The Chaos of Stars (2 page)

Osiris, Isis, Set, and Nephthys went on to commit theft, adultery, fratricide, and even attempted murder and extortion against the sun god himself. In retrospect, Amun-Re was probably on to something with that whole “more gods, more chaos” thing.

I FORGET TO ACCOUNT FOR THE TIME OF YEAR
when I turn on the sink to scrub the charred remains of the lamb skewers I’m cooking. A torrent of water shoots out, bouncing off the pan and soaking me.

“Chaos!” I shout, furious. I shouldn’t even be making dinner. We’re having family over, so Mother wants everything to be nice. If she wants it to be nice,
she
should cook. But no. It’s summertime. Every summer Isis mourns the death of her beloved husband, and the Nile overflows with her tears. Used to be the whole country would flood, but then they went ahead and dammed the dang thing. That, combined with the lack of worshippers, means now when my mother enters her period of mourning, the only difference you can tell is a substantial increase in water pressure. Awesome for showers, but otherwise pointless.

Still, she uses it as an excuse for everything. Yesterday I asked what was for dinner, and all I heard back were wails for the death of her husband.

Made even more awkward by Father, sitting at the dining room table in his robe and mummy wrappings, reading the paper. Because sure, he was murdered, it sucked, but guess what? Not dead anymore!

I slam the pan back onto the stove and throw new skewers on it. This kitchen was supposed to be ornamental. When I was designing it last year, I never thought I’d actually have to use it. I don’t even know how half the state-of-the-art appliances work. They were picked based on color scheme.

Despite a second try, the skewers come out more charred than browned—my mother’s efforts to domesticate me foiled yet again.

I throw everything together and balance it on my hip as I walk out of the kitchen (eggplant walls, shiny black granite counters, sleek black fridge, apparently useless black stove set flat in the counter) and into the dining room. This room is butter yellow with white wood paneling, and a black table to pull in the color theme from the kitchen. The table is perfect: sleek, modern lines, not a scratch on it, one of my best buys ever. It’s also occupied by two of my least favorite relatives—Horus, my nightmare know-it-all of an oldest brother, and Hathor, his drunken floozy of a wife.

I slam the platter of charcoal, sauce, and garnishes down in the middle of the table and then sit for dinner. Mother clears her throat primly. She looks strange. Normally she barely gets out of bed during her mourning period, but other than the occasional freakout like yesterday, she’s been downright perky.

“Did you pray?” she asks.

“For the last time,” I say, narrowing my kohl-lined black eyes at her, “I refuse to pray to my own parents. It’s ridiculous.”

“Osiris?” My mother looks at him as though he might, for once, step in.

My dad slowly turns to the next page of his newspaper. This one’s in Tagalog. The whole family is blessed with the gift of tongues (even me), and my dad’s hobby is reading every newspaper he can find in every language imaginable. No doubt he realizes that newspapers are a dying form. He sympathizes with all things obsolescing and dead. He is the god of the underworld, after all.

I smirk at her, knowing that the second she appealed to him I won the argument.

“Very well.” She cuts a dainty bite of the blackened mess and chews it, a very nonseasonal smile gradually pulling at her mouth. My mother is beautiful, in a warm, comforting sort of way. Wide hips, full lips, and a bust that inspired art for thousands of years. I’d prefer not to have inherited that from her, but in the grand scheme of things it’s not something to complain about. I’m also rocking her same thick, jet-black hair and large almond eyes, though I have heavy bangs that skim my eyelashes and layers that obscure my jawline, strong like Osiris’s. Still, no one’s making any statues of me.

And no one ever will.

Hathor takes one bite and gags, washing it down with her glass of beer that magically refills itself. She’s the
goddess
of beer. And sex. My mother’s favorite son married an eternal lush. It’d be funnier if Hathor weren’t always slinking around, touching everyone and giving long, lingering looks to anything that moves.

Her dramatic, cat-eye-lined gaze fixes on me. “Essa!” she coos. “This is wonderful.”

“It’s Isadora.”

“Of course!” She laughs, low and intimate. “After all this time I can’t keep track anymore! If only your mother would branch out a bit.”

Sometimes it hurts to be forgotten while I’m still alive. But she has a point. Every single one of my mother’s hundreds of offspring have had variations of her name or my father’s. Hathor and Horus (and pretty much everyone else) don’t even bother trying to remember my name.

“Nice as always to visit.” Hathor smiles at my mother. Or bares her teeth, really.

“It’s such a pleasant surprise when I invite my son to a family dinner and you tag along, too.” My mother’s smile has even more teeth.

After a few tense moments between the two of them, Mother imperiously breaks eye contact. Then she beams at us, clearing her throat over and over again until Osiris finally sets down the paper and looks at her.

“I asked you here for dinner because I have an announcement. I’m pregnant!”

Father blinks slowly, his eyes as black as his skin, then picks the paper back up. “A bit ahead of schedule. What about this one?” He nods in my general direction. I’m too shocked for the
this one
to sting. I’m sixteen. She has a baby every twenty years. Twenty. Not sixteen. Of all of the traditions the goddess of motherhood and fertility could throw out the window, this is the one she picks?

Isis shrugs, trying to look guilty behind her delighted smile. “I thought we could shake things up a bit. Besides, Isadora’s getting so big.”

“What, I had a growth spurt so now I’m expendable?” I can’t believe she’s replacing me already! She could at least pretend I matter even though she didn’t care enough to make me last forever like stupid Horus.

