SECRET OF THE EGYPTIAN CURSE: Kids of Ancient Mythology

by Scott Peters

  "I need your help," Ramses said, breathless.

  Sobek threw down the knife. "As long as it doesn’t involve cleaning fish for Zalika’s guests."

  "She’s watching me. Can you take you-know-what from the kitchen and hide it somewhere else?"

  Sobek nodded. "My room. She’d never go in there. But I wouldn’t go so far as to risk working in there."

  "No. I have a place."

  "You picked a good night, we’re going to have a big crowd." Sobek wiped his hands and stood. "I’ll keep the wine overflowing. In our room, Hebony has a box for storing linen. It’s long and narrow—"

  Laughter and marching footsteps rang out. Two canopied litters, carried by servants, rounded the far end of the courtyard.

  Ramses took the bucket of half-cleaned fish from Sobek's feet. "I’ll finish this."

  Sobek left, looking ridiculously thrilled to hand over the slimy knife. Ramses positioned himself behind a sprawling cluster of potted herbs. From there, he could see Aunt Zalika greeting guests at the front door. Weris stood at her elbow, dressed in a fine gold-bordered kilt. They kept sharing smiles and giggles in a way that turned Ramses’ stomach.

  One woman tried to engage Weris in a conversation.

  Aunt Zalika gave the woman a little shove. "Go inside. There’s wine in the dining room."

  The woman frowned but obeyed.

  Uncle Hay’s laughter blasted from the house; he sounded like a braying donkey. Aunt Zalika flinched; Weris shot her a sympathetic glance. Then his pale gold eyes spotted Ramses through the foliage.

  Ramses ducked back.

  After a tense hour, the party was well under way. It was time to escape. He found his two packages waiting in Hebony’s linen chest. Holding them tight, he crept away from the blazing candles and wine-induced laughter.

  A jeweled canopy of stars winked in the dark.

  He set out the road.

  He hoped he could remember the way.

  Chapter Forty

  On the horizon, the moon rose slender as an eyelash, casting only a faint light. Pebbles scattered as he hurried along. Ramses squinted and made out a crossroads directly ahead.

  A small shrine to Hathor appeared out of the darkness. Fruits and flowers lay piled at the goddess’s feet, along with a stew pot, strings of beads, the burnt remains of incense cones, and even a small rake.

  The sight made him break out in a sweat. Hathor wouldn’t demand an offering for passing her shrine, but the gods he planned to visit were a different manner. He groaned inwardly for not thinking ahead more clearly. He could have taken a cone of incense from the dining room. Aunt Zalika had laid out so much, she wouldn't have missed it.

  Instead, all he’d brought were things for himself. His drawing tools. No one in their right mind visited the gods without a gift. There would be price to pay. There was always a price to pay. If he'd been smart, he could have chosen exactly what that price would be. But now, because of his selfish stupidity, the price would be of the gods’ choosing.

  Well, he would pay it. Whatever they demanded.

  Empty handed, he kept going.

  He sensed it before he saw it—a place nearly forgotten. But now here it was, looking just as he remembered from his naming day all those years ago. Broad and powerful in the distance, the temple crouched long and low against the earth.

  The sacred lake still separated them. The waters glistened faintly, black as a pool of ink. He skirted the edge, cautious to keep from falling in as he peered into its depths. His silhouette reflected up at him; the calm surface looked like an entryway into the afterlife itself.

  Somewhere in the distance, a hyena laughed.

  Hackles rose on his back. He steeled his jaw and kept walking.

  At the far side, the temple’s stone ramp rose steeply to two pylons.

  His chest tightened. He was four again, sketching in the dirt as he waited for his parents, waited for the endlessly boring naming ceremony to end, waited to go home. He saw the old priest—the Wab Sekhmet—approach and stare at his drawings; saw temple students, their faces strangely curious and then horrified; felt his mother catch his hand and hurry him away.

  He blinked. The temple was deserted.

  It was late. Of course it was deserted. The doors to the inner sanctuary would long since have been sealed with clay.

  At the ramp, he began to climb.

