Chapter Four

“I think we should take her to the emergency room.”

“I think we should give it more time. She’ll come around. Get me a damp rag.”

“Why doesn’t someone call Jonas?”

Rebecca half-opened her eyes to shapes billowing and swirling around her. Greens, yellows, navy blue all in motion. A black horse’s tail, swishing about like a large plume. She rocked her head and noticed a soft, moist cloth on her forehead. Voices sounded, muddled and far away from her consciousness. What were they saying? Did she really hear a conversation? She clamped down on her mind and focused for a few long minutes, and her eyes soon rested on clear images of her roommates Allison and Greta dashing between the bedroom door and Rebecca’s bed. Standing over her was Raven, her black ponytail — the mysterious horse-hair — bobbing at someone’s words. Rebecca was fascinated with the long lash of hair and watched it swish like a great brush. She felt her mind putting together pieces of an intricate puzzle: people fussing over her, the pillow beneath her head, pats on her hand. Something must have gone wrong.

She sprang up, so that streaks of light formed before her eyes. She had been lying on her own bed but had no idea how she got there or how long she’d been out. The last thing she had seen was the telephone in the living room.

Greta handed her a glass of water, which she pulled to her lips. She downed the cool liquid in nearly one gulp. Then she rubbed her eyes and handed the glass back to her friend.

“What’s going on?” she managed to say as her roommates fluffed pillows and urged her to lie down again. She allowed them to lower her back down as she awaited an explanation.

“They found you sprawled in the living room when they came home,” Raven said.

Sprawled? Her eyes popped wide open. “How long was I out?” Rebecca sat up again, fidgeting with blankets and pillows, trying to temper her nerves. Raven shrugged.

“No one knows.” Greta said. “We just came home a while ago. What would it be? Twenty minutes ago?” Allison nodded. “And there you were.”

“But I just put down the phone a second ago,” Rebecca protested. This couldn’t be happening. “I was on the phone with my family. The regular Sunday call. It’s impossible …” She remembered the buzzing that had started in the back of her head.

“Well, after Raven came over, we lifted you into the bedroom and tried to air out the room. We put a damp cloth to your face … we did everything to get you awake,” Allison said. “Thank God, you finally came to. We were ready for the E.R.”

“What’s this all about?” Rebecca was staring at Raven. “I just felt a funny buzz in my head, and I got off the phone. And now you’re telling me that was a long time ago?” Her stomach was squeezing as she fought off the panic. Not normal. This was not normal.

“Look out the window,” Raven said.

Although it was late spring and the sun hovered in the afternoon sky longer each day, it had made a great deal of progress toward sunset — and Rebecca had made her call on a brilliant afternoon. She might have been knocked out for an hour and a half, or even more. She turned and gazed at the clock on her desk.

“Six-thirty. What the hell?”

“Your roommates want to call Jonas, but I think it’s better not to bother him,” Raven said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell him. He’s worried enough about me.” Rebecca had visions of Jonas dragging her into the emergency room, although, she wondered, would that be such a bad thing? She puzzled over the contradictions in her head.

As if she had read her mind, Raven shot her a look with one arched eyebrow. Rebecca babbled on with a sense of helplessness. Raven had a way of pulling information out of her. “I’ve been having these … these … blackouts lately, and Jonas is all worried that I have ADD or ADHD or something like that.”

“It sounds a lot more serious than ADHD,” Raven answered, tipping her head to the side. “Tell me what’s going on.” It was impossible to bypass Raven when her suspicions were up. Rebecca resigned herself to spilling the whole story. Someone had to know. She couldn’t continue to contain this worry to herself. She only worried this ... this Thing that she had would get in the way of her “Aïda” role. But Raven would never tell Randy. She’d only hand out sage advice.

So, the entire rendition of a month’s worth of mini-blackouts and momentary lapses of concentration came pouring out of Rebecca’s mouth. She explained about the dreamless nights and the early morning hours she spent looking up her symptoms on Jonas’ computer. Then there was the story of the mysterious dance movements Ms. Sailor liked so much. Raven nodded, because she had participated in that class and had seen the exchange when Rebecca admitted she had no idea where the movements had come from. As she spoke, Rebecca felt she had dreamed the whole affair.

