Ramses the Damned Read online

4

  Chicago

  Sibyl Parker was desperate to record the contents of the dream that had just awakened her. She pulled her diary from the nightstand drawer without turning on the lamp.

  In the pale sliver of light coming through the cracked bedroom door, she wrote feverishly.

  Again, I saw the woman, a beautiful woman with skin darker than my own and raven hair and blue eyes. She stood with the sea behind her in a city I did not recognize. She gazed back at me. She even reached for me at the very moment I seemed to reach for her. And then the dream ended. In this dream, there was no violence like the others. A blessing, it seems. Could my plague of nightmares be coming to an end?

  Scribbling just these few sentences exhausted her.

  The first peaceful dream since the nightmares had begun. She should savor this relief, she knew. But as soon as she blinked, images from her other nightmares filled the deep shadows around her canopied bed.

  The first one had been the most awful. The one in which she’d stared up at a handsome Middle Eastern man who seemed terrified by the sight of her. His fear baffled her until she saw the hands with which she reached for him were withered almost to the bones. She’d heard splintering wood and breaking glass, and then, in the moment before she woke, she realized she’d been crawling out of some sort of display case.

  Then, a week later, she’d dreamed of closing her hands around a Middle Eastern woman’s throat, of watching the life drain from her eyes. And if those two had not been disturbing enough, she’d then suffered another nightmare. In this one, two giant trains bore down on her out of night darkness, coming from opposite directions, the lights from their locomotives like the eyes of angry gods. Then she’d found herself sailing into the sky on a bed of flame, and had awakened with a scream that had drawn everyone in the house.

  Impossible to forget, these nightmares. But a part of her did not want to forget. She was sure these dreams were elements of some sort of experience for which she did not yet have a name or a true understanding, and so documenting them in their entirety was absolutely essential.

  After several minutes, Sibyl’s shallow gasps turned into deep, sustaining breaths, and her bedroom seemed to be her own again.

  Had she cried out in her sleep?

  Probably not. If so, Lucy would have come. Or one of the housemaids. Or perhaps one of her brothers, Ethan or Gregory, whichever one had not yet drunk himself into a stupor.

  Powerful winds off Lake Michigan battered the immense house. A few of the shutters had come loose, and now they were tapping out a rhythm against the stone walls that sounded like the loping gait of an injured giant.

  Parker House was one of the first mansions built on this former patch of swampland north of Chicago’s commercial district, and her parents had left it to her, and her only, to ensure that its maintenance would not become prey to the vices of her younger brothers. They’d done much the same with the family business, installing Gregory and Ethan in vanity positions which gave them the illusion of power and control while those more qualified kept them from making a mess of things.

  All her life she had been a woman of distinct and powerful dreams. But up until recently, they had been long, languorous experiences, fueled by the books she’d consumed voraciously ever since she was a little girl. Dreams of romance and adventure and faraway lands. Recording them in her journals the following morning had been a delight. And many of those older journals still provided inspiration for her little stories, as her brothers sneeringly referred to them, despite the fact that those little stories now provided the most substantial sum of income their family had left.

  For as long as she could remember she had dreamed of Egypt. She’d lost count of how many times she had ridden Cleopatra’s pleasure barge on a cushion of blossoms. The gleaming streets of Alexandria were as real to her as Michigan Avenue, and as a young girl she would often shed tears over the cold reality that the latter was not the former.

  Too much Plutarch, her mother had scoffed.

  But she’d read far more than Plutarch. She had devoured everything she could find on Egypt’s last queen, from slender little volumes for children to the largest collections of archaeological photographs she could find in the library. And every artifact, every illustration of gleaming Alexandria and its lost library and museum, inspired dreams and fantasies in her that were as vivid as they were fevered. In these obsessions and fantasies, only her father had seen the first stirrings of talent.

