24 Bones (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

S
am observed the boy from the same rocky hide she had used as cover a week before. The boy looked back at her, his eyes wide and legs rooted.

Black hair downed his upper lip and cheeks. The shaman’s son was close to becoming a man, an age when the Christian Jesus had argued with the moneychangers in a temple and when Horus had come to power. But the boy’s shoulders sloped and his lips stuck out petulantly.

A falcon called, and Sam glanced up. She hid from it. At first three falcons had tailed her, and then two. The last still circled and screeched.

A woman stepped from the hut. She was tall and slim with a neck like a swan. A man followed. His pronounced cheekbones slanted at an angle equal to his sharp nose and he smiled up at Sam. Sam slid around the rock and picked her way down the hard-packed path.

“Peace be upon you.” The man stammered over the Arabic introduction. Sam inclined her head and shook the man’s hand. His grip was warm and assured. The woman hugged Sam, a lingering embrace scented with ginger and cinnamon. Tightness about the woman’s eyes suggested she neared tears.

“And upon you be peace,” Sam stated, unable to share the shaman’s smile or the hug. She had returned through a mass of graves. In her nostrils, the woman’s spicy scent competed with the smell of fresh churned soil. A shovel leaned against the a mud wall. The man turned to his son and cupped his hands together, holding them palms-up to Sam. The boy stepped forward.

“Zarab.” The shaman touched the boy’s chest.

“Sam,” Sam replied. Beneath the shine of the boy’s burnished eyes, no fire burned. They were as vacuous as the night sky. Sam briefly shut her eyes. Her two-day journey had punished horse and rider. By sight, she knew the boy was no prophet.

“I seek a boy, a man, a powerful man, but mute and deaf,” Sam said. Her thoughts drifted to Tariq again, but he was not mute, only deaf.

His smile gone, the shaman placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come.”

He shooed a goat and pushed Sam’s head down as they stooped to enter the hut. The interior was larger than the exterior hinted. Rolled mats of woven grass leaned against a mud-brick wall. A curtain ran the length of the wall opposite shelves of metal pots and bowls. A crude child’s doll and a hollowed tree stump for mashing root vegetables and berries into pulp and jam completed the single room’s furnishings. Static from a small black radio showered the room. He clicked it off.

The shaman motioned for Sam to stand still. She hunched under the low thatch while the man pulled a shelf from the wall. He set one end of the wood plank on top of the hollowed stump and the other on a cinderblock drawn from under the curtain. As he worked, the shaman murmured a pleasant earthy hum. Sam sensed him draw from both the Void and the Fullness, but without realizing it, as if he merely collected dust-motes shed by the two powers.

The shaman stepped back to inspect his creation and grunted, directing with his hands for Sam to step on the plank. Sam had to squat to climb upon it. It wobbled. When she had found her balance, she looked up and stared at the yellowed curtain. The man tugged the drapery aside.

Two mirrors angled toward her. In the right, Sam stood straight surrounded by a white backdrop. Her eyes shone as molten gold fanned white hot by wind that tugged at her reflection’s robes. In the left-hand mirror, David stood, surrounded by darkness. His eyes glowed sick orange-yellow.

David scanned from left to right, gaze sweeping like a lighthouse beam. Suddenly, he stared at Sam. Coal eyes flared, and his mouth twisted. Lightning flashed. The mirrors shattered. Glass blew outward and Sam’s face erupted with fire.

The shaman cried out as Sam toppled backwards. Her back hit a corner of the plank, and then she rolled onto the dusty floor. Glass drove further into her flesh. Her hand went to her eye, the eyelids strained to close around a shard. It was large enough for her to grab its tip. She jerked it free, and a stream of blood followed the fragment. Pain brought tears to her good eye and blurred what remained of her vision.

In her hazy sight, the shaman’s cheeks and brow dripped red from embedded glass. He gripped both sides of Sam’s head. She tensed, but his gentle fingers slowly excavated her face of glass. Sam tasted iron as blood dribbled over her lips, and she smelled the crisp scent of ozone.