With each sentence, her friends wore darker expressions. Allison, ever the practical one, darted her eyes around the room, connected with the bookshelf and pulled out a medical guide. Greta just kept shaking her head and saying “poor dear.” Raven raised tense shoulders and said, “I say we go to the emergency room now.”

“No,” Rebecca said, lowering her eyebrows. Why am I being so stubborn? she thought. “It comes and goes. There’s no reason to make such a big deal over this. I’ll get over it.”

“But you just said this is the longest you’ve ever been unconscious. And you have no sensation of time passing,” Allison said, looking up as her hands frantically paged through the reference book. She didn’t seem to be finding anything that helped.

“What if it happens in performance?” Raven asked.

My God. What if it does? Rebecca looked about the room, filled with posters of famous dancers, a calendar crammed with dates of classes and rehearsals hanging on her desk, her computer showing about fifteen unread e-mail messages. Here, she felt protected, but what about the times she’s out on stage, vulnerable, dancing a solo? What then?

“Maybe I should see a doctor, huh?”

“I think you should promise us you will,” Raven said, unfolding her arms and bending to offer Rebecca more water. “I’d say an MRI would be in order.”

Rebecca froze. Her brother Ash had gotten an MRI when he got migraines in high school. It was a huge, clunky machine that made awful thumping noises like an out-of-control robot. It scared the willies out of her when she was a young teenager. Anything but that.

“Well, my insurance isn’t going to cover the Mayo Clinic.” Rebecca laughed in spite of the serious expressions all around her. “Which you guys think I need.”

“Well, it will cover a simple doctor visit,” Allison announced, closing the book and standing up. “I’ll be damned if I can find anything in this book —”

“Okay, okay,” Rebecca said, glad to give in, her mulishness broken. The worry was threatening to kill her. How bad would it be to have a doctor check her over? “I’ll make an appointment. Now, why don’t we see what’s in the apartment to eat? I feel like I could demolish everything in the refrigerator.”

Raven nodded her head and helped Rebecca to her feet. When it was obvious Rebecca could walk with no problem, Raven narrowed her olive eyes, gazed at Rebecca’s face, and turned to leave the bedroom. A little food couldn’t hurt. Her mind might have gone beyond the bounds of time for a while, but her body told her it was dinnertime.

#

That night, Rebecca twirled into the night, dancing under the constellations, swirling linen cloth around her long, tanned legs. She had visions of people, thousands of them, gazing at her with unquenchable curiosity as she walked a path lined with flowers and spiced with aromatic oils. A man walked up to her and asked her to dance, a man with eyes darker than pools of oil and a physique to rival a toned athlete.

Then she stood alone with a man made of stone. She lifted a hand to the shoulder muscles of the carved icon and marveled at the life-like quality of each detail. She lifted her eyes to meet those of the statue. Black pupils, alive with spirit, gazed back at her, and she stumbled back, afraid. Nowhere to run. All the doors were sealed.

#

Lunch with Emmylou Sailor and Randy was set for one o’clock at the Strand restaurant, but Rebecca got there just early enough to order a pre-luncheon glass of wine. A drink during the day or before important meetings was an anomaly, but she trembled with absolute panic today. She wanted to tell Sailor what she knew about ancient Egypt but didn’t want to give away too much. How can you tell someone you’re seeing visions of life in an ancient culture in your dreams? That you’re watching someone’s dark-rimmed eyes stare into your own? They’ll have you propped before a psychiatrist before you can count to ten.

Sailor breezed in on the hour and took a seat opposite Rebecca and stared. Rebecca experienced no interaction with celebrities out in Iowa. Now she was supposed to converse with a world-famous choreographer by herself.

At least Rebecca knew what she thought of Sailor’s work. Her dance craft for “Aïda” was as perfect as a twenty-first choreographer could create it, with each Egyptian movement finely honed and almost mesmerizing in its uniform, dreamy style.

