by H. R. Hobbs
The next thing he heard was the sound of the men’s sandals on the floor—coming towards him! Mitch ran through his room and dove onto the bed. He stayed there for a few minutes. When no one came into his room, he snuck back to the doorway.
Sure enough, an armed guard stood on either side. They were even more imposing close up.
Mitch slunk back to the balcony.
As Mitch watched the sun go down and bathe the city in black, the symbols on the wall kept running through his mind. Not wanting to forget them, he got up and went to what appeared to be a desk in his room. A paper and pen would be perfect, but they hadn’t been invented yet. Was he going to need a stone tablet and a hammer and chisel? Do it Ten Commandments–style, like Moses? His hand had only just nicely healed from his last attempt at chiseling.
He found nothing in the first drawer, but the second one held some stiff-looking paper—of course, papyrus. It was of much better quality than the stuff at Jabari’s. A stiff-looking branch with a sharp point sat next to a clay pot with a stopper. This was much nicer than Jabari’s, too, but what he wouldn’t give for a twenty-first-century tablet. He took the stopper off the pot and sniffed. It didn’t smell like anything. He dipped the tip of his finger in and when he pulled it out, the end was black.
“Ugh. Ink,” he said to himself, and then looked around to make sure he was alone. Was that what happened to people when they spent too much time alone? They started talking to themselves? Maybe he was beginning to give in to the “loony” family curse Brock had told him about.
Mitch dipped the branch-like thing in the ink and scratched on the paper. All he got was a big blob of ink. He sighed. Brock had been the one who did all the writing back at Jabari’s. But now Mitch was on his own. He tried again.
It took him a number of attempts, but he finally got enough ink on the “pen” to copy six of the symbols he’d seen on the wall outside his room. He couldn’t remember any more. Tired after his eventful day, he folded the papers in half and noticed they resembled a book. Maybe this would be his journal of “life-changing experiences.”
“Just like Great-Grandpa George!”
He put his writing materials back in the desk. It was then he noticed the black ink on his hands. He didn’t want Ammon to see the evidence of what he was doing. He looked around his room for some way to clean his hands.
He spotted a pitcher and bowl on the table by his bed and hurried over. Thankfully, the pitcher had water, though he supposed he could have cleaned his hands with beer just like his mother cleaned things with rubbing alcohol.
He poured the water in the bowl and started scrubbing. The water turned black as he scrubbed, but his hands were still stained. Feeling the rough texture of the bowl, he ran his stained fingers over it and was happy to see that the stains were disappearing.
With his hands sore, but clean, he looked for a place to get rid of the water. Obviously, there was no drain to pour it down. Catching sight of the balcony, he went out and peered over the ledge. No balconies below. He went and got the bowl and poured the blackened water over the edge.
The sconces were starting to burn low and the shadows in his room were getting darker. He crawled into his bed. As tired as he was, sleep didn’t come. He lay on his back, staring at the gold-inlaid ceiling.
He wondered if Brock was asleep on the thin pallet in the room they shared.
Was Brock missing him, like he was missing Brock?
Thinking of Brock made him think of his mom and dad. He didn’t let himself think about them very often because it made him homesick, but making a sandwich earlier and scrubbing his hands clean and being alone without Brock to distract him from his thoughts, homesickness welled up inside him.
He missed his room at the farm with the unpacked boxes.
He missed his video games.
He missed his sister! He never thought that would happen.
He missed his pigs.
As Mitch thought of all the things he missed, tears ran down the sides of face and into the pillow. The more he thought about it all, the faster they came. A sob rose up in his throat. No matter how hard he tried to keep it inside, it burst through his lips. He clamped his hand over his mouth.
The guards outside his room shuffled at the sound.
Not wanting them to investigate, he turned his face into the pillow and let out the emotions that were raging inside him.
Mitch woke the next morning to the sun blazing through his balcony. At first, he didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered the events of yesterday. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to block out the reality of his situation.
That’s where he was when Ammon entered his room, followed by a servant with another tray. He waved the man to the balcony and greeted Mitch from the foot of the bed. Mitch pulled the blanket closer. Ammon repeated his greeting, gesturing for him to get out of bed and join him on the balcony.
Once they were seated, Ammon started talking. The only word Mitch recognized was “pharaoh.” He assumed that today he was going to meet the pharaoh. Mitch slowly ate the fruit on the tray. Meeting the pharaoh was the last thing he wanted to do. Ammon waited as Mitch slowly chewed on dates and washed them down with spoonfuls of yogurt. Mitch dragged it out as long as he could.
Finally, Ammon’s patience snapped. Mitch didn’t need a translator to know that Ammon was angry. The sharp tone of his voice and the volume told Mitch his time was up. Mitch got to his feet and followed Ammon out of his room. The guards outside his door remained as the two of them set off towards the great room.
Mitch was surprised to see a large number of people on their way to the pharaoh. Men and women were cleaning the floors of the great hall, loading what looked like coal into the braziers that sat beside each column. People who looked like visitors joined them on the way to see the pharaoh.
