Reflections in the Nile

by J. Suzanne Frank

  With a weak smile she shoved in her long toes, grasping the thong. Her feet pushed into the upper curve, squished out the sides, and hung out the back. She'd be lucky if she could walk without falling.

  She waddled over to the trunk where Basha had pulled out her clothes and opened it. There was nothing except more flimsy, see-through, white wrap dresses. She looked at Basha; you could see every line of her young body through her one-strap dress. And hit, her slave girl, wore only a short shift with beads around her hips.

  Apparently, in this hallucination, she was to be an exhibitionist with an enormous podiatry bill.

  Sighing, she seated herself at the dressing table and motioned to Irit. Once the girl tore her stare away from Chloe's enormous feet, she painted long black lines of kohl around Chloe's eyes for protection against the sun.

  After Chloe's chin-length black hair had dried, Irit plaited strands, periodically winding the ends with silver bands. She reached behind her for a small woven trunk and opened it, revealing a jewelry collection the Louvre would kill for. It was all silver. The “other” admonished her; priestesses of HatHor never wore gold. Bravely Chloe reached for a bracelet and ring.

  “Would my lady select a collar?” Irit asked, a little bewildered, Chloe thought. The choice was incredible. She picked a silver filigree collar with enameled lotuses and birds. Irit fastened it around her neck, adding a beautiful falcon pectoral under it, so it rested heavily beneath Chloe's skimpily covered breasts, covering her own ankh necklace. Chloe stood, trying to see her reflection in the polished bronze that passed for a mirror.

  This was too unbelievable. The jewelry, the clothing details, the faint odor of myrrh that hung over the place, the dissonant chanting that could be heard from time to time … now this. Chloe was not seeing herself. A tomb painting stared back. The fitted white dress, the black drawn-on eyes and brows. Only the reflection of her slanted green eyes was familiar. Chloe looked behind her, sensing she was being watched.

  The dark-eyed man from yesterday, Nesbek, the “other” mind suggested, came forward.

  He was squat and broad, obviously middle-aged and dressed in a wealth of gold… collar, armbands, bracelets, and rings. His eyes were small and deep-set, filled with some emotion that Chloe couldn't read. The room cleared as if by invisible command.

  “RaEmhetepet,” he said, approaching her, “I trust you remember me?” He took a step forward, leering at Chloe's appearance, frowning at her sandals. “It would be a pity for me to have to remind you….”

  His tone shifted between teasing and threatening, and Chloe took a shaky step back.

  He smiled, revealing blinding gold teeth. “I must leave for my estate in Goshen, but once I have disciplined my Apiru, I will return for my bride.” He glanced around as he pulled up his kilt. “Will you give me something now? A token to remember you by?”

  Chloe averted her eyes, not even wanting to know what this was about. Was she a real sicko in this hallucination? He made her skin crawl, the way he looked at what her transparent clothing revealed. Instinctively she crossed her arms over her breasts and wished for a robe.

  “Aiii, I can see it is a shock.” He dropped his kilt, straightening the pleats with fat, manicured hands. “A pity that you have forgotten such a”—he paused—“passionate and beneficial relationship. I will take pleasure in reminding you.” He reached for her and was halted only by a velvety, razor-edged voice.

  “The lady is still in her serving time, when she must be unknown to any man. If you touch her, the Sisterhood will reprimand you, as will the goddess HatHor, for defiling one of her favorite maidens.”

  Chloe's and Nesbek's attention jerked to the doorway, in which a tall Egyptian stood in silhouette. He stepped into the room and Chloe saw him fully, from his floor-length robe to his red-and-gold-striped headcovering. It ran straight across his forehead and fell to his shoulders, framing his strong, bronze features, which even heavy earrings did not diminish.

  “My Lord Cheftu,” Nesbek ground out slowly. He turned back to Chloe. “I will await our marriage, my lady.” He walked to the doorway, where the cloaked Egyptian inclined his head. “Life, health, and prosperity to you, Lord Nesbek,” the man said, the words sounding like a curse.

