Bless the Child (28 page)

J
enna lay on the massage table and let the pleasure of Ghania’s expert hands wash through her. Long, kneading strokes teased the tensions from her back and shoulders; deep-tissue work unknotted the kinks from the endless exercises Eric insisted she do each day to stay in shape. He was a fanatic about fitness, pushing himself beyond mortal endurance every morning like an Olympian. If it weren’t for the coke, she’d never be able to keep up. Running, stair stepping, bicycling, rowing, bench pressing, leg lifting—muscle- wrenching workouts that would have been grueling for a professional athlete. With Ghania as his coach.
Ghania as his everything
. . . Jenna thought with sudden acid. What weird kind of relationship those two had, she couldn’t begin to figure out. Servant and master, confidants and cohorts. They shared secrets . . . and something dark and sexual, too. Ghania massaged Eric every day after his workout and no one was allowed to see what went on, but the sounds suggested more than massage.

The thought titillated Jenna and she wriggled her body a little under Ghania’s touch.

“There is a slight pelvic problem,” Ghania said with a knowing smile. “We must attend to it.” As she spoke she pulled away the small towel that had covered Jenna’s buttocks and placed one large hand at the end of the girl’s spine. With the other she began to stretch her legs apart in a widening arc. Jenna felt the cool air hit her secret parts and wondered what would come next. Ghania was always inventive.

The masseuse began to rotate the buttocks in firm confident circles . . . Jenna felt her legs pulled wider and wider apart as firm fingers felt along the inside of her thighs to the pelvic bone and began to press rhythmically along the edge of it. Goose bumps radiated out from the touched places and Jenna felt herself swell in expectation. She turned over on her back at Ghania’s command, and waited in a haze of sexual excitement as one hand massaged the pelvic flesh in a relentless, gathering rhythm and the other sought her nipple.

Ghania smiled at the malleable body on the table. It was so easy to control the will-less ones. Drugs and sex could buy even a Star-Child from the likes of this useless flotsam-and-jetsam creature, mind besotted by chemicals. But the body . . . she moved her hand to a place that would give exquisite pleasure—there were few such places unknown to her—and contemplated the figure on the table. It was truly superb. Had she got hold of this one early enough, she could have honed her into a sexual machine of extraordinary quality. Ghania sighed at the lost opportunity . . . bodies like this didn’t come along every day. Men could be made to pay anything for the right body, painstakingly conditioned. As it was, there were still possibilities . . .

Eric had entered the room and was watching Jenna writhe sensuously on the table beneath Ghania’s expert hands. Ghania motioned for him to join them and he moved silently to her side.

His hands supplemented hers on Jenna’s body, as Ghania let her own garment fall to the floor beneath her feet. She reached for his belt in a practiced gesture, and swiftly freed his risen organ, which she caressed with infinite care until he signaled her to stop. Eric lifted Jenna and carried her to the bed. Perhaps Ghania would teach them both something new today . . .

He had always loved the training program.

N
ow, try as Maggie might, there didn’t seem to be any way to overcome the sense of chaos that overwhelmed her; Cody’s schedule had been the glue for all their lives. Breakfast together at the kitchen table, then work at the shop for Maggie, until three in the afternoon; home again, to take Cody to the park, or the Y, or whatever small pleasures Greenwich Village afforded for children on that particular day . . . then supper together in the dinning room, or before the library fire. Evening spent playing, or reading, or simply being a family, until Cody’s bedtime. The great circle of life, on a manageable scale, comforting and secure. Nothing was as it had been for Maggie; she barely even bothered to put in an appearance at the shop, now. It was obvious her attention was not on antiquities.

Peter had taken to dropping by every afternoon to tutor her. Sometimes he brought books, sometimes an idea he thought had value, and sometimes he’d unearthed something new about he Isis legend. She knew he labored to pinpoint the elusive timing for the Materialization Ritual to take place. As did Elli, by other means.

Maggie sighed. She missed Cody so much it was a wonder the wound wasn’t bloody. There was an organic ache within her, as if all love and laughter had been physically wrenched from her heart.
I love you sweetheart!
She sent the thought message to the child, a hundred times a day. If only she could reach her, touch her, comfort her. Let her know she was loved, and had not been forgotten . . .

The clock was ticking, pressure building within her like a time bomb. When could she
do
something? When would she
learn
something that would help? When could she hold the child she loved so very much, and comfort her?

