Cursed Times - What Now?

Chapter 22 - The Battle of the Living Room

Metjen's mother grabbed the arm of her husband, but he pushed her away, got up and paced the carpet. 'I'm serving science. Your head is just psyched up with—this psycho shit and your silly quest.'

Metjen remained calm but Trueth noticed the telltale glitter in his eyes. 'And? I wouldn't mind being useful for once and save something—mankind for example?'

Trueth drew a breath. Metjen needed to back down, or the professor would blow a fuse.

Metjen's father whisked around and pointed his finger at his son. 'Your ancestors might have been pharaohs and high priests but you are not! You got left behind, and it's about time you realise that! Use your powers to heal people or use them for scientific exploration—whatever takes your fancy. But stop this madness!'

With this closing bellow, the professor kicked the ebony coffee table. It rammed the sofa and tore a corner out of the fabric. He turned around, stomped up into his study and slammed the door with a bang that reverberated through the house. Even Mish-Mish had had enough and dashed into the cellar.

Nobody spoke. Metjen flung his napkin on the table and stormed outside, his eyes blazing in a way Trueth had never seen before.

***

There was not enough water to do what he needed to do, so Metjen directed his sun-flow into the ground. With a thundering roar, the soil buckled, bushes flared into ash and stones flew in all directions pinging dents into the basin of the fountain. The smell of singed grass hit his nostrils as light came on in the next house, and an American voice screeched for him to stop his late night renovations, or they would call the police.

He felt a presence at his side.

'Your father is beside himself with worry.' Mother wanted to restore the peace as she always did. This time she would not succeed.

'He's beside himself, period. I know who I am. I don't need my father to tell me.'

'I understand that. But aren't  you going a bit far?'

Metjen kicked a stone from the savaged lawn. 'I told you before. I can't just sit and watch my last retreat fade away while Iseret is waiting for fate. And it seems we have a whole civilisation hanging in the balance.'

His mother took in the burned grass, bushes reduced to crispy tinder, the dying flowers and sucked her teeth. She put a hand on his arm, and he felt the heat die down slowly. A few embers still burned.

'Iseret has the wisdom of ages—why do you fly in her face?' Metjen's mother asked.

'Why did man fly to the moon? Because they wanted knowledge, and so do I. So does father, actually. He's just lucky that he isn't magically challenged.'

She tilted her head and sighed. 'Maybe I shouldn't have married a scientist, the combination doesn't work so well.'

The heat rose—and died again. She was probably right.

His mother tapped her cheek. 'Whatever your reasons—if what you think is correct and you are collecting the pieces of an ancient puzzle, you might also be triggering ancient traps. Let's go back inside and talk to Trueth, she's reasonable. And don't, uh, stare at me like that... .'

Metjen was not staring at all. He was listening. He turned towards the living room from where issued the sounds of crashing and shouting. Blue lighting flickered across the ceiling, and something silvery streaked into the garden, hit a laurel bush and covered it with instant frost.

'What is your father up to now?'

Metjen stopped his mother from bolting back to the house. 'That isn't father, stay here,' he said and raced towards the screen door.