Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

Victoria becomes panic stricken and screams at the top of her lungs as the birds’ long, curved talons rip her face apart, leaving her remains to the rest of the bird kingdom.

  A cunning, lurid grin appears on Cerberus’s proud face. “I’ll take it from here,” he proclaims, laughing and snarling like a vicious murderer. “Who looks ridiculous now, my love?”

  Cerberus snaps the extremities of his digit-like talons, gazing at his army returning to their floating glass pyramids. “Humans! Silly humans! Do they really think that they’re masters of the universe? They’re silly, loud, and, above all, disrespectful!”

  Cerberus is king now. He determines to eat Victoria’s remains later that night. After all, the Earthly French gourmands engage in the pleasure of consuming innocent little songbirds. But Victoria was hardly innocent.

  I will dine on her heart tonight in a fine fondue cheese sauce, including one cup of olive oil, four cups of vegetable oil, and two cups of onions, sliced to perfection. Then I’ll declare my superiority to all men, animals, and fowl at the council tomorrow!

  Then a very strange, vile thought enters the general’s brain. After all, a predator always needs something or someone to prey upon.

  A slow, horrid smile appears on the face of Cerberus Thoth Asmodeus.

  Michael Eisenstein! You’re next!

  CHAPTER 58

  Egypt

  May 2, 2401

  Midnight

  “All right, so we want to have a little fun—guilty!” I pronounce.

  The city of Thebes has many mysteries, but none as fascinating as the story of Amon Ra. Amon Ra was considered to be the supreme god. Near the completion of the twenty-fifth dynasty, the Egyptian monarch reached superstar status.

  “He’s the rock star of all pharaohs, isn’t he?” Proto quips. “Check out all of the horns!” she proclaims.

  People all around us have on these huge ram horns, symbolizing the great man’s dominance over Egypt. We witness a small parade of young Egyptian men prancing through Nefertiti’s, the bar we have chosen to visit. Today is the anniversary of the great god Amun’s death.

  “Gotta roll with it,” I say in my best droll voice.

  A few women are promenading to the song, “Walk Like an Egyptian.”

  “Where’s Steve Martin when you need him?” Maya quips.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t mummify him,” I say.

  “What’s with the strobe lights?” Proto inquires.

  “He’s the sun god, remember? They’re just reminders of the power that the sun has over all of humanity.

  “Which translates to modern techno jube light… give me a break!” Proto quips.

  “It’s about fertility and hope!” I say as I look around for an open table amid the chaotic fervor of dancing, drinking, and wild, glittering mosaic lighting.

  “My God, what’s that?” Proto asks.

  As we make our way into the room, we see an Amunati water tap. “It’s a waterfall signifying purity,” I say, smiling like an innocent schoolboy.

  “I guess nakedness and debauchery fit the theme in Thebes,” Proto exclaims.

  “It’s called the Spell of Light and Water,” I say. “It’s an old ritualistic Egyptian rite.”

  “They’re closing the door,” Maya says, staring at me.

  “Someone’s modest… how nice,” Proto says as she flips her hooded jacket over her head, uncovering her rainbow hair. She jerks the burka off her back and shoulders, revealing a strange, tight silvery jump suit that makes her look like a three-hundred-year-old Lady Gagatata, descendant of an ancient rock star, adorned in thin, shiny tinfoil.

  I glance around the bar, trying to pick out further abnormalities. A youngish thirty something bartender sporting a long pony tail busies himself flirting with two attractive females. One of the girls sports a flat gold crown on the top of her head, while the other wears an elongated skull extension. She also shows off the reddest thick lips I’ve ever seen in my life. The two retro-Cleopatras look slightly off, I muse. In fact, I believe they’re probably male. I gaze at their name tags… One of them, called Menkaura, seems to be trying to seduce the other, whose name is Nitocris; Menkaura strategically positions her abnormally large lips inches from Nitocris’s face and then smiles like an obscene, horny siren, extending her amazingly talented serpentine tongue over and over again.

  “Nice choice of bars, my friend Michael; I didn’t know you had a kinky side,” Proto wisecracks, running her fingers across my face.

  I clear my throat. “Just takin’ in present Thebes culture… that’s all.”