  Chloe tensed her muscles, trying to stop their trembling. Nesbek was gone, but this arrogant Lord Cheftu still stood in the room, glowering at her. She met his gaze and was shaken by the animosity in it. “So, my lady,” he said in a deep, chilling tone, “we meet again. Health, prosperity, and life to you. My felicitations on your betrothal. I trust you will attend this time?” Chloe stared at him. He tried again, a cold smile showing white, even teeth. “Are you looking forward to it?”

  Chloe shook her head violently.

  He arched a painted eyebrow. “Then, if not to your marriage accounts, perhaps to your married bed? With whoever else is invited to join you?”

  Chloe gritted her teeth against his comments. This hallucinogenic drug was not agreeing with her at all. The belief that this was a drug-induced episode was growing dimmer every moment. The details were too sharp, the sensory impact too real. What other alternatives were there?

  None that were within the realm of sanity.

  Cheftu sighed. “I am not here because I enjoy rescuing you from the embrace of your betrothed. My Majesty Hatshepsut, living forever! asked me to examine you, so please, come forward and sit at the table.” So saying, he took off his gold-embroidered cloak. With a clap of his hands he summoned two others, w'rer -priests, both about twelve. Their heads were shaved, save their youthlocks, and they wore simple kilts fastened with plain leather belts. One carried a large woven trunk, the other carefully laid aside Cheftu's staff and cloak.

  Chloe could only stare. She was still adjusting to the elaborate costuming everyone wore, and Lord Cheftu looked like every depiction she'd seen of an ancient Egyptian—and every fantasy. He was broad shouldered, long legged, and glittering with gold, from the wide collar across his chest, the armbands that hugged his beautifully sculpted upper arms, a tiger's eye-and-gold scarab ring, to his black-encircled eyes, dusted with gold powder.

  Except that his weren't the dark eyes she'd seen and come to expect on everyone. They were amber, topaz, and gold swirled together and bordered by thick black lashes that accentuated his long, straight nose.

  She dropped her gaze and searched through the “other” mind for some clue about this man. When she got it, her head snapped up in surprise and she tried not to gape. He was closer now, opening his basket and pulling out metal instruments.

  “First we must do an examination.” Without meeting her gaze, he called over his shoulder, “Keonkh! Take down our comments.” One of the boys settled himself on the floor, crossed his legs, and smoothed his kilt over them tightly, forming a table of sorts. The other boy busily added water to a black pad and twisted his brush tip into a fine point.

  “We are ready, Hemu neter Cheftu,” said the boy called Keonkh, his voice cracking.

  “Very good,” Cheftu said with a warm glance at the boy. “Now, Batu,” he addressed the other, “what is our first point in examination?”

  The boy came forward and looked at Chloe, who was seated silently on her night couch “Health, prosperity, and life to you, great priestess,” he said. Turning to Cheftu, he answered, “First we examine her color, then the secretions from her nose, eyes, ears, of the neck, belly, limbs, looking for any swelling, shaking, broken veins, sweating, or stiffness.”

  “Very good.” Cheftu walked behind Chloe, staring over her head. “Tell me of her color.” The boy observed her skin carefully, and when she met his perusal he blushed faintly.

  “Please extend your arms, my lady,” he requested, and Chloe stuck them straight out as he carefully went over every inch of her newly browned skin. “Hemu neter,” he said, “the lady's color is perfection. There are no abrasions, no swelling, no odors, and no discoloring.”

  Cheftu came around staring at her blankly, like an exhibit, whi
ch Chloe supposed she was. Keonkh was furiously taking down every word Cheftu and the boy spoke. “Send the girl Basha for the lady's morning removal,” Cheftu said and the boy left, music from the main temple audible when he opened the heavy curtain.

  Cheftu asked Chloe to open her mouth. He examined her ears, pressed down on her nostrils, and checked her neck. “Assst,” he mused as he finished his search and tilted her head back to look full into her face.

  “Try to speak,” he said.

  The sounds that issued from her mouth were garbled and painful to them both.

  “Haii. That is enough at present.” He stepped back and she looked away. “Have you had any secretions, my lady?” he said as he counted her pulse, his fingers warm and tingly on her cool flesh.

  Chloe shook her head.

  Keonkh went for water. Then Cheftu tilted her head forward and placed his hands on either side of her head his long fingers probing in her carefully arranged hair. “My lady, did you fall?”