When the man was done, Sam pressed a cloth against her injured eye and brushed away a persistent, bloody tear. The wound throbbed. She started to help the shaman with his wounds, but the man dropped to the floor and knelt in glass, muttering. His voice wavered. Sam assumed he spoke in one of the fragmented dialects of the Sudanese, but finally the repeated word came clear.

“Wedjat, Wedjat,” he chanted. Sam touched her eye, the Eye of Horus, lost in battle to Seth. Wedjat.

She shook her head. “No,” she said.

She stumbled out of the hut, unable to accept what had occurred. A wave of light struck. She raised her hand to peer between splayed fingers. Zarab stood before her, but where before she had seen only the vacuity of his gaze, she now understood its vast depth. When she stared into them, she was drawn, hurtling into space to skim the edges of Fullness. She shut her eye and pushed at her cheeks with her palms. She felt stretched taut.

When she reopened her eye, a golden nimbus surrounded Zarab. The radiance accentuated the black hollow of his gaze. Sam walked to the boy and took his hands into her own. The abyss of his pupils remained empty and dark, but Sam understood what was destined to fill them.

The corruptible had put on incorruption. Zarab must put on immortality.

The prophet was found. The prophecy restored.

Chapter Thirty-two

A
lthough his arthritis ached, Pharaoh was pleased. He had left his Cairene lair frustrated at the delay, but even in this century, transactions as large and as strange as these were not conducted over the phone. People wanted to
shake hands and look him in the eye
. Some of his meetings required a personal touch, those that were evil rather than commercial. The Grand Wizard of the Klu Klux Klan had impressed the most. Few men oozed such strength in Void. He reminded Pharaoh of his younger years.

The Al-Qaeda, the Al-Jihad, and the Shining Path had each agreed to his terms. Some, seeing his vision, accepted mindshare, some took money. The commercial groups—such as I Ching Enterprise—took a great deal more money.

Before
the man called Pharaoh arrived, Lee Chin cast his dried yarrow stalks across I Ching Enterprise’s boardroom table. The company provided fortune-telling services. Lee had attempted to divine information about the strange visitor. A colorful painting of Fu Hsi stared down at the result. The hexagram looked like a neat domino, but with lines instead of dots.

“Hmph.” Lee’s grunt echoed around the oval table’s ring of empty chairs. The first hexagram,
Great Invigorating
, combined the trigrams
Heaven
and
Thunder
. It hadn’t told him much, other than to be respectful. It wasn’t often that he was forced into sales calls, but it wasn’t often he could make a ten million-dollar profit in an hour. I Ching wasn’t a good company, or a bad company, but it was a profitable company, as the black lacquered table, the gilt Chinese screens and fifty-story view over Hong Kong harbor attested.

Now, after the meeting, Lee cast a second hexagram.

“If Pharaoh wants my company to aim a thousand diviners at his home in Cairo and cast their sticks with it in mind—so be it,” he said. He reported to a board of directors and to shareholders who demanded profits and dividends, but the mammoth red-haired man with a pale face and sunglasses had bothered him.

He formed the hexagram by dividing the forty-nine yarrow stalks into two piles and then pulling four from each until the resulting lines revealed
yin
,
yang
, or their
old
counterparts. Finally, the hexagram
Calling Pheasant
, which combined the trigrams
Radiance
and
Field
, was marked out on the sheet of paper beside that of
Great Invigorating
. Radiance was the trigram once used on the Empire of Vietnam’s flag, a representation of the phoenix. Usually it was auspicious, but Lee frowned.

The gray at Lee’s temples was earned. The company had benefited from his instincts; he left little to chance, although chance itself was the philosophy of I Ching. Power had emanated from Pharaoh, but not as the radiance that the trigram suggested, more like an odor. During the meeting, Lee had even resisted breathing and brought his starched cuffs to his nose to inhale.

The meeting had been short. Lee had agreed to the terms of sale, in part due to the lucrative offer, but mostly to hurry the man out. The terms were simple. The I Ching masters were not to divine on a problem or cast on some relationship. They were merely to focus their minds on Cairo at a specific time in return for ten million dollars.