  Although he was barefoot, the slightest shuffle sounded loud. Somewhere above, a lamp burned softly. It was exactly what he’d hoped to find. Light, and a private place to draw. No one would find him here at this hour. As he reached the top, however, a problem quickly became apparent.

  Yes, there was light. Yes, it was private. But the light was too far from the entrance to be of any real use.

  The temple had no door. Instead, two towering pillars guarded the sacred hall. Elaborate spells, carved into their surface, warned intruders against entering. All of Egypt knew that only priests were allowed to cross the threshold. No citizen was ever allowed inside a temple. Any prayers or wishes had to be made outside.

  Ramses peered at the hieroglyphs. His reading skills were limited. He was glad. He didn't want to know the unthinkable punishments and curses the gods could impose for entering without permission.

  The lamp burned steadily in the distance. He stared longingly at it, across the vast space. He'd come so far. If this were for any other reason than the exam, he might chance trying to draw in the poorly lit shadow near the door. But he needed to see. The piece he submitted had to be his best. All he could hope to achieve if he were squinting in the dark was a huge mess. He felt sure of it. Time was running out.

  He glanced left and right. His fingers felt for his amulet of Maat.

  Entering was like begging the gods to curse him.

  But he was already cursed.

  "Goddess protect me," he whispered.

  Holding his breath, he stepped over the threshold.

  A breeze whispered over him.

  Tension, thick and palpable, spanned the length of the rectangular atrium. On tiptoe, he made for the burning light. Heavy incense drifted to his nostrils; the strong fragrance made him dizzy. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The sickly sweet fumes cramped his stomach and sent painful tingles shooting through his limbs. It started turning his legs numb and he stumbled.

  The lamp flared, illuminating the figure on the far shrine.

  Maat.

  It was as if his carved amulet had leapt from his pocket to stand upon the altar. The two figures were identical in every way. They looked so similar, he could almost believe they were one and the same, that she had simply jumped up there and grown in size to suit her whim.

  Sweet incense wafted over him. Thick and heavy, he coughed, feeling his throat close. The sweet smell filled his lungs, filled his mind, until his head began to swim.

  Suddenly, Maat turned her face and looked straight into his eyes.

  He fell to his knees. Head down, he abandoned his papyrus and began to move back on all fours. The smoke swirled ever thicker. He coughed, choking, unable to breath. He grabbed at his throat, and the world went black.

  Ramses awoke, disoriented. It took a moment to recognize his surroundings. He was sprawled out on the temple floor, lying there as if it were his own house. He scrambled to his feet and glanced around.

  What if he’d been caught?

  How could he have been so stupid to fall under the spell of drugged incense?

  The air was clear now, the incense gone. Maat stood on her shrine, serene and regal, her eyes fixed on a point in the distance.

  Shaken, he went to pick up his spilled bundles. The cake of ink rolled across the tiles. He chased after it, cringing at the noise. If he was smart, he’d leave—now. He glanced around.

  He had no time to be smart.

  The light still burned steadily ahead. He edged closer to the altar and placed his packages on the ground. The vendor who’d sold Hebony the supplies had included everything. He poured a
few drops of water from a small, stoppered bottle into the mixing dish, and began crushing the black substance into a paste.

  A scraping noise made him stop. A trickle of sweat slid down his ribs.

  Just a rat. It had to be. Who’d be awake at this hour? Focus!

  Cursing, he tried to steady his hand as he dipped the brush into the ink.

  A fleck splattered the ground, just missing the perfect sheet of papyrus. Idiot! This wasn’t sand that could be brushed away. One blob and it was over. Indeed, there’d be no fixing an eye too low, a body too long, or a hand with uneven fingers. With only one sheet to his name, he couldn’t afford to make a single mistake.

  He grit his teeth.

  Focus.

  He was not that boy, crouching in the dirt to draw. Not anymore.

  Maat’s lamp shone brighter. He bent and touched the brush to the smooth, pale surface. A black line sank into the sheet’s fibers. His arms relaxed as he curved the brush across the page. The second line came without thinking. He dipped into the ink and kept going.

  A world came alive on his page, noisy and full of life.