  She shrugged.

  “Did you dream of grapes? Or figs?”

  Was he weird? What kind of bizarre question was that? Then the “other” reminded her that those dreams were warnings from the gods of an upcoming illness. She shook her head no. No fruit-filled dreams.

  Basha entered the room with Batu, carrying a large pot. Chloe recognized it as the chamber pot she'd stumbled to this morning. Cheftu had it set on the floor, and then he and Batu bent over it, discussing the contents in quiet tones.

  The physician turned to her, and Chloe felt the breath catch in her throat. This couldn't be real. It must be a dream, a hallucination. He looked familiar, so apparently he was someone she'd liked and so had given him a role in her Egyptian fantasy—just as the Wizard of Oz was populated with Dorothy's friends and enemies. She dropped her gaze to his hands.

  They were beautiful—the hands of an artist or scholar—with long fingers, squarely trimmed nails; not rough, but not soft, either. Hands to create and heal.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as both boys returned to their places: Keonkh rapidly writing, Batu assisting Cheftu. From an alcove beside the door Cheftu removed a cow-headed statuette and replaced it with a jackal-headed obsidian statue. He then lit a dish of incense before it.

  She searched her memory, trying to place the god's face and name. Cheftu withdrew a small papyrus from his basket and handed it to Chloe. “Since the problem is within your mouth, we shall speak to the god of your lips.” Chloe took the scroll in her hands and looked at it. It was written in hieratic, a shorthand version of hieroglyphs.

  Batu handed Cheftu the water, and Chloe watched as he poured some of it in a black alabaster cup decorated with carvings of the jackal-headed god. He poured the remainder in a cup he'd brought. Chloe watched in trepidation as he pulled small jars out of his basket. His broadly muscled back hid his actions, but she could hear him murmuring while he worked. He turned back to her with a cup of yellow green water. “Drink, my lady.”

  Chloe sniffed the water and tried to hide her smirk. This great ancient Egyptian physician had fixed her herbal tea! She sipped gratefully, honey easing the ache in her throat. He watched, his arms crossed over his chest. Closed body language if ever she'd seen it.

  “Have you been relieved, my lady?”

  Chloe met his look. His eyes were as emotionless as the stone on his finger and as exquisitely colored. He reminded her of a cat watching, carelessly and coldly. Hesitantly, because she didn't know what he was talking about she shook her head.

  Cheftu's lips twisted in a cold smile. “Shall I call a slave, or would my lady prefer a sister?” Chloe shrugged. His eyes twinkled maliciously. “Batu, fetch the lady's slave!” Irit came in a few minutes later, crossing her breast.

  “Life, health, and prosperity to you, Hemu neter,” she said. “My lady.”

  Cheftu acknowledged her with a nod. They walked toward Chloe, and Batu handed Cheftu an instrument, narrow and long, no wider than a number eight paintbrush. Irit looked offended, but they both stared at Chloe. Her mind raced, consulting the “other,” who remained suspiciously quiet. Even Keonkh caught up in his dictation.

  Cheftu's eyes darkened. “Does my lady need assistance?” he inquired icily. Chloe shook her head, and Cheftu handed Batu the instrument. He stared at Chloe, as if weighing a decision. Before she knew what hit her, she was turned over on her chair, her gown around her waist, and something was being pushed up her…

  Chloe tried to squeal and squirm, but a large, hairy knee was pressed into the small of her back. “Relax!” Cheftu commanded. “You are making it difficult for Irit.” Chloe forced herself still and looked over her shoulder, trying to see what was going on. Then she felt it water pushing through her system. An ancient enema.

  I don't believe this! her subconscious screamed. Irit's face was mahogany from the exertion of blowing water into Chloe's bowels. No wonder she looked offended, Chloe thought. Then it was over. The long instrument was removed and Cheftu dropped her narrow skirt over her bare bottom, removing his knee.

  She stood haughtily, pulling her frail gown straight. Cheftu was turned away, and Irit had already escaped, giving Chloe a moment to calm herself. She hated enemas! Mimi had administered them regularly when she and Cammy were children, believing them to be a cure-all. Chloe seated herself, trying to ignore the squishy feeling in her body.

