“I didn’t ask what you preferred. I hope a Zinfandel is all right,” he said, as he traded her water glass for a wineglass with a rich, red liquid in it.
April sipped the wine, letting the pleasant, raspberry and pepper taste of it roll over her tongue. “It’s fine,” she said.
She sat on his sofa, curling her legs under her, holding the wine between her hands.
“Okay, start talking.” She was tired of messing around and wanted answers.
“How much do you remember?” He sat on another sofa opposite her. He had poured himself wine, as well, but it sat on the glass-and-steel coffee table between them, not in his hands.
“I remember you coming to my parents’ house after being in World War I. I remember up until the car crash and recovering from the coma. I remember my husband and children…”
Weston looked as though she had struck him, so she paused while he took up his glass and drank some wine.
“I remember my eighty-fifth birthday and the young man who found me. It was you, wasn’t it, both times? The veteran and the young man with the gun. They were both you.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“How many times?” she asked. “How long have you been finding me? And do we always end up together?”
“We always end up together. We have been finding each other for a very long time.”
“Why did you come when I was so old?”
He smiled sadly. “Fate is cruel, and war is glorious, or so we’re told. After the automobile accident, I was born again in Europe and died in the bombing during the second war. I was among those fortunate first to be deployed—and die—in Vietnam.” His smile was bitter and sardonic. “We are not strangers to war, you and I, but the twentieth century was especially unkind to me.”
“And this time? It seems as if I’m older than when you first found me. Why is that?”
“Your dreams stopped. Somehow, your dreams lead me to you. Your dreams and mine.”
April looked at him, surprised.
“Oh, yes, I have dreams, too.” Weston sipped his wine again and stared into space. “Not dreams of the past but of the future. I received bits of information, sometimes maddeningly vague, of where you will be and when. Sometimes, they are puzzles that take years to solve.” He looked at her again. “Not as simple as your dreams, I’m sure.”
“Why do I have that dream over and over? You said you know why I have the dream. Why?”
He looked away from her, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Let me answer another question first,” he said, standing up and pacing in front of the window. “How long have we found each other? You see, sometimes, you find me.”
April began to feel what she now recognized as a sort of hypnotic state coming over her. She didn’t know how he kept doing that to her, but she didn’t fight it. She set her wineglass down and let the trance take her back through time.
Chapter 22. Past Lives
A river of lives washed over April, deaths peaceful and violent, at all ages and throughout time. She was a young woman with a small child, hiding under a wagon while her husband tried to stop a gang of bandits from stealing their horses. She was a middle-aged woman, lying sick with fever, clinging to life but without will because her dearest love had not survived the same illness. Side by side on a battlefield covered in blood and savagery, joyful in the destruction they caused, fearless of death. Burned for witchcraft and the unforgivable sin of staving off death where the “surgeons” could not. Death in a burning city, death in a quiet cottage, so many deaths, hundreds of deaths. But lives, as well.
They had children, sometimes grandchildren. They had hawks and hounds and livestock. They had farms and businesses. They had talents and practices of art and craft. They were different but the same, always together, always finding each other. He was always a little older, as though he were never held by death, while she lingered in the afterlife before returning. Sometimes, he died first; sometimes, she did. When he died, she pined away and did not stay long after, unable to live without her other half, her love, her life.
Lives in strange lands unfamiliar to her modern senses, where strange practices were normal daily life. Making blood sacrifices—doves for celebrating love and weddings, puppies in memory of the dead and for funerals. Hours spent working at the loom or the grinding wheel, or traveling across open land behind herds, or dancing in moonlight by a roaring fire.
And then the one life. No longer a blur of time and people. One life, the first life, where she woke from sleep screaming until her throat was raw.
Chapter 23. Meriankhu
“I did not pay so much to have a girl as beautiful as you keeping me up all night and making yourself sick to death with demon dreams,” her master said.
He was old and fat and impotent, but he was also rich and liked pretty things. His home was beautiful, as were his slaves and his furnishings and all he had. Of all the things in his great house, only he was ugly, but he was also kind. Her nightmares distressed him.
“Henutmehyt, what am I going to do with her? Is there anything you can do to help?” The man beseeched the elderly priestess he had invited to his home. “I can’t get my money back because the scoundrel who sold her to me has left the city. I can’t find a healer or a priest who can tell me what’s wrong with her, and you, my dear priestess, are my last hope. She’s going to sicken and die unless we do something.”
The old woman looked the girl over, in her mouth, her eyes, even in her ears. “I think if she weren’t a virgin it might stop, but I can’t be sure. I know you prefer to keep virgins in your house, so that might not be a chance you want to take to find a cure.” Looking at the girl again, the old priestess scratched her chin and reached for the beer the fat man’s servant had poured for her.
