of two desperate lovers interfere with her own

  life.

  A single finger under her chin brought her face back

  toward his. Slowly she raised her eyes past his beguiling

  lips to his compelling eyes.

  “Then tell me,” he whispered, sitting, “the ending to

  the scene on the final page. The words you wrote are so

  terse and unemotional after all the longing shared by your

  lovers.”

  “I don’t know what else to write.”

  “Yes, you do.” His mouth brushed hers.

  “Simon . . .” She arched her neck as his lips swept

  along it. Thunder resounded around them. Or was it just

  her heart beating with such anticipation of his touch?

  “Tell me . . . Show me . . .” he whispered against her

  ear. He drew her back onto the temple’s floor. “Share your

  sweet kisses with me.”

  His lips covered hers. The gentle, lingering touch

  vanished as his mouth pressed eagerly into hers. As he

  kissed her again and again, his breath growing ragged

  against her, the strength of his desire flowed through her.

  It washed away every bit of common sense warning her

  this yearning was a dangerous madness.

  When his mouth slid to the valley between her breasts,

  directly over her necklace, she gasped in shock at the

  powerful sensations rolling through her. She swept her

  arms up around him, bringing him over her. She could not

  deny him—or herself—the satiation of this hunger that

  seemed to spring from some unknown recess far within

  her soul.

  Each breath she took brushed her against his hard body

  until she wanted him all along her. When she heard him

  whisper something not in English, she froze and pulled

  away, staring at him.

  “What did you say?” she whispered.

  “I want you so much.”

  She shook her head as she sat up. “No, you didn’t say

  that. I heard you say something else.”

  “What?”

  “I heard you say mahbjb.”

  “What?”

  “It means beloved in Arabic.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t speak Arabic, although I’ve

  encountered a few words in my research. You must have

  misheard me.”

  “No. You said mahbjb and then . . .”

  “What?”

  In his cu
rious gaze, she saw the craving for her had

  not dimmed. “You said Thoth.”

  He laughed with a freedom she never had heard in his

  voice. “Now I know you’re jesting with me.”

  “And you’re belittling me yet again.” Darcy jumped

  to her feet and picked up the pages of her story. Her furious

  exit was ruined when she faced the heavy rain beyond the

  sheer curtains. Standing by the door, she did not move as

  she heard him stand and walk toward her.

  His breath teased the wisps of hair at her nape when

  he said, “Don’t go.”

  “I will get wet if—”

  “Don’t go because you think I was belittling you. I

  wasn’t. I vow that to you. Don’t go. Stay here with me.”

  When his mouth stroked the back of her neck, she

  gripped the pages. His arm curved around her waist as his

  hand rose to cup her breast. A shiver of excitement raced

  through her at the caress of his strong fingers. Trying to

  forget what they had shared, she had not put the wonder

  of his touch from her mind . . . or her body which ached

  for him. The rush of sensations, tantalizing her into

  recognizing the depth of her need, softened her against

  him.

  One of his fingers brushed her pendant, and the

  lightning still dancing overhead surged through her. Why

  was she resisting what she wanted as much as he did? She

  had dreamed and waited . . . She did not know how long

  she had waited for this fantasy to come true. As Meskhenet

  had wanted Kafele, Darcy wanted Simon now.

  Letting the pages fall from her fingers to drift to the

  floor and flutter about on the breeze, she turned to meet

  his mouth. She wanted to sink into the sea-green depths of

  his eyes and discover each emotion hiding there.

  She met his mouth eagerly. She wanted every bit of

  the ecstasy he offered. More than wanted . . . she needed

  the satisfaction only he could give her to appease the

  craving which preyed on her very soul. As his tongue teased

  hers, his fingers stroked her sides through the few layers

  of silk separating her skin from his. Her arms reached

  around his back, yearning to pull him against her so she

  could savor him filling the heated emptiness developing

  within her.

  She murmured, “Help me learn what I must to give

  you this pleasure.”

  “You know already.” His tongue brushed her ear, and