THE GOD'S WIFE (4 page)

“Well, I suppose this is good news. I’ll have you talk to your father about it.”

“Mom, wait …” Rebecca realized it was useless to continue as the line hissed in her ear. Soon, Matt Kirk’s voice growled over the wires.

“Sounds like Miss Marvella’s Dance Academy was worth all that time and money.” Would they ever stop complaining about how much the dance lessons cost them?

“Paid off beautifully, Dad. I’m going to be the star.”

“Sounds great, sweetheart. You’re always a star to me. Now when are we going to see your pretty little face around here?”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you and the family would come to see me in Chicago. The show starts in June, and the international tour is going to last a long time.”

“Chicago,” he said and made a strangled noise deep in his throat. “You know how I feel about that place.”

“I’ll put you up in a great hotel, and you won’t have to drive anywhere. I’ll make sure it’s impossible for you to get lost. Or you could see the New York show …”

“New York? Now I know you are dreaming. A guy from Cedar Rapids is never going to get the hang of New York City. “

“Well, Chicago then. Think about it. It’s not so bad here, you just need someone to smooth the way for you.”

“Missy wants to talk to you.” Non-committal as always.

Missy, the youngest, chattered with enthusiasm.

“’Bec, it’s wonderful. My sister, the celebrity of the stage.”

“Well, at least
you
seem to be excited.”

“Hey, we all are thrilled. I’ll come to Chicago even if the rest of them won’t. I’m an adult now. Eighteen. I’ll take the Greyhound.”

“But won’t you be in school? Are you still planning to go to Iowa City for college?”

“Yup. It’s all planned. And remember, I’m graduating high school. I’ll be free in June to see my sister in a big production … oh, ‘Bec, I’m just so excited. You always got those pirouettes that I couldn’t do at Miss Marvella’s.”

A strange buzzing started in the back of Rebecca’s ear. She felt her mind shift around, heading toward the back of her skull.
Stay with the present.
The buzzing became a rasping sound, like the roar of a far-away crowd.

“I’ve gotta go, Missy,” Rebecca was sweating now, desperate to get off the phone. “Give my love to everyone. Say hi to Gramma.”
Get off the phone before you lose touch.

“Okay, call next Sunday, and we’ll talk longer.”

Rebecca fell onto the couch after she disconnected the phone. Why can’t they accept my need to dance? How have I disgraced the family? Only my kid sister gets it. The blackness came and threw a cloak over her senses. Rebecca stared vacantly at the wall, a mute automaton, an empty human being.

#

Neferet stood in a doorway overlooking the main square of Wast’s temple of Karnak. For as far as her eyes could see, people stood shoulder to shoulder, an ocean of tanned skin and white linen. Everyone had turned out for the Opet festival, when Amun came out for a sail — his effigy in a royal barque — down the mile and half to Luxor Temple.

She tilted her head, feeling the full weight of her wig and feathered crown pressing on her scalp. The braids were wound with gold thread and her circlet was of the much-coveted electrum — gold fused with silver. Around her neck was an intricate pectoral of the god Hor-heb in his guise as a falcon. Around her shoulders over her linen sheath, she wore the leopard skin of a high priestess. She marveled at how she had adapted in one short week to the exalted rank of God’s Wife of Amun. Today was the feast of the god she served, and all was ready for a solemn and lavish ritual toting of the covered statue of Amun throughout the crowd. Then the priests placed the idol in the Great River for a sail northward. She knew she’d be the object of much curiosity. Mindful of Maya’s unfortunate fate, Neferet hired several thick bodyguards to escort her in the promenade to the city square.

Out there, somewhere, stood her father, the Pharaoh Herakhty. Since her first blood, when she was sent to live in the harem — the women’s quarters — with all the other female royals, she had seen him perhaps five times. Never a showy, affectionate father, he had trouble even giving her a hug. But today, she would present herself next to him on the royal platform as God’s Wife of Amun, the most important woman in Kemet. Would he welcome her with a sparkle in his eye, as he so often did when she was a child? Or had she now become too powerful, a distant threat?

