Jorge and the old man bolted through the cave and made it aboveground with astonishing speed. Jorge was no expert on earthquakes, since he’d only experienced one years ago in Japan. That event had topped the Richter scale at a 7.0. This one was far more violent. Rocks and large boulders were tumbling down to the valley below. Jorge glanced behind him. Great clouds of sunset-hued sand and dust followed in their wake. Jorge pushed himself to run faster, his feet digging in as the ground rolled beneath him. The movement incongruently helped his forward progress. It was as if the ground waves were propelling him toward the golden boat resting on the rocky riverbank.
The fear of imminent death must have energized the old priest, as he trailed Jorge by only a few yards.
“To the boat!” yelled Jorge as he barreled toward the golden vessel resting against the shoreline. Luckily, they didn’t have to maneuver through the carpet of snakes. They must have slithered away to safety during the quake. Jorge hopped into the boat and then heaved the priest up and in.
They both slunk down onto the cold metallic bottom. Neither man spoke as the river slapped violently against the back of the boat while the quaking continued.
The old man’s face was dangerously purple-red, and his breathing was labored.
The boat was a safer place to be, but what they really needed to do was launch it into the river. Jorge couldn’t see how he and an out-of-breath old man would be able to move a boat made of solid gold anywhere, let alone push it six feet into the river.
He pulled himself up to his knees and peered over the edge to look for inspiration on how to launch the boat. There was a great scratching sound, and the boat moved on its own, sliding over the orange-pebbled banks into the blood-red river.
Jorge sat up and stared dumbfounded at the old man. After all he’d been through, did the priest have enough strength to magically move the boat? He must possess seriously strong magic. Jorge’s hopes lifted. Maybe there was a chance he could return home.
“Magic . . . Boat . . . of . . . Re.” Gasps punctuated the old man’s words.
Jorge rubbed his hand over the smooth gold planks beneath him. He couldn’t believe he was actually sitting in the God’s boat. “Where will it take us?”
“Don’t . . . know.”
As soon as they were fully in the river, the earthquake subsided and the water calmed.
“You don’t know? Aren’t you a high priest of the Great Goddess Hathor, Lady of the Western Mountain?”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. A strained laugher struggled to escape between gasps for air. “Priest?”
“You and the little guy traveling with Hathor.”
The old man held up his hand and waited to speak until he caught his breath. “No, you are mistaken. I am no priest, and I have no idea where this boat will take us. You saved my life, and I thank you for that. That woman was no God. She is Alex Philothea. A colleague of mine. What made you think she was Hathor?”
Jorge’s gaze traveled out past the old man to the towering cliffs downriver, attempting to hide his shock. Why was the old man hiding his priesthood? Was it some sort of cover for the Goddess? Or, was his companion really another human and the blue-eyed stranger was the one who’d lied? Whenever Jorge didn’t know who to trust, he reverted to not trusting anyone. It would be best to keep his cards close to his chest and let the man lie until Jorge could catch him in it.
The old man smiled at him weakly and extended his hand. “Forgive me. My name is Buxton, Dr. Charles Buxton. I am an Egyptologist and a professor at the Oriental Institute. Thank you again for saving my life.”
“What brought you here? This is a particularly odd place for archaeological research.”
“We were searching for a rumored chamber in the Osireion when we stumbled upon the portal. Once we crossed over, we realized our mistake and were looking for a way back to the mortal world. Wherever my colleagues are, I sure hope they found one.” Charles craned his neck, looking back at the caves in the distance.
Why was the old man going out of his way to hide why he and his companions were here?
“Well, I’ve been following all of you since you jumped through that portal. I’d lay good money on the fact that your being here is anything but a mistake. It looked like the three of you were searching with intention for something very specific. So, Charles, why are you really here?”
“Buxton, please. I much prefer it to Charles. I guess the same question could equally be pointed to you. My friends and I had business down here. To my mind you are the interloper.”
“Interloper?”
“You were following us uninvited. We never intended for a civilian to be involved with this.”
“Civilian?” Jorge could feel his anger start to rise.
“Someone not prepared for the extraordinary.”
This man was unbelievable. Unique and extraordinary were Jorge’s bread and butter. “Do you have any idea who you are talking to, Buxton? You may be some highfalutin Egyptology prof, but I am—”
“Jorge Trinculo.”
Jorge was taken aback. “How do you know who I am?”