Lee Chin looked down at the hexagram. Another variation on its meaning was
Brightness Hiding
and the trigrams
Fire
and
Earth
.

Chapter Thirty-three

I
n Coptic Cairo, Askari paced the narthex of the Hanging Church. Axe wounds gouged walls inlaid with ivory and wood scrollwork. Splinters from the broken wooden doors were still scattered beneath pews despite an effort to clean and repair.

Tara’s suggestion to return to Cairo had been good. Faris required medical attention and the Copts would surely support the companions in their need. But despite their ancient ties, the Copts and the companions did not converse regularly. Askari had never been high priest and had never participated in any meetings, however infrequent. He was about to meet the public face of his secret brotherhood.

A screen slid shut within the nave. Stooped and white bearded, Pope Shagar stomped down the right-hand aisle and held out his hands.

“High Priest,” the Pope said. “Greetings to thee, Doorkeeper of Horus, who is at the portal of Osiris.”

Askari stood in stunned silence, his hands clasped in the aged pope’s grip. “Pope Shagar,” he croaked. “I apologize for my rudeness. I am blessed by your presence … Your Holiness.”

Pope Shagar’s mouth split into a tobacco-stained smile. “A companion with respect? Please, call me Shagar.”

Askari followed him down the aisle, past vaulted piers, and through the screen to enter a domed apse with a gilded icon carrier. Behind the icon carrier filled with the relics of Al Moallaka stood a small door. With a hand at his elbow, Pope Shagar guided Askari inside. Candles lit the small room. Several ostrich eggs, the Coptic symbol of resurrection, hung in ornament.

“Greetings to thee, Doorkeeper of Horus, who is at the portal of Osiris,” many voices welcomed as he entered. Shagar introduced Askari to each of the bishops in the room. The incense-laden air was moist with the breath of the men. Perspiration shone on their foreheads. A crucifix hung over a table strewn with the implements of Eucharist: silver bowl, chalice, and incense burner. In the corner’s shroud of darkness hunkered a figure. Askari peered into the gloomy niche. They were not introduced.

“Your Holinesses.” Askari cast his gaze to the stone floor. He could see between the floor’s blocks to large palm trunks, and beyond to the depths of the tower’s foundation. Suspended in midair, the group was well isolated. No one would hear. “I bring the gravest of news.” He trembled. “The Shemsu Hor is nearly obliterated. Six companions remain, including me.”

Askari, still standing, studied each of the seated men. Most were old, older than even the remaining Shemsu Hor. No one reacted to his words.

“The Spine of Osiris is captured,” Askari continued. “I have little doubt that all pieces have been assembled and that the companions sent to reclaim them no longer live.” He could not confirm this, but Faris and Tara had both said that the Osiris was complete. “The appointed time of prophecy approaches. In less than one week, the army of Shemsu Seth will take the Great Pyramid. Their leader, Pharaoh, will wield the Osiris and become as a god. Thousands of hounds and crocodiles, bred and trained to destroy, will be unleashed on Cairo. The Fullness is crumbling. The companions are gone. We beg of your help.”

Askari crouched on a small wooden stool and clasped and unclasped his hands as he waited.

A man of Askari’s age sighed and said, “This Fullness, we have trouble understanding the threat.”

The figure in the corner groaned and shifted.

Askari blinked. Fatigue rounded his shoulders.

“Let me explain, Askari,” Pope Shagar said with a tender smile. “We have worked for centuries to build our institution. We are almost ten million strong, we cannot simply—”

“You don’t wish to support the Shemsu Hor,” Askari stated. He noted that two of the bishops opened their mouths, but a stern stare from Shagar held their tongues.

“We will do what we can—”

“I need men.” The stool fell over behind Askari as he stood. He looked to each of the clergymen. No one except Shagar met his eyes, but he sensed the veiled figure looking at him. He reached for the Fullness, but drew back when he brushed against the cankerous skin. Shagar held his stare until Askari turned on his heel.