  Cheftu asked over his shoulder, “Can you write yet, my lady?”

  They had been handing her writing utensils for days now, and as her other memory supplied, she was able to understand and remember more of someone else's life. But it was only facts, figures, chants, languages. She had no idea how she had related to her family, her friends, the mysterious Sisterhood everyone spoke of… no emotional memories at all.

  However, she knew enough fact to know she previously had been betrothed to the tall, straight-limbed man before her and could fathom no reason why anyone would have exchanged him for that pig Nesbek.

  She watched his long-legged body move across the room, pouring water from the alabaster cup over the statuette of … Anubis, the “other” mind provided. The god not only of embalming, but also of her lips and ability to speak. Cheftu caught the water in a cup as it poured off the figure, and he brought it back to Chloe. “Since you are unable to invoke the god, I will speak for you, lady.” His voice became singsong, rich, and hypnotic.

  “Hail to you, Anubis, god of the West, speaker of the desert, he who protects the voice. I come to you, I prize your beauty, your sharp talons, which take illness from this priestess's side. Your teeth, which with mystery and justice tear apart the kheft which prevents the priestess speaking your worship….” Then he threw the water in Chloe's face. She flinched in surprise and saw Basha step farther away, clutching at the Eye of Horus pectoral she wore.

  Cheftu stood before Chloe, watching her face. “Basha,” he called over his shoulder. “The lady must take the water from Anubis’ power four times a day for four days. You must recite the prayer for her, until she can speak for herself.” Chloe dropped her gaze, feeling the water drip down her face and dress, making it transparent. She crossed her breasts with her arms. Cheftu noted her movements and gave a hollow bark of laughter as he walked away.

  He left to mix some herbs, taking the others with him. Chloe sat in her chair; she had serious doubts about the success of the medical care she had just received. Hadn't Cammy said the Egyptians were far advanced medically? Enemas and herbal tea? She sighed. Apparently the lean Egyptian was not a graduate of Johns Hopkins, Wasetian style. Now that she didn't have an audience, she wiped the water off her face.

  It had been fourteen days since she had awakened in this white room. Fourteen days of hearing she was in ancient Egypt during the peaceful reign of the Great House, King Hatshepsut … called pharaoh in Chloe's time.

  Fourteen days of inhabiting her own body in the skin of another. Fourteen days of seeking an explanation between the alternatives of drugs, insanity, Technicolor dream … or reality. Du
ring her time here, she'd grudgingly acknowledged that just as she had merged, if she had merged, with RaEmhetepet's body, she also had access to RaEmhetepet's mind. How and why—and sometimes even if —it had happened, she did not know and did not know whom or how to ask.

  She had been regaining her strength and wondering how to get back to her own life—provided she could. She decided to sneak out of her room later tonight and run back to the altar where she'd been found, hoping that some combination of time and position would throw her back into her own century. If, indeed, she had time-traveled at all.

  If that was a possibility.

  Meanwhile people kept showing up, threatening, cajoling, and speaking of incidents and stories that were apparently a part of the emotional memory she did not have, like the hooded figure who had stood beside her bed in the middle of the night and recited charms over her, her face hidden by her cloak. Chloe had remained immobile, turned on her side, head resting on her arm. The visitor obviously had not expected her to awaken, and when Chloe heard the threats she was making, Chloe didn't want to. Something about revenging her family, the ka of her brother finally resting.

  Everyone was trying to prompt her memory; what they did not realize was that she had the wrong memory. Whatever else RaEmhetepet might have been, she had associated with some real slimeballs and was walking on the edge of something dangerous.

  Cheftu's cold voice brought her out of her reverie, “… to dream about your happy future.” He placed an alabaster jar on the table before her and turned to go. The boys were cleaning up the supplies. Chloe reached out, grabbing his forearm.

  He turned to her, his golden eyes angry, his voice bitter and disinterested. “Leave me be, RaEm. I am no longer interested in your plotting and games. I cannot imagine why you are not speaking and what magic you have used to change your eyes, but I am beyond caring. The past is gone—only for the sake of your position am I here. Take your talons from me.”

  Even as he finished the angry words that apparently RaEm would have understood, Chloe could sense him softening as he looked into her eyes.