However, Rebecca also knew something about the show didn’t fit. Maybe it was the costuming or maybe the set, but somehow, the production missed the essential sense of Egypt. Over the past week, she’d paged through dozens of tomes by crusty old authors and squinted at pictures of relics and tombs. Yet the information that really mattered bubbled up from her intuition — and how do you tell any sane person that?

As Rebecca’s mind wandered, the waiter plunked a dish of miniature spinach-pie appetizers smack in front of Sailor — as if Rebecca weren’t leaning forward in expectation of food. Randy, strolling in late, picked his blaring cell phone out of his pocket and listened to some loud, harsh voice audible from his earpiece. He hurried the pushy caller off the phone, and his shoulders sagged. He bowed a bit to Sailor, apologized and told both women he’d just been called away on some essential business. He zipped off before anyone could quiz him about the details. Rebecca’s confidence slipped. Randy almost never ran out on a meeting like this. She had been counting on him to take some of the pressure off the conversation. Now it was the haughty choreographer and her lead dancer eating alone. Rebecca wondered who was going to be stuck with the tab.

“Have a few?” Sailor said, as she passed the heavy plate Rebecca’s way. “I surely can’t eat all this and an entrée, too.” Rebecca fished two of the canapés off the plate and onto her side dish. She placed the serving platter back in the middle of the table.

“Well, this is most awkward,” Sailor said, breathing out in exasperation. “Randy was supposed to go over set design with me.”

Rebecca tried to stifle a gasp. The set was just the exact subject she wanted to bring up. She nibbled on the edge of one spinach pie, finding it oily and somewhat fishy tasting. So much for the Strand’s reputation as a fine restaurant.

She put the morsel down and fought to meet Sailor’s eyes, which focused on her above a long, thin nose. Rebecca knew the choreographer was famous for browbeating her underlings, but she also realized the two of them had come to some understanding — at least in the dance studio.

“Actually,” Rebecca said, fighting a knot in her chest. “I had some things to mention about the scenery …” Rebecca started to cough on inhaled bits of food. She grabbed her water and swallowed.

“You?” Sailor slipped her appetizer onto her dish and stared as if examining an ant. “You’re … a dancer.”

“Yes, and I think we agree that I’ve added some authentic flourishes to this production.” Rebecca felt her face reddening but held her ground.

“About movement, yes, but how would you possibly advise a world-renowned scenic designer like Hugh Dekker? He won a Tony, you know.” She picked up her spinach pie again and began to wolf it down.

“I’ve done plenty of research on my role. I’m reading quite a bit and feel like I’ve earned a degree in Egyptology. Right now, I’m quite certain the designer doesn’t have enough color on the walls.”

“You’ve done research?” Sailor said with a hint of a sneer. “And I’m supposed to take this dabbling seriously?”

“Ms. Sailor, please …”

“It’s Emmylou.”

“Emmylou, please, it’s all in Description de L’Egypt by the savants of Napoleon. They drew exacting pictures and paintings of the temples when they were still half buried by sand. The colors are all there.”

Sailor took off her glasses and glared across the table at Rebecca as if noticing her for the first time.

“You read French?”

“A little. The point is they — the savants — lavished their books with bright colors — reds and lapis blues and even violet shades for the irises.”

“I’ve never known a dancer to even pick up a book before. And you tell me you’ve read Napoleon’s savants? In French?”

“Why, yes,” Rebecca lowered her head and considered grabbing a roll. She needed something to do with her hands.

“Well, even I haven’t read that, so you’ve got me beat,” she monitored Rebecca with one eyebrow raised. “Why are you so keen on besting the rest of us?”

“It’s not like that at all, Ms., I mean ... Emmylou …” Rebecca meant to drop the errant roll on a dish, but her fierce grip sent it flying across the tablecloth and onto the floor. A fastidious waiter picked it up and offered her a fresh one. Rebecca shook her head.

“It’s just the dreams —”

“Ah, the dreams, where you got this,” Sailor said as she mimicked the playing of the sistrum. She stopped and frowned. “Is it so consuming for you, Rebecca?”

Rebecca leaned forward, letting her sheet of hair flow onto the table. She was confused about her Egyptian obsession, yet unwilling to let the subject go. So much of it involved those infernal nocturnal forays into an unknown world. It maddened yet fascinated her at the same time.

