Lessons were so boring, thought Cy, as Mrs Chalmers asked the class to take out their workbooks and settle down for a bit. He much preferred doing things, although Mrs Chalmers had explained dozens of times that writing things out was doing them. She called it ‘theoretical’ doing.
‘We really do need written work, Cy,’ she’d say, ‘otherwise civilization would be lost, plans would go wrong. People can’t remember every detail in their heads.’
Cy watched Aten copying out English words onto the lined paper which Mrs Chalmers had given him. He, too, was having trouble getting his letters to sit neatly in their places.
‘It’s such a waste of time, isn’t it?’ said Cy.
Aten looked astonished. ‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘It is extremely tedious and I could find more interesting things to do, but it is not time wasted. Writing is a powerful force. Those who read my words will know what I know, feel what I feel.’ He showed his work to Cy.
Cy looked at Aten’s squiggly writing. It was even worse than his. ‘Er . . . very good,’ he said.
‘I don’t think it is, actually,’ said Aten. He put his pencil down. ‘There is a better way to practise writing. Do you have any sand?’ he asked Mrs Chalmers.
‘The janitor brought us some bucketfuls to help with the play,’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘Cy will show you where they are.’
Aten filled a shallow plastic tray three-quarters full, then he added some water and smoothed the sand out flat.
‘Now, you use your finger . . .’ He began to draw some letters. ‘See!’ He showed Cy. ‘It is much clearer. Malik, the chief scribe, teaches all new shapes this way. He says that you learn better because you have to push against the wet sand. Your eye has to pay more attention, and your arm and wrist have to work harder, so they remember more.’ Aten stood back and admired his word.
Cy stuck his forefinger deep into the damp sand. He began to carve out his least favourite word to write, thorough.
‘Slowly,’ said Aten over his shoulder, ‘push deep and hard so that you feel the shape with your whole body, and follow carefully with your eyes.’
‘Oh,’ said Cy when he had finished. ‘Oh.’
It was the only time he had written thorough properly on his first attempt. Usually his t or the tail of his g were facing in the wrong direction.
‘So now,’ said Aten, ‘the boy scribes practise and practise the same shape over and over again, and, as the sand becomes drier under the hot Egyptian sun, it becomes easier to do. But as it becomes easier to do, so we are more careless, and sometimes Malik is not satisfied with the shape done on the dry sand and he throws water over it and makes us begin again. Only when he is happy are we allowed to write with a stick in the sand, and then eventually to paint with brush and palette.’
Cy picked up his pencil and stuck it in the sand. He began to write again.
‘Not so good,’ said Aten critically. ‘You need to practise lots.’ He looked out of the window. ‘You are luckier than I,’ he said. ‘Your sun is not so hot. Here the sand will take longer to dry so you have more time to learn the letter shapes.’
Cy stared long and hard at the sand tray. At home there were some seed trays in the garden hut and an old bag of sand in the garage. Perhaps he could make his own Egyptian letter-learner . . .
Aten clapped Cy on the shoulder and winked. ‘You will get better at it,’ he whispered. ‘And just think. You have only twenty-six to learn. I have seven hundred!’
Cy looked up at Aten. There was something about him that he hadn’t noticed before. It was his face. Because of his height he had thought Aten to be a boy of roughly his own age, but Cy realized that he must be a little older. Older and wiser. Wise the way Grampa was wise. The way you become if many different things happen to you.
In the afternoon they all worked on their Egyptian costumes. Some groups were cutting out breastplates from gold card, while others made jewellery from painted pasta shapes, coloured straws and beads. Mrs Chalmers asked Aten if he would mind sitting still in a chair for twenty minutes so that she could make a plaster cast of his features. She spread Vaseline all over Aten’s face while Cy cut pieces from the face-clay bandage roll and soaked them in a bowl of lukewarm water.
‘You will make a fine Tutankhamun,’ Mrs Chalmers told Aten as she laid the wet strips carefully across his face.
‘I will,’ said Aten, and he smiled. His forehead and chin had begun to disappear under the layers of gauze strips.
‘Don’t move!’ scolded Mrs Chalmers. She worked quickly, moulding the damp plaster against Aten’s features before it could dry. Slowly his face, from ear to ear, and from forehead to chin, was completely covered in white clay.
