The Dream Master
Page 10
‘This is a Right Royal Rameses, I can tell you. Thirteen Thundering Thunderclaps say it’s never going to work out. Camels and crocodiles . . . of all the Desperate Dynasties, I do not know . . .’ Cy realized that the little man was as worried as he was.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Cy said.
The barge had moored by the edge of the river. From it came armed soldiers, attendants and white-robed priests. Leading the procession was a young woman, who cried at once in delight as she saw Aten.
‘I knew we would find him if we kept looking,’ she shouted. ‘I knew it.’
‘Hesen!’ Aten called out her name.
She ran forward and knelt in the sand before Aten. ‘General Horemheb has returned and taken control of the army once more,’ she said. ‘He freed your uncle Ay so that he could search for you.’
‘Come forward, Ay,’ Aten called out.
An old man stepped from among the officials. ‘It is well that you have been found and are safe,’ said Ay. Then he turned and stared at the court officials who moved backwards from him. ‘Be it known to all, that from this day if any harm comes to Aten, I will be mightily displeased.’
The Dream Master touched Cy’s sleeve. ‘Aten is safe now. We may go. Take firm hold of my cloak and do not release it.’
Cy reached out and gripped a corner of the black silk. Again he felt the rushing silky wind. But, as Cy tightened his grip, the Dream Master’s cloak tore in his hand. Cy gasped. The Dream Master’s cloak had ripped and they were separated. The fabric of Time had split, and now he was lost. He was falling, out of sequence, out of place.
With a thump he tumbled onto his own bed. Dazed, Cy sat up and uncurled his fist. In his fingers lay a tiny fragment of the Dream Master’s cloak. The piece of black material fluttered and then was still. Cy looked around his room. He knew that he must put it away. Somewhere safe. Under the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers was where he kept his most secret things, away from Lauren’s prying eyes: Grampa’s war medal, his fossil stone, the matchbox with the sand inside. Cy pulled out the drawer. The fragment of black silky material rippled, and a faint exotic scent brushed his nostrils. Cy hesitated, his fingers curled. A thin tremor lingered in the air. Cy let go, then straightened up and lifted the drawer back in place.
A few days later, in school, they were clearing up the classroom before the start of the summer holidays. Vicky and Cy were gathering all the Egyptian display material together. A very subdued Eddie and Chloe were folding up the costumes.
‘Put all of that in a box and store it with the props,’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘It will be useful when the next Egyptian project is being done.’
As Cy collected the papyrus signs, Vicky stopped to read from one of the display cards, which showed the boy Pharaoh sitting on his throne. ‘Why is it,’ she asked Mrs Chalmers, ‘that here the boy Pharaoh Tutankhamun’s name is written as Tutankhaten?’
‘Because Tutankhamun changed his name,’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘He was originally called Tutankhaten. Not long after he became Pharaoh he changed his name from Tutankhaten to Tutankhamun.’
Cy stopped what he was doing and took the card from Vicky. The name leapt out at him. Tut-Ankh-Aten.
‘Aten!’ Cy whispered softly. Around him, Time slowed down. Cy looked at the picture. It was a scene from the back of Tutankhamun’s throne. His wife was standing before him anointing his chest with perfumed oil. His wife, Ankhesenamen . . . Ankh-Hesen-Amen. On her right foot she wore a sandal, the other was bare.
The king sat on his throne. His left foot was sandalled, the other one unshod.
Underneath, it said that no-one knew for certain, but it was believed that this was a sign of great affection between two people. Cy smiled. He knew for certain. ‘I am Aten of the Ankh.’ That was what Aten had said when Cy had first met him face to face in his dream.
‘Tut-Ankh-Aten,’ Cy whispered, ‘Tut-Ankh-Amun . . . Tutankhamun.’
Cy walked over to where the golden portrait mask lay on Mrs Chalmers desk. He remembered Aten’s fascination with it, and how it was that after seeing it, Aten had insisted he must return to his own place. Cy lifted the golden mask of the boy king which Aten had posed for. His head spun as he tried to work it out.
Was it this mask which Aten had seen in a classroom in Britain in the twenty-first century and copied for his own sarcophagus? And therefore, if Cy’s dream had not flipped over, bringing Aten into Mrs Chalmers’ classroom, the explorer Howard Carter would not have had any mask to find? Or had Aten recognized the face depicted on the gold portrait mask as his own, and that was why he was so insistent about returning? Knowing he had to keep faith with his own destiny.
It wasn’t possible. Was it?
Cy traced the outline of Aten’s features on the golden mask. That was why it was so similar to the photographs of the original in the Cairo Museum. It was the original, or, rather, more original than the original.
‘Bring peace to your kingdom, Aten,’ he said softly. ‘Rule wisely and well.’
Cy turned and looked into the mirror which hung on the classroom door. Mrs Chalmers had told him that the Ancient Egyptian word for ‘mirror’ was ankh. Cy raised the golden mask of Tutankhamun to cover his face and stared through the eye-slits at the reflection of the boy Pharaoh. His own eyes gazed back at him. And then, to Cy’s astonishment, one eyelid closed slowly in a deliberate wink.
About the Author
Theresa Breslin is a well-respected author, popular with librarians, teachers and children. She has won the Carnegie Medal for WHISPERS IN THE GRAVEYARD and achieved critical success with her two novels about KEZZIE, set in the Second World War. Her titles include the DREAM MASTER titles for Corgi Yearling and REMEMBRANCE for Doubleday/Corgi.
Also by Theresa Breslin
THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECY
A dramatic adventure story set in sixteenth century France.
‘Terrific novel … enormously enjoyable’
Guardian
THE MEDICI SEAL
A gloriously rich and authentic story set in Italy in 1502.
‘A superb historical thriller … an enchanting novel about genius, and a gift to an enquiring mind’
The Times
REMEMBRANCE
An epic tale of young lives altered by World War One.
‘Immensely readable, passionately written’
Guardian
SASKIA’S JOURNEY
A haunting tale of self-discovery.
‘Mesmerizing … truly memorable’
The Bookseller
DIVIDED CITY
Two boys are caught up in sectarian violence in Glasgow.
‘This is a book with far-reaching appeal and universal themes that will encourage young readers to challenge bigotry’
Guardian
For junior readers:
DREAM MASTER NIGHTMARE!
‘Excellent dialogue, a good deal of humour and evidence of in-depth research’
The Scotsman
DREAM MASTER GLADIATOR
‘Funny, warm and clever … thought-provoking entertainment’
Guardian
DREAM MASTER ARABIAN NIGHTS
‘A stretching and rewarding read’
Glasgow Sunday Herald
For more information about Theresa Brelin’s books, visit: www.theresabreslin.co.uk
THE DREAM MASTER
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 49505 6
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
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This ebook edition published 2012
Text copyright © Theresa Breslin, 1999
Illustrations copyright © David Wyatt, 1999
First Published in Great Britain by Doubleday, 1999
The right of Lissa Price to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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