Perilous Prophecy

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  He purred in fond recollection. She gasped at a particularly brazen, if ghostly, caress, and gave herself over to the acute sensation. It was some comfort, even though it was only an echo of all they had once known.

  Rising to her knees, she stroked the sturdy heather all around her, a flower she’d planted here because it reminded her that life could thrive and be beautiful in difficult climes. Against its purple glory, the colorless skin of her hand appeared less youthful than ever. Hope was withering.

  Overwhelmed, she smoothed the layers of thin fabric that floated about her body. Kissing the ground, she bid farewell to her beloved’s grave and fled up the slope, leaving this echo of what should have been her marriage bed. The many incarnations of the Guard strolled along the green crest, arm in arm, group with group, beside tree and flower, appreciating the blue sky and one another’s company. They seemed at peace, happy. If they weren’t, she wondered whether any of them would say.

  Approaching the boundary waters again, already dreading the cold, black misery they contained, behind her Persephone heard the Guards saying good-bye in their many languages. Their words seemed to reach her across a chasm, distant, fleeting. She was praised using many different names, terms as diverse as the varied beliefs of the world.

  Blowing kisses, she fell backward into the water and shot herself down under the barrier stone and across to the other bank in a graceful few strokes, jumping up and into the gray shadow, shaking off the river that clung to her and made her garments heavy with sorrow.

  Only later would she recall that, as she moved into the crevasse that would take her back into the Whisper-world’s unmitigated clutches, she had faintly heard the sound of hissing. She was faltering indeed to have been so careless, to not hide more carefully where she had been. It was foolish not to have more zealously guarded her treasure, for it was all that she had left to live for.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Ibrahim settled in at Ahmed’s home, and the two young men marveled at the ease with which they floated in and out of the consciousness of the Basri family. Ahmed was the only child, clearly adored; but since the magic of the Guard had claimed them, he was adored at a distance, as if through a veil.

  The shift clearly saddened Ahmed. That joyous, expressive face was so easy for Ibrahim to read. When even a hint of the Grand Work passed between them, the glow of the Heart would obliterate all else, and it seemed the whole house lit with him, even after the sun set. In general, things seemed to be going well. Thus Ibrahim was surprised to be awakened by his friend in the middle of the night.

  “The war in the ground!” Ahmed cried, launching up from his cot, moisture dotting his brow.

  “What?” Ibrahim sat up across the room, rubbing his eyes. His sleep had been heavy, his body still adjusting to its new powers and sensibilities. The Grand Work was more than mere mortals could digest in one fell swoop.

  “A vision,” Ahmed murmured, shaking his head. He got up and walked into the main room. Ibrahim followed. Ahmed lit a tin lamp whose mirror brightened the candle flame and cast its ornate metal pattern onto the richly colored rug, then sat in a carved wooden chair below a bookshelf filled with Sufi literature and tracts.

  “Would you like to speak about it?” Ibrahim asked.

  “I see a war. A strange war with metal dragons and guns like I’ve never known, horrible guns dispensing death like falling rain.”

  “Why do you say it is a vision rather than a simple nightmare? What have we to do with such sights?”

  “Because it was about the dead. They’ve nowhere to go. There are simply too many. It’s terrible. I should tell the angel when next she descends.”

  Ibrahim nodded, then suddenly clutched his heart as a flash of pain swept over him. Though still a new sensation, it was immediately recognizable. This was his Intuition at work. This was the Pull. The sensation was raw, as if something were spreading across his nerves; his circulatory system shifted to match the haphazard streets of Cairo, and all he could think was: Giza.

  He knew, too, the location of each of his compatriots. Most strongly he felt Beatrice. He felt them all rise from chairs or beds and pinpoint the same location his own senses decreed. He scowled.

  “What is it?” asked Ahmed, rising.

  “Of course,” Ibrahim replied, grabbing a pair of long coats from the rack near the door and tossing one to his friend. Shrugging into the other, he strode out into the courtyard, Ahmed at his heels.

  Ibrahim felt the night air bite his skin even through the coat and the simple linen tunic he wore underneath.

  Ahmed prompted, “Of course?”

  “Of course there’s trouble at the pyramids.”

