The Chaos of Stars (4 page)

I don’t answer. I hold my breath, keeping it caught in my chest with my hopes.

Finally she sighs. “I think it might be for the best. Only for the next two months, until the baby comes.”

I exhale so loudly she jumps, startled. On the inside I am screaming, spinning in dizzy circles, bidding my Egyptian prison farewell forever, because one thing is certain: Once I make it out of here, I am never,
ever
coming back. I will no longer be a temporary guest checked into the Hotel of the Gods.

My voice is utterly calm when I finally speak. “Okay. If you think it’s best.”

“I hope it’s best. But you should go ask your father first, just in case.”

And the part of my brain that is still jumping on the bed screaming in triumph trips and face-plants into the floor. Because now the only thing standing between me and the freedom I’ve been dreaming of for the last three years is a quick trip to the underworld.

I nearly bump into old Thoth in the hallway. He’s here often, in a quiet, slightly senile old geezer capacity, and he’s always been my favorite. “You look sad,” Thoth says in his wobbly, soft voice. His neck is cricked in the middle, bringing to mind the ibis he was often drawn as. He winks one small, deep-set eye at me, bringing a hand up and turning it into a bird head, which also winks at me. He used to do puppet shows with his hands, having the “birdies” tell me the stories of my heritage, like the time the Earth knocked up the Sky and my parents were born. I loved it. When I was eight. I roll my eyes but try to force a halfhearted smile for his effort.

“Gotta go see Osiris,” I say, and Thoth steps aside with a quiet shuffle. I hesitate at the top of the worn stone steps. I haven’t been here for so long. There’s a special scent to this place—not terrible, not even unpleasant, but distinct. No rotting, just age. Weight. The passage of centuries and millennia marches unmeasured beneath the earth. The Sun comes and goes in his eternal cycle, but the dust and air and stones here take no notice.

I reach up a hand to trail along the rough stone at the bottom of the stairs. It shocks me how . . . small it feels. Now I’m less than half a meter beneath the ceiling.

Two more turns and straight past the room where I spent so much of my childhood. I don’t look in, but my chest tightens as I leave it behind. Finally the end of the passage. The great room, high ceilinged, with murals in blacks and reds and blues telling the stories of Egypt. I thought they were my stories, but I’m not even a footnote.

My dad sits ramrod straight on his low-backed, elaborately carved throne. He holds two staffs, his white atef crown towering over his head, and observes his kingdom with eyes that can’t see me right now. I shiver, wondering if anyone’s actually here on their journey into the afterlife. I stick to the side of the room just in case. And to avoid Ammit, sitting in the middle of the room looking for all the world like a bizarre statue—head of a crocodile, front legs of a lion, and rear half of a hippo. She is silent and still, jaws awaiting the hearts of the unjust dead.

I stand in front of Osiris, who doesn’t respond. I clear my throat.

“Father? Father!”

Nothing changes. Anger flares up in my chest, and I’m tempted to grab one of his silly staffs and knock off his stupid crown with it. But I don’t want to touch him, not when he’s like this, so far removed from me. So . . . dead.

“OSIRIS.”

Finally he blinks, eyes slowly focusing on me. “Child. You’ve come back?”

Ah, floods, he thinks I’m here to work on my tomb. I straighten my shoulders. “I’m leaving. Going to live with Sirus because Isis thinks it’s not safe here for me until after she has the baby.” I pause, but he doesn’t react. He could still blow this whole thing for me. “Er, if it’s okay with you.”

I think for a minute that there’s a trace of sadness in his eyes, but then again, he always looks serious and mournful. He nods slowly. “If that is the path your mother feels is best. But you will return home when the time comes?”

It’s physically painful to hold back my eye roll, but I can control my attitude long enough to get out of here. “Yup, sure, I’ll be back.”

He nods, satisfied. “Go well, little one.”

That’s it? I just told him I’m leaving to live somewhere else, and all I get is a
go well
? I thought I’d be elated, but instead I’m disappointed. “Are you going to miss me at all?”

He smiles, his stiff features resisting the movement. “We will have eternity. I can let you go for these few heartbeats.”

No. Once I step out that door, I’m gone forever.

A small, aching part of me is sure my parents won’t care either way. They won’t notice that I never come back. They’ll probably forget my name. Maybe my father already has.

I turn around and leave, glancing back and hating myself for it. His eyes have gone blank, seeing only his real home, the real world he loves. Chaos take him. I’m done.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

I
play in the sand on the banks of the Nile, scratching out the glyphs I’m just barely learning while my mother searches for the best reeds and dirt for our spells that day. A shadow blocks the sun and I look up to see tall, tall Anubis.

“Hello, whelp of Isis,” he says, and I admire his teeth and wish mine were sharper. My new front ones are starting to grow in, but they’re just big and bumpy.

“Hi.”

“Do you know how to swim?” he asks.

“No.”

“Time to learn!” He picks me up, lifting me high, so high in the air, and then throws me straight out into the middle of the river before I can even process what is happening.

I sink. I’ve never been in the water without my mother before, and she isn’t here, and I don’t know what to do without her. I look wildly around, the water murky and stinging my eyes, but I know if I wait, my mother will come for me.

She has to. She always comes for me.

When my chest hurts so much I want to cry and I can’t hold my breath any longer, the water turns inky, creeping black.

No hands pull me out. Hands were supposed to come—they came, I remember they came, but . . .