Maggie looked at the pile of books and papers on her desk . . . Peter had left them there yesterday. Part of her said what’s the use of all this absurd study, while the other part said, what if the key is somewhere in these books? At least studying gave her something to occupy her mind. Without Ellie and Peter—and without the hope that Devlin might get the police to help—she wouldn’t be able to face getting up in the morning at all. But the clock was ticking, inexorably, and nothing, absolutely nothing, had gotten her one step closer to Cody.

Maggie snatched up the books vengefully and plopped them onto the couch in the parlor. If Peter and Ellie didn’t come up with a date for the Materialization soon, she would have to create a deadline for herself. She would give all this damned studying one more week, two at the most. After that, she’d come up with a plan . . . a way to get Cody out of that godforsaken nuthouse. How long could any child last in there? She was so little and so vulnerable . . . A chill ran through her at the awful possibilities.

“Look,
Lord!”
she said suddenly out loud.
“Ask and ye shall receive,
you told us.
Seek and ye shall find. Knock and it shall be opened . . .
Well, I’m
asking
and I’m
seeking
and I’m
knocking,
and you damned well better keep Your promise, because
it’s all I’ve got!”

Angrily, she swiped at the tears that had welled in her eyes. Then, she picked up the volume closest to her, and forced herself to pay attention to what was on the page. An hour later, her head swimming in probably irrelevant information, she went wearily to bed.

The
dream stole over her, as if it had been awaiting her arrival:

The beautiful young priestess tried to maintain her temple-trained decorum, but the sight of home and family made her want to run and leap for joy. She threw her arms around her old nanny and squeezed her in an indecorous bear hug, laughing and crying as she did so.

“We have illustrious visitors today, little one,” her nanny Kipa , said conspiratorially. “Your parents have been favored by the Goddess.”

Mim was curious at this news, but not surprised. Her father, Senuset, was an artist of such stature that even the Ptah priests consulted with him on the design of amulets, talismans and all magical instruments. So in magic, in fact, was he, that to be taken on as an apprentice in his workshop was an honor vied for by all in the kingdom who had great talent or aspirations.

Her mother, Niyohma, was a seeress, revered throughout the land of Khemu-Amenti, home of the hidden God. Both her parents were members of an elite branch of the priesthood—and because of their great gifts of artistry, and spirit, her family enjoyed a fine standard of living. The house she had just returned to boasted many amenities, and guests of high degree were frequent visitors.

“Has Pharaoh’s vizier come again to commission a bauble for the royal finger?” she bantered with the wizened old nursemaid she had loved since she was a child.

“Nay, child,” the nanny replied in an awestruck whisper, “the High Priestess herself graces our abode.”

Startled, Mim blurted out, “But the Reverend Mother has never been known to leave the sanctuary!”

The old lady made a clucking sound and shook her head, pointing with her ancient hand toward the door of Senuset’s workshop.

“See for yourself, child.” She smiled as she went about her business, leaving Mim standing in the middle of the courtyard, uncertain what to do next.

Mim knocked tentatively at the door of her father’s workshop and a slave ushered her into the spacious interior. Her father’s face transfused with light when he saw her.

“Daughter!” he cried out, unmindful of his revered guest. “How auspicious that you should arrive this day, of all days.” Senuset was a large, robust man whose exuberance for his family was near legend. He extended his great arms toward his daughter and embraced her, before leading her to the Reverend Mother’s side.

Mim curtseyed gracefully and gave the secret sign that marked her degree of training. “Holy Mother,” she murmured, overcome with shyness at the august presence. “Forgive my intrusion, I beg you. I have come home to Mennofer for the festival, and did not realize my visit would intrude upon yours.”

The ageless woman nodded acceptance of the apology, and Senuset interjected himself. “It is good that you have arrived at
precisely
this moment, my daughter,” he said gently; he was a kind man despite his great gifts. “Reverend Mother has come to pronounce her final blessing on the Amulet I have striven to perfect, through these many years.”

Mim knew of the Isis Amulet, of course . . . her father had worked on its complexities for so long she had almost come to believe that it would never be completed, although it was intended to be the crowning achievement of his brilliant life. Senuset lifted an object from his workbench and cradled it reverently in his hand. The sun caught its golden surface and beams radiated out as if it were alive, a power source of some indeterminate kind.

“It was in Atlantis that the secret of this Amulet was first revealed to the High Priestess of Isis,” the Reverend Mother said unexpectedly. She was as austere as her title demanded, and had never before spoken directly to Mim, or anyone of her rank. The timbre of the woman’s voice filled the girl with terror; she was as spare as cadaver, yet her voice could surely shatter limestone.

