The Time Travelers, Volume 2 Read online

  And yet … being a woman again was not altogether satisfactory.

  Camilla could no longer read a newspaper. She could no longer hold an opinion, nor be interested in sports and politics. As a man, she had commanded respect. As a woman, she was simply a creature too tall to be a dance partner.

  Throughout the voyage, she studied Spanish, memorizing useful sentences, but once she arrived, as soon as she mentioned the name of the hospital—St. Rafael—every Spaniard melted away, saying nothing.

  When, after several days, Camilla stumbled on St. Rafael, she knew why Mr. Stratton could get nobody else to interview Katie and why he did not go himself. She knew why Duffie had lied, pretending he was not aware of Katie’s situation.

  It was a leper hospital.

  Dreaded since the beginning of time, lepers were shunned for good reason. Before leprosy killed the patient, it first killed the nose and lips and fingers and feet, which rotted and fell off. The image of Katie nauseated Camilla: deformed to start with—now a leper. She could not help imagining herself a leper. To interview Katie, not only must Camilla expose herself to this evil disease, she must lie to the nuns who ran St. Rafael.

  For many hours, the twin desires for money and revenge were not enough to make her approach the lepers. At last, however, Camilla summoned her courage. “I am here,” she said to the nun who kept the gate, “in hope of visiting your nurse Katie. I have been sent by Devonny Stratton, who seeks news of her dear brother, Strat.” Camilla knew nothing of Devonny Stratton, except that the debutante had recently married a titled Englishman and was therefore also out of the country and her father’s clutches. “Devonny prays that in spite of the suffering inflicted upon her, Katie will assist in this endeavor.”

  The nun said nothing.

  Camilla remembered her instructions. Promise anything, whether you plan to do it or not. “Miss Stratton wishes to bring Katie home to America, and provide her with the means to live comfortably. Or should she prefer to stay here, to make a major donation to this very hospital.”

  Nobody was going to give Katie a penny and as for taking her out of the leper hospital, allowing the dreaded infection into society—absurd. Not for any number of dollars.

  The nun inclined her head, and rustled away to deliver the message. There was a long wait, during which Camilla’s courage dwindled. She fiddled with the lacy white cotton gloves that were part of her everyday clothing. Could mere gloves protect her from leprosy?

  The nun returned. Katie would welcome Miss Matthews in her room.

  Camilla was aghast. Go inside?

  “Be not afraid,” said the nun gently, in English, as if accustomed to fearful American girls. “It takes years of exposure to acquire leprosy. An hour will not put you at risk. You will find Katie a delight, and glad to speak with a friend of Devonny Stratton. Follow me.”

  Not at risk? Camilla thought. Of course I’m at risk! From time immemorial, people have known better than to get within rock-throwing distance of a leper.

  She reminded herself of the money she would be paid. I’ll stay only a minute, she promised herself. When I leave, I’ll buy borax and scrub myself for hours.

  Katie was heavily garbed in white, even more veiled than the nun. Only her eyes and hands were exposed. Katie offered a hand to be shaken. Camilla had no choice, but she would burn the glove later.

  “I am not diseased, Miss Matthews,” said Katie gently. “I wear this veil so you will not see my deformities. My mother and father gave me to an asylum for storage, just as lepers are stored here. A decent and good person saved me from that asylum. Here indeed I try to be an equally good and decent person to others.”

  “That’s why I’ve come,” said Camilla. “Devonny is so very very worried about her beloved brother. She has had no news. She fears for his fate, now that he has become a kidnapper.”

  Katie laughed behind the veil. “I was not kidnapped. I was saved from a life of torment in a house of cruelty. In decency and in honor Strat left behind that which he loved and brought me here.”

  Women! thought Camilla. How we fall for anything a man says. “Would you tell me what young Mr. Stratton did that could be called honorable? Because I must admit to you that others disagree.”

  When Katie turned and went to sit on a small stool, a table set for tea was revealed: two cups, sugar and lemons. Drink tea poured by the hand of a leper? Camilla gagged.