“I can’t help it,” she said to the tablecloth. “It won’t leave me alone.”

Sailor reached across and touched Rebecca’s chin, lifting it up as if to adjust her pose. She looked pensive, studying her young protégé’s features.

“Very well, I’ll have a look at this savant book. In English. And we will brighten the colors accordingly,” she waited a beat. “You don’t think you had a past life in Egypt, do you?”

“I don’t think I believe in past lives.” Actually, Rebecca didn’t know what to think about that person who looked through her own eyes at night. A past self? Well, it didn’t jibe with her Protestant upbringing. Too much at the fringes of reality for her.

“That’s good, because neither do I. The less New Age claptrap, the better.” She picked up her menu. “As long as this goes on my expense account, let’s live it up. These spinach things tasted like turds.”

Rebecca laughed in spite of herself. They ordered the planked salmon and each had a glass of Chablis.

“Now, let’s hear about those dreams. I’m sure we can incorporate them somehow.”

#

The cat wound around Neferet’s ankles as she posed at her vanity table, putting kohl on the rims of her eyes. She needed to feed little Mau-mau, the living incarnation of the goddess Bastet. The much-pampered animal had been searching through the grain stores of the Pharaoh for mice, but she must have come up short if she begged for food now. Neferet reached into a carved wooden box and pulled out some dried and salted meat. She put it on the floor and Mau-mau ran to pounce on it with her sharp teeth. The cat shook the food vehemently and then delivered a bite of death to this replacement mouse. Then she dragged her prize under her mistress’ chair. Neferet scratched the pet behind the ears as the feline nibbled on her fine treat.

Neferet breathed deep into her lungs, knowing that in a mere month she had grown to accept this life as an honored priestess. The fussing of the servants she tolerated with less frustration. She began to look forward to the daily baths and ritual massage of fragrant oils. She practiced her dance movements at set hours before the sun made the chambers too violently hot. And the visits to Amun, well, some were less fearsome than others. The idol had stopped coming to life long ago. She was only required to drink the sacred drink, didi, on special occasions, so she was able to keep her wits about her.

She peered into the mirror and remembered a slight buzzing in her head and the overpowering sensation of an unseen person accompanying her on these visits. She couldn’t explain it and certainly didn’t think it was a visit from a god. But there was the closeness of someone sympathetic looking over her shoulder, mimicking her dances, breathing the incense and saying her prayers. She would have been frightened had it not given her comfort. Anyone, even a specter, accompanying her into the austere Holy of Holies was a welcome relief. At least she wasn’t alone with the idol.

It was nearly time for the evening offering to Amun, and she waited until the hour when the high priests would bring in the food and re-arrange the statue’s clothing.

She closed her eyes and reflected on how childish these ministrations seemed in the beginning. With time, she began to learn from the hood-eyed chief priest Nebhotep that the Amun idol became a living — but not flesh-and-blood — entity due to the precise spells and incantations that had been handed down for millennia. The changing of the clothes and the uneaten food (devoured later by the priests) was ceremonial, an indication the people recognized the reality of Amun’s presence among them. Amun withdrew the living energy from the food, the priests said.

“Amun is with us, but even he is but a fragment of the One. The One who is millions,” Nebhotep once said, his old eyes shielded from the sun. “All the gods are like the colors that dance off a highly polished jewel, beautiful aspects of the light — the greatest god.”

Nebhotep spoke of a knowledge complex and ancient.

“In the beginning was the primordial ooze, and all gods emanated from the One. Some rose in favor and others, like Set, were reviled. Today, it is Amun’s turn for glory. But never forget that he is joined with Re, Eset and Horem-heb and all the others. The One and the Many.”

“Whom we will see when we die?” she asked, her eyes downcast in reverence.

“Don’t be a fool, Neferet. We see them every day in everything we do. Even your cat is but an aspect of the highest one. You must behave as the wife of the most high and not a slave who longs for glory in the afterlife.”