  “Wherever great spiritual energy has amassed, there shall we be,” Ahmed stated. Ibrahim glanced at him, awaiting some further explanation or theory, but his friend just shrugged, adding, “Full understanding of our duty will come in time.”

  Ibrahim pursed his lips. “Lovely. My new companion, with whom I’ll spend my days and nights, will counter every concern with mystical platitudes.”

  “I’ll try,” Ahmed agreed with a winning smile.

  Ibrahim couldn’t help but laugh, until a new thought made him scowl. “I say, it’s the foreigners meddling with our dead that’s causing the trouble.”

  “Believe in curses, then, do you?” Ahmed asked.

  “No, I believe in human stupidity, disrespect, greed, and obsession with conquest. Things that never fail to cause harm.”

  Ahmed put a hand on his shoulder. “All fair and understood. However, I suggest you add something of joy to your list of beliefs, brother. It is necessary for a life well lived.” Using his gift, he shared with Ibrahim some of that component.

  As they traveled southwest through Cairo from their position near the citadel, a wind at their feet gave them an uncanny speed, as if they’d been given Mercury’s shoes.

  “I suppose the angel could have stirred and roused the dead,” Ibrahim muttered after a long silence. “She was keen to see our ‘mortal wonders.’ I wouldn’t have expected tourism out of a divinity.”

  “She’s a creature of peace, not unrest; surely her intentions were solely to admire,” Ahmed countered. “If anything, her presence might have inadvertently stirred a yearning for life again. She does have a way about her, does she not?”

  Ibrahim shrugged. It didn’t seem proper to be moved by a being he could hardly comprehend. But it was true; she was a raw and captivating force of nature that could not be dismissed.

  Their augmented movement brought them, some half hour later, to Cairo’s outskirts, with the vast sands of Giza beyond. It was such an abrupt shift from streets to unruly, ever-shifting sands. The Pull drew them not into the desert but to a café and shop that catered to foreign tourists seeking the pyramids.

  In front of the nearby stables stood Belle, with the reins of six docile camels in her hand. George rounded the corner at a run, his half cloak, vest, and undone shirtsleeves flapping against his gangly form. The sight of the Frenchwoman, in a fashionable pink dress, with six wide-eyed camels looming at her back made him howl with delight.

  “Bloody genius!” George exclaimed. “How did you—?”

  Belle tapped her temple and smiled sheepishly. “I’ve learned I can get my way in absolutely anything. Terribly dangerous, this gift of mine.” Her French accent was heavy but she was all the more charming for it.

  Beatrice was standing a few paces off, near where the road widened. Her simple black riding outfit, well suited for travel, looked elegant on her tall frame, and her dark blond hair was pinned beneath a sensible hat.

  Verena was the first to move forward and claim one of the camels, her dark robes rustling in the night breeze. Ahmed offered his help to ease her up to the fabric saddle, which she gracefully accepted. George ducked, narrowly avoiding a veritable grenade of camel spittle, then giggled, reaching up to scratch the beast’s muzzle.

  Noticing that Beatrice was staring into the dis
tance, mouth agape, Ibrahim followed her line of sight and gasped.

  “Allah, God, Yahweh, and Osiris have mercy,” he muttered.

  The rest of the Guard shifted until they could see what had drawn their Leader’s attention—a sight that surpassed the wildest and most morbid of imaginings.

  Kilometers ahead stood the necropolis … and the great pyramid and its smaller cousins were erupting with ghosts, the restless dead like luminous silver lava that coursed down their perfect slopes. What the half moon did not illuminate, these spirits made bright.

  “Do we have to deal with all that?” Verena breathed, staring at the ghostly volcanoes.

  “I hope not,” Beatrice replied. She set her jaw, then mounted a camel with ease.

  Ibrahim furrowed his brow, impressed. He followed suit, grumbling when he could not match Beatrice’s grace, instead having a bit of difficulty gaining a firm perch against the hump. The camel glanced back in irritation.

  A few paces into the journey, Belle said, “Mon Dieu,” tears glistening in her eyes. “One spirit is fine. But that … that’s a bit much. That is absolutely terrifying.” She added frightening in Arabic, just in case anyone failed to catch her faltering English. Several others added similar thoughts.