  “Strat and I crossed the ocean together, pretending to be brother and sister,” explained Katie. “When we arrived penniless in Spain, we stayed at a convent and pretended to be on a pilgrimage. I was awestruck by the work of the nuns and I embraced their holy lives. Strat chose adventure and sailed on.”

  That was one way to look at it. Another was that Junior, having dragged her across the ocean, now dropped her off to die among the lepers.

  “And the second person young Mr. Stratton so generously brought along?” said Camilla.

  “Poor Douglass was born with very little brain,” said Katie. “His parents, like mine, stored him in the asylum. Strat brought both of us to safety. I have Douglass with me here. He is happy. All is well, Miss Matthews.”

  All is well? Such sainthood made Camilla want to race out into the streets and do something wicked.

  “And young Mr. Stratton?” she said carefully. “Is he safe? Is he happy? His dear sister misses him painfully and hopes for communication.”

  From a tin box on a rickety wooden table by her narrow bed, Katie removed a packet of letters. She cradled them in her two hands like a bouquet, drinking in their scent.

  Camilla tried to see the return address on the envelopes.

  “Strat is a true gentleman,” said Katie softly. “A fine athlete and a splendid conversationalist. Generous of heart.”

  Claptrap. The Stratton fellow would be his father’s son, gross and sweating. Wax on his mustache and gaudy rings denting his thick fingers. But then, how could poor Katie judge a man? All the men of her acquaintance had been born deformed, become criminal or decayed from disease.

  Camilla made a decision. She drank her tea. “How refreshing,” she lied. “Is young Mr. Stratton yet in Spain? Does he visit you?”

  Katie shook her head. “I had fine jewels, which a friend of Strat’s gave me when we were fleeing. We sold them, and with the proceeds, Strat was able to buy passage to Egypt.”

  But not your passage, thought Camilla. “Egypt!” she cried, as if it were wonderful, and not the end of the earth. When young Stratton abandoned somebody, he really completed the job.

  Accepting tea had been ever so wise. For now Katie was bursting with truth. “The coming war attracted Strat,” she said, leaning forward in excitement. “British troops are even now sailing up the Nile to attack rebels in Khartoum. Lord Kitchener asked for volunteers. Strat hoped to join a camel corps or help build the first desert railway on earth. But! Passing through Spain was the very famous Dr. Archibald Lightner. Of course you have heard of Dr. Lightner’s archaeological research.”

  Camilla had hardly even heard of archaeology.

  “Strat managed to make the great man’s acquaintance! Dr. Lightner had never had a staff photographer, as he was suspicious of the machinery, but had always used a watercolor artist. When Strat said he would become Dr. Lightner’s photographer for no pay, the great man accepted.”

  Who would accept the gross and disgusting son of Hiram Stratton? Dr. Lightner had probably found out the family connection and was hoping for money. An expedition to chop open a sphinx or a blast into a pyramid must be costly.

  Her heart broke watching Katie, who had only death and letters to live for.

  “Strat writes often with the details of his adventures,” said Katie, fingering the letters as if they were treasure. “He sends me all he earns.”

  Not likely, thought Camilla, reading the address upside down.

  H. Stratton

  c/o Dr. Archibald Lightner

  Road to the Pyramids

  Giza

&nb
sp; Katie lifted the letters to her lips and kissed them through the veil. And Camilla knew then that Katie loved Strat the way any girl loves a boy. With all her heart.

  RENIFER:

  IN THE TWENTIETH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF KHUFU, LORD OF THE TWO LANDS

  Renifer paused to gaze at the row of bodies staked on poles along the edge of the desert.

  The three tomb robbers caught last week had finally died. The priests liked to spear prisoners so the stake traveled all the way up the inside of the body, but did not instantly kill. In this case, the tomb robbers had lived many hours, and one for days. Jackals crept out from the desert by night to chew on the dead men and had not minded eating the feet and thighs of one still alive.

  Renifer gave a prayer of thanks that the tomb robbers had been so thoroughly punished.

  Then she looked reverently at the just-completed Great Pyramid. How splendid it was, a mountain of shining limestone.