No matter, the people were calling for her, so she pulled back from the cool shade of the arched doorway and nodded to her bodyguards. The procession would begin. She gathered up her ceremonial staff, slipped on her golden sandals and they moved forward to join the priests holding the litter that bore the icon of Amun, the god of mystery.

Along the royal road, a roar went up as the first priests exited the temple door. Behind them reclined Amun in his boat, held aloft on the shoulders of the younger, stronger priests. Then came Neferet and the high priest, Nebhotep. The crowd yelled and whooped as if it were one collective wave of positive energy. Every face tried to get closer to scrutinize the sacred Amun statue, but it was an impossible task. Amun had been draped in his entirety in rich cloth, embroidered with the finest thread. Not even a peephole remained for the gawkers. The younger priests launched the boat in the water and began to pull the sacred vessel toward Luxor Temple. The rest of the temple retinue and Neferet would make the trip on foot along the mile of ram-headed sphinxes.

The crowd threw flowers to Neferet. She caught a few blue lotus blossoms and held them to her chest, waving with her staff to the well-wishers. She drank in faces in the crowd: exuberant, agape, laughing, young and ancient. Then two eyes broke Neferet out of her delirious dream. Zayem. She tried to look away, but Zayem was street-side with the privileged few who enjoyed the best view of the parade.

He took a step forward and moved in step with the procession, right behind Neferet. No one stopped him, for he was Meryt’s son, Neferet’s half-brother from Meryt’s previous marriage. As the royal stepson, he had as much place in the ceremony as anyone in the kingdom.

“You’re looking lovely, sister,” came the voice just over her shoulder. He leaned much too close to her, but she could hardly shake him off.

“I should have expected to see you here. What favors will you ask my father this time?”

She still remembered their childhood days in the priests’ school. Zayem, always taking, never sharing, bullying the little ones and always curious — too curious — about Neferet. Those eyes of his; they seemed to see through her linen clothing. She imagined they even probed her soul. She had been relieved when womanhood came and she moved to the female haven, for Zayem was forbidden to visit there.

“It’s not Pharaoh I wish to see, but our mother,” he answered.

She thought of who stood at the gates of Luxor temple. The Pharaoh and his Great Wife. Neferet shuddered at the thought of meeting her mother again so soon.

“Mother can deny you nothing. Why should today be any different for her favorite child?”

“Favorite? With you jumping past me into a position of power?”

“You never have to worry, Zayem. Mother has great plans for you.”

“Perhaps she has plans for the two of us together.”

A priest patrolling the sidelines shot the two a displeased look, eyebrows lowered. This was a solemn ceremony. There was to be no chitchat in the Opet procession, even between two vaunted royals.

She fell silent, but Zayem’s last words rang in her ears. Mother always had a plan, no matter how mad her schemes looked to outsiders. Neferet knew Meryt made her God’s Wife for a reason. But she couldn’t fathom what it had to do with Zayem.

As she plodded along, realizing the golden dress sandals dug into her feet, causing blisters to form, she tried to gaze out into the world again and reestablish contact with the good will that waved in such abundance at the beginning of the parade. She saw old friends, a cousin and her favorite jeweler in a sea of joyful faces. She no longer troubled herself with Zayem’s dark words. Indeed, he had vanished from the parade, probably to run to Luxor to be with the royal party.

At the end of the long, dusty walk, the procession came to a sudden stop. The priests in front fell to their knees, and the younger ones brought the barque of Amun ashore. They placed it alone in front of the doors to Luxor Temple. Neferet could see her parents standing on a platform raised for the occasion. She, too, bowed to the Pharaoh. When she stood, she realized most of the royal family stood behind the ruler and his Great Wife. To the left, in the back, stood Kamose, the Pharaoh’s son by one of his lesser wives. By placing him in the back, Meryt had succeeded in lowering him in status, even though he was the oldest and next in line for the throne. Meryt hated the lesser wife and detested her son. She despised anyone who could get in the way of Zayem, who now stood at her side.