  Neither Beatrice nor Ibrahim joined in the chorus. She looked over at him; seeing his reflection in her pale eyes, he felt suddenly older. So they faced the absurd terror of floating haunts and the biddings of angels. She didn’t seem any more elated about it than he was, but she didn’t seem frightened, either. Instead she appeared sturdy, elegant, and composed.

  She stared at him as if they were peers, which was unsettling because she was Western and a woman. Then again, these were uncommon circumstances. He sat straighter in his saddle.

  Beatrice asked, “Well, now that we know everyone’s petrified, what are we to do about this little circus?” She held up her hand. Blue fire hovered in a ball.

  “I’ve been practicing,” she continued, staring at the flame, which she cast out, then brought back close again like some kind of toy. “It’s fascinating. I keep thinking I’ve lost my mind, but if I have, then so have all of you. I hope you’ve all been thinking? Practicing?”

  She spoke, Ibrahim had to admit, with the stern and unaffected air of capable command. He was pleased to see the firmness of her gaze as she studied each of their companions; it was critical that their leader not appear daunted.

  She chuckled when they all nodded or shrugged. “Lovely. Like lambs to the spiritual slaughter.” Then she spurred her camel on. “It’s all right,” she said casually, as if speaking to the animal. “I’m still not convinced I believe in ghosts. Perhaps that is a healthy separation. Psychological detachment may equal greater efficiency.”

  “Will we have to go in?” Belle breathed, her fear mounting. She stared at the enormous monuments and their attendant clouds of spirits.

  “No,” Ahmed replied. “Look. We won’t have to go far at all. They’re coming to us.”

  It was true. While the bulk of spiritual activity clustered in bright gray light around the great pyramid, a platoon of spirits marched directly toward their small band. They were floating above the sand a meter off the ground, in neat rows, bare-chested and clad in pale loincloths.

  “Servants. Buried with the royals—some say alive,” Ahmed remarked quietly. “I can’t imagine they were happy about it.”

  “Who would be?” George murmured. “I mean God save the Queen and all but I’d rather not be buried with her when the dear lady goes.”

  Beatrice smirked and Belle giggled. The sound of laughter was welcome against such a spectral host.

  Ibrahim closed his eyes. Information was at hand. He now owned a sensibility that was foreign to the way he was used to his mind working, but the knowledge felt clarion and true and he wished to the heavens he could explain it.

  “No. These aren’t servants, these are those who designed the great pyramids. The engineers. Their noble’s remains were disturbed and they’re looking to settle a score, recover grave goods or perhaps the body itself—or visit a haunting upon the offenders,” he said. He’d spoken in Arabic, then translated a few words to English, but Beatrice was already nodding, understanding him from the first. He added, purely for her benefit, “There are many offenders when it comes to the ancient dead here.”

  Beatrice held up her hands. “Not my father. I know the sites well. He’s lauded by all Egyptian colleagues at the university and within antiquities for his reverence and respect.”

  “Tell that to these gents,” George murmured.

  The platoon of restless dead was upon the company quickly, a wave of ice-cold air preceding them. From Beatrice’s lips flew a command spoken in the Guard tongue now native to all.

  The six slipped off their camels. Belle took charge of the creatures, still appearing shocked by her sudden facility with them and surprised when they listened, and guided them a few paces back. Thankfully, the camels seemed unconcerned by the dead.

  The Guard formed a circle in the sand, their young faces illuminated by the moon, the light of the spirits, and by a great blue fire that coursed around them and rose into the air like a water spout, whipped by the wind. Sand tumbled over the hems of their dresses, robes, and boots. Notes of music caressed the air, an angelic choir tuneful and vibrant. Clouds cleared from the sky above them and the stars seemed to burn brighter in affirmation. A few slow tears rolled down Ahmed’s smooth face, bright with serenity. Ibrahim wished that he felt so at peace.

  With a deep breath and a forceful exhalation, Beatrice opened her hands. A net of blue fire leaped up, surrounding the spirits that had formed a circle above them. The skeletal spirits were speaking, their loosely attached jaws flapping rapidly and angrily, but the Guard heard nothing.