“The High Priestess who brought the Goddess Mysteries to this land of Khemu,” she continued, “was entrusted with the secret of the Isis Amulet, but she was instructed that it was never to be commissioned, until one who was both brilliant artisan
and
Melchizedek priest had come into being. Thus, was the instruction, and the secret, passed from Reverend Mother to Reverend Mother, until it came to me. Your father, Senuset, has been chosen by the Goddess for this awesome task.”

Senuset smiled indulgently at Mim’s obvious confusion and placed his great hand on her arm. “Do not tremble so, my little priestess,” he said. “This Amulet is the greatest gift that has ever been bestowed upon humankind.”

Startled, the young girl looked to the High Priestess, for confirmation. The old woman nodded acquiescence. “The Isis Amulet has been imbued with the power to control
all
that is Good on this planet, Mim-Atet-Ra,” the woman replied. “The forces of Evil are powerless against it.”

Mim’s eyes widened in wonder; to be taken into the confidence of a Reverend Mother was awe-inspiring enough, but to learn that your father has been entrusted with the fate of the world was overwhelming indeed.

“The greatest priests of every temple have watched over the preparation of the Isis Amulet, to imbue it with their individual magic.” Reverend Mother continued. “Each precious stone has been etched with a magical sigil, engraved at the proper astrological moment, under the correct auspices of the moon. If we have done our work with the perfection required, he who possesses the Amulet will have the Power to rule the world. But only for the Good.”

“But, to whom could such a prize be entrusted, Reverend Mother?” Mim asked astonished. “Would not all the kings and princes of this world—and all the greedy and power-mad—vie to take possession? Who could ever be strong enough to protect the Great Mother’s treasure?”

Her father and the High Priestess exchanged glances.

“A single priestess will be chosen as the Guardian, Mim. She will keep the vigil throughout her lifetime, to the exclusion of all else. Because this is both the greatest honor conceivable, and the most awesome responsibility, the Great Mother herself will choose the Guardian of the Isis Amulet, once the final magic has been worked.”

The unrelenting nature of this responsibility chilled the young priestess even to contemplate; silently, she thanked her stars that she was young and untried, and therefore could not be a candidate for such a terrifying fate.

“What is to prevent evil men from simply killing the Guardian and taking the Amulet?” she asked softly.

“The Guardian will
not
possess the amulet on this plane of existence, Mim. It will be held on the Inner Planes, in a place of safety, until it has been called forth.”

“A second priestess will be chosen as the Mother’s Messenger—she alone will know the secret of Materialization. None will know her identity. If, in the course of mankind’s struggle, it becomes apparent to the Goddess that the Amulet must be sent, the Messenger will incarnate. It will be the Guardian’s responsibility to protect the Messenger and her sacred burden.”

Mim stared into the Reverend Mother’s relentless gaze, wondering what should be said to all this, which was far beyond mortal ken.

“May I look upon it, Reverend Mother?” she asked finally, in a near whisper, and the High Priestess nodded in that imperial way that brooked no arguments. Senuset place the Isis Amulet in the palm of Mim’s hand.

It was the most beautiful object she had ever beheld. Twelve great gemstones adorned it—ruby, emerald, diamond, sapphire, carnelian, sardius, topaz, agate, onyx, beryl, amethyst, jasper—each was etched with talismanic sigils. Some she recognized, some were glyphs she had never dreamed. Each gem pulsed with the power of its own ray, activating the charkas of the body’s field, and those which transcended the body. They were tuned to the pulse of the earth’s heartbeat, and to something far more vast and inexorable. The object breathed in Mim’s palm, like a living organism—but not an organism from this sphere. She looked into her father’s eyes, and read there the anguish of creation. The endless struggle to perfect, not a human instrument, but one to contain the essence of a Goddess.

“The Great Mother has not yet consecrated the Amulet,” Mim whispered, more to herself than to the other occupants in the room. Artisan and Priestess looked startled by her words.

“How do you know this?” Reverend Mother demanded sharply. Mim looked up, startled that she would ask, when the truth was so obvious.

“Why, no one can mistake her energy who has been touched by it, Reverend Mother,” she replied ingenuously. “Her energy activates the pelvic cauldron and connects us to all females in all time/space. There is immense power already inculcated into this wondrous Amulet, but the power of Isis is not here.”