Cursed Times - What Now?

Chapter 5 - Getting Hairy

'Not accidentally, no. At least I don't think so,' Metjen said.

Four pairs of eyes swivelled towards him. Two more on the floor did likewise, but that was only because they liked the sound of his voice. He got up, went to the wall and pushed aside a Monet hiding a safe that would survive a nuclear explosion—or so the vendor had promised. Metjen did not trust him and had added a Jaws of Sobek spell. He entered the combinations, pulled a number of levers and wrenched it open.

'Cotton gloves!'

Metjen sniffed. As if he would ever forget. He reached into the safe for the gloves, put them on, took out two objects and returned to the table. 'I wanted to examine them earlier but there never was any time.'

'How often do you want to check them, they're the same good old artefacts, one of which is nice, the other one isn't. And that's about it,' Ranofer drawled as he chewed on a mint leaf.

'Thanks for your useful comments, dear brother. To satisfy your curiosity-- I saw something in the sanctuary that made me curious.'

His father opened his mouth, but Metjen put his hand up. 'Bear with me for a moment.' He found nothing amiss with the turquoise scarab on the gold ring. It still was a fine specimen worthy of a noblewoman—the ring was that small and had the female name 'Amasis' engraved inside in hieroglyphs.

No self-respecting ancient noble however would even look at the wig, after all these years their heirloom was a sorry sight with its brownish braids all knotted into a bristly tangle. The remains were still valuable. Gold beads glinted from the mess that squatted on Metjen's hand like a woolly jellyfish on bad hair day. Lotus flowers shaped from a crystal paste dangled from strings of gold wire that once were fixed to the crown. At the back, it all ended in a solid golden plaque that bore the hieroglyph for 'S'.

Unfortunately, there was nothing more as the whole hairpiece had been hacked apart in a way that bode ill for whoever had been wearing it at the time. Metjen banged on the table. 'Yes!' With a yodel, Blondie dashed away from underneath, stopped on the Kirman in the middle of the room and gave Metjen the type of accusing look cats seemed to have a patent on.

'Sorry, Blondie.'

The eyes directed at him got even more expressive and if he wanted to stave off an explosion he had to give.

'This has never revealed anything as Ranofer so shrewdly observed. And it still doesn't, not by itself.' He probably deserved the groans from around the table but not the frantic bib-licking from Mish-Mish. His mother inhaled air. A speech was hovering, but before it could land he waggled the wig at her.

'Let me finish, please. I got to observe an object I can't tell you about, but it has been with the servants since, uh—forever, just like our artefacts belong to the family ever since that mummified dog in your office was a pup.' He did not dare to mention Imhotep's name.

'I have checked out this, uh, object many times and I'm sure it's made of the same crystalline substance used for the decoration on our wig. They give me the impression as if they come from the same source or are at least related.'

His father was getting restless, so he spoke faster. 'What this holy artefact did has shocked all the servants—hence the bad atmosphere. And this isn't all. Like us, the servants also got a message when the object did what it shouldn't have done. And please don't ask me what that was.'

'Message?' his sister said. 'You mean this garbled bullshit passed down the generations like a historical game of Chinese whispers?' His mother raised an eyebrow, but Rani-Ra just smiled sweetly.

'Build a bridge across the generations and guard the light!' Ranofer said in sepulchral tones.

'Not that old nonsense again.' Father speared the last bit of baklava and dragged his booty to safety. 'You're all here, so you have built your bridge and the sun is also still shining, okay--not at this moment, so no need to guard anything.'

Metjen put the artefacts back in the safe. 'The servant's message was not at all like ours which must have once meant something else entirely—'

'You will be great in the land of Egypt forever, just keep this wig in one piece.' Ranofer interrupted again, which got him a menacing glare.

'If you don't shut up reasonably soon I'll put the latest spell on you. Can I continue?' Metjen glowered around the table. He did not try the same approach underneath as it would not work. 'The voice at the shrine felt like a gasping in the head. No use asking me for the exact words, but it was a warning. The voice was talking about things coming to the end.' He raised his head towards the ceiling, spotted cobwebs—and realised that he could indeed recall the message for whatever it was worth, at the temple this still was impossible.

'And Iseret takes this to mean the servants are at an end? Now there's a thought.' His father checked under the table, got hold of Mish-Mish and dragged him onto his lap.

'No, she checked the possibilities and thought it was best to let Fate run its course. She's worried about doing the wrong thing. But I believe it's not the temple she's concerned about.'

'I'm convinced you shouldn't get your loincloth in a twist about it either,' his father said, sniffing the bouquet of an excellent French vintage. His other hand was still caressing a somnolent cat.

'But I do care. The temple is one of the last places on Earth that still contains magic. I want it to continue, despite all our problems. And as I said, I'm sure our heirlooms are connected. I just need to find out how.'

His father rolled his eyes, then sat up, startling Mish-Mish, who leapt to the floor and stalked away.

'In case you happen to be still interested, we think there indeed is a western corridor to mirror the eastern one. It's hell to get the fill out, but we've hacked away enough to see that there seems to be a certain seal close to the doorway—'

'It's from Imhotep after all?' Metjen leaned forward.

'Looks like it, yes.' With a smug expression on his face, his father reached for the wine bottle.

Metjen felt excitement rising inside, flushing his cheeks. Imhotep on the seal of the obelisk and on the entrance to the corridor. That glassy paste used for the obelisk and on their wig. There had to be a missing link between all these clues and he would find it, Iseret be damned. If she thought he would sit on his hands, she would have to think twice.

'There are a few bits I need to sort out tomorrow, but if I make it in time, I'll guide that group from bloody Sakhmet Tours for you and then check out the corridor afterwards.'

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This chapter is dedicated to @SamMaze - and Lucy. Sam's novel 'Rise' features a very different kind of 'pet'.

HIEROGLYPHS:

I will spare you the full lecture; the professor can do it much better. Hieroglyphs were mainly used by priests in official documents - or on temple walls. The ancient Egyptians also used a cursive version for daily business; it allowed them to write faster. There are four types of hieroglpyhs: Full words, syllabic signs (two or three consonants together), alphabetic signs for a single word - and a determinative that was supposed to help the reader. This was necessary given that the old scribes took it too easy on the vowels. Which in turn makes it difficult to determine how things were pronounced. A modern archaeologist could converse with an ancient Egyptian via letters. Talking would be a different matter entirely. There are some hints; Coptic is often used as a reference.