Geoff shrugged. “I didn’t say she was stupid. She may have more I.Q. points than all of New Jersey put together. That doesn’t mean she could pass the state sanity test. Come on, Kyle—let’s go over to your place and shoot a few baskets before we have to turn in.”
The two of them banged down the steps, leaving Marilyn alone on the porch. She twisted a lock of her red hair in tight circles around her finger. She would never admit it to Geoff, but there was something strange going on with Aunt Zenobia. She had been oddly distracted ever since she arrived—sometimes seeming like her old self, other times drifting off into a kind of trance, as she had just now. A couple of times Marilyn had caught her fingering the chain of that amulet and staring blankly into space.
Marilyn had mentioned it to her mother last night, but Mrs. Sparks claimed it was just prepublication jitters. “After all, Aunt Zenobia’s new book is scheduled to be released in two weeks. It’s natural for her to be a bit nervous about what the critics will say. Especially,” she had added maliciously, “if it’s as weird as the last one. Honestly, I don’t know where that woman gets her ideas.”
At least Aunt Zenobia has ideas, Marilyn had thought unkindly.
She began to dawdle her way down the porch steps. Moving dreamily, she trailed her fingers along the railing, still thinking about Zenobia. When she reached the flagstone walk that led to the street, Brick came wandering up to rub against her legs.
Brick was the Sparkses’ cat, a black-and-white stray they had taken in a few years ago. After three weeks of trying to name him, they had settled on Brick, because her father claimed that was exactly what the cat was as dumb as.
Now Brick was meowing for attention. So Marilyn scooped him up. Then she turned to look at the house.
It was an old place, built sometime around the turn of the century. She was glad of that. Occasionally she thought she might like to live in one of the more modern houses that had sprung up lately on the outskirts of town. But every time she spent the night with one of her girlfriends, she realized how much she would miss the creaky old place she had called home for so long. There was something different about a house that had been lived in—a sense of ongoing life, a kind of old-shoe comfort that she never felt in a newer place.
“Isn’t that right, Brick?” she asked the cat, as if he could read her mind.
Brick looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Then he reached out a paw and batted her on the side of the face.
“Be that way,” she said, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. He meowed in protest and began rubbing about her legs to be picked back up.
She ignored him and turned her thoughts back to the house. The fact that the place really belonged to Zenobia, that she had lived here as a girl herself, made it even more special. Her ownership was also the reason that Marilyn’s parents, even though they paid a respectable rent, could hardly refuse Zenobia whenever she decided to visit. Marilyn was glad of that. Given their own way, they would probably have tried to find some excuse to make the old woman stay at the Kennituck Falls Motel.
She tried to imagine life without Zenobia. The prospect was so dull it made her shudder.
She heard the thump of a basketball on asphalt coming from Kyle’s driveway, and the excited shouts of her brother and his friend. The sounds made her feel lonely. Rubbing her arms against the cool of the breeze, which was starting to pick up strength, she hurried back to the house.
Brick, still feeling affectionate, followed at her heels.
In her room she stripped off her jeans and blouse and burrowed into an old flannel nightgown. The pink plaid fabric was far from glamorous, but it did have the virtues of being warm, soft, and exceedingly comfortable.
Marilyn popped the cast album from Carousel, her favorite Broadway show, into the CD player, then flopped across her bed and tried to figure out her aunt’s curious behavior on the porch. Brick curled up on her back and began to rumble his deep, familiar purr.
After a round of intense but unproductive thought Marilyn decided to chalk Zenobia’s mood up to the peculiarities that accompany genius, forget it, and go to sleep.
Hours later she was still wide awake. She tossed and turned, practiced deep breathing, and even tried counting sheep. It was no use. Sleep would not come.
She was not used to being awake at this time of night. Usually she dropped right off.
She sat up in bed. The silence was driving her out of her mind.
Heaving a sigh, she went to her dresser and picked up her brush. She looked in the mirror and grimaced as she began to work the brush through her tangles. Anyone named Sparks should be spared the burden of having such bright red hair.