  Maya laughs. “Eisenstein unleashed—scary thought.”

  I wince. After all, Nefertiti’s is a trap for weirdos, psychics, prognosticators, and aliens.

  “Nefertiti’s is my kind of place,” Proto blurts out. “Actually, it’s how I envision the world,” she adds, flashing a funky smirk on her truculent face.

  Proto glares at Menkaura and Nitocris, observing their curious mannerisms. “They’re unique; you’ve got to give them credit,” she muses.

  “C’mon! The Nile River! The dead bodies! The strange pyramid theories!” Proto exclaims. “Where else can we go with this much jube?”

  “What?” I say incredulously. “What do you mean by ‘jube’?”

  Proto stares at me like I’m totally crazy. “You know they’re reaching out through their art, not just their penis size—like you do sometimes.”

  I snicker. “Sorry I asked.” I stare at Maya. She shrugs, playing dead regarding Proto’s latest quip. Proto has made a certain point, though.

  “So Michael, what were you goin’ for with this place? Bizarre, eclectic, or just plain odd?” asks Maya.

  I shake my head. “Just Mercury in retrograde,” I quip. “Can’t a guy just have some fun?”

  Proto runs her fingers through her rainbow hair. “I guess I’m not the right person to criticize too much jube,” she says, flashing her best zany, somewhat ribald face. “Hey, when in Thebes …” She makes a lewd expression with her tongue.

  Maya and Proto seem to have developed into a quintessential, life-changing Pierian couple. They’re the Bonnie and Clyde of yin and yang. They’ve become sort of a strange, eclectic, collective whole—kinda like the ancient collective soul of my new universe!

  Anyway, we’re ushered to our seats on the periphery of the dance floor by a young, funky girl named Vuozzug. I’d say that the music was blaring, but its tone had morphed into a dreamy and surreal rabbit-hole sort of tone, signifying muffled sounds reminiscent of the quirky Amunite culture. As I peer around the room, I wonder how many crazy Amunite cultists are actually in this room.

  In the room adjacent to ours, we hear sultry Egyptian music featuring handheld wind and stringed instruments. Oddly, Nefertiti’s slowly changes moods to reflect the spiritual world of Amun. Percussion instruments, such as lyres, lutes, and even an out-of-place techno harp, create peculiar vibrating sounds.

  Vuozzug, our waitress leans in. “Do you like the music?” she asks, leaning over and exposing her well-crafted bosom. “You’re lucky to be here on such an occasion. It’s a blessing. Amon will be with you!”

  I force a smile. “what kind of instruments are those?” I say, pointing to a few odd-looking musical contrivances.

  Vuozzug smiles. “They’re all so wonderful … and exotic.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Of course,” she responds in her angelic, melodic voice. “A few of them are derived from bird bone, mammoth ivory, and crystal excavated from massive conical caves on the western coast of Africa.”

  I say, “thank you,” as I observe one chic-looking couple wearing sheer white silky clothing begin dancing slowly to the avant-garde music. The words “Sufi dhkr” are chanted by the crowd. I hear Proto whisper to Maya, “I think we’re a little out of our league.”

  M
aya glances at me. “When in Thebes …” She places her fingers to her mouth, blowing me a kiss. I smile, reciprocating the motion.

  Nefertiti look-alikes are scattered around the bar like human mannequins impersonating Nefertiti’s evasive, sultry, often blank stare. Some people are dancing, mimicking Egyptian dance steps; a few are sitting in yoga positions with their palms facing upward, hoping to be taken inside a wormhole into the next dimension. “Lotsa luck!” I whisper under my breath.

  One of the Nefertiti look-alike waitresses, named Two Tuts, brings me a drink of reddish aged psychotropic wine in a cask-like flask.

  “I’ll pass,” I say. Maya and Proto glare at me strangely. Honestly, I have the uncomfortable feeling that I’m being eased out of my position as alpha male, even in this group.

  A strange feeling begins to gnaw at me. Have you ever had the uncanny feeling that someone is watching you, studying your every movement? It’s an abstract, foggy, and even gnawing suspicion that someone is either reading your mind or pilfering your pocketbook.

