SECRET OF THE EGYPTIAN CURSE: Kids of Ancient Mythology

by Scott Peters

  "By the gods," Neferet said, thinking of Jabari’s brother. "You have no idea what’s coming."

  And just then, the door burst open.

  Blood smeared, Jabari lurched inside, cradling his brother in his arms. Denger’s sand-caked face flopped at an unnatural angle. His lips were blue and gaping. His eyes stared, dull and unblinking. A bloody mess of fabric tried to hold his midsection together. The sword jutted from it.

  Surreal, and red, and wet.

  Layla made a sickening gurgle. Neferet ignored her. Instead, her heart wrenched at the look on Jabari’s face. To him, Denger wasn’t a villain. He was his little brother, and he was dying.

  "Put Denger on the couch," Merit barked. "Now."

  The next hour became a blur. They worked to remove the blade, pulling it carefully from his ruptured belly. They tried to stitch the gore back together. They tried to stop the blood, the oozing blood that poured over everything.

  Jabari watched as if he could will them to stop it. Will them to fix him. Will them to keep his brother’s ka there.

  But there was no fixing him. There was no keeping him.

  Quietly and alone, Denger’s soul fled to the Hall of Judgment.

  "Maat protect him now," Jabari said quietly.

  "Maat protect him," Neferet whispered, and turned quickly away.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  In the far corner, Layla leaned over a bowl, scrubbing blood from her hands. Her dress was filthy, her eyes smudged. She looked like she was going to throw up—again.

  Neferet tried to stop feeling satisfied, but she couldn’t help it. "Don’t worry," she whispered, elbowing her way in to scrub her own hands. "I’m sure that dress will make a fancy rag."

  Layla swallowed deeply, as if to stop from being sick. When she got hold of herself, she said, "You know what? You’re even uglier when you’re jealous."

  Neferet’s cheeks colored. "I just hope you’re up for this."

  "For what? Taking your place? Don’t worry about that."

  "Girls," Merit called from across the room.

  "Yes, right here!" Layla called back in a sweet voice.

  Merit said something to Jabari, who stood beside her. Grim-faced, he nodded, turned away and knelt beside the cot where his brother still lay. Gently, he placed a clean sheet over his brother’s body.

  Motioning to Neferet and Layla, Merit said, "We’ll go to the other room."

  Layla floated gracefully out of the room after her.

  Neferet pulled her hands from the murky bowl, splashed them with fresh water and dried her hands on a cloth. She made for the door, but Jabari called to her.

  "That cut, in the middle of your back?" he said.

  Neferet tensed. "Yes?"

  "I heard you tell Merit it was from falling."

  She nodded quickly.

  He looked at her long and hard. Then softly, he said, "Thank you."

  Maybe Denger had been conscious when Jabari found him. Or maybe Jabari just guessed the truth. For it was plain, in his eyes, he knew. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t like that; it wasn’t what he was thinking. That his brother never tried to kill her, would never betray them all. But she couldn’t. She had no words. She didn’t know what to say to make it better.

  "You’d better go," he said.

  She touched his arm. "I’m sorry," she said softly.

  "I know, little one," he replied. "I know."

  "Neferet?" Merit called sharply.

  Her tone sent a lump into Neferet’s throat. She glanced at the table covered with all the opened herb bags. They’d shoved it up against the wall when Denger had been brought in. The mess was like an accusation—like one hundred angry fingers all pointed at her. Saying goodbye to Jabari, she turned and hurried from the room.

  "There you are," Merit said.

  Layla smirked.

  "Please, sit down," Merit said.

  Neferet sank onto a clean but tattered cushion. Villagers’ voices drifted in through the shuttered window, chattering about the exam. She wondered if Ramses was still in the tent with her father and the other craftsmen.

  Merit pushed the shutters open. "Let’s have some light in here. The three of us need to speak frankly."

  Squinting against the sudden brightness, Neferet stared at a crack in the floor. How many times had she sat there without a thought to the future beyond what lessons Merit had to teach?