Still, Kamose, Neferet’s half-brother, shone with pride, a bronze statue soaking in the sun. He could be a sculptor’s model with his well-defined chest, strong arms and muscular legs. Neferet, who had spent much time with him as a youth, adored him. Yet now she feared she’d never spend a private moment with the warrior-prince again. It wasn’t a far-fetched idea that Meryt would have him murdered just to put Zayem on the throne.

“All hail, Pharaoh,” the priests cried in unison. “Renewed by Amun-Ra.” They went on to recite his many names, each bearing a magical connection to the gods. “The great god Amun, he of the unknown, will commune with the Pharaoh inside the temple.”

With that, the priests lifted the barque again and moved it with reverence to the temple entrance. Nebhotep motioned to her to stay put. This was an audience for the Pharaoh only. When her father went inside with the effigy, the procession broke ranks and people began to mingle. Neferet stared in wonder at the multicolored flags the priests carried. The flags flapped in the wind like exotic wild birds. As she stood daydreaming, she sensed a presence at her side.

“Kamose,” she said, startled. “It’s been years … just look at you …” She broke off to give him a big hug. His muscles were rock-hard from military practice and his face, a younger image of her father, pleased her.

“Don’t you know you are married? You can’t carry on with other men,” Kamose said, teasing. He touched his hand to her cheek.

“Oh, Kamose, this ‘marriage’ is a strange thing. I can hardly tell you how bizarre it is to be a carefree princess one day and …”

“The second most powerful person in the land on the next day,” Kamose finished.

“I thought that would be you.”

“No, my dear sister. You are vaunted above all of us save our father. Whoever you marry in real life will become the next Pharaoh.”

A chill went through her bones. Was that Meryt’s plan? To marry her off to … she could hardly bear to think about it … her half-brother Zayem? Marriage within the family was typical in royal households as a means to preserve the family blood. Neferet was the purest of the pure-bloods and would make a politically advantageous catch for any man close to the Pharaoh. So, it was within the realm of possibility that scheming Meryt divined such a match.

“But I can’t marry. I was told I am to be a virgin, forever.”

“Nonsense. The priests talk, but the real world goes on. Someone will marry you.” His eyes were downcast. “You must take care in whether you choose or someone will choose for you.”

“Kamose, I simply want to live my life with friends about me. I don’t need marriage. You can marry and provide the descendants.”

“But you will marry. Because this is your destiny now: to decide the next step of succession. Only through you comes the right to rule.”

“But why?”

“I think you know. Meryt has chosen this path to rid herself of me. And you are her instrument, willing or not.”

“I think we should take her to the emergency room.”

“I think we should give it more time. She’ll come around. Get me a damp rag.”

“Why doesn’t someone call Jonas?”

Rebecca half-opened her eyes to shapes billowing and swirling around her. Greens, yellows, navy blue all in motion. A black horse’s tail, swishing about like a large plume. She rocked her head and noticed a soft, moist cloth on her forehead. Voices sounded, muddled and far away from her consciousness. What were they saying? Did she really hear a conversation? She clamped down on her mind and focused for a few long minutes, and her eyes soon rested on clear images of her roommates Allison and Greta dashing between the bedroom door and Rebecca’s bed. Standing over her was Raven, her black ponytail — the mysterious horse-hair — bobbing at someone’s words. Rebecca was fascinated with the long lash of hair and watched it swish like a great brush. She felt her mind putting together pieces of an intricate puzzle: people fussing over her, the pillow beneath her head, pats on her hand. Something must have gone wrong.

She sprang up, so that streaks of light formed before her eyes. She had been lying on her own bed but had no idea how she got there or how long she’d been out. The last thing she had seen was the telephone in the living room.

