Another Pan (16 page)
Authors: Daniel Nayeri
Darkness isn’t confined to one place. It can’t be held down by brick walls, by alabaster statues, or even by flesh and bone. The dark inhabits vaster regions. It searches for purpose. Sometimes, one home is hospitable, and so the dark lingers, reinfecting the same space again and again.
In the labyrinthine corridors of the underworld, the new school nurse walked alone, as comfortable as if she were walking in any ordinary living room. She examined the marks left on her home — a fiery lake, the discarded rubble — her unchanging eye surveying the gloomy replicas of a happier place. Now she, too, could leave her mark on the world above. She coughed again and wished that the intruders would leave her alone to recover, to gain back her old strength. She wasn’t used to being the one chased . . . the one on the defensive.
Below, the darkness walked, circling the water, contemplating the intruders who had entered here. Sometimes she moved upstairs and watched from among them, seemingly an ordinary person, a sick mortal body — fallible, forgettable — walking in the midst of people who thought themselves
special
.
Above, students rushed through Marlowe’s halls, unaware of why the air felt heavier, why images looked murkier, and why happy thoughts were so much harder to summon.
When Sanford’s dad said it was lights out, we all got our sleeping bags, and it was a little weird since Rory was there and he’s younger than us by a year. But he’s still bigger than me, so I said “seniority” and put my bag next to Sanford’s, but Rory just pushed it over and put his down in between. I was gonna punch him on the shoulder, but he and Sanford play on the same football team, and Sanford says he hits the hardest out of everyone. It didn’t matter anyway ’cause we decided to circle all the bags together and take turns telling stories with the flashlight. Everybody agreed mine was the best because I told an old Egyptian legend about real mummies. They all said Egyptology is super cool
.
Everything in our first apartment was magical and had a story. It was only me and Mom and Dad (before we moved to the Marlowe house, and got rid of all the furniture, and John was born). I’d say, “Mommy, tell me about the monkey table,” and she’d sigh (’cause she’d told me a hundred times). Everything was oddly shaped and multicolored and one of a kind. I thought it made us a special family. When Mom would tell me about the caribou lamp, I’d imagine them adventuring together all over Africa, finding lost cities, jumping out of boats, and kissing. I used to imagine that when Dad’s work at the museum was over, the three of us would pick up where they left off. I’d put on a safari hat and Mom would get out of bed
.
“And so, if you think about it, ancient Egypt isn’t all that different from a modern high school, like Marlowe,” said Professor Darling during his next lecture to his class.
From all the way in the back row, he could hear Marla’s sarcastic commentary and the snickering kids around her. John and Wendy were running late to class again, so there was no reason to care about the other students’ sarcasm . . .
nobody around to be embarrassed by their old man
. The professor sighed and continued with his analogy.
“For example, the Bedouin were nomadic, fierce warriors with honor codes that have lasted to this day. That’s a lot like these
gangsta
types I see after school.” He put
gangsta
in air quotes and made every effort to pronounce it the way he had heard John do. “They seem to have a code for
posers,
the uninitiated who try to infiltrate their ranks, versus the
dawgs
(more air quotes), who have been cleared to
roll
with them.” By the time the professor had reached his fourth set of finger quotes, Marla’s clique was already busting a gut. The professor was encouraged. He knew that they were making fun, but they were listening for a change. And what good teacher wasn’t willing to make a fool of himself if it meant making history accessible and fun?
“They would ride camels, and later Arabian horses, across the Sahara, able to strike like lightning. I guess this part doesn’t have a
direct
corollary, since you kids don’t ambush each other at water wells, but it could be similar to bicycle gangs.”
“I pantsed some kid while he was drinking from the water fountain,” said Marla.
“Or that,” said Professor Darling. “But you couldn’t
pants
a Bedouin, since they wear beautiful long robes.”
Marla spoke up again. “So they’re basically the dudes from
The Mummy Returns
?”
Professor Darling thought about it for a second. “Yes, basically. Except they don’t have English accents.”
The door of the classroom suddenly flew open, and Wendy and John Darling came stumbling through. “Sorry we’re late,” said Wendy, dashing to her seat. John wrestled with the straps of his backpack in an attempt to get settled as fast as possible. They had spent the passing period back at the exhibit, trying to figure out what they had done to make it work. But no matter how many of the previous day’s tactics they repeated, the door didn’t open. The charcoal-black eye was gone (which seemed strange to Wendy, since it had been etched into the wood), and the door to the broom closet was closed (something neither of them remembered doing). The professor coughed into a fist, then fiddled with his notes, then adjusted his glasses.
“All right, well, we’ll discuss this later . . .” said the professor.
Marla said something under her breath.
The professor added, “In detention.”
Wendy looked up from her book. “What?”
“You heard me, Wendy. You were tardy, so I’ll see you in detention. You too, John.”
“But we’re
never
late,” protested John.
“We were working on
your
exhibit,” said Wendy.
“Don’t worry, welfare girl,” said Marla, “you can do my homework in detention. How’s twenty bucks a page?” When the professor wasn’t looking, Marla flicked a rolled-up twenty at the back of Wendy’s head. Marla’s friends laughed. Wendy whipped around. Marla whispered, “It’s all right, you can pick it up. Go ahead.”
“Try and shut up when you’re not spoken to, Marla,” said Wendy, almost shouting.
“Wendy Darling!” said the professor. The entire class swerved back toward Professor Darling. Having their complete attention was jarring to the professor. He stammered, “That’s — that’s enough. Where were we . . . ?”
“The syllabus says something about another of the
five legends
. Perhaps you were discussing the
Book of Gates
?” Simon had slipped into the room in the wake of the commotion. He nodded respectfully to the professor. “I imagine you were getting ready to lecture on the myths and legends surrounding nomadic groups, such as the Bedouin. It’s all socioreligious hullabaloo, if you ask me.”
The professor was almost relieved to see Simon. If anything, he would make sure they stayed focused on the syllabus. But Wendy and John seemed even more flustered than before.
“Quite right,” said the professor. “But myths aren’t necessarily untrue just because they’re myths, Simon. They are just stories that our worldview hasn’t made room for . . . yet.”
With that, Professor Darling was back on track. When he spoke about supernatural subjects, it was hard for people to take him seriously. He seemed so much like an old dreamer caught up in his own fairy tales. But since the events of yesterday, Wendy and John would never doubt again. In fact, they were listening more intently than ever, hoping for some information about the magical things that had happened to them in the last day. Partway through the professor’s speech, Wendy felt an itch in her right ear, as though she was being watched. She looked at the window just in time to see Peter grin and duck down. Wendy almost yelped, but caught herself. What was he doing here? She could see the top of his head, all covered with brown curls, as he hid behind the windowsill. She turned back to the front of the class, hoping no one would see her and look at the window. Why was Peter hiding, anyway? What did he care about this lecture? And if he cared, why not just come in? Wendy put aside these questions when the thought struck her that Peter had chosen to reveal himself only to
her
. Then she chastised herself for thinking like one of those idiot freshman girls with their constant crushes.