“There is a hermit I’ve heard of,” she said, sipping and sitting down in an ivory chair in the pleasant garden in the house’s courtyard. “He is supposed to have great powers, but he’s prickly and difficult to deal with. He lives in the caves among the dead. Just visiting him might be enough to bring on night terrors.” She chuckled to herself. “You might try him. But you’ll need to take something to tempt him if you hope to get his help. They say he has rich taste in food and drink for a hermit. That’s your best chance. Gold doesn’t interest him.”
When she had finished her beverage and after the fat man’s house boy had discretely passed a small, heavy pouch of gratitude to the old woman’s attendant, the priestess gathered up her drapes and gestured for her slave.
“I’ll make offerings and prayers on your behalf, but see the hermit,” she said. “That’s my best suggestion. If he can’t help you, no one can except the Gods Themselves. And They aren’t always willing.”
* * *
The next day, the fat man, the girl, and two other slaves rose at dawn. The two servants carried what the fat man hoped would be sufficient enticement for the hermit to grant him an audience and perhaps solve his problem. Leaving the city, they traveled by boat across the great river then on foot to the base of the hills where the dead were laid. There, they found the village that housed laborers and artisans who served the master tomb builders of the Valley of the Kings.
Through inquiries, they learned that the hermit had a boy servant who might take them to meet his master. They were fortunate to catch the dirty, ragged boy on his daily journey down from the hillside to fetch water and food. The hermit might not be interested in gold, but his servant was. With a little persuasion and promises of rewards, they convinced the boy to lead them to his master’s cave.
The city of tombs carved into the walls of the cliffs was a confused warren only navigable with a guide or by someone who visited them frequently. Even in the broad light of day, the girl was terrified. All the dead kings and queens were here and some of their most loyal servants and their most powerful guardians. The boy who walked the path daily was agile as a goat, but the girl hung back in fear while the fat man heaved and wheezed his way up
the steep and difficult path. The attending slaves, burdened by their loads, climbed as slowly as the fat man. Far up the cliff face, high above the valley floor, they finally came to the hermit’s cave.
The sun was high in the sky when they arrived at the cave’s entrance. The girl was hot, thirsty, and hungry, miserable beyond her terror. The boy went into the cave to tell the hermit visitors had arrived. If the fat man had not held a tight grip on the girl’s wrist, she would have run back down the path when she heard the angry roar come out of the cave.
“No visitors or supplicants or seekers! I see no one.” The words were shouted in a voice as rough as tumbling gravel.
“Please, Wise One,” said the fat man, calling into the cave. “Have pity on a young girl whose death you assure if you fail to help her. She has beauty but no peace. Please, help her. If you will only look at her, I will share a great feast with you, all the finest from my kitchens. You must eat sometime. Why not have a look at her while we dine?”
The fat man had a persuasive way that made him successful in business. He used all his reason and charms now, cajoling and pleading. When he finished his entreaties, he waited for a response without breathing, while the girl panted in fear.
Finally, the boy came out of the cave, carrying several small rugs. He spread them in the shade at the mouth of the cave and stepped aside to allow the hermit to emerge. The fat man gasped while the girl squeaked in terror. The hermit had wild, dirty black hair, long and matted. His beard was no better. He looked as though he had never bathed in his life, and he smelled as musky as a rutting he-goat. Rags barely covered his body, though it was hard to tell where the rags ended and his filthy skin began. He was taller than the fat man, looming over him like a monster from a nightmare.
He looked at them with cold, dead eyes, then gestured to the rugs. The fat man had one of his slaves bring a small, folding chair for him to settle his bulk into.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling. “Sitting on the ground is a little difficult for me.”
The hermit nodded then fixed his eyes on the girl. Reluctantly, she sat on one of the little rugs as far from him as possible. Her curiosity was getting the better of her, though, and she had begun to examine the hermit with hooded eyes.
The feast was laid out between the two men, and with a gesture from the fat man, the girl realized she would be allowed to eat with them. First, she drank water to assuage her thirst then cautiously selected some cheese and figs, never taking her eyes from the hermit. She had expected him to fall on the food like an animal, but he ate as though he were in a dining hall in one of the great houses in the city.
The fat man explained who he was, why he had come, and who had sent him.
The deadness in the hermit’s eyes lightened a little. “How is old Henutmehyt?” he asked.
His eyes widening in surprise, the fat man said, “Quite well. She is the High Priestess of Isis now.”
The hermit grunted and said nothing more, but the girl thought he might be smiling a little under his fierce beard.
By the time the meal was finished, the hermit had agreed to help. “But she must stay here with me,” he insisted.
The fat man was reluctant. “She’s a virgin. I would like her returned that way.”
“If you don’t trust me, take her away. I have no need of projects. If she dies, she’ll be no good to you, unless you have a fondness for dead virgins.”
The fat man thought for a moment. If the hermit failed to cure the girl, the fat man would be out his costs and no better off, but he had been watching the hermit watching the girl. Whatever the hermit's success or lack of it, the fat man would find a way to cut his losses. He had not gotten rich by being a fool or by taking chances.
“Will you buy her?”