Well, she thought as she began the vigorous brushing, at least I was spared the freckles.
Somewhere after the thirtieth stroke she heard a knock at her door.
Marilyn paused, the brush still in her hair. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand.
It was after two.
“Who is it?” she asked softly.
The door opened a crack; Zenobia peered into the room. A smile creased her face. “Thank goodness you’re still awake. I have to talk to you!”
Marilyn put down her brush and crossed to the door. “Come in,” she said, swinging it open. She was delighted to see her aunt. But she was also very confused—and a little frightened. Because in Zenobia’s eye she had caught a glimpse, brief but unmistakable, of something she had never expected to see there.
She had caught a glimpse of fear.
And the idea of something that could make Zenobia Calkins afraid sent shivers trembling up and down Marilyn’s spine.
A moment later Zenobia was sitting cross-legged on Marilyn’s bed. She wore a loose-fitting cotton gown and a white linen robe. Except for her white hair, now hanging loose and long over her shoulders, from behind she would have looked like any of a dozen of Marilyn’s friends who had sat in the same position while they held forth on life, religion, and the meaning of boys.
Marilyn sat quietly, waiting for her aunt to tell her what was on her mind.
“Egypt is very old,” said Zenobia at last.
Marilyn nodded, uncertain of how to respond to such a comment.
“It is filled with strange things,” added Zenobia after a another long silence. “Ancient things. Things that perhaps should not be disturbed.”
Marilyn remained silent.
“I’m boring you,” said Zenobia.
“No!” exclaimed Marilyn. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“How could you,” muttered Zenobia. “I’m rambling like … like an old woman!” She laughed—a dry, harsh sound. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I had a nightmare, and I wanted to talk to someone.”
Marilyn nodded. She knew what it was like to wake up in the middle of the night with terror ripping at your heart. She supposed even the bravest people in the world had nightmares. “Tell me about it.”
Zenobia shook her head. “I don’t think I want to.”
“Then tell me about Egypt. Tell me about Solomon and Suleiman, like you said you would.”
Zenobia looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you want to know about that?”
“Because I love your stories,” replied Marilyn truthfully.
Zenobia nodded. “Solomon and Suleiman,” she said. “History and myth. Reality and magic.”
She had a faraway look in her eyes, the same look Marilyn had seen when they were on the porch.
“The thing is, people get them confused,” said Zenobia. “Solomon and Suleiman, that is. They’re not the same person, as a lot of people seem to believe.”
Marilyn, who had never heard of Suleiman, and only remembered Solomon vaguely from some long-forgotten sermon, nodded wisely.
“Solomon came later,” said Zenobia. “He’s the one you’ll find in the Bible—Solomon’s Temple, Solomon and Sheba, and so on. The Koran says he had power over the winds; he would put his throne on a huge carpet made of green silk, and he an
d his army could fly all over the world that way. The jinn were supposed to be at his command.”
“Jinn?”
“Genies,” explained Zenobia. “At least, that’s how you’ve probably heard of them. I suppose all that might have been so. But I doubt it. Magic was well on the way out by that time anyway.”
“You talk as if magic was real once.”
Zenobia shrugged. “Who’s to say? When you’ve traveled in as many places as I have, wild places, primitive places, you see things that can’t really be explained. Is it magic? I don’t know. It might be. But not great magic. The great magic is all gone.”
“Why did you want to tell me about Solomon?” asked Marilyn.
“I didn’t. You asked.”
“But you mentioned him on the porch,” persisted Marilyn. “Egypt, and Eldred Cooley, and Solomon. Or was it Suleiman?” She shook her head in frustration. “Now I’m totally confused!”
“It was Suleiman,” said Zenobia at last. “Egypt, and Eldred Cooley, and Suleiman. Egypt is the most important place in the world, at least to me. Eldred Cooley was a friend. Not a particularly good friend, but the most interesting one I ever had. He died late last year.”
