Congratulations, Metjen thought. He had been plain stupid. He had given that idiot woman what she asked for--the truth. Was she happy now, was she grateful? She was not. Women were bundles of unnecessary emotions and supreme irrationality. And Trueth was not even good-looking, which might otherwise compensate for the usual shortcomings of her sex. Nice boobs but otherwise far too thin, freckled all over and that milky pale skin of hers was not his thing. Plus, she lacked the refinement he preferred for those ladies who had the pleasure to share his bed.
Her shrewdness can be useful, a niggly inner voice piped up, reminding him of his mother.
Metjen resolutely repressed that voice. There was no time for further reflections. The 'Selket' rumbled against her Cairo moorings, and they took a boisterous leave of Akil, Captain Ebo and his crew. Akil offered his services should transportation back to Luxor be required. Metjen nodded briefly, he had spotted the excavation team's dust-covered minivan with his mother at its wheel. The twins were rushing across, only Trueth remained at the quay, next to the pile of their suitcases. She was shaking the hand of every crew member. before hugging first Akil, then Captain Ebo. She did not wipe her hands afterwards and Metjen wondered whether she had run out of sani-wipes.
'Are you coming, dear?' Mother trilled from back of the minibus where she was overseeing the loading of their luggage.
Had anybody been watching closer, he would have noticed the suitcases hopping inside the van seemingly of their own accord. Had anybody been close, this would, of course, not have happened. At least Metjen hoped so. Trueth had taken her seat, the doors thumped shut, and the minibus rolled off, joining the throng of afternoon traffic.
Back in Maadi, they had hardly drawn to a stop when his father, who no doubt had been pacing the rooms eagerly awaiting their arrival, rushed outside to grab the container with the scroll. Two furry shapes were in hot pursuit. They seemed to appreciate not only the open mosquito screen but also the mass arrival of potential tin openers. Metjen grabbed a purring Mish-Mish, any attempts trying to hoist the blob were foiled when Blondie speed-waddled under the nearest table. There he stayed until things had settled, and food had been consumed—above and beneath the table. Only then did he clamber onto the garden seat next to Trueth and put his front paws on long jeans-clad legs, stretched and unsheathed his claws.
'Ouch!' Trueth disentangled the beast from the fabric. 'And you should lose weight.'
Somewhere inside the house his father bellowed. It sounded like an order and a sharp one at that.
'Aha, Dad has discovered something,' Metjen said. He draped a sleepy Mish-Mish over his shoulder and rose.
Trueth tried the same approach with Blondie. No chance. He dropped to the lawn and trotted after Rani-Ra, who was holding the door open for them. They clomped up the staircase to his father's professorial study. It was lined with shelves stuffed with books on many subjects, not only those related to archaeology. It did not offer enough space for all of them, but they crammed in nevertheless. His father was sitting at his antique walnut desk, facing the window that had not only been shuttered but covered with a black cloth as well.
'What the hell has happened to this document?' Dad was swearing at the window.' Thrown on a bonfire? How on Earth am I supposed to unroll this thing outside a proper laboratory?'
Metjen's father swivelled around on his chair, his head soaked with sweat and the face an alarming shade of red. Ranofer was closest and father grabbed his arm with his gloved hands. His brother tried to escape, but there was no space, so his father kept shaking Ranofer's arm in agitation.
'What we are doing here is completely irresponsible!' He shouted.
Metjen checked the desk behind him. The scroll lay on a large mat, Dad must have been prodding it with an implement that suspiciously resembled a knitting needle. Sweat trickled down his temples. It was warm in the room—what was good for scrolls did not offer the best working conditions for humans.
'Take it easy,' Metjen said. 'Tell us what you found.'
Facing an audience, at least one he could relate to, tended to cool his father's temper, and this proved to be no exception. He released his younger son, grabbed the knitting needle and prodded the scroll instead.
'I wouldn't normally do this,' he said. 'But given that you were involved in illegal digs you don't leave me much choice.'