I’m so mad about this—I
am
—I’m furious. The only reason there are tears in my eyes is because I used too many onions in dinner. “Besides,” I say, trying not to sniffle, “you’re the one who’s always going on about schedules and traditions and doing things the same way all the time so that chaos can’t creep in and mess things up!”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Horus says, eating with gusto. “Keep the family line going.”

I glare at him, knowing exactly what he gets from my mother having more babies. What they all get. I won’t pretend otherwise. “Are the batteries running low? Time to pop out a new little worshipper who will be more obedient?”

Mother’s glare silences me with a familiar burst of pain. She shakes her head, and the pain eases a bit. “Don’t be dramatic, Isadora. You can help me with the baby! It’ll be good practice for when you have your own in a few years!”

Oh, death, anything but that. There are enough statues of her nursing miniature pharaohs everywhere I turn that I vowed long ago never to have kids of my own. No squealing babies sucking on my girls
ever
, thankyouverymuch. I quickly wipe under my eyes. Stupid onions.

“You’ll be a great help to Mother,” Horus says, flashing his falcon-bright eyes at me in a cold smile.

“Gee, thanks, Whore-us.” He can’t hear how I spell it, but it makes me feel better just knowing.

“When’s the new one due to arrive?” he asks our mother, and she beams back, practically glowing now that she is in full maternal-glory mode.

“Two months.”

I choke. “Two months? Aren’t babies supposed to take, like, four times that long?” I lean back and look at her stomach. Now that I stare, there’s a definite bulge. And she’s been wearing her flowiest ceremonial robes lately. I hadn’t thought anything of it.

“I waited for the right time to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Bang-up job on that one.”

“Isadora . . .”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. Awesome. Two months.”

“Another thing,” Isis says, her voice getting distant and tight.

I groan. “If you say it’s twins, I’m going to stab myself in the eye with this fork.”

“I wanted to ask if anyone has had any dreams lately.”

The gods all shake their heads, then everyone turns to me.

“Loads of them,” I say. “Every night, in fact. It’s amazing.” Isis’s eyes begin narrowing, and I hold up my hands. “Sorry! You’ll have to be more specific.”

Worry clouds her face. “Dreams of darkness. Dreams of danger.”

I shrug. “Nope. Nothing but sunshine and frolicking in the Nile with a herd of purple hippos.”

“Purple. Hmm.” Her face is way too thoughtful. Never underestimate the ancient Egyptian emphasis on the ability of dreams to portend the future. As far as I’m concerned, a dream is a dream is a dream.

Osiris uses my mother’s distraction to stand and drift back to the underworld section of the house, as the others continue talking about the baby news.

I feel a wave of bleak sadness, a desperate, gasping sort of terror. This new life coming to our house forces me to face my own impermanence in a way I try to avoid at all costs. I’m replaceable. Utterly, completely replaceable.

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W
hen my first baby tooth falls out as we eat lunch in the ruins of the temple, my mother holds it in the middle of her unlined palm and smiles; her eyes shine with tears, and I worry I’ve done something wrong.

“It’s so small,” she says, tucking it carefully into her bag. “When it first came in, it looked so big, sitting alone in your tiny pink gums. And it was very, very sharp.” She reaches over to deftly twist my long hair in a braid so the wind will quit blowing it into my face.

My tongue darts in and out of the hole that tastes faintly of blood, and I’m fascinated by the new landscape of my mouth, proud that I’m shedding my baby teeth.

“Finish eating quickly, Little Heart. We have to help someone today.”

“Why?” I ask, though I know the answer. The repetition is our little game.

“Because it is my job, and you are my special helper. We are defined by what we do for others, so . . .” She taps my nose and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“So we must have happy, helping hands, and then we’ll have happy, helping hearts!”

She beams at me, and the sun shines brighter around us in response, warming me through. “That’s my beautiful little girl. If you always let yourself love others, you’ll get back more than you give. And that is why I am the happiest mother alive.”

“Because you love me.” I stand and brush my hands against my bare, knobby knees.

“Because I love you.” She kisses my forehead and starts walking toward the dirt road that leads to Abydos’s neighborhoods. “There is a woman with a very sick child. We’re going to fix both of them. And when we get home, you can help me with some magic before you go see Father.”

She’s walking quickly and I run to catch up, but my short legs won’t cooperate and she’s getting farther ahead. And then I remember that my legs aren’t short anymore, they’re long long long, and I’m not six, and this already happened, but still I can’t run, my muscles won’t cooperate, and the horizons at the edge of my vision are blurring into black, black that is swirling and eating its way toward my mother, beautiful and oblivious to the danger, and she will be swallowed, and I can’t let that happen.

The black seems to laugh at me as it curls past, making me complicit in its work, my inaction enabling its destruction. I am an accomplice and it knows it can count on me to simply watch as my mother is destroyed.

I cannot move.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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There are as many versions of the myths as there are gods of ancient Egypt.

Amun-Re, king of the gods, had reached his limit with the impudence of humans. Pushed into rage, he called on his Eye to destroy all of humanity. Who was this Eye, capable of ending an entire race? None other than Hathor, who was also Sekhmet, vicious and bloodthirsty goddess of destruction. She killed everything in sight until Amun-Re repented of his wrath. But Hathor-as-Sekhmet could not be stopped. So Amun-Re gathered all the beer in the land and dyed it red, placing it where he knew she’d find it. She was tricked into thinking she’d sated herself on the blood of all the living and fell into a drunken, peaceful stupor.