  Everybody who lived on the Nile had been part of the Pyramid’s creation.

  Farmers and potters, fishermen and papyrus makers had the privilege of working on it. They cut and loaded stone, poled barges, dug out the sacred lake, paved the causeway. They baked bread to feed ten thousand workers and sun-dried a million bricks for their houses. They constructed a slideway and ramps to move the massive rocks. They polished the limestone casing, brought flowers for offerings and carried away the sand, one basket at a time. They painted the walls of chapels and the columns of courtyards with a hundred times a hundred portraits of gods, especially their own God. Pharaoh Himself.

  The celebrations for the finished Pyramid had lasted for months.

  Every man and woman with the strength to greet the morning sun came. They came from Upper Egypt and Lower Egypt, from Lebanon and Punt. They came if they were rich and they came if they were poor. They brought their children and their offerings and their prayers.

  They rejoiced at the glory that was Pharaoh, and knelt at His passage when He was borne on His sedan chair, wearing His two crowns.

  Twice, Renifer herself had attended Princess Meresankh, Pharaoh’s daughter, when the princess brought food to her dead grandmother the queen. Together, royal princess and handmaiden prostrated themselves on the blistering hot silver-faced pavement in front of the queen’s chapel.

  “Mother of the King,” Renifer sang, “follower of Horus, O gracious one, whose every utterance is done for her, daughter of the God’s body, Hetepheres, we honor thee.”

  Afterward, Princess Meresankh actually spoke to Renifer, saying how well she sang the chants.

  And then the festivities ended, and all Egypt went home.

  Pharaoh’s barge went back to His palace in Memphis. Shopkeepers sold linen; bakers sold bread. Boys learned to read; girls tended geese. Mothers nursed babies; farmers dug fields.

  And tomb robbers, she thought, robbed tombs.

  Renifer walked slowly, because it was very hot, one servant girl carrying the fruit they had bought at the market and the other fanning Renifer. Renifer was soon to have her own household and must become experienced in shopping.

  Renifer was the envy of every girl she knew. Pankh was strong shouldered and brave. His skin, burnt so dark by the remorseless sun, was like black gold. He was the most handsome and the youngest supervisor of a royal wharf.

  Eternal life was fine, and waiting on the princess was fine, but what Renifer cared about was having her own husband, her own house, and as soon as possible, her own children. She was fourteen and it was time.

  The doorkeeper opened the big wooden entry set deep in the mud-brick wall. Inside, date palms kept the courtyard cool and shady. Father was reclining under the yellow-and-white-striped awning on the rooftop and Renifer went up the steep ladder to join him. Servants brought bread fresh from the oven and dates still hot from the lowering sun.

  Soon the distant sand would turn red and purple with shadow and Pharaoh Himself would be praying for the sun’s return in the morning. She would not repeat her own prayers in front of Father, who found religion amusing. Even the Pyramid meant little to Father, who just shook his head when he happened to notice it.

  “You look especially lovely today,” said her father, “and I think it time to discuss your marriage.”

  “Oh, yes, Father!” cried Renifer. “Pankh will be here soon. He’s taking me to a concert on the wharf.”

  The days were so hot and glaring that the best entertainments occurred after dark. She helped herself to olives, planning what to wear. She owned much gold jewelry, but neither Father nor Pankh liked her to wear it in public. Sometimes Renifer pouted over that rule.

  “Perhaps,” said Father, “you should not marry Pankh after all. I can find a more prestigious match, now that you are in Princess Meresankh’s favor.”

  She said dizzily, “But Father! Pankh is ready to bring me home.”

  Father shrugged. “Why settle for Pankh when you could do better? My grandsons could have noble blood.”

  Renifer cared more about hot blood, and from what Pankh said and did when they were alone, he could give her all the sons she might want. She tried to dispel her father’s hopes. “The princess barely noticed me. She picked me out of a row of girls. Any soprano would do.”

  “No. The princess has requested you to attend her again next week. Furthermore, Daughter, the princess ordered you to meet her within the palace walls, not on the plaza where the musicians gather. You, my daughter, will be in the presence of Khufu, Lord of the Two Lands. The princess wishes you to sing for Him.”

