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

  "Good. Fine. Now move."

  "Especially since my father is trying to get results. Did you know last night he and the other sculptors carved ears on Ptah?"

  "Wait. What?" Despite everything, Neferet started to giggle. "They carved ears on Ptah?" She pictured the ancient village statue with his new ears. How had no one ever noticed the craftsmen’s own patron god—their protector—was earless?

  "What’s so funny?" Layla demanded.

  "Ptah hasn’t heard a word we’ve said for centuries!"

  Layla clenched her fists. "It’s not funny."

  "No, it’s not," Neferet said. "Paneb is gone. And all you care about is gossiping about my father. Well I’m sick of it. Now get out of my way."

  She charged at Layla, who jumped aside with a yelp.

  Layla shouted after her, "That’s right, run! And keep running right out of town."

  Neferet turned. "Why should I?" She laughed. "Our problems are over. Ptah will finally hear my father’s prayers."

  She took off, sprinting.

  Shouting at Layla was easy. But the truth was, replacing Paneb was not. Even if Ptah could hear, he couldn’t just create a boy out of sand. And searching for an apprentice outside the village was impossible, not to mention the idea broke centuries of rules and tradition.

  The alley walls wrapped her in silence. Only her footfalls disturbed the dry air. She rounded the last corner and shot down the lane toward her door. Next to her front stairs, the clepsydra—the water clock that kept the hours—read half past five. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Dinner wasn’t ready. Her lessons weren’t done. And her father would be home any minute.

  Ignoring her dusty feet, she dashed into the kitchen. Ribbons of fading light gleamed through the slatted roof over the oven. She cracked a flint and lit the coals. Smoke curled up and escaped into the evening air. She shoved a half-cooked pot of vegetable stew inside.

  Panting, she ran to her writing supplies.

  She threw herself down and yanked open a chest to fetch her ink, brush and a shard of ostraca to write on. Using the chest as her table, she mixed the ink. In her hurry, black drops spattered her dress.

  "Flea-dung!" she said.

  She swiped at the spots. They smeared.

  "Double flea-dung!"

  The sun sank below the rooftop and a cold shadow fell. She had to get this done. She snatched up her brush and began to write hieratic script. Messy hieratic, but hieratic nonetheless.

  Learning to write is a great privilege, her father always said.

  Which is why she’d decided that privilege was just a polite way of saying huge chore. Take her father for example: Head Scribe, most important man in the Place of Truth, and therefore the most privileged. Privileged to have an irritable stomach, insomnia and a short temper. And now that privilege had landed him in big trouble.

  Definitely privileged.

  Footsteps sounded. Neferet toppled the ink. It spilled over everything. She groaned as the door opened.

  "Neferet?" her father called, his voice gruff.

  She ducked behind the chest to blot the ostraca shard. "Right here! Doing my lessons!"

  "Ah. Good." He slammed the door on the day’s heat, brushed the dust from his feet with his calloused hands, and headed for the kitchen. She could hear him banging around, filling a cup with water from a jug.

  She went to the doorway and hovered there, clutching the shard and trying to cover her ink-stained dress. She shoved her fringe of black hair from her eyes.

  "How was your day?"

  He grunted. His face was grim.

  "Oh father, what’s going to happen?"

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. "That’s not your worry."

  "It’s not your fault Paneb left!"

  "I said, it’s not your worry."

  She recalled the guard’s words. "Is it true, you went to Thebes? Is someone there going to help us find a new apprentice?"

  His cheeks flared. "Stop asking. You’re being stubborn."

  "Like you," she shot back.

  For a moment, his rage looked ready to boil over. He glared skyward, as if willing the gods to grant him patience. "Ah. What did I expect, raising you without a mother?" He took a slug of water, and sank heavily onto a stool. "It’s complicated."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning we’ve been forced to take radical measures. Measures Tui suggested."

  Old Tui? The painter? Neferet’s breath quickened. She’d been desperate to help after Paneb left; yet, when she’d gone to Tui with her idea, he’d looked more than doubtful. He’d looked shocked.

  "What is it?" she said. "What’s this great plan?"

  She listened, stunned, as her father outlined her idea—her idea—word for word. Softly she said, "Amazing."