Greta handed her a glass of water, which she pulled to her lips. She downed the cool liquid in nearly one gulp. Then she rubbed her eyes and handed the glass back to her friend.

“What’s going on?” she managed to say as her roommates fluffed pillows and urged her to lie down again. She allowed them to lower her back down as she awaited an explanation.

“They found you sprawled in the living room when they came home,” Raven said.

Sprawled? Her eyes popped wide open. “How long was I out?” Rebecca sat up again, fidgeting with blankets and pillows, trying to temper her nerves. Raven shrugged.

“No one knows.” Greta said. “We just came home a while ago. What would it be? Twenty minutes ago?” Allison nodded. “And there you were.”

“But I just put down the phone a second ago,” Rebecca protested. This couldn’t be happening. “I was on the phone with my family. The regular Sunday call. It’s impossible …” She remembered the buzzing that had started in the back of her head.

“Well, after Raven came over, we lifted you into the bedroom and tried to air out the room. We put a damp cloth to your face … we did everything to get you awake,” Allison said. “Thank God, you finally came to. We were ready for the E.R.”

“What’s this all about?” Rebecca was staring at Raven. “I just felt a funny buzz in my head, and I got off the phone. And now you’re telling me that was a long time ago?” Her stomach was squeezing as she fought off the panic. Not normal. This was not normal.

“Look out the window,” Raven said.

Although it was late spring and the sun hovered in the afternoon sky longer each day, it had made a great deal of progress toward sunset — and Rebecca had made her call on a brilliant afternoon. She might have been knocked out for an hour and a half, or even more. She turned and gazed at the clock on her desk.

“Six-thirty. What the hell?”

“Your roommates want to call Jonas, but I think it’s better not to bother him,” Raven said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell him. He’s worried enough about me.” Rebecca had visions of Jonas dragging her into the emergency room, although, she wondered, would that be such a bad thing? She puzzled over the contradictions in her head.

As if she had read her mind, Raven shot her a look with one arched eyebrow. Rebecca babbled on with a sense of helplessness. Raven had a way of pulling information out of her. “I’ve been having these … these … blackouts lately, and Jonas is all worried that I have ADD or ADHD or something like that.”

“It sounds a lot more serious than ADHD,” Raven answered, tipping her head to the side. “Tell me what’s going on.” It was impossible to bypass Raven when her suspicions were up. Rebecca resigned herself to spilling the whole story. Someone had to know. She couldn’t continue to contain this worry to herself. She only worried this ... this Thing that she had would get in the way of her “Aïda” role. But Raven would never tell Randy. She’d only hand out sage advice.

So, the entire rendition of a month’s worth of mini-blackouts and momentary lapses of concentration came pouring out of Rebecca’s mouth. She explained about the dreamless nights and the early morning hours she spent looking up her symptoms on Jonas’ computer. Then there was the story of the mysterious dance movements Ms. Sailor liked so much. Raven nodded, because she had participated in that class and had seen the exchange when Rebecca admitted she had no idea where the movements had come from. As she spoke, Rebecca felt she had dreamed the whole affair.

With each sentence, her friends wore darker expressions. Allison, ever the practical one, darted her eyes around the room, connected with the bookshelf and pulled out a medical guide. Greta just kept shaking her head and saying “poor dear.” Raven raised tense shoulders and said, “I say we go to the emergency room now.”

“No,” Rebecca said, lowering her eyebrows. Why am I being so stubborn? she thought. “It comes and goes. There’s no reason to make such a big deal over this. I’ll get over it.”

“But you just said this is the longest you’ve ever been unconscious. And you have no sensation of time passing,” Allison said, looking up as her hands frantically paged through the reference book. She didn’t seem to be finding anything that helped.

“What if it happens in performance?” Raven asked.