Everything turns black, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

Amun-Re ruled over the other gods, preeminent and most powerful. But someone needed to fill the throne of god-king of Egypt, where war and cannibalism reigned supreme. The country needed peace.

Osiris was made god-king of Egypt, with Isis (who still talks about how fabulous her outfits were during this era) by his side. Together they taught the people proper worship and ushered in an era of unprecedented order.

Probably they should have worried more about how his brother, Set, god of chaos, would feel about this turn of events.

I SHIVER IN THE EXCESSIVE AIR-CONDITIONING
of the San Diego airport. Everything is shiny and sleek and cool, all white and chrome and lifeless. Neon signs for food that makes my stomach turn with its smell flash at me as I hurry down the huge hall, looking for the exit. For a few seconds I long to be on one of my rare trips outside to the open-air market near my home, in the dust and heat and shouting chaos. The energy there is palpable, the city a living thing. The colors, the noises—it feels like a heartbeat, like art. Here, it feels like money.

I hope this isn’t what all of America is like.

But I don’t want to go back to Egypt, not ever. I’m just tired beyond belief. I didn’t sleep at all on the flights, and I’m loopy with exhaustion.

I’m glad to be here. Thrilled. America has no culture. There’s no weight of history, barely even centuries to pull on people. You can be whoever and whatever you want, genealogy and history and religion as fleeting and unimportant as the latest trend in style that’ll be gone as quickly as it came.

America has no roots. Nothing here lasts forever. I’ll fit right in.

My goose-pimpled arms make me wish that instead of luggage I’d been able to bring my mother’s bag. She always has exactly what anyone might need in that bag: a snack or a cardigan or a tampon or antivenin, so on and so forth.

I turn the corner and the airport opens up, the escalators leading to the bottom level with baggage claim and huge windows dark with night. I go down, looking around, and there he is.

Sirus’s hair is perfect, shiny black, cut close to his head. He has my same strong, straight nose, but he wears glasses over his dark eyes. No way you’d guess he was actually thirty-six. He looks midtwenties, tops. My heart leaps, happy and excited to see him, to have something familiar in this strange new place. He sees me and grins, waving with his free arm.

Which is when I notice his other arm around a beautiful black woman with a head of wild corkscrew curls, a sleeveless dress, and a huge, huge, huge pregnant belly.

Floods, babies are
taking over the world
.

A sharp sting of betrayal flares in my stomach, and I can’t hold back my scowl. What is Sirus thinking? So much for his free and independent life. And he didn’t even tell me! Not a single mention of a girlfriend, much less a baby on the way.

I manage to wipe my scowl away and force a smile by the time I get to the bottom, though I’m sick inside. Nothing here feels like what I thought it would.

“Baby sister!” Sirus picks me up and twirls me around in a hug even though I’m nearly his height. I laugh in spite of my anger, shocked more than anything by human contact. I honestly can’t remember the last time someone hugged me. I haven’t let my mother hug me in years. It feels strange. It feels nice.

“Isadora, this is Deena, my wife.” He grins, bursting with pride as he sets me down and looks at her. She smiles—it lights up her whole face—and, much to my shock, wraps her arms around me in an awkward, belly-filled hug. Her head barely hits my shoulders. This hug is not so nice. I don’t know where to put my arms, or what to do, or why this woman I didn’t even know existed is suddenly hugging me.

“I’m so happy to meet you, Isadora! Sirus has told me so much about you. I’ve always been sad that I couldn’t meet his family, and I’m thrilled that it worked out for you to come stay with us!”

I smile fakely, glancing at Sirus for support. How much did he tell her?

He winks. “Deena knows all about how our family is deeply religious and won’t leave Egypt, so it’s better for you to come here before you apply to American universities in a couple of years.”

I let out a breath. “Yeah. That whole religion thing. Gods are so overrated.”

Deena laughs, weaving her arm through mine. “Well, I’m thrilled. I’ve never had a sister, but always wanted one. Plus, Sirus tells me you’re an interior decorator.”

“Designer,” I correct before realizing it makes me sound rude. “I mean, I kind of think of it more as art.” My projects around the house were my salvation these last couple of years. I think that’s what I’d like to do with my life. Take blank spaces and make them beautiful. Create something where nothing was before, where I can control every aspect of it.

“Exactly! That’s so great. And I’m apologizing, because I’m going to put you to work right away to earn your keep. Our house is in desperate need of room art.” She smiles warmly, and I think I might like her. As soon as I find out what the crap Sirus was thinking, getting married and not telling me about it.

We work our way through the crowds to the luggage pickup. Deena’s amazed by my flawless, accent-free English. She should hear my Afrikaans; it’s awesome. I find out she is a city attorney and they’ve been married for
two years
. I kick Sirus covertly in the shins when he says that, as punishment for being a big fat liar and hiding things from me. What is
wrong
with him?

“It’s so sad that your parents wouldn’t come to the wedding because they can’t leave Egypt.” Deena shakes her head sympathetically and I nod, assuming Sirus will let me in on whatever elaborate mythology he’s created to explain our family. He should have just said they were dead, since in our father’s case it’s technically true.

The belts start turning, and looking out for my luggage saves me from any more conversation. The first few suitcases come down the ramp, and my stomach sinks. They are all black. And midsized. And look exactly like mine. I flash back to my last afternoon with my mother, picking out luggage. She told me not to get black because it would look like everyone else’s. I ignored her because she’s never traveled by plane. How did she know? How does she always know?