  Proto orders three caskets of Egyptian wine called “Nefertiti’s Guilty Pleasure.” As we listen to the strange sounds of harmonized Middle-Eastern Sufi dhkr music, I observe a guy definitely eyeballing me. No, couldn’t be. Am I just paranoid or is some strange man trying to steal my thoughts, kinda like a tarot card reading session… without the cards.

  Maya reaches toward a ruby-red wine called Akky’s Chubby Tummy from the ample casket. It is named after the controversial pharaoh Akhenaton.

  “I wonder what it would have been like to have been Akhenaton’s wife,” Maya utters as she stares at his picture on the ceiling. Yes, I did say ceiling. Considering the fact that Akhenaton is such a controversial figure, I deem this to be an excellent location. But why is he eating an apple? You know how I feel about those.

  “I hear he had a really long, elongated—”

  “Ah, Proto! Are you trying to get us thrown out of this place?” I interrupt.

  “How can you be so nonjube, Michael? Can you just mellow marinate a little bit? He had an elongated head—why not?”

  “Stop it, Proto!” Just then my eyes catch an Egyptian tomb (ET drinking an entire flight). That same strange man at the bar smiles eerily and then quickly looks away. He’s checkin’ me out; that’s for sure.

  “Where have I seen him before?” I whisper.

  Now that I think about it, isn’t he the same guy who was watching us at Mummies Café? Never trust anyone! I muse.

  I see Maya wandering over to the adorned wall. She appears totally fascinated with the peculiar carvings and markings surrounding the adorned caskets. “Look!” There’s a love poem from her husband… Nefertiti’s husband!” Maya declares, motioning us to join her.

  I slowly walk over to Maya, still keeping an eye on the man with the white fedora. He has strange, wild eyes combined with an evil grimace. “He’s up to no good,” I muse. “I know it!”

  “The great king of Egypt! The most amazing of all the pharaohs’ writings in his own hand!” Maya proclaims, her eyes bubbling over with excitement. “Isn’t this so interesting?” she inquires. Her eyes seem to be on fire. After all, Maya is a descendant of the red queen, whose death was also a total enigma.

  “Yes, I whisper, canvassing every face, as the Egyptian youths carry on with their sanguine activities. They’re drinking, dancing, and gossiping. Surely they’re not paying any attention to us.

  “This is the mystery of all mysteries, Michael! Where did Nefertiti’s body go? Aren’t you excited?”

  “Of course,” I say. Yet I can’t get over the feelings of paranoia that are steadily creeping into my soul.

  A huge smile covers Maya’s face as she begins reading an excerpt from King Akhenaton’s poem.

  Mistress of happiness,

  Endowed with favors, at

  Hearing whose voice the king

  Rejoices, the chief wife of the

  King, his beloved, the lady of two Lands,

  Nefereneferuaten- Nefertiti—may

  She live forever and always!

  “So it’s settled; she is Akhenaton’s wife,” Maya proclaims, looking like a child on Christmas Eve.

  Proto beams. “Did you guys see the figures of Nefertiti carved onto the four corners of his granite sarcophagus? I mean, this guy was really infatuated with her!”

  I observe the man at the bar smiling. He’s eavesdropping on everything we’re saying. Suddenly he descends from his Thutmose bar stool. He begins strolling right through the center of the dance floor, gliding through the midst of frenetic dancers. The wild and frenetic whirling figures seem to part like the Red Sea, making room for him. The eccentric intelligencer holds a cigar at his side. He smiles luridly, tipping his white fedora.

  Suddenly we’re face-to-face. He is a strangely handsome man, and not in an awkward way. It seems his advancing age has somehow cleverly crafted his well-manicured good looks. He wears all the trappings of a man who has etched his success in stone. His deep-set eyes sparkle like enigmatic, shiny black stones.

  The man reaches out his hand. “My name is Menes Ramesses. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eisenstein,” he declares, staring into my inquisitive eyes. His abruptness sets me back. His smile is both charming and alarming in a menacing way. “I don’t mean to scare you,” he affirms, looking like an odd cross between a college professor and some sort of government spy. “I heard the name Nefertiti.” He holds a cigar in one hand and a knife in the other. The cigar’s aroma seems to flaunt cedar with a touch of something else—something I can’t quite identify.

  “Do you mind putting that down?” I ask, glancing at the blade.