My God. What if it does? Rebecca looked about the room, filled with posters of famous dancers, a calendar crammed with dates of classes and rehearsals hanging on her desk, her computer showing about fifteen unread e-mail messages. Here, she felt protected, but what about the times she’s out on stage, vulnerable, dancing a solo? What then
?

“Maybe I should see a doctor, huh?”

“I think you should promise us you will,” Raven said, unfolding her arms and bending to offer Rebecca more water. “I’d say an MRI would be in order.”

Rebecca froze. Her brother Ash had gotten an MRI when he got migraines in high school. It was a huge, clunky machine that made awful thumping noises like an out-of-control robot. It scared the willies out of her when she was a young teenager. Anything but that.

“Well, my insurance isn’t going to cover the Mayo Clinic.” Rebecca laughed in spite of the serious expressions all around her. “Which you guys think I need.”

“Well, it will cover a simple doctor visit,” Allison announced, closing the book and standing up. “I’ll be damned if I can find anything in this book —”

“Okay, okay,” Rebecca said, glad to give in, her mulishness broken. The worry was threatening to kill her. How bad would it be to have a doctor check her over? “I’ll make an appointment. Now, why don’t we see what’s in the apartment to eat? I feel like I could demolish everything in the refrigerator.”

Raven nodded her head and helped Rebecca to her feet. When it was obvious Rebecca could walk with no problem, Raven narrowed her olive eyes, gazed at Rebecca’s face, and turned to leave the bedroom. A little food couldn’t hurt. Her mind might have gone beyond the bounds of time for a while, but her body told her it was dinnertime.

#

That night, Rebecca twirled into the night, dancing under the constellations, swirling linen cloth around her long, tanned legs. She had visions of people, thousands of them, gazing at her with unquenchable curiosity as she walked a path lined with flowers and spiced with aromatic oils. A man walked up to her and asked her to dance, a man with eyes darker than pools of oil and a physique to rival a toned athlete.

Then she stood alone with a man made of stone. She lifted a hand to the shoulder muscles of the carved icon and marveled at the life-like quality of each detail. She lifted her eyes to meet those of the statue. Black pupils, alive with spirit, gazed back at her, and she stumbled back, afraid. Nowhere to run. All the doors were sealed.

#

Lunch with Emmylou Sailor and Randy was set for one o’clock at the Strand restaurant, but Rebecca got there just early enough to order a pre-luncheon glass of wine. A drink during the day or before important meetings was an anomaly, but she trembled with absolute panic today. She wanted to tell Sailor what she knew about ancient Egypt but didn’t want to give away too much. How can you tell someone you’re seeing visions of life in an ancient culture in your dreams? That you’re watching someone’s dark-rimmed eyes stare into your own? They’ll have you propped before a psychiatrist before you can count to ten.

Sailor breezed in on the hour and took a seat opposite Rebecca and stared. Rebecca experienced no interaction with celebrities out in Iowa. Now she was supposed to converse with a world-famous choreographer by herself.

At least Rebecca knew what she thought of Sailor’s work. Her dance craft for “Aïda” was as perfect as a twenty-first choreographer could create it, with each Egyptian movement finely honed and almost mesmerizing in its uniform, dreamy style.

However, Rebecca also knew something about the show didn’t fit. Maybe it was the costuming or maybe the set, but somehow, the production missed the essential sense of Egypt. Over the past week, she’d paged through dozens of tomes by crusty old authors and squinted at pictures of relics and tombs. Yet the information that really mattered bubbled up from her intuition — and how do you tell any sane person that?

As Rebecca’s mind wandered, the waiter plunked a dish of miniature spinach-pie appetizers smack in front of Sailor — as if Rebecca weren’t leaning forward in expectation of food. Randy, strolling in late, picked his blaring cell phone out of his pocket and listened to some loud, harsh voice audible from his earpiece. He hurried the pushy caller off the phone, and his shoulders sagged. He bowed a bit to Sailor, apologized and told both women he’d just been called away on some essential business. He zipped off before anyone could quiz him about the details. Rebecca’s confidence slipped. Randy almost never ran out on a meeting like this. She had been counting on him to take some of the pressure off the conversation. Now it was the haughty choreographer and her lead dancer eating alone. Rebecca wondered who was going to be stuck with the tab.