She shivered, and Marilyn sensed a story, another story hidden behind the one she was being told. She wanted to interrupt, but Zenobia had started again.
“Suleiman made this amulet, which Eldred gave me shortly before his death. It has nothing to do with Egypt, other than the fact that Eldred found it there. How it got to Egypt I have no idea.”
As she was talking, Zenobia pulled the amulet from her nightgown.
Marilyn caught her breath. It was unbelievably beautiful.
Zenobia stared down at it for a long time. “Take it,” she said at last. “I want you to keep it for me.” As she spoke she began to draw the golden chain over her head.
“I can’t do that. It’s too precious! Besides, it’s yours. Your friend gave it to you.”
Zenobia snorted. “What sort of a friend do you suppose he was, giving me this?” Suddenly she reached forward and grabbed Marilyn by the wrists, her grip so hard it was almost painful. “I’m not giving it to you,” she added fiercely. “That’s important for you to know. I just want you to guard it for me.”
“Aunt Zenobia, you’re hurting me,” whispered Marilyn.
Zenobia looked startled and released her hold on Marilyn’s wrists. Marilyn shivered. It wasn’t the strength of her aunt’s grip that frightened her so much as it was the look in her eyes—the same look they had held when Zenobia first entered her room; the look of fear.
“I’m sorry,” said Zenobia hoarsely. “Please—take the amulet and keep it safe until I can figure out what to do about it.”
Though her voice was neutral, her eyes were filled with desperation. They pleaded with Marilyn, and there was no way she could refuse her aunt’s request.
“All right,” she said, her voice reluctant. “I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Thank you,” whispered Zenobia. “Thank you, Marilyn. I’ll pay you back, somehow. I promise.”
Then she rose from the bed and hurried out of the room before Marilyn had a chance to ask any of the dozen questions vying with one another in her mind.
“Wait!” she called, reaching out anxiously. It was too late. The door swung shut, and Zenobia was gone.
Marilyn sat for a long time, staring at the amulet. It was made of a polished blue stone she couldn’t identify. Set in its center was a blood-red gem.
She cupped the amulet in her hand, staring at it curiously. It was wonderful to hold something so beautiful, and she felt a surge of possessiveness rising in her, a feeling that she never wanted to give it back.
But when she extended her finger to touch the sparkling scarlet jewel, she cried out and drew back her finger in surprise. The jewel was hot, so hot that it hurt to touch it.
Even stranger, it sent a tingle like electricity racing up her arm.
3
NIGHTMARE
“Marilyn! Hey, Marilyn, wake up. Class is over!”
Seeing that the words failed to rouse Marilyn from her trancelike state, Alicia Graves, a short girl with spiky blond hair, gave her a jab on her upper arm and shouted, “Hey, Sparks! Red alert! The aliens have landed and we need every able-bodied woman to keep them from carrying off our men!”
Marilyn came out of her trance with a jolt, knocking three pens and a pencil to the floor.
“Nice work, Airhead,” said Alicia sardonically. At the same time she bent to pick up the items Marilyn had knocked over.
Marilyn rubbed her hands over her face. “Sorry, Licorice. I’m kind of out of it today.”
Marilyn had been dubbed “Airhead” and Alicia “Licorice” eight years ago, on the first day of third grade, which was when the two girls had first met. The names had been given during a playground squabble. They had patched it up the next morning and been best friends ever since.
“It’s all right,” said Alicia, depositing the pens on Marilyn’s desk. “I suppose it’s not easy being a dip. I’ll keep the pencil, though. I could use one.”
“Spoken like a true dwarf,” said Marilyn, tucking the pens out of Alicia’s reach, in case she should decide she also needed one of those.
“Hey, short people got rights,” said Alicia, drawing herself up to her full five feet one and three-quarter inches.
“That’s true,” said Marilyn. “They got rights, and they got lefts. They also got tops and bottoms. What they don’t got is much in the middle.”