The old man paused. “Of course I’ve seen your show. Who hasn’t? You search out connections between humans and aliens. Quite fascinating stuff, really.”
Jorge couldn’t quite read Buxton’s expression. Was that respect shining in his eyes? “Well, if you’ve seen it, then you are well aware that I, in my everyday life, seek out and prove the extraordinary. If I were to guess, I would say that you are the outsider here, sir.”
The old man smiled. “I apologize. I misspoke. Maybe you’re right, young man. I am tuckered out, but there is no excuse to be rude. Especially to my savior.”
For the first time Jorge noticed his warm brown eyes. Maybe they’d just gotten off on the wrong foot. The man obviously had good taste in entertainment choices. Also, he knew enough to pronounce his name with the Portuguese soft G at the beginning.
“You really don’t know where this boat will take us?” asked Jorge.
“The ancients didn’t write much about the Duat, what we call the afterlife, or even the Netherworld, other than being the place you wanted to end up after you’d died. One thing is clear, in the myths the sun travels through the Duat at night. I think that is where we are. I would surmise that this river might run along the same circuit as the sun each day. Hopefully, the river will bring us back to where we started.”
“I can’t believe my continuing to exist hinges on hopefully.” The boat moved with an unnatural smoothness as if running on tracks, like a family-friendly theme park ride set in hell.
“Why did you think my companion Alex was Hathor? What gave you that idea?”
Jorge told him the story of the private party he’d been invited to on a grand private Nile cruise ship. Although he couldn’t remember any specific details of the party itself, he woke up on the ship’s deck with a strange man leaning over him, telling him of the treasure awaiting him if he just followed Hathor. As he shared the tale out loud, it sounded ludicrous to go off half-cocked on an adventure chasing after a Goddess at the mere suggestion of a stranger. But then again, that was how he earned his keep, following the faint trail of the fantastical.
“What did the man look like who told you to follow her?”
“All I can remember are his deep blue eyes. I could tell the color even though a deep shadow cut across his face.”
“Did you happen to notice if there was anything else remarkable about him?”
“Now that you mention it. . . his irises almost looked like they had amber-colored starbursts surrounding them.”
The old man’s face warmed as if remembering something familiar and pleasant. “I’ll be damned. It must have been Niles.”
“Niles?”
“He’s another colleague of mine. He told you where to find Alex? What made you do it? I mean, other than him telling you she was a Goddess.”
“Like I said, he told me she would lead me to great treasure.”
The old man burst into laughter. He winced in pain and grabbed his side. “I guess I am a little too bruised for sudden laughter. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you were sold a very tall tale.”
“Why on earth would he send a stranger off on a wild goose chase? What sort of person is this so-called colleague of yours?”
The mirth in the old man’s expression faded to concern. His mouth turned down in a soft frown, and his eyes were half-lidded with sorrow. “I can only guess at why. In this case, guessing will do neither of us any good. I just know him, and I have to assume he did it because it mattered greatly. Right now, we should be focusing on how to get out of here. At this point, who cares who broke the eggs—we just need to figure out how to make a decent omelet out of this mess.”
Something about this man was vaguely familiar to Jorge. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but he could have sworn he knew him from somewhere.
Jorge leaned over and patted Buxton on the shoulder. “Why don’t you lie down and have a rest. You look exhausted. There isn’t much we can do right now. I’ll keep an eye out and wake you if our situation changes.”
Buxton doffed an imaginary hat at Jorge and stretched out on the cold, hard boat floor. His loud snores started almost immediately.
As Buxton slept, Jorge gazed out at the landscape painted in hues of orange and red, letting his mind wander as he contemplated what he’d gotten himself into. Before setting off to search for Hathor, or rather, this person called Alex, he’d talked himself out of bringing one of his crew with him. At the time, it was an interesting lead, but he wasn’t sure if it was going to pan out. He didn’t want to involve anyone until he had an idea what was going on. Now he wasn’t certain how wise flying solo was. On one hand, he didn’t like the thought of another person trapped in this realm; but on the other hand, another hale and healthy companion with quick wits would be useful.
Aside from the vibrant colors of magenta, orange, and red that painted the landscape, the surrounding topography was monotonous, almost lunar in appearance. Everything beyond the river was a vast sand sea with occasional boulders jutting up through the grainy ground. Craggy mountain ranges ran parallel to the river, and massive rock-islands protruded from the blood-red waters. The current created a horrific froth around the jagged islets. Only one time did he make the mistake of looking over the boat’s side, once again seeing the severed heads tossing about in a gruesome flotsam. He quickly sat back down to quell the angry gods of vomit that were threatening to erupt.
