SECRET OF THE EGYPTIAN CURSE: Kids of Ancient Mythology Read online

  Secret of the Egyptian Curse

  Kids of Ancient Mythology

  Scott Peters

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Historical Note

  Glossary

  Also by Scott Peters

  Thank You

  Published by Best Day Books For Young Readers

  Copyright © 2016 by S.P. Wyshynski

  All rights reserved.

  Secret of the Egyptian Curse/Scott Peters

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my Family

  Chapter One

  The boy jerked back in shock.

  What had he done?

  Drawings surrounded him on all sides. They covered the Nile's soft, sloping riverbank, all grooved into the sand with his sharpened stick. A chariot fight. A pair of wrestlers. A panther chasing a fleeing gazelle.

  But only one image held his attention. That of the mighty god Osiris, king of the underworld.

  Was it an illusion? Was it the wind?

  No. There it was again! Osiris's eyes—eyes made of sand—were moving. Impossible as it seemed, they flicked up to stare at the acacia stick in the boy's hand. Locking onto it, the god’s eerie sand-eyes studied the simple tool that had drawn his huge form on the riverbank.

  The boy’s hand went damp and he nearly dropped the stick.

  After a moment, the sand-eyes shifted back to Ramses' terrified face. They stayed there, watching the boy.

  Ramses sucked in a shallow breath. The air felt as suffocating as a tomb. What had he been thinking—drawing the god of the underworld?

  Why, when he'd never drawn a single god in his life, had he done so now? How foolish could he be to call on the god of death himself?

  Because he hadn't been thinking. That's why. He'd been drawing mindlessly, his worries elsewhere. He'd been thinking about the strange priest who’d come to chant magic spells over his sick father back at the farmhouse.

  Standing in the dense heat, Ramses was shaken to his core. Desperately, he tried to tear his gaze from the god's painful radiance. The hot earth had grown almost blinding. It hurt to look at Osiris.

  A strange, crackling noise rose from the ground. To his horror, the flat picture of the god seemed to shift, first left and then right. Just a tiny amount, but enough to make the lines in the sand shudder.

  Ramses wanted to run, but he couldn't move.

  Osiris's image had actually expanded a fraction. The drawing was growing. Then the shifting started again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Faster. Stronger.

  A breeze whispered overhead, matched by the sound of flapping wings. An ibis bird swooped low, nearly touching the boy. The white winged creature came to rest on the Nile's dark surface. Opening its curved beak, it pecked at the floating reeds.

  On the ground, Osiris went still.

  Ramses shook his head, feeling as though he’d awoken from a dream.

  I was seeing things, Ramses told himself. It was an illusion! Just the heat. A mirage.

  He wanted to believe it—that he'd imagined it all. But this wasn't the first time something like it had happened.

  Once when he was little, he told his mother that his drawings made sounds—his lions roared, his arrows hissed and his warriors shouted. He told her that they moved too, and that a chariot's wheels had kicked up so much dust he’d had to cover his face.

  Her reaction stunned him. She cried.

  She made him promise never to repeat it again. And he hadn't. She also made him promise to never draw the mighty gods. Because who knew what that would bring?

  And he hadn't.

  Until now.

  From the ground, the shush-shush noise of shifting sand started up again. Hairs prickled on Ramses' neck.

  He looked down slowly, horrified. Osiris had resumed his motion. The god shifted back and forth. Expanded and then shifted again. Osiris was struggling. Working to burst free of his shell.

  It seemed clear now that the only things keeping the powerful god of death in place were the flimsy sketched lines.

  Stop, Ramses told himself. He's not real! He can't be real.

  Sweat slicked his palms.

  His mind flashed to his sick father. A great foreboding overtook him.

  "No," he whispered. His limbs began to tremble. "No," he said, voice rising. Glaring at mighty Osiris, he shouted, "No! I won't let you take him from me!”

  Ramses threw his stick at the powerful figure. Then he spun away. Frantic with worry, he ran for the bulrushes and forced his way through. On the other side, he sprinted across the fields of golden wheat.

  Fear chased him like a towering sandstorm. It whipped him into a frenzy, urged him to run faster. Rocks and sharp roots tore his bare feet. He ignored them and ran headlong for home.

  He could just make out the happy sight of his familiar farmhouse. His hearing was sharp, but he was unable to hear even the faintest sound of the chanting priest.

  His stomach twisted.

  If the words of the holy man's magic healing spells couldn't reach him here, how could they possibly reach the ears of the gods?

  Chapter Two

  When Ramses neared the house he began to slow. The familiar sturdy walls looked exactly the same as he'd left them. Embarrassment crept over him. He felt childish, like he was running from a ghost.

  He knew the reaction he'd get if he explained that he’d come back because of some premonition. His father had no patience for such things.