'We did not dig for this,' Rani-Ra pointed out. 'We found it by magic.'
Her father snarled at her. 'Spare me the details, at least for now. I want to carry out more examinations at the institute, don't ask me how I can make that happen. We need to be ultra careful, this document suffered a lot.'
'But is it authentic?' Metjen asked.
Prod, prod went the needle, a few minuscule flakes broke from one side but a part of the text unrolled.
'I think so,' his father said more calmly. 'It needs carbon dating, but from what I can see this is real. Doesn't get you off the hook, moving it around like that.' He used a second needle to spread out the text.
'The burned part I won't be able to touch. If we want to get at that, we should try an MRT, this has yielded excellent results in similar cases. There's a waiting list, of course. Let's test if there's more in the intact part. Metjen, a protective spell is appreciated—assuming there is something non-destructive in your repertoire?'
This was typical. When it suited him, his father would avail himself of the magical talents he otherwise spurned. He wanted answers, so Metjen wove his spell, bowed and stepped back as his father applied himself to the scroll with gusto. He unfurled more of the text, showing colours as fresh as if the scribe had just stepped away for a bowl of lentils. On the left edge of the sheet, the inscriptions got swallowed into a menacing strip of black.
'Mm.' His father once more waved for Metjen to join him at the desk.
'Read this, most of it is just one massive curse that describes in graphic details what's going to happen if you are handling this while you shouldn't. I've never seen such vocabulary. We must examine this together, maybe you can tell me—'
Metjen interrupted what was turning into a lecture on the fine art of ancient Egyptian cursing which Trueth visibly was not enjoying. 'Yes we will, these curses sound fascinating and I can only hope they don't apply to us. But isn't there anything else?'
'Well, what's there doesn't make much sense.' His father pointed at the text next to the blackened part of the scroll.
Metjen exchanged a glance and a quick grin with some of his fellow explorers—they could empathise with that sentiment. None of what was happening made any sense. From the expression on her face, Trueth was still conducting a mental search for possible curse antidotes.
'It's phrased in an unusual fashion plus what it says is even more unusual, hm.' No further comments were forthcoming.
'Can I see this now?' Metjen asked.
'Eh?' Their father woke up from his reverie and gave him a free view of the piece of text that came after the curses. Metjen repeated the part of the text they had read in Amasis' tomb for his audience.
From Amasis, to those who bear the ring. My faithful servants promise me they will conceal this notice as ordered. If you have come because of the instruction, you could be one of my descendants. If you also possess the other half of the wig, I consider this most likely. Greetings, and may the demons swallow your ka if you are not... .
'Okay,' Metjen said. 'Then we get that long string of nasty curses until Amasis speaks to us again. Let me read that out for you.'
If you are one of mine, you will know from the instruction what your mission is. The key that was to acknowledge us will succeed no more, but it will tell when the time is right. Gather a Guardian, The Foreigner, The Walker and He who is lost under the Pylon of Hope and... .
Of course, the text was burned right where it got interesting, just like in a cliche adventure novel. Still, the ancient document had yielded some of its secrets, putting Iseret's inane ravings into context.
A frantic scrabbling at the door indicated that Mish-Mish did not appreciate obstacles barring him from the rest of the family. To prevent the cat from digging through the wood and to escape from the overheated room, they tromped down the stairs again, leaving the professor behind with his precious scroll. Metjen checked the nearest armchair for inconveniently parked felines, found none and sat. Trueth collapsed onto the sofa and pointed at herself.
'Yes, I'm thinking along the same lines and, no I haven't read your mind,' he added hastily when her face clouded with suspicion.
'What's that, dear?' His mother asked.
He took a deep breath. 'When Trueth had her little, eh – discussion with Iseret in the shrine, she made funny remarks about her being the Foreigner.'
'You never mentioned that before,' Ranofer said.
