The Ka

by Mary Deal

  She concentrated on the hand that had touched hers and began to float back into that same room…

  …on the woven reed bed behind the mashrabia panels, intoxicated with incense and uro. His kilt and nemes cast aside. His black hair sun bleached with fine streaks of red. His lips, his body pressed urgently.

  “I see you unclothed as another sees you, my King.”

  “Yet, you do for me what the other cannot.”

  Floating out of the trance, Chione sighed loudly and flinched with disappointment when she realized what had happened. She glanced at Aaron, then Jibade. They remained just as she left them. She wondered if she should attempt to go back into the trance now that she was out again. Like before, she came out of that same scene unexpectedly, knowing the two on the pallet would make love. Why was she being shown such a scenario that was, perhaps, of a lifetime left unfinished? Why did she feel such burning desire to complete what had been taking place? Could the scene ultimately offer clues to the location of the Burial Chamber? If she returned to the scene, would she be intruding on royal privacy? The decision was not hers to make.

  His body was heavy on her, buttocks hard as diorite in her hands.

  “Your passion is great in spite of the child,” he said.

  “Take me, my King. Give me your true flail!”

  “But the child in your womb….”

  “Easy then, O Pharaoh most powerful, slayer of enemies, benevolent protector. I give you an heir when others cannot. Oba, take my breath, pleasure me your body.”

  “Yes, Umayma. I cannot resist. I will have you now.”

  And so he did. As she touched and teased and enticed, he took her again and again until they were sated.

  Chione was suddenly back on the mat in the Pillared Hall, disoriented, breath labored. She had felt it all. Tauret and Pharaoh had loved and she felt the ecstasy that Tauret experienced. She had never felt such sensational intensity of anything in her life. Was that what making love felt like? Was that why many sought sexual gratification above all else? She felt numbed, yet awed. Sitting on the mat in the dimly lit Pillared Hall, she wanted more. Flames of passion licked through her. Why, when making love as Tauret, had she seen that other face instead of seeing Aaron?

  Both Aaron and Jibade roused quickly. She reached for Aaron, who looked like Pharaoh. She withdrew from his look of utter surprise and caution. Had he just had the same experience? Had they…? She reached for her father, then clung quickly again to Aaron.

  “Yes!” Aaron said in that ancient voice.

  She pushed away from him. The look of Pharaoh burned in his eyes.

  “What is happening, my daughter?”

  Jibade's voice seeped in and calmed her disorientation. Aaron reached for her. Panic welled up and she quickly scooted away on her buttocks and gestured that they wait till she got her bearings. She took a few moments. Finally, Jibade bade her to come close again. “What did you perceive?”

  Instead, she looked to Aaron. “W-what did you g-get?”

  He looked away quickly. “Pictures, just pictures. Lots of scenes.” He looked up, as if pathetically struggling with emotions. “And you?”

  “Me, too,” she said, lying though she burned with want. She could barely resist throwing herself into his arms.

  “Tell us,” Jibade said.

  “Lots of scenes, the Ancients,” she said, finding it difficult to speak. “More pieces… pieces of the puzzle.”

  “You must have experienced something different,” Aaron said. “Anything stay with you?”

  “I-I came out of it too fast,” was all she dared say.

  They talked a while as she struggled for some semblance of normalcy. Later she hugged Jibade a good long hug. “Good night, Father,” she said. “Thank you for being a beacon in my life.”

  Aaron prepared to leave as well and touched her arm. “You were upset about something,” he said. “Let me hold you for just a moment.”

  Pharaoh's eyes. Her first impulse was to melt against him. Buttocks hard as diorite in my hands. She controlled herself and pulled away. “I-I'm okay.”

  “No fair,” he said with a teasing whine. “Jibade got to!”

  They had to laugh. She went into his arms, loving arms that held her snugly. Surely he must have sizzled in that same vision. Now she burned for him again. Her arms went around his neck. She nuzzled her face in close and detected… the scent of Pharaoh!

  The next day, Dr. Withers reported Marlowe's headaches were getting the best of her. Siti insisted Marlowe ingest helva with fenogreek and other local herbs to settle her stomach.

  “The local people ingest the ancient remedies when they contract Bilharzia,” Chione said.

  “That's potentially a life-threatening disease of the tropics,” Dr. Withers said as if he could not believe that might happen to his wife.

  “Caused by infestation of schistosomes from the local waters,” Aaron said.

  “I spoke to Vimble,” Dr. Withers said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Marlowe has no other symptoms of infection, like dizziness, drowsiness, abdominal pain or backaches. Can't you do something, Chione?” He looked like a man about to be pushed over the edge. “She'll listen to you, Girl. Vimble said she should be tested for parasites anyway. If need be, he can prescribe Praziquantel or something like that.”

  Marlowe had a mind of her own. She claimed not to have eaten or drunk anything from the local foodstuffs not prepared by Yafeu or Irwin. She, like everyone else, had eaten some of Royce's food. Yet, the headaches began long before that. Chione suspected something else. So Marlowe remained quiet, not moving about much and barking at her dear husband every time he caringly suggested she return home to see her doctor. With Marlowe's preoccupation with the paranormal being intensified by the effects of the tomb, would she be able to break away and return home to save her life?