  Instead of bursting through the front door, he crept to his father's bedroom window and peered over the sill.

  His father and the priest were still in there.

  The Wab Sekhmet stank of ince
nse; his smell drifted outside, thick and cloying. He was tall with oiled skin and cold, serpentine eyes.

  A powerful hatred for the strange priest overtook Ramses. What right did the man have to send him away? This was his house!

  Worse, Ramses hated himself for obeying.

  The priest turned suddenly, and Ramses sank out of view. He sank low against the thorny branches of the acacia bush. Burning with frustration, he pressed his face into his arms.

  In the bedroom, a dish rattled.

  "Drink this," the priest said.

  "Forget your brew and listen to me," his father replied.

  "Again?" The priest sounded weary. "Don't you think we've argued enough?" Still, the dish clanked down.

  "Not until you agree. You have the authority to protect my son. To see that his talents aren't wasted. He's a good boy, you know that!"

  "What your boy does is wrong," the priest said.

  "What he does is a gift to us all. Only a blind man could deny it."

  At this, Ramses' head came up. He'd never heard his father talk this way.

  Inside, the priest began to pace. "You think he's gifted? Look at you, lying there dying and your wife already dead. You call that a gift?"

  Ramses' heart clenched. What was this? What was the priest saying?

  "You think my illness is some godly punishment?" his father said. "The price of my son’s talent?"

  With a sickening feeling, Ramses' mind flashed to Osiris. Was it possible that he, Ramses, caused this . . . this horror? His head began to spin. It wasn't true!

  "Listen to me, because it's the last time I'll say it," the priest said. "What that boy does is unholy. And I cannot—I will not—allow your son to meddle with things beyond his control."

  "Beyond his control, or beyond his station, priest?" His father spat out the last word. "You're afraid because Ramses was born with a skill holier than anything you’ll ever possess."

  Ramses' breath caught in his throat.

  Inside, there was a long, tense silence.

  "You are ill," the priest said. "You don’t know your own tongue. I warned you when you brought him to the temple on his naming day and he shocked us all with his workings. He was barely out of swaddling clothes. Yet there he was sketching his dark magic on the ground. No god meant him to have such power."

  "An accidental gift, then," his father said, voice fading.

  "Such accidents are always cursed."

  The bedroom door scraped open. The click-clack of footsteps was followed by the sound of Aunt Zalika clearing her throat.

  "Come now, dear brother-in-law," she said in a soothing voice. "Drink the potion so you might live to argue another day."

  Ramses pictured his strange aunt with her painted face. She’d arrived at his house yesterday, dragging the priest and her invalid son in tow. Uncle Hay had stumbled in after them, sweating and bloated and loaded like a camel. His mound of filthy bags still lay in the cool front hall where he’d ditched them to gape around. The look in his eyes had sent a chill snaking into Ramses’ stomach.

  His father’s ragged gasps drew him back to the present. They sounded harsher, as if each breath were a struggle. The gods were crushing the life from him—stopping up his throat.

  Ramses wanted to shout, Don’t leave me! You can’t!

  But he stayed silent. The clay brick windowsill was rough and baking hot. Carefully, he raised the heavy drape, hoping to catch his father’s eye. Instead, Aunt Zalika’s back blocked his view. She was close enough to touch.

  He froze.

  "Your sister-in-law is right. Drink this," insisted the priest’s voice.

  Aunt Zalika shifted. Through a narrow gap, the bed became visible. His father lay amongst the rumpled sheets. The familiar, beloved face was pale and drenched with sweat, but set with its usual dogged strength. It was a strength that could frighten or comfort, depending on which end you were on. Ramses let out a silent breath of relief.

  His father was too stubborn to die.

  "The cup," his father said.

  The priest reached into view. As he did, his sleeve fell back to reveal his forearm, sinewed and oily and painted with the image of a serpent. A cobra. Above the pincers of the priest’s thumb and forefinger, the painted serpent ended in a staring turquoise eye. Like a creature of death, it snaked toward his father’s lips.

  "I don't need your ministering." His father snatched the cup away and drained the contents in one go. He wiped his mouth. "Now leave me. Zalika, you stay."

  "You need rest, brother-in-law," Aunt Zalika said, after the priest left.

  "I need to plan ahead for my son."

  The words clutched at Ramses’ chest. Plan ahead? He didn’t need to plan ahead! He’d be here, and Aunt Zalika, Uncle Hay, and the Wab Sekhmet would leave with their disturbing chants and foul potions and never come back.

  "Swear you’ll protect him from this nonsense," his father said. "Swear it!"

  "Don’t worry yourself."

  "His talent must be protected. Swear you’ll do it. Swear you’ll take care of him."