  It drew him in, deeper and deeper.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ramses had no way of knowing how long he’d spent inside his creation. He tore himself up and away, shaking his head as if emerging from the temple’s sacred lake. A glance outside showed the wheel of stars glittering in the black sky.

  Thank the gods. Still, it was time to go.

  He now wished, more than anything, he’d brought an offering. Halfway to the ramp, he realized he had.

  The precious brush. The ink. The mixing dish that was just the right size. He placed them all at Maat’s feet. Then he touched his forehead to the floor.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  He left, carrying only his papyrus.

  Holding it close to his chest, he thought of the unearthly drawing. It was unlike anything he’d ever done. It vibrated with power. It was as if the gods had guided his hand. He’d given up all attempts at control. Instead, he just let it flow through him. He knew, with almost frightening certainty, that he held his ticket to the Place of Truth.

  The lane to the farm smelled of humid dirt and fresh wheat cuttings. Tall grasses walled the soft roadway. He ran along, light on his feet.

  The howl of laughter met his ears. Out of the darkness, two litters appeared.

  Ramses threw himself in the ditch, seconds before the litter-bearers passed. They sang as they walked, the litters swinging drunkenly on their shoulders. Inside the fluttering curtains, a woman giggled and a man shouted something profane.

  As soon as they’d passed, he shot down the lane, desperate to avoid a second close call.

  Myrtle shrubs bordered the courtyard. Parting the branches revealed a riotous scene. Guests lounged on cushions, noisily gulping goblets of wine and stuffing their shiny, red faces with handfuls of dates and nuts. A woman belched. Uncle Hay brayed with laughter, and others joined in. Aunt Zalika sat beside Weris, jabbering away in a high-pitched slur. The tutor turned to two ladies and said something that made them shriek.

  It was obvious Aunt Zalika wouldn’t be searching his room tonight, or getting up early either. Rather than risk meeting a drunken guest in the kitchen, he made for his cell. He’d return the drawing to its hiding place in the morning.

  The heat woke him. He lurched upright in a sweat and peered out into the blazing dawn. He’d overslept, but there was still plenty of time.

  The world was silent, deserted.

  Papyrus in hand, he made for the shadow of the barn. The sun was rising quickly. Perhaps it was later than he thought. At its far end, he looked both ways and began what seemed like a long-distance dash across the broad, open space. His heart pounded as he leaped over torn cushions and crushed sweets, wove between spilled cups and lumps of oily, burnt perfume cones. The scroll felt like a giant thing, impossible to hide.

  Almost there!

  Somewhere, someone started whistling. He ran for the acacia and plastered himself to the wall. A man sauntered past. Just a farm worker.

  Ramses exhaled and stepped forward.

  A hand caught him by the neck.

  "What have we here?" It was Kontar, the neighbor to the north. "What are you stealing, boy?"

  "Let go," Ramses said, trying to break free.

  "Looks like quite a party. Good pickings for a little scavenger, huh?" Kontar’s hands were like iron pincers. "Show me what you’ve got there."

  "Nothing!"

  "You’re pretty fierce for nothing." He twisted Ramses’ arm until the bones threatened to snap, and wrenched the page away.

  "It’s mine!"

  "Let’s see what’s so precious." Kontar wrenched it open.

  The sight of him pressing his sweaty, dirty thumbprints into the pale, perfect surface made Ramses roar. He lunged for the scroll, but the man thrust him away.

  Kontar suddenly gasped. Awe swept over his leathery features. "Where did you get this?"

  "I’m telling you, it’s mine!"

  "That’s ridiculous."

  "Don’t you remember my drawings on the shed? Can’t you see they’re the same hand? It’s mine, I’m telling you. Where else could it be from?"

  "I don’t know! Why do I feel I should believe you?"

  From inside the house came the click-clack of heels. Terror shot from Ramses’ spine to his ankles. Aunt Zalika!

  "Give it to me. Quick!"

  The front door opened.

  "Please!"

  "Kontar?" Aunt Zalika’s eyes swam as she took in the two of them. Her wig was off center, her makeup slapped on in thick uneven lines. "You’re here early."