They walked past the balcony where they met Ammon yesterday and soon came into a large room. Columns ran in rows towards a set of stairs. At the top of the stairs a man sat on a gilded throne wearing what looked like a white skirt. A gold neckpiece that resembled a bird in flight sat on his bare chest. The only other thing he wore was a tall white hat with a gold viper ready to strike sitting in the center.
Distracted and not watching where he was going, Mitch ran into the back of Ammon, who stood at the base of the stairs. Ammon swung around and hissed some words under his breath. For a second, Mitch thought the priest might hit him, so he brought his arm up to ward off the blow.
When nothing happened, he realized that the man at the top of the stairs had said something. Ammon lowered his arm and, with a scathing look at Mitch, turned to the pharaoh. Ammon spoke to the pharaoh, who studied Mitch curiously. Mitch studied the tiles on the floor, feeling awkward.
Suddenly, he was being propelled forward, as Ammon all but dragged him up the steps. At the top, Ammon pulled him down to his knees. Mitch heard the pharaoh chuckle as he continued to look at the floor. The pharaoh said a few more words and then Mitch was yanked by the arm to standing and led back down the stairs. At the bottom, Ammon released his arm and Mitch followed him back to the room.
Mitch was confused. What was that all about? Why was he dragged—literally—in front of the pharaoh? There was no way for him to find out because he had no way to communicate with anyone. Brock’s next visit was a long way off.
How was he going to get through six more days of this?
Chapter 20
Two days had passed since his visit to the pharaoh, and he still hadn’t figured out what Ammon wanted to do with him. Mitch hadn’t had another chance to sneak out of his room, either. The guards were there day and night. He had figured out that they changed shifts every night after his supper arrived. They would exchange greetings—the only words he heard them speak during their entire shift—and then it was back to the silent sentinel act.
After three days in his palace prison, Mitch was starting to go a little stir-crazy. It had certainly given him a grea
ter appreciation for the things he’d left at home: his video games, his baseball glove—even his books. Did Ancient Egyptians even have books?
Not for the first time, Mitch went to the doorway of his room and tried to speak to one of the guards. They usually ignored any attempts he made to engage them in conversation. The language barrier didn’t help, either. The few sentences and phrases that Rehema had taught him didn’t really come in handy. He could only greet them and ask where the bathroom was so many times before they went back to ignoring him.
What he really wanted to do was explore the palace some more. The symbols carved and painted on the walls seemed to call to him whenever he chatted with the guards. Well, he chatted. They only listened.
If he was going to gather more information before Brock came back, Mitch needed some way to get out of his room. He’d promised to know more, but at the moment he didn’t have anything new. Other than the few symbols he’d scratched out on papyrus paper. And what good would those do?
He went out to the balcony and leaned on the railing. The city looked the same as it did every other day. As he watched people coming and going through the market, the sound of something scraping against the wall below him drew his attention.
It was a man positioning a ladder made of wooden poles against the wall. He shifted the ladder to make sure it was stable and left. Mitch wondered what the man was doing—and then he got an idea.
He looked around the balcony for anything that was fastened down, sturdy. The only thing close to the balcony was a wall sconce. Mitch looked at the wooden bracket that held it in place. Would it support his weight?
There was only one way to find out.
Slipping silently back into his room, he pulled the cotton sheet off his bed. Mitch figured the sheet would be long enough to lower him to the ladder, and then he would be free. It wasn’t very creative, but it was all he had.
He threaded one corner of the sheet through the bracket and tied it off. He tugged on the sheet, putting his full weight on it. When the sconce didn’t rip out of the wall, he did a silent dance. Looking over the ledge to make sure the man hadn’t come back, he threw the sheet over the railing. He sighed in disappointment when he looked over the edge and saw it didn’t reach the ladder. He ran back into his room and pulled the bottom sheet off his bed. He quickly tied it to the other one and pumped his fist when it fell past the top rung of the ladder.
Crawling over the balcony’s ledge, Mitch grabbed the sheet and slowly started to lower himself to the ladder. His plan was working perfectly—until he used his foot to search for the top of the ladder. The ladder swayed back and forth. For a moment he was sure it would fall over. But it righted itself and he put his foot on the top rung. Holding on to the blanket, he felt for each rung. When he got far enough down to hold on to the ladder, he let go of the sheet.
What to do with the sheet, though? The man who brought the ladder would know immediately that he’d escaped if the sheet was still hanging there.
The only thing Mitch could think of was to ball the sheet up and throw it back over the balcony. It wasn’t that far. Bracing himself on the ladder, he rolled up as much of the sheet as he could and threw it upward, causing the ladder to tilt dangerously to the left. Mitch grabbed the rung in front of him just in time to prevent himself from falling. The sheet fell right back down and nearly knocked him off the ladder.
By this time his heart was racing. Afraid that the man would come back or that someone would catch him on the ladder, he tried again. This time he rolled the ball tighter and threw with all his might.
The sheet went up in the air and landed on the balcony edge. A corner of it was still visible from below, but it was going to have to do for now. On shaking legs, Mitch missed the next rung and landed in a heap at the bottom of the ladder.