  He nodded. "It won’t be easy. We need a boy who can learn quickly, who can keep our secrets alive. Tui has always had my respect. This plan might just save us."

  She bit her lip to keep from shouting the truth. My plan!

  "Now, show me your hieratic."

  Reluctantly, she handed over the ostraca.

  He took it and his face grew dark. "Neferet, you’re smarter than this." He began to massage the bridge between his heavy brows.

  She stared at the ground.

  "Once," he said. "Just once, you could try to make me proud."

  Suddenly, she smelled smoke. She ran to the oven. The odor of burnt vegetables filled her nostrils.

  Chapter Seven

  Aunt Zalika couldn’t tell him what to do! Ramses fumed.

  But the truth was, she could.

  He swore at the blazing cuts on his back and straightened up, scythe in hand. Four hours had passed; the sun lay low on the horizon. Across the field, a worker bent to lift a basket of grain; his silhouette looked like a drawing, framed against the border of wheat and sky.

  "Sound the gong. Day’s over," Sobek shouted.

  The blade sharpener stood and hammered the gong with the handle of a scythe. As it rang out, Sobek tromped across the wheat stubble to Ramses’ side.

  "Shame to stop," Sobek said. "We had a good rhythm going."

  Ramses nodded, but for once, the thrill of harvesting the gold wheat was gone.

  "It’s a fine crop," Sobek said.

  "It is."

  "Best we’ve seen in years."

  "You’re right."

  "Seems funny somehow, doesn’t it." Sobek plucked a head of grain and rolled it in his palms. The man’s hands were like Ramses’ father’s hands: strong enough, Ramses had thought, to hold up the world. To make the sun rise and fall. To be there for him always, season after season until eternity.

  Ramses took the grain and crushed it.

  It was just wheat. And there was a lot of it. Almost a whole field of it still to cut. And for what? So Aunt Zalika and Uncle Hay could buy jeweled collars and sleep in his parents’ bed?

  Aunt Zalika had promised to protect him as if he were her son. But she had a son, and he didn’t sleep in a windowless storage cell. He slept in Ramses’ old room.

  A farm worker, loaded down with baskets, stopped in front of Ramses and Sobek. "Your cousin sent for you," he told Ramses.

  "What does he want?"

  "How would I know? You’re to go to his room. He said it’s urgent."

  Urgent? What could Sepi want that was urgent? Ramses glanced at Sobek. He remembered Aunt Zalika's words—that Sobek was supposed to keep them apart.

  "I better not go," Ramses said.

  The farm manager shrugged. "If it it's urgent . . . See what he wants. Just don't get caught."

  "I won't."

  Ramses ran across the fields, past the fishpond, and into the sunny courtyard. Keeping an eye out for his aunt and uncle, he entered the large, clay brick house. Its familiar coolness settled on his skin.

  Aunt Zalika’s screech drew him up short. It echoed from the kitchen where she was scolding someone—about what, Ramses didn’t wait to hear. He darted down the hall a
nd stopped at the third door. The handle was stuck, like always. He gave it its usual wiggle and the door opened.

  Inside, the dry heat felt stifling. A trickle of sweat slid down his neck.

  On the far side, where his bed once lay, stood a polished desk. Ramses’ cousin sat there with his tutor. Despite the heat, Sepi wore a linen blanket around his shoulders. He turned.

  "What took so long?" Sepi demanded, his eyes bright in contrast to his pale cheeks.

  "I work, that’s what took so long. What’s so urgent?"

  "Hold on." Sepi waved a trembling hand at his tutor. "We’re finished here."

  Ramses waited while the tutor packed his things. Outside an ox lowed; a cat appeared at the window and quickly disappeared. Finally, the man bowed his way out.

  "And close the door!" Sepi shouted after him.

  The man’s footsteps died away down the hall and Sepi shot him a grin.

  "Got any food around here?" Ramses said.

  "You won’t care about eating when you hear what I have to tell you."

  "Want to bet?" He headed for the chest at the foot of the bed.

  Sure enough, inside lay a plate piled high with spiced beef, dates, and a chunk of bread. His cousin’s lunch, untouched as usual. Ramses dug in, closing his eyes with relief as he chewed a greasy mouthful of roasted meat.