Neferet bowed and returned to her own scrolls, pondering on her role as the adored lover of the all-being god. Her mind swam with conflicting ideas. As one of the few women in the kingdom educated to read and write, she usually devoured her daily reading with the joy of privilege. Today, she had been too distracted to keep her mind on the devotional prayers.

Now, she set her diadem on her braids as her servant called out the hour. The time arrived to dance her love for her immortal spouse.

#

The close air pressed her skin and dust flew in a small eddy behind the effigy of Amun. Neferet’s skin prickled at something wrong within the tight confines of the sanctuary. Her nose picked up a peculiar scent, familiar but sinister. Just as she bowed to Amun before beginning her dance, a hand shot out and seized her at the wrist. Her senses jolted, and she struggled to pull away. Could the idol come to life again? This hadn’t happened for weeks. Why now?

However, when she looked through the gloom, she fastened on a pair of close-set eyes that she despised. Hiding behind the statue was Zayem, and he held her fast. How he had gotten into this sacred space was impossible to imagine.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “The musicians will see you.”

“I’ve been here before, and they’ve never guessed.”

“You what? It’s absolutely forbidden …”

“Lots of things are forbidden by our long list of rules, but I do as I please. Haven’t I always?”

Neferet scowled at this interloper, this filth of a human being. She couldn’t imagine how to continue with her duties with him interrupting her ritual. She wrestled her arm away, bruising it against her thick bracelets, and stared with fury in her eyes. She wondered for one frenzied moment if he was there during the time the statue had become flesh and blood. Had she done those depraved things with him and not Amun? Had he posed as Amun? Her stomach went sick at the thought of it.

“What do you want?”

“Only to watch your ministrations.”

“It is forbidden. I cannot.”

“You can’t just leave. There will be talk. The priests will ask why you didn’t satisfy Amun.”

“You will spread the gossip, you worm. You are lower than Set.”

“Ah, but even Set has his worshippers. I will sit here and watch.”

Neferet bit her lip and decided to dance a bit. What could be the harm in that? But she would truncate the ritual lovemaking. Amun would understand. He enjoyed god-hood, after all. So, with little animation, she began to gyrate her body, and Zayem leaned back upon his elbows as if he enjoyed the view.

When she finished, with the slightest kiss to the idol’s diorite lips, she gathered up some figs to eat.

“So, you do eat the god’s dinner.”

“Shut up. You know the priests’ role. Don’t be an idiot.”

He grabbed for the bread, but she slapped his hand away with an angry swat. Her heart heaved in her chest, and she finally spoke loud enough for outsiders to hear.

“Sacrilege. Only a priest may touch the god’s food.”

Zayem stared at her with saucy superiority before backing out of the holy chamber, now empty of musicians.

“You’ll be sorry you did that. Mother will be displeased.” He pouted like a child before his face resettled into its customary, unsavory grin.

“Get out!”

She pointed a long finger down the hallway and kept her arm steady. For the first time, Neferet transformed into a fierce guardian, equal to the lion goddess Sekhmet herself. She knew what it meant to guard her beloved. She stood fully ready to tear Zayem’s head off if he took another step toward Amun.

Zayem spun about and sauntered down the corridor. She could just spare herself the effort of spitting after his footsteps.

#

A platoon of soldiers guarded the gate to the Pharaoh’s palace. They paced each inch of the royal walls, but at one glimpse of Neferet, the God’s Wife, the sentries stood back. They opened the gates and ushered her inside.

She headed not for the harem, nor for her father’s quarters, but turned down the tile-inlaid corridors toward the prince Kamose’s private abode. No one blinked an eye, for the God’s Wife enjoyed complete freedom, even more so than her mother Meryt, the tyrant of the household. Neferet called for Kamose’s servant, who ran to get his master. Within seconds, she stood before her half-brother, who had broken off his evening meal. He brushed a few crumbs from his linen garments.

“I’ve got to talk to you now.” She was pacing, her head filled with fury and nowhere to put her racing energy.

“Sister, what has gotten you into such a frenzy. Your hair …” He reached up and straightened her plaits and repositioned the diadem, which must have slipped askew in laughable fashion.