The girl didn’t want to stay with the hermit, even if it meant curing her dreams, and she had no desire at all to live in a filthy cave. She scowled at her master but didn’t dare speak.
“I have no use for women or girls. Even pretty virgins,” the hermit said, but he hadn’t stopped looking at her.
“I have no use for a screaming, nightmare-haunted girl, and without your help she can’t be cured. Give me something fair for a price, and I’ll sell her to you. Then if you succeed, you'll have a useful servant. And if you fail, well…” The fat man smiled. “I'm sure you won't fail.”
They haggled while the girl watched in dismay. In the end, a price was reached. The fat man would go back down into the valley with less loss than he had expected, and the girl would stay behind.
The fat man and his servants disappeared from view down the path, as the girl watched. The hermit made no move toward her and did not speak to her. Finally, timidly, she rose from the rug. She looked around the entrance to the cave, turning back to see what the hermit would do, but he seemed uninterested in her. Finding a small lamp near the cave’s entrance, she took it up and surveyed her new home from one end to another.
When she had completed her survey, she slapped the hermit’s servant boy's face, surprising both the hermit and the boy.
“How dare you be so slovenly and useless,” she demanded. “How can you allow your master to live like this? You are a disgrace. Are you completely without pride?”
The hermit made no move to intervene while she abused the boy into service, ordering him to gather together the things they would need to set matters to rights. The boy and girl gathered all the bones and rags and scraps, shoving them into an old sack and putting them outside, well away from the cave entrance. They made improvised brooms and swept the cave floor then arranged the hermit's surprising collection of articles.
The hermit followed at a safe distance, watching the activities. He had carpets and chairs, old and battered but serviceable, and trunks that he stopped the girl from opening but not from putting into an order that suited her. One table that he seemed to be using as a kind of desk was covered with papyrus and writing tools, but another table was tipped over at the back of the cave and not used at all. She and the boy wrestled this nearer to the cave entrance.
By sunset, the lamps had trimmed wicks and were filled with oil. The previously unused table was in the area that the girl planned to make her kitchen. She had set aside neat, clean areas for pallets, where each of them could sleep, hers well away from the hermit’s. She was reluctant to be alone with him but knew her desires didn’t matter as long as he owned her and whether the boy was there or not.
Finally, she stood before the hermit, who again sat on the carpet as he had done most of the afternoon while watching her work. “If three of us are to live here, we will need more food and drink. Also, a razor, and you will need clothes. Give money to the boy, and I will make a list for the tradesmen.” She managed to say this with only a slight quivering in her voice.
“You can write?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. I have to keep household accounts.”
Again, she thought she saw a smile under that fierce beard. She wondered why she had thought before that his eyes looked dead. They seemed quite lively now.
Without a word the hermit went to one of his trunks and brought out a small bag. He handed over gold coins to the girl. “You may buy all that you require but not clothes for me. Only for yourself.” He paused “And for the boy.”
She didn’t want to risk anything further, so she didn’t argue.
That night, they all slept in the cave, and, once again, as had happened every night since her menses began, the girl had the dream. When the hermit woke her, she sobbed as he held her, not caring that he smelled and was dirty, only that his arms felt as though they could keep away the terror.
In the morning, exhausted from the long night, the boy escaped the cave, taking the money down to the village at the mouth of the valley to buy all that was on the list the girl had given him.
“Sit in this chair in the light,” the girl commanded the hermit.
He did as he was told. When she approached him with a bowl of water and the fresh
ly sharpened razor, he leaned away in alarm.
“Being clean won’t hurt you. You stink, and you look terrible. I’ve been trained, and I know what I’m doing,” she said with complete confidence.
The hermit sighed, apparently realizing he was not going to win this argument and would have to accepted the inevitable.
“You are very bossy for a slave, you know,” he said.
She said nothing.
While the girl shaved him, the hermit asked her about her dreams. He did not interrupt her once she started to speak. When she finished talking and shaving, she stepped back to look at him. Two things surprised her. The first was that without his beard and wild hair, he was more handsome than Pharaoh, whom she had once seen during a procession. The second surprise was that his eyes were filled with tears.
“In what year were you born?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“In the eighth year of Pharaoh's reign.”
“That would make you the right age, born the year after the queen died,” he said to himself.
He looked at her for a long moment then asked, “Nefrumeri?”
“That’s not my name.” She laughed. That was a lady’s name, not a slave’s. But there was something familiar about it. There was something familiar about him now that he was cleaner.
When the boy returned, exhausted and heavily laden with the supplies, the girl was so occupied with deciding how to organize and store everything, she didn’t notice when the hermit slipped away. The boy finally fell asleep on his pallet, and she let him rest while she began to prepare the evening meal.
She started to worry when the hermit had not returned as the sun began to set. She was afraid to spend the night in this valley of tombs with only a boy for protection from the dead and their guardians. She was afraid to have the dream here in this place without the hermit to wake her. She lit the lamps and prayed to Isis.
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