'I wasn't sure why she was getting her knickers in a twist at the time. I prefer not to share the secrets of the temple if I can avoid it. Anyway, she mentioned a lost person, just like it says in that bloody papyrus. If you ask me, at least half of that strange listing comprises people, one of is sitting right here.'
'What's a Guardian and a Walker, then?' Rani-Ra asked.
'No idea,' Metjen said. 'Iseret never mentioned those.'
His mother huffed. 'I suspect she has an idea who and where they are. If that was the case, no need to mention the other two.'
'Skin walker maybe?' Trueth asked, showing interest. Metjen was sure they did not exist, but Navajo shape shifters were not his area of expertise, and in any case there was no proven connection between Ancient Egypt and the North American civilisations. At least not in the Old Kingdom when the Servants had been founded. Metjen groaned. It appeared, he might have to do more research.
'Can't you just go Beyond and find the right future, or whatever you do? The one with the solution in it?' Trueth asked him in a bruising tone.
'Nope. Doesn't work. I'm too involved, so I can't do that, just as I can't heal myself. Only high priests are capable of such things, and as certain people keep informing me I'm not one of those.' His mother seemed to be inspecting the ceiling. It needed to be re-plastered, cracks were showing. Metjen returned to the subject.
'There is more. What I'm telling you must not leave this room. In fact, I'll make sure that it doesn't.' He pointed at each of them to make sure they understood. 'The object that's been causing the servants so many headaches is called the key.'
That caused exclamations of surprise, only Ranofer shook his head. 'The text says that key doesn't work anymore – but yours does things?'
'It whispers. It's a warning. And Iseret certainly behaves as if the gong of doom has boomed and time's up. It might have had another purpose back then, but it certainly works.'
Rani-Ra crossed her smooth long legs, she should not be wearing shorts, not in this country. 'So the papyrus and Her Wisdom mention people, a Pylon of Hope--and we have our weird instruction. That's probably what Amasis means, when she says...writes we are aware why we were sent.'
Metjen understood why his father was pacing all the time. It liberated the mind. He picked up a few of his mother's pickled vegetables and chewed without noticing their taste.
'Is there a link between the Guardian mentioned in the papyrus and that instruction telling us we are to guard the light?' Ranofer asked.
Metjen shrugged. 'That has occurred to me as well. But it still doesn't get us much further.'
Their father joined the debate which raged throughout the evening. It involved many wild theories they batted around among themselves, into the dark garden and from there to oblivion. They examined the two halves of the wig from various angles, but there were no hidden pockets yielding useful clues.They only had two pieces of decorated false hair in different stages of preservation.
The only secret they could tear from the wig was connected with the hieroglyphs on the plaque. The professor wondered whether it was a name. But, of course, not one that reminded him of anything or anybody.
Trueth did not contribute to their arguments. She sat on the sofa stroking what appeared to be a much contented cat until she excused herself. When Metjen went to see her later, the evening had slipped into the next morning. His reluctant ally was sitting on her bed, still petting the cat.
'What's wrong with you?'
'Now we're back, you'll want commitment from my side. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm ready.'
'I told you before—I'm not trying to force you into something you don't want to do. Just want you to open your eyes and see.'
'To have them blinded, you mean?'
Metjen took up his pacing again. 'None of the servants are Blessed, except for Iseret, Nebmutef and myself. I should never have told you, happens when you try to be honest. I'll talk to Iseret. She will leave you in peace.' He regarded Trueth, who was playing with Blondie's silky ears.
'We'll speak later, ok?'
'Hm.'
He left it at that. When he came back at lunchtime, the room was empty, the bed carefully made up, and Blondie snoozed in a furry lump on top of a sheet of paper.
It read, I can't do it. Thank your parents and your sister and brother for their hospitality and good company. You and your family have given me so much. But I can't cope with people who mutilate each other just to gain power.
He guessed he had his answer.
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I know some of you are hoping for a budding romance. But for me this would not have been logical. At least not right now. The end to this chapter was one of the hardest parts I had to write in this novel. I dreaded it, cheated—and wrote the next one first ... .
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