  "This isn’t the morning I expected to have," Merit said. "And I’m sorry you had to witness something so brutal, Layla. But at the same time, I’m glad. Because you see just how serious our work is."

  "Oh, of course, I thought it was . . ." Layla gulped, looking green. "Exciting."

  "Exciting?" Merit said. "A man is dead."

  "I just meant . . . I mean, I’m suited to it. To the work." She smoothed a braid from her sweaty cheek.

  The physician looked weary; yet her piercing eyes had a birdlike quality. "That’s certainly a pretty wig you’re wearing."

  It was the oddest thing Neferet had ever heard Merit say.

  Layla colored. "Thank you."

  "I noticed it the other day," Merit went on. "The gold beads in particular."

  Layla looked pleased. "It’s very well made. My mother says one should always look like a lady."

  "Indeed. Lean forward for me, please?"

  "Of course!" Layla let Merit examine the braids.

  "This strand has come undone. Did you see you’re missing some beads?"

  "What?" She grabbed the offending braid and pulled it forward. "They promised me the ends were fastened in a new style that wouldn’t come undone! Those beads are pure gold. They’re—"

  "Right here," Merit said.

  Layla paused. "What?"

  "I said, they’re right here. The beads are right here."

  "I don’t understand. Right where?"

  Merit took one of their herb bags from her pocket. "Right in here."

  "What in the name of the gods are you talking about?" Layla asked, licking her lips.

  "Why don’t you tell me?"

  "Tell you what? There’s nothing to tell." Layla shifted on her cushion, reaching her trembling fingers for the pillow’s frayed edges and digging in deep.

  "Isn’t there? Unfortunately I think there is. Or would you like me to tell it?"

  Layla said nothing.

  "Why did you do it?" Merit demanded.

  Letting go of the cushion, Layla leaped to her feet. "Kiki has gold hair beads too! They’re not mine. They’re hers!"

  "No, they’re not," Merit said in a patient voice, although Neferet sensed her straining to keep from yelling. "I spoke with Kiki’s mother. Her hair beads are made of wood, and painted to look precious. Yours are the real thing. And so are these."

  "What are you saying?" Neferet said.

  "Nothing!" Layla cried.

  "Sneaking into Neferet’s house and tampering with our herbs can hardly be described as nothing," Merit said dryly.

  "Wait, you snuck into—" Neferet put her hand to her mouth. "I knew it. The laundry on the stairs. You were in my room. You were up in my room!"

  Layla grabbed the bag and crushed it. "You can’t prove it. You can’t prove anything. You’re wrong. How dare you accuse me!"

  "You could have killed someone!" Neferet said.

  "Me?" Layla screeched. "You’re the one who’s irresponsible, always running off into the desert!"

  After a long moment, Neferet said, "It was a belladonna berry. If I’d mixed it in a draught—for your mother, or your father say—they’d be dead."

  "Everything’s always so dramatic with you, isn’t it. It’s not always about you."

  "I’m not talking about me!" Neferet said. She wanted to scream, but instead hot tears stung her eyes. "We were best friends. You risked all of us, our whole village. Because you hate me?"

  White-faced, Layla glared at the door.

  "What?" Neferet said. "For once you don’t have anything to say?"

  "No," Layla sai
d. "I think you’re pathetic. And your high and mighty job is pathetic. And you deserve to grub around in blood and dirt for the rest of your life."

  Merit stood. "I hope you’ll find something better than that to say to the village elders."

  Chapter Sixty

  Inside the examination tent, Ramses watched the Chief Scribe go to a table and open a wooden box. The man took out a leather-bound scroll and held it up for Ramses to see.

  "Wrapped in this leather binding is the scroll we found last night. Reproduce its contents. That’s all we require."

  Ramses desperately tried to bring the feeling back to his hand; he flexed and un-flexed his fingers. He needed to buy himself more time. "Sir . . . could you give me a clue of what’s on the page?"

  "I cannot."

  "What if that scroll’s not even mine?"

  The man replaced it in the box without answering.

  "I need something to drink," Ramses said.

  "I’ll have it brought."