  Later alone with stacks of paperwork inside the tech shack, Chione watched through the window as Marlowe approached. As usual in recent days, she loosened the tight hair bun at the back of her head. Her black hair hung loose around her shoulders, to keep the hair from pulling at the headache, she said. With shiny hair billowing loose, she looked younger, freer, with something new in the way she walked. The closer she came, the more Chione sensed her excitement. She looked around before entering. That meant she wanted to talk about things the others would not understand. When she stepped inside, she looked outside again, and then closed the door. Then she spoke excitedly, but in whispers. “It's happened.”

  “What?” Chione asked.

  “I've had a vision just like some of yours!” She put a hand over her heart, reveling in the truth.

  “No kidding.”

  “It's about my headaches, that is, these are not my headaches.” To know for sure was to have experienced an extrasensory moment that told her something undeniable; something she would not have been able to reason out with only her conscious mind.

  “Tell me what you received,” Chione said, interest peaked.

  “My headaches, you know? They just slam into the side of my head.” She made a motion with her hand nearly slapping her temple. “Earlier today, something told me my headaches are from being hit.”

  “You were hit? By whom?”

  “Not me, Chione. I've never been hit. I think I saw it, but I'm not sure. You know, in a kind of vision, while I was resting.”

  “Maybe you're hoping too hard for answers.”

  “The only thing I know is that I'm getting these headaches as a result of a blow. It's not a blow to me. I've never been hit, not even as a child.”

  “What are you saying?” Chione asked. “You're seeing someone else who was hit? Or it's going to happen to someone?”

  “I saw a fleeting moment of someone with jet black hair, crying, I think,” Marlowe said. “I just know the headaches are the result of someone being hit.”

  Chione saw herself…

  …sitting in the royal chair, gifted from Pharaoh.

  She remembered
the first time they were in the Pillared Hall. Aaron and Dr. Withers thought she had fainted again as her head flopped over suddenly. She fell out of the chair as if she had been someone else who had been pushed. Who might she have been? Goosebumps traipsed down her arms.

  Marlowe looked puzzled and then smiled suddenly. “You want to know something?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Ever since I realized this earlier today, I haven't—oh, Chione!” she said as the revelation hit her. “I haven't had a headache since.”

  “You sure?”

  “Do you think someone or something was trying to give us a message through me?”

  In a few moments, Marlowe went from weariness to the optimist she had always been.

  By late that evening, Marlowe had not had another headache. Her husband was relieved, to say the least. So relieved, he hurriedly faxed a glowing recommendation for Randy to Cairo. Chione did not have to cajole, request or encourage any effort from Dr. Withers. After all, what could the recommendation do but tell the truth? In the past, Randy's work performance had been exemplary. All people have shortcomings. Randy had his own peculiar idiosyncrasies that grated on people's nerves and, at times, interfered with his job performance.

  Quietly, so the others would not hear, Chione asked, “Dr. Withers, can I run something by you about Randy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Before he left, Randy thanked me for what he thinks he learned from me.”

  Dr. Withers's expression showed a deep relief. “That's encouraging,” he said. “I was hoping I hadn't overdone my praise of the man in order to be rid of him.”

  33

  With work at a standstill, Masud occupied himself leading tours. He was a blessing in disguise since the team members avoided association with anyone asking too many questions about the stalled progress. Masud played his sense of innocence well, through feigned broken-English, deflecting much of the nagging curiosity of those waiting impatiently for a glimpse of the grand prize. He had a keen sense of what needed attention and just set about doing what he found to do.

  Between tours, Masud approached Chione when she was alone and asked if he might speak about Dakarai. “I have bad feelings for this man. Too many times our people watch him.”

  “You have suspicions about Dakarai?” Chione needed to be careful not to divulge past encounters with the man. “What kind?”

  “Well, look now,” Masud said avoiding eye contact. “Do you see him? Does he show for work?”

  “You're upset because he's mostly absent from the site?”

  “Always like this,” he said. “At other work sites too. He disappears.”

  “What's your concern?”

  “That he has other business with wrong people.” His gaze wandered around the ground at their feet.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Our office does not hear from him for days or weeks,” Masud said as he opened out his hands. “He is not here. Please, what does he do?”

  “Tell me, Masud,” Chione said. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you're not fishing?”

  “Fishing, like in the Nile?”

  He looked puzzled. Was this more practiced innocence? “Not exactly. Listen. How do I know you're not trying to get information out of me?” She faked preoccupation with some papers. Something about Masud and the conversation cautioned.

  “You do not. You will trust me?”

  “First, you should have faith.”

  “Trust to Allah?” he asked. “Sometimes this takes long. Then more artifacts disappear before Allah finds him.”

  Chione saw…

  …a dimly lit chamber with boxes stacked around.

  That threatening feeling came again. “You think he's involved with the taking of our artifacts?”

  “That's what you must learn.”

  “Me? How?”

  “With your mind, O Little One.” Now his hands were clasped but he still kept his gaze lowered. “You see pictures.”