  “You will learn as you get older, my dear girl, that not everyone reads as you do. Not everyone has the same encounter with language. There is a heightened sensitivity in you, to be sure, but you can embrace it. It’s far more than just a nervous condition, these tears you shed when you read of Cleopatra and Marc Antony’s fall. You are a rare and beautiful thing, Sibyl. For most people, words are just symbols for sounds, made on paper. For you, they can create all new worlds in your mind.”

  And her dreams were a reflection of this, her father had insisted, and so he encouraged her to write them all down, so that a journal of dreams became her first real writings. Now the author of some thirty popular romances set in ancient Egypt, she knew more perhaps than her parents ever had about how people respond to language. Hers might not be the haute literature of the age, but she moved her loyal readers, outselling H. Rider Haggard and Conan Doyle and a legion of other popular American writers.

  The role played by her dreams, however, was her secret. And of late her dreams were full of fear and torment. It was as if some dark and once-buried part of her had been unearthed by a great upset she couldn’t identify.

  Could grief for her parents be the cause? But it had been three years now since the terrible boating accident that had drowned them both.

  Were her brothers and their drunken antics to blame? If so, why were so many of them strange dreams of a faraway place, viewed through a stranger’s eyes, a stranger capable of murder? And if her brothers were the cause of these nightmares, why didn’t they appear in any of them?

  If the sudden commotion in the foyer was any indication, her brothers were about to make an appearance downstairs.

  “Sibyl!” Ethan’s voice boomed up the grand staircase. “Gin! Gin for everyone!”

  My dearest mother and father, she prayed. I pray that your spirits return on the wind and knock your terrible, ungrateful drunk of a son flat on his face!

  “Sibyl! Wake up. We’ve got company!” Gregory was joining in now. “ ’Less you’ve got a suitor up there with you, in which case give him our condolences!”

  There was a riot of laughter at this remark, some of it female.

  It was past three in the morning, the servants were asleep in the attic, and she was being summoned like a housemaid. And to serve whom? What company could one reasonably expect at three in the morning?

  She swung her feet to the chilly hardwood floor and gathered the waistband of her robe about herself.

  When she reached the top of the grand staircase, her brothers and their female companions stared up at her from the foyer far below as if Parker House were a hotel and the four of them were being rudely ignored by the bellman.

  Ethan was the taller of the two. He had been a handsome devil before strong drink had convinced him to treat his shaggy mane of black hair as an afterthought, and given him a blotchy complexion and a bulbous red nose. Gregory was half his older brother’s height, with a pear-shaped body and a bushy ginger mustache he maintained solely because it made him look older and therefore more accomplished in business than he truly was.

  Their dates for the evening were both clad in spare but flowing dresses that managed to drape and reveal their long legs at the same time. This particular style of fashion had just started to take hold in young women who frequented jazz clubs, and Sibyl didn’t care for it, which is why she always managed to forget its brusque name. Something to do with a bird, she thought.

  Both women only glanced at her before returning their attention to the surrounding
s: the giant grandfather clock in the front hallway, the grand staircase beneath a stained-glass dome worthy of a statehouse.

  “It is past three in the morning,” she said quietly. “Am I really expected to entertain?”

  “How many rooms this place got?” one of the women asked.

  “Plenty, honey,” Ethan answered. “Parker House’s got plenty of rooms and we’re gonna show you all of ’em. Where’s Lucy?”

  “I’m right here, madam,” Lucy stammered. Ah, poor dear Lucy. Still struggling into her robe, Sibyl’s beloved maid emerged from the stairs to the servant’s attic. She was blinking at the chandelier’s sudden glare.

  “You may conduct a tour in the morning,” Sibyl offered as she descended the stairs with Lucy behind her. “Or perhaps when you return at some later date. For now, Lucy and I both need our sleep.”

  Both of her brothers paled at the thought of spending more than a few lustful hours with their current companions.

  “Gin, Lucy,” Gregory bellowed. “Gin for everyone!”