  "No. It’s seven. But never mind that now! Have you seen what this boy can do?"

  She seemed to snap into focus. "What are you talking about?"

  "Nothing," Ramses said.

  "Don’t be worried, son." Kontar’s voice was father-like. He waved Ramses’ drawing at her. "Come look, my lady. You have an artist here."

  Her bleary eyes widened. She made a choking sound and ran forward.

  "You might have to give him up to the Place of Truth," Kontar said with a laugh. "What do you think of that?" He looked down at the page again, head softly shaking.

  "Let go," she hissed, grabbing one edge of the fragile sheet.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Flies droned amongst the riot of spilled cups. A torn red ribbon skittered on the wind. Aunt Zalika’s hennaed fingers wrenched at Ramses’ drawing. Oblivious, Kontar wouldn’t let go. He looked as if he were falling, tumbling down into the scene on the page.

  Out there in broad daylight, the black ink looked even bolder. The figures seemed to be moving—no, more than that—to be threatening to leap up fully formed, eyes ablaze, mouth’s shouting, and pull all three of them into their reality.

  Aunt Zalika tried to jerk the delicate sheet away. She gave it a vicious twist.

  "Let go, Kontar," Ramses cried. But he was too late.

  A loud, slow rip tore his world apart.

  No. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.

  Kontar gasped, staggering back, pupils huge and unfocused. Half of the drawing fluttered in his hand. "Wh—what have you done?"

  "I told you to give it to me!" she said.

  "Are you crazy?" Kontar replied. "Do you have any idea of the value of—I could’ve sold that in the market for a fortune. I probably still could. If you don’t want it, give me that half!"

  "Don’t be ridiculous. The boy stole it from my son’s tutor."

  "It’s mine," Ramses said, his voice sounding far away. "You know it is."

  Aunt Zalika flushed. "Shut your mouth, liar."

  "Zalika, maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty," Kontar said.

  Ramses turned to him. "Help me, that’s my only entry, I made it for the Place of Truth, I . . ."

  "Enough!" she screeched. In one lightning move, she snatched Kontar’s half and made for the outdoor oven.

>   "Stop!" Ramses sprinted after her.

  She yanked the oven open, grabbed the poker and shoved the papyrus deep into the smoldering coals.

  "No!" There was still time, if he could just—

  Swinging the hot poker at Ramses, she caught him in the chest. He fell back, the burnt smell of singed skin filling his nostrils. In the oven, coals sparked to life. He lunged again, trying to dodge the blazing poker. A flame licked the drawing’s edge. The papyrus curled upward, bending and twisting. Orange fire sprang up and raced across it. A spasm racked his throat. A moment later, it burst into flames.

  "You see?" Aunt Zalika’s face spread in a slow smile. "I win." Her smile widened. "I always win."

  Kontar raked a hand over his head. "Well . . ."

  "Now, come inside, Kontar, it’s much cooler in there."

  "Actually—No. Some other time." He left, muttering.

  All around, the farm was coming to life. Chickens rustled in the barn. Sobek and Hebony’s marketing baskets were missing from the kitchen stoop; they must have left some time ago. From inside the house came the sound of Uncle Hay singing a drinking song, his warbling voice off-key.

  Weris emerged from the front entrance hall. From the grin on his face, he looked as if he’d watched the whole thing.

  "Good morning, my lady," the tutor said.

  Aunt Zalika colored, turning. "Oh! I didn’t mean to wake you."

  At this, Uncle Hay hit a particularly bad note. Weris scowled, glancing toward the window, and Aunt Zalika quickly straightened her wig.

  The tutor assumed a sickly sweet smile. "If I’m not mistaken, you seem distressed my lady. Might I be of service?"

  "It’s nothing I’d dream of bothering you with."

  He bowed to her. "Well, it was a beautiful party, and you were the most beautiful hostess."

  She giggled. "But of course you were the shining star of the night." Her face was motherly when she turned to Ramses. "Well, come along. We’ll see if we can’t resolve this."

  For the first time, he considered running. The only way she resolved anything was with a beating, and this time, she might just kill him.