  “Oh, Masud, I've never seen anything involving Dakarai.”

  “Nothing?” He sounded sorely disappointed. “I hope to see end to this.”

  “You mean if you can catch Dakarai, or the thieves, we'd have no more missing artifacts?”

  “Yes, O Little One.” He pushed his clasped hands toward her. “Please. Talk to Allah. Ask if Dakarai—”

  “I can't do that, Masud.”

  “Excuse, please,” he said, and then began backing away. He had made a fool of himself. He bowed his head and then turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she said, glancing in his direction. “Masud, believe me. The situation will take care of itself. We've got ample guards now.”

  “Safe here. What about future? What happens when Dakarai take from other places?”

  “Seriously, Masud, if Dakarai's the one, he along with all the others working with him will be caught.”

  Quickly, he came close again. “Do you know if they look for him?”

  Suddenly his willingness to resume the questioning seemed too probing. Chione had no way of knowing if Masud might be involved with Dakarai. In the beginning, both men had worked side by side. Until Dakarai's lengthy absences began, one would have thought the two were inseparable and Masud involved in everything with Dakarai. That may not have been the case but she could not take the chance. “I don't know anything. But I do have faith in higher powers.”

  “You will tell if he is caught?” Masud asked.

  Truly now, he was fishing and his motives were unclear. He would get no more information out of her. He backed away apologizing.

  Chione wished he had not sought her out. If Dakarai was caught perpetrating the thefts, and if Masud were implicated in any way, then Masud would have to accept whatever fate had concocted for both of them. She wanted no part of it.

  Later, completing the telling of the Masud episode to Dr. Withers, she said, “Those are my suspicions.”

  “Fine, looks like we have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, or have you forgotten?” he asked. “Everything's playing itself out. So we have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “Oh,” Chione said, embarrassed at having forgotten. “Our American holiday.”

  He reached for her hand like a father might. “Seriously, the Bolis are conducting their own investigation.”

  About the only person who knew anything was Kenneth, who could not withhold fascination with the necropolis and mastabas. The only thing everyone wished was to have the artifacts returned, not for their own delight and satisfaction, but for posterity.

  Two days later, Parker and Carmelita Philips and Burton and Gracie Forbes arrived about midday. They wore appropriate khaki clothing for such a trek, albeit it designer made, settling into the dusty surroundings quite easily. Except for Carmelita, who complained her sleeping room was no better than a tent and why did Dr. Withers build such meager quarters.

  Carmelita was much younger than her husband, and both were younger than the Forbeses, who looked to be in their early sixties. The Forbeses adjusted the easiest. Having met Helen and Siti, Gracie Forbes decided she would learn to cook local fare. She was surprised to learn the impeccable Marlowe Withers spent much time in the kitchen as well.

  The team members previously met the directors at the university. Only Dr. Withers socialized with them and maybe Clifford and Rita had once or twice. To the rest, these were people who evidently lived well on their own turf.

  Another meal table was added and lunch served except to Kenneth and Royce who, lately, were elsewhere. After Gracie sampled the food, she said, “What a wonderful dinner party this would make, with Egyptian decorations and music, belly dancers and all. Yafeu, would you consider a trip to California?”

  Burton responded the way Dr. Withers might have with Marlowe in the same situation. He simply smiled lovingly as if his wife could do no wrong.

  Carmelita, with her long blood red nails, and pancake makeu
p threatening to streak from perspiration, did not fare as well. “We should have made preparations for our arrival,” she said. “That shack will never do. We need air conditioning. The smell of the mud walls is horrible.” She fanned herself and looked around expecting pity. Her attitude was patronizing, self-serving. She picked at her food, complained about everything, and gossiped about people no one else at the table knew or cared to hear about. Just when it looked as if she might open her mouth to say something more, a hard stomping sound came from under the table, boot on boot. Carmelita flinched. Her husband had nipped the urge in the bud.

  After lunch, the new arrivals went for a tour of the tomb. Dr. Withers, Aaron and Chione led the way. When Carmelita learned she would have to climb down the portcullis shaft on a makeshift wooden ladder she refused. She eased close to the edge like a frightened cat and looked into the deep, gaping shaft, then backed away nervously.

  “We could lower you in a swing,” Dr. Withers said. Chione knew her boss well. His offer was one of patient compliance. Had Clifford been present with his unique humor, he might have suggested they throw the catty complainer over the side and assume she would land on all fours.

  “Can't we just walk in somewhere?” Carmelita asked, whining.

  “That part of the tomb was never completed,” Aaron said. “There's a passage, but you'll have to crawl through.”

  “That sounds easier,” she said, looking to her husband for assurance. He only scrunched up his mouth and hand gestured, signifying they would enter through the smaller passageway.

  “I'll bring them along,” Chione said. She had a hunch Dr. Withers and Aaron wanted to speak with the Forbeses and Carmelita was in the way. She would guide Parker and Carmelita through the axial corridor slowly to allow the others time to say a few words. The way Carmelita was so picky she would probably take her time anyway, so as not to get too dirty. She was in for a surprise.