  Someone gave Ramses a nudge. It was a craftsman with gray, bushy hair and friendly eyes all crinkled in a smile. He shoved a load of drawing supplies into Ramses’ arms, and Ramses saw that the man’s own arms were stained to the elbows with paint and ink. "Name’s Tui. Just do your best."

  A bead of sweat trickled down Ramses’ temple. "Thanks," he said. His hand had begun to alternate between numbness and shooting pain. What if he couldn’t draw? What if his fingers wouldn’t work?

  What if that scroll wasn’t even his?

  He wiped his hands on his legs. He wasn’t even sure he could hold a brush without dropping it.

  The craftsmen had gathered to watch; they pressed in on him. Trying to ignore them, Ramses picked up the dry cake of ink. They frowned as it slipped and rolled away; stared as he spilled the pot of mixing water.

  He couldn’t do it. He just could not do it. He threw down his brush.

  Tui, the gray-haired craftsman, waved his gnarled arms at the others and shouted, "Move, you old busy-bodies! Give the boy some room!"

  With snorts of disappointment, they shuffled to the far corner. There they stood in a huddle, muttering to one another.

  Ramses closed his eyes and rubbed his palm. He focused on the last moments he’d spent drawing in Weris’s room. He’d come so far. Maybe that scroll wrapped in leather was his, and maybe it wasn’t. If it was his drawing of the cobra goddess, of Meretseger, he wasn’t even sure if he could repeat it.

  But the truth was, he had nothing more to lose.

  The least he could do was try.

  He said a quick prayer, sat back and willed the image to come to him. At first, it was hazy, like a soft edged cloud, drifting into his thoughts. Slowly it took on sharp, definite edges. The black lines grew thicker, larger, firmer. Then he saw her clearly in his mind. Every flicker of his brush, every stroke he’d made stood out in vivid detail.

  Ramses eyes flew open.

  On the papyrus, a faint outline shimmered, matched with the image in his mind. Breathless, he bent to trace it with his brush before it disappeared. His hand was sluggish. He willed it to move faster. He couldn’t hold the illusion much longer.

  Already it was beginning to fade.

  Desperate, he clenched his teeth. The illusion was almost gone!

  Quickly, quickly! The last piece, the ankh—the symbol of life—on Meretseger’s scepter. He traced it in as the shimmering glow dissolved into the ink. The light abruptly vanished. Meretseger was complete. The lines were just lines, black and solid.

  In a daze, he set down his brush. It felt as if he’d woken from a trance.

  The craftsmen still stood at the far end of the tent. He studied his drawing once more.

  An imperfection sprang to his attention, and then another. Horrified, he started to scrunch it up. He’d have to start over. But could he do better? What if these were the same imperfections as on the original scroll?

  What if the other one wasn’t even his? There must have been thousands of applicants. Anyone could’ve dropped their papyrus.

  He let go of it and smoothed it out once more.

  "Sir?" he called, his voice low. He gulped, hoping they hadn’t heard. He had to try again—this drawing was terrible!

  "You called me?" It was too late. The Chief Scribe was walking swiftly toward him. "What do you need? More papyrus? Ink? A different brush?"

  Ramses’ held out the sheet, his hand shaking. "I’m done."

  "Done? You can’t be. You just sat down!"

  The thought of another moment at this table tied his stomach in knots. "Really sir, I’m done."

  At this, the Chief Scribe looked suddenly old and tired. Disappointed even, as if he knew now that it was impossible Ramses could be the one. "I see." He paused. With a sigh, he took the scroll. "We’ll just be a moment then."

  The big metalworker snorted. "Let’s see this thing."

  "Bring the other papyrus," the Chief Scribe said, gesturing at the box with the second scroll.

  "Ha! Why bother?"

  "Come, we’ll examine them in the light," the Chief Scribe said.

  Ramses wondered if they were leaving to save him the embarrassment of hearing their laughter. They headed for the tent flap. Instead of stepping outside, however, the Chief Scribe stood in the doorway. Several craftsmen shot frowns at Ramses.