  “Yes, of course, Dr. Eisenstein, I can assure you I wasn’t going to use it on you! It’s just my Giza cigar cutter. I guess you can say I’m a connoisseur of Les Cigares du Pharoan. Its main character has evolved for many, many years. I make it a point to use the same cigar cutter!” Menes places his hands out, waving at the air. “You see, I’m not dangerous at all!”

  I clear my throat. The man is no doubt taunting me.

  “How did you know my name?” I ask somewhat impertinently.

  “Well, Mr. Eisenstein,” he replies, tipping his hat. “Let’s see, three American Isles people show up in Thebes, nosing around, asking questions. Someone’s going to notice. Besides, it’s hard to miss the two females you are traveling with… ana bafham?”

  Maya joins our little tête-à tête. “Are you a spy? How do we know you’re just not an Amunite spy?”

  “Yes, he does look like the ancient Refatt Al-Gammal,” Proto says, moving her face way too close to his.

  “No, he appears more like Omar Sharif,” Proto says. “Love the ’stache.”

  Menes takes off his white fedora, smiling squeamishly like an uncovered secret agent. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Proto.” He bows chivalrously. “In case you’re interested, I abhor the Amuns; they’re just tools of the Egyptian underground.” The mysterious man smiles disarmingly once again. “My name is Menes Ramesses. I am just … how should I say it … I’m a man who can help you.”

  Suddenly another song blurts out, and the dancers sway and swing to a step I have never seen before. “Don’t mind them; they’re just background,” Menes proclaims, motioning us back to our hand-carved table.

  “It’s a new dance,” he quips. “They call it tango like an Egyptian!”

  “And the instruments?” I ask.

  “Those are called didley bows—ancient instruments with an exotic sound,” Menes says, flashing his Sharif-like smile. An awkward silence ensues.

  “How can you help us?” Maya inquires, taking a sip of her Thutmose martini.

  “Honestly, I am just a mere cryptologist. I make it my business to know who comes to this town. I am also an expert on Egyptian history and, let me say … well, those influences that have visite
d our world from the sky.”

  “From the sky?” I repeat.

  “Well, that should not surprise you, Mr. Eisenstein. You are certainly an educated and enlightened man.” Menes turns his head quickly. His eyes slyly meet Proto’s; the attraction appears instantaneous. Menes takes a puff of his cigar, tipping his white fedora. Proto smiles nervously.

  “Here, try my cigar! You’ll like it!”

  Proto smirks. “What’s in the cigar, sir?”

  Menes inhales and then exhales a puff of smoke, watching the dark black vapor rise like Nefertiti’s transcendent body into the air; we all observe the smog swirling and then slowly disappearing into the air.

  Then he smiles devilishly. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, my dear.”

  Menes glances over at Maya and me.

  “Sometimes, it’s not,” Maya quips. “Appearances are deceiving. After all, you might be hiding a recorder inside your cigar, sending everything that happens into the interstellar net; am I right?”

  Menes pulls out a pure gold Winston lighter, generally referred to as “the fire of Nefertiti,” displaying odd hieroglyphics on both sides.

  Suddenly the air around us fills with an inexplicable planar ring of smoke. “If you are expecting to navigate through Egypt without an advanced guide, you’re not going to get very far. My expertise can help you, Mr. Eisenstein—especially if you’re attempting to maneuver through the mysteries that are now modern-day Egypt.”

  I stare at Proto, who nods gently. “Do you have a price?”

  Menes grins. “A cup of coffee and your friendship will do.”

  “How do we know that you weren’t sent by someone else?” I ask.

  Maya tugs at my sleeve, whispering, “They’re going to find our bodies under a sand dune three centuries from now if we don’t listen to him.”

  Menes grabs his satchel, opens it, and pulls out a book that he hands to me. “The Nefertiti Factor, by Menes Ramesses.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so!” I proclaim, shaking my head. “I seem to recall your Atemu-like face on a book jacket somewhere.”

  Menes nods. “You and I are going to become famous friends, Mr. Eisenstein. I’m honored; no one has ever referred to me as Atemu before. I don’t like to brag, but the book deals with magnetic systems found in our pyramids that are used to create sky portals and cosmic transportation systems.”