“A church must stand united, Askari,” Shagar said as Askari ducked to leave the inner chamber and stepped onto the red carpet of the apse.

“I thought we were part of that church, Pope Shagar,” Askari replied through clenched teeth.

Shagar followed and shut the chamber door firmly. “I have something that I wish to give you,” he whispered and moved to stand before the reliquary. From the folds of his robes he produced a key.

“Do you know the Golden Legend?” the Pope asked and inserted the key.

Askari nodded, breathing heavily through his nose. “The legend of Saint George slaying the dragon. But this is not his reliquary,” Askari replied, “is it?”

Shagar shrugged. “The woman, Samiya. Sister stated that she is not with you. She doesn’t believe her role?”

Askari eyed Shagar. “Sister—you mean Tara.” The Pope nodded. “Do you believe me, Shagar?”

“In the legend, a dragon lived near a lake in Libya.” Shagar ignored Askari’s question. “Armies had broken their backs upon the dragon’s teeth, and the populace sacrificed sheep and maidens in return for safety from its jaws. Saint George entered the country on the day that a princess was to be eaten. He prayed to God, riding to battle against the serpent. He killed the dragon with a single blow.”

The tumblers clicked in the lock, and Shagar opened the lid. Inside was a bolt of red silk. The pope made the sign of the cross.

“The church has grown beyond magic and mysticism, Askari. It was necessary to reach a mainstream audience. That choice was not without loss, but a few hold true to our past.” He unfurled the silk. Within the first fold was a long blade attached to a staff, as if part of a pike. The blade was etched in gold and shaped like a wing—a scimitar. The second fold contained its twin.

Shagar removed both and fitted their ends together to form a staff with winged blades at either side.

“The lance of Saint George,” Askari said. He took the proffered weapon in both hands. It was lighter than he expected.

“Give it to Samiya should she fulfill the prophecy.” Shagar lifted three aten, engraved like the twin scimitars. “These are for you.”

“You do believe.” Askari squinted and stretched for the Fullness, ignoring its illness. In his palm the three aten slowly lifted. He watched their gold reflect in Shagar’s wide eyes. “You must help.”

The three aten slowly rotated. Shagar’s gaze never left them, but the light of his eyes diminished.

“A church must appear united, Askari. Ten million believers depend on it. I support the decision to abandon mysticism. I prefer the salvation of the many to the power of a few,” he replied.

“How can you—” Askari began. The lid of the reliquary shut, and the bang resounded in the hull of the ceiling. The aten thudded and then rolled across the heavy carpet.

“We are not an army. We are only faithful. I cannot risk confusing and losing that faith.” The pope departed.

Alone in the nave of the church, Askari stood holding the sundiscs and staff. Twisting the blades counter to one another, he unlocked and separated the shafts, each three feet in length. He tucked them beneath his armpit and walked down the aisle. At the end sat the veiled figure from the meeting, motionless under a black cowl.

“Sit, Shemsu Hor,” she said when he reached her.

Askari stopped but remained standing.

“The Sisters of Isis are with you.” Her voice grated with the rust of age.

“Who are you?”

“The Mother Isis. I am the scorpion, the daughter of Re,” she said.

Askari trembled. “Your actions killed my brothers,” he whispered. The haft of the scimitar felt warm in his hand, sipping his anger and begging use. “And you betrayed yourselves.”

“Together we can still defeat them, Companion.”

“How can I trust you?” His voice cracked.

“The balance must be kept. Trust the balance, nothing more.”

Askari’s mouth pursed, and he lowered the scimitar. “You’re willing to help the companions to protect the balance.”

The figure nodded her head. “The Shemsu Seth have our portion of the spine as well, Askari. Good must wane before it can wax.”

Askari contemplated the sundiscs; he rubbed the metal against metal.

“Never,” he said and walked out and down the church steps.

In the church pew, the woman shook and finally a cackle broke from her lips. Her laughter rose to the rafters like a crow’s raucous caw. When she settled, she said: “You don’t have a choice, Companion. You have no choice.”