“It’s such an outrage I don’t know where to begin,” she spat out, stomping and slapping the floor with her jewel-encrusted sandals. “He desecrated … he violated … the living god …” She choked on her anger, and her voice failed. She couldn’t continue and threw her arms up into the air.

Kamose reached out and touched her with gentle hands. He stroked her bare shoulders and kissed her burning forehead. She began to feel the muscles in her back unclench, and the words flowed with less rage.

“Zayem. He broke into the Holy of Holies as I was about to begin the ritual …”

Kamose stared with disbelief in his brown eyes. She knew he hated his half-brother almost as much as she did, but this misdeed was worse than even Kamose could imagine. His eyes showed it as they widened.

“Neferet, are you saying he entered the sacred chamber while you performed your sacred duties?”

“And wouldn’t leave. He said he wanted to watch. I had no choice but to continue because he made a threat to start rumors among the priests that I had neglected my office.”

“Which would get to Meryt eventually.”

Neferet found a chair and sat down for the first time in hours. Her nearly numb feet prickled with sensation as she rubbed them. Then she slumped backward, feeling the warm cedar wood press against her sore back and its soft scent calm her nerves. She gazed into Kamose’s eyes.

“What could his motive be? Why disrupt a holy service? He seemed genuinely joyful to upset me.”

Kamose sat on the braided rug near the chair, placing his hands in his lap. She could smell his dinner in the back room, getting cold. He might be feasting on lamb.

“He wants to topple the prescribed order of things.” Kamose looked dark as he mulled over the deeper meaning of his words. “I have spies who can report to me.”

“Oh, please, do ask them. I feel so …” she fought for words. “I feel raped. He penetrated the deepest secret of my life. That is, he almost did.” She smiled with a sly twist to her lips. “I left out a bit of the ritual.”

“The best bits, I hope,” Kamose said, returning the amused expression. But his face fell again as he considered what faced them.

“Something tells me Meryt is behind this,” he said. “And that’s never good. Zayem’s her favorite son. She’ll do anything for him.”

“I fear her every minute.”

Kamose set his mouth in a firm line.

“I will send my best spy, to catch the court gossip. We should know in a few days what Zayem is up to.” He stood and held out his hands to her. His tanned arms bore the strong muscles of a warrior, and his chest was broad and well-defined underneath the pectoral pendant of a golden ankh. “Why not stay, eat, spend the night.”

She backed further into her chair, rigid.

“Oh, you know, I can’t do that,” Neferet said. Royal brothers and sisters, unlike the common people, regularly had marriages between them. In fact, it was encouraged. The blood of the Pharaonic line must be kept pure. Even love affairs were allowed, and no one even winked when they were mentioned. In fact, Neferet had dreamed of marrying capable and intelligent Kamose many times in her younger, carefree life. But now the duties as God’s Wife interfered. This sort of affair, did the rules allow it? Surely not. Meryt alluded to as much when she offered the office to Neferet.

“You don’t believe that folklore of being true only to the god, do you? To a statue?” Kamose dropped his hands and widened his smile. Neferet regarded him with affection. Such a lovely smile, with even white teeth. Not like Zayem with his crooked mouth.

“It’s ceremonial, Neferet,” he continued. “Didn’t the priests tell you that your life is your own? On Ra’s magnificence, being the God’s Wife makes you one of the most enviable marriage prospects in Kemet.”

He had told her this before, but still, she shook her head. Kamose continued, dropping his hands to his side and taking a softer tone.

“An old man, guided by codes and ceremonies, can hardly be a confidante for a young woman’s sex life, now can he?” He let out a hearty laugh. “He probably doesn’t even know what sits in his lap anymore.”

This finally cajoled a snicker from Neferet.

“You are the freest woman in the kingdom, and I wish you to share my bed.” Kamose’s eyes had a trace of longing in them, something she had never seen before. He held out his arms again, and a gasp escaped her lips. Leaving conflicting thoughts behind, she leapt up to huddle against his bronzed chest. He leaned down to kiss her, with gentle, giving lips.

“It will all seem better in the morning. We will work it out. Zayem cannot ruin your happiness.”

She nearly let out a tear as she clutched fiercely to this man she had adored her entire life.