  Ibrahim felt the oppressive weight of death and the surety of his own mortality. Dread flooded his veins, and the empty eyes of one of the ghosts drew him forward a step, sending an icy chill seeping into his bones. His mind was flooded with images. Every time in his life when he had said something hurtful or done something hateful flashed before his eyes, and he knew he was a wretched being, meant only for decay.

  Then his mind washed clean; the oppressive fog lifted from his brain. Belle had brushed his temple with her finger. He nodded his thanks, and she smiled demurely, her round cheeks dimpling.

  The Guard’s separate gifts worked increasingly in concert. George pulled out a walking stick, and began darting about in the sand. Ibrahim wanted to watch him—there was something compelling about what he was doing—but he could sense Beatrice’s energy straining as she worked the fire to keep the spirits contained. Finding a surprising text upon his lips, he recited the Book of the Dead, though the ancient Egyptian vernacular had previously been unfamiliar. Some of the spirits became captivated, nodding, suddenly rethinking their mission. It seemed that while the Guard could not hear the wails of the dead, the ghosts could hear the living quite clearly.

  Other skeletal forms strained against the confining fire, thus straining against Beatrice. Ibrahim felt her energy falter and was alarmed that he felt so attuned to her. The metaphysical bond was both intimate and unsettling. Seductive.

  Beatrice growled in frustration. A few spirits broke free and lunged at her, their incorporeal hands creating a distinct pressure around her throat. Another somehow sent a rock hurtling at her face; the impact left her cheek weeping blood in a thin scarlet line.

  She growled a command. The spirits unhanded her as if scalded and backed toward their still-contained fellows.

  Verena glided near. Her glowing hand touched Beatrice’s injury, and the blood vanished. Ahmed countered the black clouds of misery that the spirits shed by moving to his fellows and placing a finger on their heart; each of them was then able to breathe more easily despite the stifling press of death. Ibrahim offered a new Book of the Dead text to keep the ghosts engaged rather than violent.

  Beatrice gritted her teeth. “Now for a cantus to quiet t
hem into submission.”

  “I’ve got something I’d like to share,” George exclaimed, running forward. “Excuse me,” he called jauntily to the spirits floating above. “Oh, ghosties of the great monuments, do come and look at my exhibition, it may move you,” he declared.

  Some spirits moved to hover above the elaborate grooves that he’d wrought in the sand. They placed hands over their mouths and reached for the others; then, in a rushing burst of gray light, they all went scurrying back toward the pyramids, where they vanished into the sand, one by one.

  The Guard stared after them, catching their breath. George looked rather pleased with himself. Beatrice cast blue light over George’s creation, illuminating the source of the spirits’ defeat. Using his walking stick and some creative footwork, he’d drawn in the sand a beautifully rendered image of a great bird with outstretched wings, flame wreathing up from its claws and tail feathers.

  “I haven’t a bloody clue what I meant while doing it, but looking at it now I think it’s quite nice—don’t you?” he asked with a grin, running a hand through his hair.

  “A phoenix,” Beatrice murmured. “Why, that’s lovely, George.”

  The English youth blushed, staring down at his work.

  “And quite meaningful to them,” Ahmed added thoughtfully. “Transformative power. Rebirth. The Egyptians worshipped Phoenix; he was a god to them. They must have thought we were his votaries and dared not test us further.”

  “We are his votaries,” Beatrice reminded them all, blue fire shimmering along her fingers like liquid jewelry.

  “The air!” Belle exclaimed with satisfaction. They’d begun to feel the Balance as if it were temperature. She went to her camel and hopped up with a facility that defied the restrictions usually caused by women’s garments.

  “And yet…” Beatrice scowled, gesturing to the still active overflow of spirits cascading down the sides of the pyramids.

  “No, I understand,” Verena said quietly, watching the display. “We’re here to protect mortals, not to police every ghost. We’ll never be able to look at these monuments again without seeing the tumult, but we’re not called to that melee. Not yet. Not unless it comes for humanity. Tonight troops came charging toward the Giza populace, so we had to stand in the way. A mortal barricade for mortal hearts.”