  “You may go back to bed, Lucy,” Sibyl said.

  “Fix us a drink, Lucy,” Gregory cried.

  “Go to bed, Lucy. This instant. I insist.”

  Lucy turned on her heel and proceeded up the stairs from which she’d come.

  “Hey, what’s this?” one of the women said. She picked up a parcel wrapped in brown paper off the console table and shook it as if it were a baby’s rattle. “One of you fine gents get me a gift? You boys! We just met!”

  “Oh, no, that’s for Sis here,” Ethan answered. “See, Sis is what you might call a collector. She enjoys dusty old things from all over the world ’cause they remind her of her love life.”

  Ethan snatched the package from his date’s hand and shook it next to one ear.

  “Ethan, put it down,” Sibyl said. She stood at the foot of the stairs. “Please!”

  “Doesn’t sound like a piece from a pharaoh’s scepter,” Ethan said.

  “Might be more bones,” Gregory chimed in. “Remember the time the old man sent her some bones and she spent hours studying them at her desk like some mad scientist? Should have put her in a madhouse right then!”

  “Put it down, Ethan!”

  But Ethan only raised his arms high above his head so the package was just out of Sibyl’s reach. The women cackled as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever seen.

  Most of the items she’d purchased from her antiquities dealer in New York were far too delicate to stand up to this kind of abuse. And the mere thought of her ghoulish brother breaking some valuable artifact just so he could impress his date was more than she could bear.

  Here she was, at thirty, an internationally known author, and her wastrel brother was treating her as if she were a child putting on airs.

  “Sibyl loves little stories, you see,” he cried. He hopped back just far enough to keep her baited. “Always making up stories in that precious little head of hers. Wants to be somebody else, probably.”

  Sybil drove one foot down atop her brother’s. The sudden jolt of pain caused him to release the package. She caught it in both hands instantly.

  When she spoke again, it was as if her voice came from some other, more distant place.

  “You would do well to remember that my little stories provide a substantial source of income which helps finance your little racing tours about town in the middle of the night! And while I’m sure you’ve dazzled these fine ladies with tales of your skillful management of Parker’s Dry Goods Emporium, should you continue to disrupt my sleep and Lucy’s, I would be more than happy to explain to them how the actual management of the company takes place at the hands of those whose skills extend beyond the ability to refill a flask without drawing the notice of their colleagues!”

  Oh, what she would have given for a portrait painting of the expression on her brothers’ faces in that moment. It looked as if her tirade had chased every drop of liquor from their veins.

  Inside, she was as stunned by her outburst as they were, but she was determined to hide that reaction, lest it should portray her as a creature less fearsome than the one who had just startled them all into silence.

  She was used to words flowing unbidden and vigorously from her pen, but not from her own lips.

  “Show’s over, ladies,” Gregory said. He steered his date towards the front door by her right shoulder. Ethan did the same to his.

  Just before the door closed behind the two women, she heard one of them say, “Well, that one thinks she’s some kinda empress.”

  If only, she thought ruefully. If only.

  When she reached the top of the grand staircase, she looked back over her shoulder and found both of her brothers staring up at her like frightened dogs.

  “It was just a parcel,” Gregory whined.

  She responded by closing her bedroom door.

  * * *

  Just as she suspected, the package was from her antiquities dealer in New York, E. Lynn Wilson. She tore it open with her bare hands. God forbid she go downstairs for a letter opener and risk running into her brothers again.

  The statue was intact, thank God. And in pristine condition. The goddess Isis seated atop a tiny platform, her wings outstretched on either side of her; her right leg pressed flat against the platform from knee to foot and her left leg bent, so that she could turn her gaze to the expanse of her left wing.