‘I’ll leave the underside of your nose free so that you can breathe,’ said Mrs Chalmers. She placed the last few strips across Aten’s mouth and smoothed them down. Then she stood back. ‘Aten,’ she said, ‘Aten, you look magnificent!’ When the plaster was completely dry the rest of the class gathered round as Mrs Chalmers gently eased the mask mould free from Aten’s face. She held it up in front of him. ‘What do you think?’
Aten reached out and, very slowly, he touched the copy of his features. He frowned and then nodded once or twice. ‘Let me see again the decoration that you will place upon it,’ he said.
Cy brought the book which had the photograph of Tutankhamun’s golden portrait mask.
‘It is made of solid gold, decorated with blue glass, lapis lazuli and carnelian,’ said Mrs Chalmers.
‘With the head-dress of the Vulture Goddess of Upper Egypt and the Serpent Goddess of Lower Egypt,’ continued Aten.
‘Ah, so that is what the animals represent,’ said Mrs Chalmers, looking more closely at the picture. ‘How interesting.’
‘The Cobra Crown,’ murmured Aten.
‘It is amazing that it survived,’ said Vicky. ‘Most tombs were robbed.’
‘That is true,’ said Aten. ‘But then, thieves can always find ways to steal what is not theirs.’ He glanced across at Chloe, who blushed and looked away. ‘Although,’ Aten laughed, ‘the watchers of the labyrinth of three thousand rooms at Lake Moeris are never disturbed. These guards are neither men nor dogs, but crocodiles. Large, hungry crocodiles.’
‘No way!’ said Cy.
‘Wrong,’ said Aten. ‘There is always a way through a labyrinth.’
‘“No way” doesn’t mean that there is no way,’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘It’s a modern expression of surprise or, say, disbelief. Like for instance, if you told me that you understood the riddle of the Sphinx, then I might say “No way!”’
‘But understanding the Sphinx is not so very hard—’ began Aten.
‘What Mrs Chalmers means,’ Cy interrupted quickly, ‘is that saying “No way” is just like saying “Wow” or something.’ ‘Wow. Or something,’ repeated Aten.
‘Goodness me!’ said Mrs Chalmers, looking at her watch. ‘Is that the time? I must hurry to clear up. There is a staff meeting immediately after school tonight.’
Cy and Aten went to the assembly hall as soon as the last bell went.
‘The Mean Machines must have put your ankh somewhere in here,’ said Cy, looking about. ‘They’d be frightened to get caught with it on them.’
‘But where?’ said Aten. ‘The hall is huge.’
Cy went across to the stage cupboard and peered inside. ‘Someone’s been in here again,’ he said. ‘I’ll pull out the pyramid and then we can look among the props.’ Just as they managed to manoeuvre the pyramid out into the hall, the door opened and Eddie and Chloe swaggered in.
‘Looking for something?’ sneered Eddie.
‘Yes,’ said Cy, in a tired voice, ‘and I could catch up with Mrs Chalmers before she goes into the staff meeting and tell her that we haven’t found it yet.’
A slightly anxious look passed between Chloe and Eddie.
‘All right, camel boy. You can have your silly necklace back.’ Chloe ran forward, lifted the top flap of the pyramid, and took Aten’s amulet from its hiding place. ‘Here! Catch!’ she shouted, and she flung the ankh far above her head. The silver surface reflected the light from the long windows as the ankh was hurled high into the air. For a brief moment it hung above their heads, and then it began to fall. Behind the little group the huge cardboard pyramid started to topple forward.
‘Look out!’ cried Cy. He jumped up and pushed Aten to one side as the great pyramid came down on top of them. It struck them as it fell, sending them all sprawling.
Aten sat up first. He raised his fist in triumph. ‘I have it,’ he said. He opened his hand to reveal his ankh. And with a happy smile he raised his arms and looped the leather cord of the silver amulet over his head.
As the ankh fell into place round his neck Cy remembered the fear in the Dream Master’s voice, the look of terror on his face when Cy had been about to give Aten back his amulet. He spoke aloud to Aten. ‘The Dream Master didn’t want you to have your ankh back in this time and space.’
Aten shrugged. ‘There cannot possibly be any harm in my putting it on. It will help to keep me safe. Wearing it will prevent me from being trapped in the tomb.’ He lifted his hand and adjusted the cord round his neck, and as he did so his fingers held the silver amulet.
There was a shuddering crack in the air around him. A bright white light exploded out of the ankh and sent a thousand fractions of colour hurtling into space. And then the fabric of Time tore open and they were sucked inside the spinning, whirling vortex.