  Sepi watched, his thin legs tucked up to his chest. It was funny how Sepi liked to watch him eat. His cousin sat on the only chair Ramses had ever seen. The rest of the household used low stools or simply sat on the floor to dine, work, or relax.

  "The best part," Sepi said, "is mother’s face when she finds my plate empty again. Complete confusion. I swear it almost kills me not to laugh. Poor thing."

  Ramses didn’t share the poor thing sentiment, but he couldn’t help grinning. "You should eat. Although I sure don’t mind covering for you."

  Red hues of dusk streamed through the openings in the vaulted ceiling. It radiated in bands across the bed, which consisted of a luxurious woven mat stretched over a wooden frame with panther shaped legs.

  Ramses sank to the floor and leaned against the bed's footboard, still holding the empty plate in his dusty arms. Feeling pleasantly human again, he said, "So what’s this urgent thing?"

  "You have to guess." Sepi pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "Since you cut me off so rudely."

  Ramses’ grin widened. "Okay, did you hear it from your tutor?"

  "I did."

  "Which tutor is he again?"

  "Mathematics. But that’s not important."

  "Mathematics, huh. Sounds hard."

  "It is." Sepi frowned. "But forget that."

  "So do you like him? Your tutor?"

  "Ramses! You’re not playing the game!"

  "But I am," Ramses replied, laughing. "And looks like I’m winning."

  Sepi stood on his frail legs and inched to Ramses’ side. He grabbed Ramses’ nut-brown wrist and shook it. "You’ll never believe it." He looked more excited than Ramses had ever seen. "There was an announcement in Thebes this morning, the Chief Scribe himself—"

  "Wait." Ramses cut him off. "You had me running here because of what some scribe said?"

  "Just listen."

  "I’m dying to. I bet it’s really interesting."

  "Stop being so hard-headed for once. I'm not talking about a scribe who writes letters for hire. I'm talking about something different. Who’s the only scribe you care about?"

  Ramses yawned, sleepy after all that food. "None. Don’t know any."

  "Maybe not in person . . . But you've heard of this one." His cold fingers tightened around Ramses’ wrist. "Come on, what’s the only scribe you’re interested in?"

  A scribe he cared about? A thought flickered on the edge of his mind; a thought he couldn’t quite catch. A draft brushed like fingers across his neck.

  The room was nearly dark. The air felt static, as if a storm were about to break. Soon Ra, the sun god, would drop below the horizon and begin his nightly voyage through the underworld. Ramses glanced to the window. The fiery disk hung on the horizon.

  "I told you, none."

  As he said it, a bolt of crimson shot across the sky. Straight and narrow, the beam surrounded him with blazing light. Ramses looked down to see his whole body glowing bright gold. When he looked at Sepi, his cousin’s mouth was agape.

  And then the light was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  "Did you see that?" Sepi gasped. "What was that? That light?"

  "What scribe?" Ramses demanded.

  In a low voice, Sepi said, "The Chief Scribe—the governor—of the Place of Truth."

  "The Place of Truth!" Just whispering its mysterious name sent what felt like a rush of spider-feet down his spine. But maybe Sepi was wrong. The governor of the craftsmen’s village never appeared in public. "You’re sure?"

  Sepi nodded.

  Ramses' heart skipped a beat. The annual Nile inundation wasn’t expected for weeks. So why did it feel like the gods were about to unleash a flood this moment—a flood so huge it would wash away the foundations of this house?

  "Hurry up!" Ramses said. "What did he say?"

  "According to my tutor—you’re really not going to believe this—they’re looking for an apprentice."

  "An apprentice? He said that? Are you sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Why? From the outside? Why would they?"

  "I guess they need to. Apparently their numbers have been dropping for years. Their women are having fewer and fewer children. There's only half a dozen boys, all of whom have positions as sculptors and gilders and the like. And there's a handful of girls, who of course can't be craftsmen."

  "Well, what kind of apprentice?" Please don’t let it be a woodcarver, or a stone-mason, Ramses thought.

  "You don’t need to worry," Sepi said. "So wipe that horrible look off your face. They need a painter. Someone who can draw."