Luckily, he didn’t end up having to choose.
The sameness of the landscape lulled Jorge into a half-sleep, half-trance state. Aside from the drunken snooze on the party boat, he hadn’t gotten much rest in the past forty-eight hours. His head knocked against the hard side of the boat, waking him. He rubbed the newly formed bruise, wondering how long he’d been out of commission. He breathed in deep, the air sweet and clear for the first time since he’d entered this realm. Jorge shifted up to his knees to peer over the edge of the boat.
They were gaining speed, no longer drifting at a lazy pace. Off in the distance, the scenery was changing. The red and orange faded to a pink blush. He squinted. Further afield the landscape transitioned to white, as if a waterlogged paintbrush was dragged slowly across the landscape until no pigment remained. Jorge pulled out his binoculars. Just beyond the white area was a verdant land mass, very similar in appearance to the Nile valley. Could the river be taking them back to the realm of man? Or was it some sort of mirage?
He shook Buxton awake.
“We’ve landed?” Buxton rubbed at his eyes.
“There’s a change up ahead.” Jorge handed the binoculars to Buxton.
Buxton knelt, bracing himself against the side of the boat as he lifted the binoculars.
“Well, I’ll be . . .”
“It looks like we made it back.” Jorge could barely contain his excitement, but for some reason Buxton’s expression remained dour. “Aren’t you glad? We’ve made it.”
Buxton shook his head. “If only that were so. I am afraid that place up ahead is not our home. At least not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I would guess that to be the Field of Reeds of ancient Egyptian lore. Only the dead call it home.”
“Do you think we’ve died?” The words felt surreal as he spoke them. It was odd that he felt so unfazed at the prospect. Maybe that in itself was evidence to be scored on the side of being dead. Could it be that when you die you primarily feel at peace and are ambivalent to no longer living? Jorge crossed his arms. He felt very much alive. How would the dead feel, anyway? Would they feel at all? Would they have a pulse? Jorge unknit his arms and placed two fingers on his wrist. It was weak, but there. “If we are in the Netherworld, it would make sense that we are dead. Maybe our souls are riding this golden boat to our eternal reward.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much,” said Buxton.
“But you just said that the Field of Reeds is where the dead reside. Here we are, on a boat, on the river that flows through the Netherworld. What leads you to believe we aren’t dead? This river appears to have parallels to the River Styx of Greek myth.”
“I take it you’ve read Joseph Campbell’s writings?”
“Great stuff, huh?”
“I have always taken umbrage to his idea that there are parallels between the myths of all cultures that are plainly transferable from one to the other. Personally, I think that diminishes the uniqueness of each society and their belief in their own god system. If you pull far away from any subject, all things can seem similar. Don’t all the planets look the same to the naked eye in the night sky? No, this body of water has no partnership in the myths of the Greeks, and you and I are most definitely alive.”
“Come on, old man, it’s human nature to deny one’s own mortality. If either of us should be bummed at the prospect of being dead, it would be me, being far younger than you. You’ve at least lived out your potential.”
Buxton laughed. “Lived out my potential?”
Jorge stared out into the far distance where a string of date palms lay far inland from the river. “Mine is but a short flicker in the shadow of your grand flame.”
“Apparently, the idea of your own death has managed to make you wax poetic. No, it’s not the ability of humankind to lie to themselves about the inevitable that leads me to believe that we still exist. There are other mitigating factors that are painfully obvious to me.”
“We aren’t transparent apparitions?”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but no, that’s not it. Have you any memory of your heart being ripped out and weighed against the scales of truth? Or have you witnessed Osiris’s Devourer of Souls, Ammut, at the ready to eliminate you from the annals of existence?”
“No. But maybe that’s something you aren’t meant to remember. Maybe when you are judged to be true of heart, you are sent to the afterlife as a clean vessel.”
“Do you really feel like a clean vessel right now?”
“Well—”
“There are two points which I think prove my point. One, do you or have you ever actively worshiped the Egyptian pantheon of Gods?”
“No, but—”
“Two, putting aside any grand opinions you may hold of yourself, is there anything you’ve done in your bright, short flame of a life that has either been epically heroic or pharaonic?”
“I saved you from being sacrificed to Re. That was a little heroic.”