The walled-in area that he found himself in seemed to lead nowhere. It contained palm trees and a few shrubs. To his right, the solid wall of the palace continued for some distance. To his left was a blind corner. Deciding this was his best choice, he went left.
Peering cautiously around the corner, he saw a stone patio with a table, cushions, and couches. Clay fireplaces stood at each corner. Mitch slid along the wall and found an opening to a room that appeared to be deserted. Sheer curtains covered the opening, so Mitch couldn’t be certain. He listened for any movement inside. Hearing nothing, he parted the curtains and entered.
The room was similar to his but more extravagant. He didn’t take the time to look around but headed straight for the doorway. He glanced down the corridor. Finding it empty, he slipped out of the room. His ears strained to hear anything other than his own heartbeat and rapid breathing. Figuring this floor was set up like his own, he turned to the left, hoping to find something like the great room at the end.
This corridor contained carvings of various scenes between the light sconces, just like the ones outside his room. He really wanted to inspect them more closely but pushed himself to see if there was any way out of the palace.
When the great room didn’t appear where he thought it would, he stopped, not sure if he should continue or not. He looked around for some clue as to where to go next. It was then that the flicking light of the wall sconce closest to him danced over the wall and revealed a mural that froze Mitch in his tracks.
He stepped closer, thinking it was just a trick of the light. The fire flickered again, and Mitch found himself staring at a figure who appeared to be dressed in blue. He wasn’t wearing robes like the other figures. It looked like . . .
A Navy uniform!
But what freaked him out the most was what the figure was holding. The object was unmistakable.
It was the spyglass.
This was a painting of Great-Grandpa George.
“I must say, I’m surprised you found it so quickly.”
Mitch froze at the familiar voice behind him. It sounded like . . . Ammon. But how was he speaking English? That couldn’t be right.
He turned around. Sure enough, there was the high priest, grinning down at him.
Mitch considered running. He didn’t know where he’d go, but he figured he needed to get out of here. Before he made up his mind, Ammon spoke again—and again, Mitch understood every word.
“This is the mural of Peran, entitled The Traveller from Away. According to my father, this man appeared out of nowhere many years ago. He was found by nomads in the desert, who brought him to the city. He spoke a strange language no one had heard before. He was brought to my grandfather—Pharaoh’s High Priest at the time—who attempted to find out all he could about him. Over time he taught my grandfather how to speak his language, and my grandfather taught my father, who taught me.”
Mitch only stared, his throat suddenly papyrus-dry. Ammon’s story explained the language thing, but it didn’t explain what Ammon was really up to. He’d pretended to not understand English this whole time . . . just to lure Mitch here? Why?
Ammon went on: “The man told my grandfather he thought the spyglass had something to do with how he came to be here.”
So he knew about the spyglass. Mitch supposed that was obvious, since it was included in the mural behind him. Either way, this wasn’t good. The only glimmer of good news was that Brock had the spyglass for now.
“I don’t know anything about a spyglass,” Mitch stammered out the lie. “What . . . what is a spyglass?”
Ammon smiled, ignoring the false question. “The spyglass is the only explanation as to how you suddenly came to be here. And the fact that you speak the same language as this man, and that you look almost identical.” He pointed to the mural. “And clearly you escaped from your room to find The Traveller from Away. I think you do know something.”
Mitch backed into the mural as Ammon moved closer.
“Where is the spyglass, boy?”
Mitch felt as though he couldn’t breathe.
“I . . . don’t know anything,” he whispered.
Ammon smiled an evil smile. “We will see if that’s the truth when your friend arrives. For now, you may return to your room.”
He snapped his fingers and two guards appeared. How long had they been standing there? Ammon stepped back and gave the guards an order. The guards grabbed Mitch’s arms and escorted him back to his room.
Once there, they dropped his arms and returned to their station outside the door. Mitch noticed the sheets from his bed hadn’t been returned, so he went to the balcony. They weren’t there either. Plus, the sconce was gone from the wall. Peering over the edge, he wasn’t surprised to see two guards standing at the bottom.
He wasn’t going to be able to get out that way again.
Back in his room, he curled up on his bare bed, which was itchy without the sheets. Sleep would be a long way off tonight. So Mitch thought about his run-in with Ammon. He shivered. This added a whole new twist to getting home. Why would Ammon care about the spyglass? Or about wherever he thought Mitch and Brock and George were from?
Clearly there was more to Ammon than they knew. But what was it?
One thing was sure: if Ammon knew what they were up to, they weren’t going to be able to find the lapis lazuli.
Mitch had barely finished his breakfast the next morning when one of the guards came out onto the balcony. He gestured to the doorway. Leaving his breakfast on the tray, Mitch followed. Both guards led him down a number of corridors. So many, in fact, that Mitch knew he’d never be able to find his way back. The guards led him into a large room.
Ammon stood over a large desk that was covered in papyrus sheets. He was studying them when they entered. The guards marched him halfway to the desk and stopped. Ammon didn’t acknowledge their arrival. Finally, he looked up and spoke to the guards, who turned on their heels and left. Mitch kept his eyes on Ammon as he came around the desk. The tall man was dressed as he usually was, in long flowing blue robes.