  He knew they were furious that he’d come to waste their time.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  After removing the leather wrappings, Neferet’s father gave the first drawing to Tui. The old painter held it open for the men to see, while the Chief Scribe busied himself unrolling the drawing Ramses had just given him.

  He tilted it to catch the sun.

  Ramses held his breath.

  "Impossible," the Chief Scribe growled.

  At the tent entrance, the craftsmen’s voices rose in commotion. Ramses’ heart sank. He wished he were dead. The Chief Scribe broke away and approached, frowning.

  "It wasn’t mine, was it?" Ramses said softly.

  "Oh yes, it’s yours." He held the two pages side by side. "These are the same drawings." He paused. "The problem is, they’re not just the same—they’re exact in every way. Either we’re witnessing a miracle, or you’ve drawn this picture so many times, you’ve memorized the strokes. Have you copied this from somewhere, trained yourself to replicate it? Is this some sort of trick, the only thing you can draw?"

  A woman entered with the drink Ramses had requested. Impatient, the Chief Scribe waved her to set it down. She left quickly in a swish of skirts.

  "No! I’ve only drawn it twice. Once on the first scroll, and then here, on the second. You told me to repeat it!"

  "Repeat it? Yes but—" Neferet’s father made a frustrated noise.

  Tui approached. "What if what the boy says is the truth?"

  "Tui . . ."

  "We can’t afford to pass this off so easily. This is the Place of Truth. We ourselves make the magic that carries Pharaoh to the underworld, that ensures his safety, that keeps him for all eternity. Can we risk letting this boy’s talent, if it is indeed a talent, slip away?"

  "What, then do you propose?"

  "A simple test."

  The Chief Scribe passed his hand over his face. Then he nodded. "You may go ahead."

  To Ramses, Tui said, "When we create a royal tomb, one of the most important skills is uniformity. We strive to make our images the same—to put it simply, when I draw an image of Ptah, I want all the other images of Ptah to match. I don’t want one to be tall and thin, and a second shorter and rounder. Do you follow me?"

  "Yes, he has to look the same every time. Otherwise the story panels won’t make sense if his appearance keeps changing," Ramses said.

  "Exactly! Well put. However talking about making them match, and actually doing it are two different things. If you can replicate your images line for line—"

  "Line for line—but I never said I . . ." Ramses stopped. It’s not what he’d said. But it’s what he’d led them to be
lieve, and it was too late to take it back. He swallowed, guessing what was coming next.

  "Make us a new set of images. A matching set. Demonstrate that what you did was no trick, no trained repetition of a single image, but an actual skill. Something you can do with any image."

  Ramses’ stomach churned. "What do you want me to draw?"

  Tui thought a moment. "You met your opponent, Akil," he said. "He drew us the death of Osiris at the hands of his brother. Now as you know, Osiris had a son named Horus. Horus fought to take back the precious things that had been stolen from him and his family. Their honor. Draw that for us."

  Ramses thought of Aunt Zalika and Uncle Hay. In some small way, he understood how Horus felt, even if Ramses was only a boy, and Horus was a god.

  Tui added, "Just to ensure your skills, you will draw the first one, and hand it to us. Then you will draw the second one, without the aid of the first."

  Ramses gulped. Still, he took the materials.

  In truth, it was easier said than done. Drawing a pair of identical images was nearly impossible. Yes, he'd done it with Meretseger, but could he do it again?

  He thought of his father. His father had always said that success came to the man who planned carefully, and then followed through.

  An idea came to him. Was it possible to lay such plans here and now? To do something that would ensure the drawings would be the same? Even if Tui took the first one away?

  He remembered his dream of the grid.

  He could see it in his mind’s eye—the lines on the tomb wall. If he could make a grid like that, he could repeat the image nearly exactly, by placing the figure of Horus within the lines. There was only one problem—on the tomb wall, one could erase the gridlines at the end by painting over them. Yet he couldn’t erase an ink grid from the papyrus. Then he had an idea.

  Why erase them if he didn't need to?

  Did he dare? What if they thought he was cheating?

  "Are there any rules?" he blurted.

  "Rules?" Tui said. "Only the one—that you give me the first drawing before you start on the second.