“Have a few?” Sailor said, as she passed the heavy plate Rebecca’s way. “I surely can’t eat all this and an entrée, too.” Rebecca fished two of the canapés off the plate and onto her side dish. She placed the serving platter back in the middle of the table.

“Well, this is most awkward,” Sailor said, breathing out in exasperation. “Randy was supposed to go over set design with me.”

Rebecca tried to stifle a gasp. The set was just the exact subject she wanted to bring up. She nibbled on the edge of one spinach pie, finding it oily and somewhat fishy tasting. So much for the Strand’s reputation as a fine restaurant.

She put the morsel down and fought to meet Sailor’s eyes, which focused on her above a long, thin nose. Rebecca knew the choreographer was famous for browbeating her underlings, but she also realized the two of them had come to some understanding — at least in the dance studio.

“Actually,” Rebecca said, fighting a knot in her chest. “I had some things to mention about the scenery …” Rebecca started to cough on inhaled bits of food. She grabbed her water and swallowed.

“You?” Sailor slipped her appetizer onto her dish and stared as if examining an ant. “You’re … a dancer.”

“Yes, and I think we agree that I’ve added some authentic flourishes to this production.” Rebecca felt her face reddening but held her ground.

“About movement, yes, but how would you possibly advise a world-renowned scenic designer like Hugh Dekker? He won a Tony, you know.” She picked up her spinach pie again and began to wolf it down.

“I’ve done plenty of research on my role. I’m reading quite a bit and feel like I’ve earned a degree in Egyptology. Right now, I’m quite certain the designer doesn’t have enough color on the walls.”

“You’ve done research?” Sailor said with a hint of a sneer. “And I’m supposed to take this dabbling seriously?”

“Ms. Sailor, please …”

“It’s Emmylou.”

“Emmylou, please, it’s all in
Description de L’Egypt
by the savants of Napoleon. They drew exacting pictures and paintings of the temples when they were still half buried by sand. The colors are all there.”

Sailor took off her glasses and glared across the table at Rebecca as if noticing her for the first time.

“You read French?”

“A little. The point is they — the savants — lavished their books with bright colors — reds and lapis blues and even violet shades for the irises.”

“I’ve never known a dancer to even pick up a book before. And you tell me you’ve read Napoleon’s savants? In French?”

“Why, yes,” Rebecca lowered her head and considered grabbing a roll. She needed something to do with her hands.

“Well, even I haven’t read that, so you’ve got me beat,” she monitored Rebecca with one eyebrow raised. “Why are you so keen on besting the rest of us?”

“It’s not like that at all, Ms., I mean ... Emmylou …” Rebecca meant to drop the errant roll on a dish, but her fierce grip sent it flying across the tablecloth and onto the floor. A fastidious waiter picked it up and offered her a fresh one. Rebecca shook her head.

“It’s just the dreams —”

“Ah, the dreams, where you got this,” Sailor said as she mimicked the playing of the sistrum. She stopped and frowned. “Is it so consuming for you, Rebecca?”

Rebecca leaned forward, letting her sheet of hair flow onto the table. She was confused about her Egyptian obsession, yet unwilling to let the subject go. So much of it involved those infernal nocturnal forays into an unknown world. It maddened yet fascinated her at the same time.

“I can’t help it,” she said to the tablecloth. “It won’t leave me alone.”

Sailor reached across and touched Rebecca’s chin, lifting it up as if to adjust her pose. She looked pensive, studying her young protégé’s features.

“Very well, I’ll have a look at this savant book. In English. And we will brighten the colors accordingly,” she waited a beat. “You don’t think you had a past life in Egypt, do you?”