  A breathless silence filled the room.

  Then Ramses grinned and stood up. "Place of Truth, huh?" He started to laugh. "You seriously had me!" He lit the oil lamp on Sepi’s desk.

  Sepi didn’t answer.

  Ramses glanced at him over the flame. "It is a joke, right?"

  Silence.

  "Are you . . . for real?" The lamp slid from Ramses’ hands. He caught it just before it crashed and brought Aunt Zalika running. "By the gods, do you realize what this means? I could apply!"

  Sepi rolled his eyes. "Yes. That’s the whole point."

  Ramses’ thoughts came to a halt. Apply? And if by some miracle he won the position, leave his parents’ farm to Aunt Zalika? Abandon it to her like his parents and his past meant nothing?

  "My tutor tells me they’re holding an examination in three weeks. At the Place of Truth," Sepi said. "Outside their gate."

  "And anyone can enter?"

  "Any young man. All you have to do is bring a sample drawing on a sheet of papyrus."

  "Hold on—hold on," Ramses said. "On papyrus?" He groaned.

  The expensive sheets, made of reed fibers woven in a crisscross pattern, then dampened and pounded flat until dry, were hard to come by. Nearly impossible to come by on a farm. Even Sepi, who had tutors, never used it.

  "How am I going to find papyrus?" Ramses said.

  Sepi shrugged. "I’ll order my tutor to bring some."

  "Your mother can’t find out," Ramses said suddenly. "About any of it."

  "Too late. She heard this morning."

  Ramses turned to the dark window. "Then forget getting me papyrus. Nothing gets past her." The lamp guttered; his reflection shrank and bobbed against the walls. "She’d kill me if I applied. But she’ll want you to. Bet my life on it."

  "Number one, I can’t draw. Number two, I’m dying. No one wants a dying apprentice."

  "Don’t be morbid."

  "But you’re right," Sepi said. "Mother sent a courier to the capitol, to Memphis, to fetch some famous drawing tutor. Two weeks to get him.
That leaves a week to mold me into an artist." His face twisted into an ironic grin. "Typical mother."

  Ramses let the news sink in.

  Aunt Zalika was bringing a famous tutor all the way from Memphis? He was going to train Sepi to draw? Sepi was supposed to learn a skill like that in just two short weeks? What kind of man would take on a job like that? Either the tutor was a good salesman to convince Zalika it was possible. Or he had some magic technique that was worth all the gold in the world.

  Something else flared in Ramses' chest. Fury. Aunt Zalika had beaten him to make him stop drawing. The priest had called him cursed. And now they wanted Sepi to do it? Horrible jealousy rose in him and he tried to shove it away. It wasn't Sepi's fault.

  "Mother's sure this apprenticeship is my calling," Sepi said. "She kept telling me how prestigious it would be for me to get in. How the villagers are honored as Pharaoh’s own royal men. How they have every luxury, and are pampered with the best of everything." He laughed. "That’s all she talked about all afternoon." He sank back in his chair, looking suddenly exhausted.

  Ramses thought about his aunt’s words this morning. Now it made sense. Of course she hated his drawings. Of course she wanted to keep the news of the exam from him. He was competition, a threat to her own son.

  A cough contorted Sepi’s narrow frame. He bent double and crammed his fist to his mouth. Red flecks spattered his skin.

  Stricken, Ramses ran to the bedside for a linen cloth.

  "Here," he gasped.

  Sepi fumbled to take it from him, his fingers cold as death. Ramses' heart clenched at the sight of his cousin. Don't you dare take him, too! he wanted to scream. Instead, he stayed silent, willing strength into Sepi's weak form. Another cough racked Sepi's body. Ramses barely caught him from falling as he lurched forward.

  The door flew open.

  Dark and towering, Aunt Zalika stood rooted to a spot in the doorway. Ramses held Sepi by the shoulders, the bloody rag clamped to his cousin’s mouth.

  "Murderer!" she screamed. "Let him go!"

  Ramses backed away.

  She flew at her son. "Are you hurt?" she cried. "Did he hurt you?"

  Sepi started to speak, but whatever he wanted to say was lost to a coughing fit.