  Dear Miss Parker,

  I must apologize for the length of time it took to locate the statue you described to me some time ago. But I am proud to say I have finally managed to find one that should fit the bill. While it is a reproduction, it has been faithfully re-created from descriptions of and illustrations from the Ptolemaic period and such, so that I am confident it will make an excellent addition to your collection. Because you have been such a wonderful customer and because I remain a loyal and steadfast admirer of your highly entertaining novels, I have chosen to send it forthwith without the expectation of a deposit.

  As you can see from the illustration I have also included, it is highly likely that the prow of the oared galley on which Cleopatra traveled from Alexandria to Rome may very well have been carved with a rendering of the goddess Isis quite similar to the statue included here. And as I’m sure you’re aware given your overall interest in the subject, most statues and portraits which claim to be of Egypt’s last queen are in fact closer to being common representations of the goddess she worshipped, such as the one you see here.

  I hope it is as you described to me some time ago. If it is not, please don’t hesitate to keep it as a simple token of my appreciation for your business and your wonderful books. If it is, I have enclosed an invoice for the full amount which you may pay at your earliest convenience.

  Yours,

  E. Lynn Wilson

  P.S. Because I know we share the same passion for all things Egypt, I’ve included some news clippings sent to me by a friend in Cairo about an intriguing affair that made the papers there, which I am presumptuous enough to assume might form a fine basis for one of your thrilling tales in the future!

  He’d folded over several pieces of newsprint and taped them to the inside of the box.

  Her first instinct was to toss them in the trash.

  Even though he seemed like a nice man, the last thing she wanted was some sort of specious claim brought against her by either the subject of the article or Wilson himself, should something she wrote in the future bear even the slightest resemblance to whatever lurid tale the article told.

  But curiosity got the best of her.

  She unfolded the pages within.

  Her breath left her in a long startled hiss and she found herself sinking to the foot of the bed as she read.

  The headline screamed MYSTERIOUS EGYPTIAN CLEARED IN CONNECTION WITH MUMMY THEFT AND GRISLY MUSEUM MURDER.

  Beneath it was an ink drawing of the handsome man she had seen in her nightmare.

  He stood beside a camel, the camel driver off to his left. The pr
etty woman in the drawing with him—she was either American or English, Sibyl couldn’t tell—was not identified, but the print just below read “Valley of the Kings.” Proud, handsome, and gentlemanly in his trousers and white silk coat, the man showed none of the terror he’d given off in her dream as she’d reached for him with a skeleton’s hands.

  But it was him; she was sure of it. His remarkable eyes and sculpted chin. His regal bearing.

  It felt as if a great weight were sitting on her chest. Her hands shook.

  She forced herself to read.

  Someone had stolen a mummy from the Cairo Museum and murdered a museum maid in the process. The mummy in question had been the perfectly preserved remains of a woman from the Ptolemaic period who had spent centuries entombed in the mud of the Nile delta before she was discovered and transported to the museum. For a time, the police had suspected Mr. Ramsey, a “mysterious Egyptian” who had been on holiday in Egypt with members of the Stratford Shipping family. Now that he had been cleared of suspicion, Ramsey had been permitted to return to London with his traveling companions.

  And that was that and everyone was supposed to be satisfied.

  But the amateur detective in her could sense the holes in the story. She’d seen what families of influence and wealth could do. The fingerprints of one were all over these articles.

  If Mr. Ramsey had been cleared, then who now was the primary suspect? And what of the whereabouts of this mysterious stolen mummy from the Ptolemaic period?

  She was distracting herself with this little game of detective, distracting herself from a new sensation that filled her limbs. A tingling that suggested shortness of breath. But also another feeling that was harder to explain.

  Excitement. A thundering, almost incomprehensible sense of excitement.

  Her nightmares had become so vivid and wretched this past month, the fear that she was losing her mind had become as steady and persistent as her heartbeat. But now, the suggestion of a more miraculous explanation had quite literally arrived on her doorstep, an explanation that spared her sanity, an explanation that suggested there was as much true magic and wonder in the world as she had tried to write into it with her little stories.