“You die, flame-brain,” said Alicia, who had (much to Marilyn’s astonishment) long envied Marilyn’s bright red hair. “But not until you tell me why you’re doing such a good imitation of the walking dead today.”
Marilyn shrugged. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” That was true, as far as it went, though it didn’t say much about why.
Alicia knew her friend well enough to make a good guess anyway. “Whassa matter? That crazy aunt of yours keep you up all night telling stories?”
“She’s not crazy!”
“Well, she ain’t normal.”
“Who is? Come on, we’ll be late for gym.”
* * *
As it turned out, they were late for gym anyway. Marilyn, half-undressed in front of her locker, fell into a trance and was still standing there when Alicia came back from delivering a note her doctor had sent to the instructor.
“Oh, give me a break,” she sputtered when she saw Marilyn staring into space. “What is it with you today, Sparks?”
Marilyn looked down at her half-dressed body and shook her head. “Just showing off, I guess,” she said, forcing a laugh.
“Save it for someone who can appreciate it. Me, I’d rather go stare at the wrestling team. Finish getting ready before we both get in trouble.”
Marilyn changed in silence. But her mind was racing. Her aunt’s strange behavior, and the mysterious amulet, had been dominating her thoughts all day, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation in her bedroom, and the fear in Zenobia’s eyes.
Part of her wanted to tell Alicia about the conversation—and the amulet. But she knew her friend would merely claim it was her famous imagination at work and tell her to wise up. Another part resisted telling her anyway. Especially about the amulet. That just felt like a wonderful secret that she wanted to keep to herself.
But if she couldn’t start concentrating on something else, she was going to end up in big trouble before the day was over. Teachers at Burton-Speake High were not partial to daydreamers.
“I know what it is!” shouted Alicia, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re cooking up some lamebrained scheme to go off with your aunt when she leaves on her next trip. Well, cool your imagination, Airhead. Let’s head for the gym before we get in more trouble than we’re in already.”
Marilyn closed her locker and followed her friend’s stocky form out of the room. Cool your imagina
tion! indeed. Alicia must be really fed up with her daydreaming today or she would never have said that. She knew very well how tired Marilyn was of people telling her not to let her imagination run away with her.
Despite her indignation, Marilyn did try to concentrate on gym class. She wasn’t very successful, though, and ended up being hit twice with the volleyball because she was too absorbed in her own thoughts to pay attention to the game.
“You ought to go out for the Olympics,” said Alicia as they left the locker room after class.
Marilyn was working on a suitable retort when the lanky figure of Kyle Patterson ambled around the corner. His shirt, as usual, was only half tucked in. “Hey,” he said cheerfully. “It’s Sparky Junior!”
Marilyn considered punching him. Her brother, not surprisingly, was known as Sparky to all his friends. Equally unsurprising was the fact that about half of them referred to her as Sparky Junior. Even so, the words always activated a primitive instinct deep inside her: namely, the urge to kill.
Even when it came from Kyle.
“What do you want, Lurch?” snarled Alicia. Unlike Marilyn, she was not very fond of Kyle.
“Bug off, fireplug. I’m talking to your friend.”
Alicia grumbled something about biting him on the knee. Marilyn, doing her best to forget “Sparky Junior,” smiled sweetly and asked Kyle what he wanted.
“I was just wondering if your aunt told you any more about King Solomon last night.” He leaned against a locker. “You’re really lucky, you know. Having someone like that for an aunt. She’s fantastic.”
“I know,” said Marilyn. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you have supper with us again tonight? I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind. Then you can ask Aunt Zenobia about Solomon yourself.”
“Do you think that would be okay?”
Alicia snorted. “Are you kidding? You eat over there so often now her father could claim you as a dependent on his taxes.”
“Yeah, but he’d probably rather have you,” retorted Kyle. “Then he could use the short form.” Turning to Marilyn, he said, “Thanks for the invite. I’ll see you tonight.”
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