  A drop of sweat trickled down Ramses' cheek. The acacia bush that hid him from view offered little shade from the blistering Egyptian sun. He made no move to brush it away.

  "Of course I'll take care of him," his aunt finally said in a smooth, soothing voice. "Now sleep. We will talk later."

  Whatever the priest had put in his potion began to take effect. His father sank backward, a shocked look on his face.

  Ramses should have thrown himself over the windowsill. He should have ignored these strangers and their rules. Should have thrown his arms around his father. Said something. Anything.

  Told him he loved him.

  Instead, like a coward, like a fool, he sank lower against the wall. The setting sun bruised the sky purple. There would be time. His father would live. He had to.

  Ramses dozed off.

  Those last minutes were lost, never to be found again.

  Chapter Three

  The harvest came early. It mocked Ramses with its bounty—countless stalks, all shivering gold—more wheat than their fields had ever seen.

  He hammered at it with his scythe, not caring that the blade needed sharpening, not caring to make it fall in neat rows, not caring to bind his palms with linen so they’d last the season. His parents were dead. There would be no harvest celebration this year, no festival of Min. Aunt Zalika and Uncle Hay knew nothing of the land beyond its worth in jewels and duck-fat.

  A gong rang out.

  Across the fields, workers set down their tools. They made their way to a cluster of shady palms to eat lunch. Ramses threw his blade down. Instead of heading for the trees, he made for the river.

  Bulrushes waved gently, their soft brown heads pointing skyward. He slipped his way through them and onto the riverbank. The swampy Nile waters perfumed the humid air. He inhaled a deep breath. Underfoot, the sand felt damp and cool, a relief from the baking sun overhead. A swim in the slowly flowing river would’ve been inviting, if not for the brackish, thick coating that floated nearest to shore.

  As always, his secret hideout was deserted. He knelt and rummaged amongst the papyrus rushes. Sure enough, a bundle of acacia-wood sticks lay hidden in their usual place between the tall foliage. He pulled one out.

  The priest’s words still haunted him, that his talent was something strange, something to be stopped. But he didn't see what it mattered now. The two people he loved most were dead.

  Ducks played in the shallows, flapping their wings.

  The sight made his shoulders relax just a little. Strong winds had blown all night, smoothing the sandy bank to a flat surface. With dirt-stained fingers, he grabbed a stick and began to draw. The horrible months since Aunt Zalika and Uncle Hay had arrived soon faded into nothing. The whole world just went away.

  All that existed was the tip of the stick tracing lines in the sand.

  The hot earth made him think of the desert. His stick moved quickly, swirling
to form the wheel of a chariot.

  As the drawing took shape, he could feel himself charging across the dunes in the horse drawn cart. The sound of rolling wheels and pounding hooves filled the air. Dust coated his tongue. Wind blasted his face. A second cart closed in from behind. A soldier shouted and whipped his horse into a gallop. Side-by-side they were racing, carts roaring in flashes of light.

  Ramses came back to himself, letting the sensations fade.

  He thought back to that terrible afternoon, when he'd drawn Osiris, God of the Underworld.

  Slowly, he began to sketch. He started with a pair of sandals, then strong legs and a broad chest. His hand shook, but still he kept going. He told himself it was to prove his powers were false. But another part of him longed for a confrontation. When he came to forming the God of the Underworld's head, his resolve faltered.

  He bit his lip.

  With rapid strokes, instead of drawing Osiris, he drew Horus. The falcon-headed god of protection. The god of the sky, whose eyes were the sun and the moon. The son of Osiris. The keeper of secret wisdom.

  Ramses didn't know what he'd do if Horus came to life. Demand answers? Ask him if Osiris killed his father as a punishment? Was it all Ramses' fault, like the priest said?

  Staring down, he felt a faint flicker of hope mixed with terror. But the lines remained silent. Still and empty of life.

  The crunch of footsteps yanked him from his reverie. Too late, he caught a whiff of Aunt Zalika’s perfume. He gulped, cursing himself for not being more careful, and spun around.

  Like the fangs of a serpent, her fingers caught his ear. "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing," he said quietly.

  Her eyes cut to the ground. They widened as they swept over the scene of racing carts. They stopped at the sight of the life-size Horus. A shimmer radiated across the god's chest. It spread upward, into Horus's face. The god's falcon shaped head looked softer, almost feather-like.

  A flicker of life shone up from the depths of those eyes made of sand.

  Horus seemed to fix his gaze on Aunt Zalika.

  For a moment, she looked more amazed than angry.

  Stupidly, Ramses held on to the hope she’d forgotten the priest’s words. Could she see what he was seeing? Would she accuse him of playing with dark magic? He never should have done this! He needed to shift her attention elsewhere, fast. He motioned to the racing carts.