  Pharaoh Himself would hear her sing?

  It was too great an honor. She was not good enough.

  And she was not sure she wanted the honor. She wanted to think about having a household, and folding bed linens freshly pressed, and of course making babies. If she had to sing for Pharaoh, she might get scared, and sing badly, and receive punishment, for the Living God must have the best and the first in all things.

  She wanted to put Pankh first in all things. That was part of the wedding vow, and she could hardly wait to tell him yet again that he was first in all things.

  “Tonight you will stay home with your mother,” said her father in the voice that brooked no discussion. “Nor will you be in the presence of Pankh. Tonight or any other night. You can do better. I shall end the engagement.”

  “I must have misunderstood that statement,” said Pankh in a slow deep voice, startling them badly. He was standing on the rim of the roof, hands on hips, feet apart, looming in the dusk like a temple god. His white kilt was bright as moonlight and the gold bands on his arms as thick as jawbones. “Surely, Pen-Meru, you are not thinking of taking your daughter away from me.”

  “It is not an official agreement, as you recall,” said Father dismissively. “Merely a discussion we had. A discussion I will now have with others as well.”

  Pankh lifted from its pedestal the beautiful small statue Father had recently acquired of the goddess Sekhmet.

  Sekhmet was portrayed as a seated lion goddess; her powers were many and terrifying. She could escort Pharaoh in war, but also sweep the country with disease. She was both love and hatred; both revenge and protection.

  This Sekhmet was pure gold and fit for a Pharaoh.

  Now Pankh lifted the goddess by her back, as a cat lifts her kittens. He tapped an insolent rhythm on her lion mane.

  Father sat very still.

  “Renifer is mine,” said Pankh softly, “and you, too, Pen-Meru, are mine.” He tightened his grip on Sekhmet, as a killer holds the rock with which he will break the skull.

  Renifer felt Sekhmet’s anger like a spider’s web. The goddess’s fury was enveloping them all, as when irrigation canals open, and water turns the world into a web of water, and none can pass.

  Her father caught his breath. “I was mistaken, Pankh,” he said hoarsely. “Of course Renifer is yours. Whenever you wish her.”

  Renifer could hear the slap of oars on the water of the Nile, the laughter of children playing in t
he neighbors’ courtyards, the rustle of palm leaves in the wind. Her father—Pen-Meru—afraid?

  Servants bustled up with torches to be set in their niches, plates of meat and bread and cheese, bowls of stew with barley and chickpeas. Renifer’s little sister and brothers, having spent the day playing naked in the sun, came shrieking and giggling for dinner, their nurses running alongside to put robes on them as the air grew chilly.

  “Come, Renifer,” said Pankh. “The night is beautiful. We will return when it pleases me. Your father will not be talking to other suitors.”

  Her father was no longer in charge. She might have said her marriage vows already, because Pankh was the one whose permission she needed.

  In the streets of Memphis they walked. They said good evening to friends, bought sweets from vendors, listened to a band of flutes, and sat on a bench above the Nile, watching parties on pleasure boats.

  “You look lovely in that shawl,” said Pankh.

  “Father is always coming home with some extraordinary gift,” she said nervously. “Pankh? Up on the rooftop? It almost sounded as if you were threatening Father.”

  “Silly goose,” said Pankh. “I just reminded him that I always get what I want.”

  Renifer was horrified. He was begging a god to lash out and prove him wrong. Or a goddess. “But you treated Sekhmet as a weapon,” she whispered. She felt herself at the top of something as high as the Pyramid, and as steep; felt herself falling, and falling with her was a shape so terrible she must keep her eyes closed and her thoughts protected.

  “A weapon?” Pankh laughed. “I was just juggling it around.” He snapped his fingers to show how little he cared for the goddess. “If I need a weapon, I have a knife.”

  “But Pankh—”

  “I have reached the end of my patience,” said Pankh sharply. “I do not care for a wife who questions my decisions.”

  What decisions? thought Renifer. I don’t even know what we’re talking about.