“However grateful I am about that, I can’t see some ancient bard creating a poem about saving an old archaeologist from the grip of death.”
“Why does the poem need to be epic?”
“Can’t you see your rescuing me is even further proof we are not dead? Do you really think a God would be pleased for his gift to be whisked away at the last minute? If anything, I think it would state an obvious case for you to be sent to the Devourer of Souls and not to the Field of Reeds.”
“Then we aren’t dead.”
“You sound disappointed.”
Jorge wasn’t disappointed, he just wanted to know where the hell he was. Or in this case, which hell he was in. “Then what are we?”
“I fear we are dreadfully lost.” Buxton handed Jorge his binoculars as the boat thumped against the shore.
A massive clutch of golden reeds swayed overhead. They were crowned with green grasslike tendrils that reached up to the vast blue sky.
“I guess this is where we are meant to get off,” said Buxton.
“Get off? Shouldn’t we ride the boat until we make it back to where the portal is?”
“Since it stopped here, I have to guess we’re meant to disembark. I clearly remember the look of shock on your face when you realized it moved on its own. I don’t think it is wise to fool ourselves into thinking that we are captains of this craft.”
Jorge scanned the shoreline with his binoculars. There was a narrow trail that cut into the dense reeds. “Look over there.”
The old man threw a leg over the metal rim of the boat and heaved himself over. Jorge replaced his binoculars safely back into their pocket and followed suit.
They picked their way down the narrow shoreline, walking with great care, neither wanting to dip into the gruesome red-black waters that lapped against the verdant riverbank.
Arriving at the minuscule path, Jorge realized how dense the foliage was. He regretted that he did not have his machete with him. Jorge reached into a large front jacket pocket and pulled out his leather gloves. The gloves he’d wished he’d thought of when he was racing through the tunnel earlier. He winced as he slipped them over his abraded palms. It was a small price to pay for saving a life.
Jorge pushed through the thick growth and trampled the slender stalks to make the way easier for the old man. The trodden greens made him think of the crop circles of Northern England, except in this case they were man-made.
Ahead, the tall reeds thinned, but the small openings in between only gave a hint to what lay ahead. As a seasoned explorer, not having a clear sight line set Jorge on edge.
His foot struck something hard. Pain shot through his big toe. Parting the giant stalks of grass in front of him, he could see the offending object was the granite base of a massive sphinx.
Just above his head, carved on the creature’s chest, was a large cartouche. The sphinx’s regal, pharaonic head towered over them with a headdress of alternating stripes of gold and deep-blue lapis lazuli of the nemes crown. Around its neck was an electrum-clad pectoral collar adorned with green-blue faience beads framing a large turquoise representation of the cow-eared Goddess Hathor. The depiction was one of her looking forward with her thick hair tucked behind her horns. Hathor was the Egyptian Goddess of love, and aside from Bes, the only one who was ever depicted in profile as well as head-on.
Jorge’s treasure-hunting instincts awakened at the sight of the bejeweled necklace. He stepped in close to appraise it, wondering if it was detachable and something he could slip into his explorer’s jacket for a little Netherworld memento. His mind went wild trying to contrive a reasonable way to contain and transport the large object. On the open antiquities market, a piece like that could raise a fortune. If he could manage to bring it home, he could break away and produce his show, maybe even create his own network.
“The sphinx that guards the Field of Reeds. Isn’t it beautiful?” The old man was pointing at the cartouche on the sphinx’s chest with an expression of sheer wonder.
“What does the cartouche say?”
“It tells his name, Horakhty, Horus of the Horizon. And that those who visit this altar shall—”
A great rumbling emanated from the body of the sphinx. “We’d better get out of here,” Jorge yelled as he tried to move. It was as if his legs knitted themselves to the sphinx’s paw. He jerked his torso from side to side as a burst of adrenaline shot through him. He looked over at Buxton, who was also struggling to move.
“I’m stuck,” yelled Buxton.
The sphinx’s stone body glowed red. Jorge braced himself for a burning sensation that never came. Specks of gold shone through the red, becoming more and more prolific until they pooled together to cover the sphinx’s entire body. The creature stretched its head upward, then from side to side as if cracking its neck. Its bright golden face lowered to gaze down at them. Its mouth pulled up into a sly smile. “M-m-m-m, live ones. It’s been far too long.”
This is the end of the free sample. To continue reading, download the second book in the KHNM series, Gift of the Sphinx.