"Well, of course, the popular mythologies have Thoth as nothing more than vizier to Osiris and his kingdom," Jim Satterfield said. He consulted the crabbed script on the papyrus and counted nine leaves into the boiling water.
"Nine going to be enough?" I asked.
"That's what the formula calls for."
"An authentic copy of the formula?"
He shrugged. "Maybe some Egyptian street vendor copied it off one of the old late-night movies. Maybe some Hollywood scriptwriter made it up straight out of his imagination and Sir Thomas Johnstone Lipton's Recipe Book. Maybe the only power you can count on is the power of urban myth and the cybernetics of superstition."
"But maybe, just maybe," I said, taking a large wooden spoon and stirring the mixture, "the movie script did manage to take its cues from actual legend."
Susan Satterfield entered the kitchen, surveyed our efforts and reached between us to adjust the burner on the stove top. "Why do men always suppose the only way to cook something is maximum flame? You're supposed to boil it until the leaves dissolve; that means medium heat. Otherwise the water will evaporate before the leaves do."
Her husband smiled. "It's genetics, hon. Goes way back to our forebears living in caves and hunting mastodons. A nice big fire, the bigger the better."
"How many leaves?" she asked.
"Nine for a full range of motion."
"Universal-Lon Chaney, Jr. or Hammer-Chris Lee?"
"Um, Universal—if I remember correctly. Three to keep its heart beating and nine for the mummy to rise and walk. And something about the cycle of each full moon."
"Wait a minute," I protested. "How can the potion keep a mummy's heart beating when the heart is removed during the embalming process?"
"The heart wasn't always removed," Jim answered. "And sometimes it was removed and then replaced during the embalming process."
"Egyptian embalming techniques evolved and changed with time and class differences," his wife added, rummaging in the pantry and emerging with a bottle of wine. "The processes you're probably familiar with are the royal ceremonies practiced during the New Kingdom period, between 1738 and 1102 b.c. Herodotus gave a detailed description of the technique back in the fifth century b.c., including the use of canopic jars for the various organs to be stored outside the body."
"But all of that's moot in regards to your question," Jim said. "In the movies, the mummy was Kharis, who, as high priest, was entombed alive for his violation of sacred taboos. So his heart was never removed in the first place."
"But did he die?"
They both looked at me.
"I mean, did the tanna leaves bring him back to life? Or did he remain in some form of suspended animation during his burial and never taste of true death in the first place?"
They both looked at each other. Then back at me.
"I mean, will this stuff work on something that is already dead? Or only on something that never died to begin with?"
"Something that never died to begin with?" Susan asked slowly.
I nodded.
"Well," Jim mused, "I suppose that would depend on just exactly which it was and what effect you wanted."
"Something that is supposedly dead and still walking around," I said. "Something that is not alive by the prevailing definitions."
"Yet, not undead in the vampiric sense?" Susan qualified, working a corkscrew into the mouth of the wine bottle.
I nodded.
"And the desired effect?" Jim asked.
"To make it alive once more."
Now neither of them would look at me. Or at each other. After a long silence Susan cleared her throat. "We, um, understand that you lost your wife and daughter last year."
My throat felt like it needed clearing as well. I nodded.
"This, uh, potion," Jim said, "assuming Hollywood tapped into an arcane truth and actually got it right. . ."
"Which is highly unlikely," Susan interjected. The cork came free with an audible pop.
" . . . well, at best, it was only supposed to restore a semblance of life, of animation."
"Three leaves to keep the heart beating," I said. "Nine to grant the power of movement. Semblance of life? What if we used more leaves?"
"Not recommended." Jim Satterfield pulled his pipe from his pocket. "I can't recall the specific warnings from the movies but it was assumed that adding more than nine leaves to the potion was dangerous."
"Why?"
"I don't remember." He unfolded a penknife and began scraping at the bowl of his pipe. "Maybe it made Kharis too powerful. Or maybe it would destroy him." He looked at his wife. "You going to pour that?"
"I'm letting it breathe."
"Oh."
"Or maybe it would make him too human and therefore beyond the control of his master," I said, reaching for the bowl and dumping the remaining leaves into the bubbling pot on the stove.
"Maybe," Jim conceded. "But if you were wanting to bring someone back from the dead—someone you really cared about—you'd be a lot better off using the Scroll of Thoth."
"Why?"
"Stronger magic, I guess. Not to mention the theological angle. You familiar with the Osirian myths?"
I nodded. My little study session on the flight up had covered the basics. According to mythology, Osiris was the grandson of Ra, the chief of the Egyptian gods. Since the Big O was a real peacenik and didn't believe in violence of any sort, he was an easy target for his brother Set. In a fit of jealousy, Set killed him—twice, according to some versions of the legend—and the final time he hacked Osiris into fourteen different pieces. Although Isis, who was Osiris' wife, and Thoth, his grand vizier, were able to resurrect him, he decided to go with the momentum and become ruler of the Egyptian underworld.
"So," I said, after repeating the basic outline, "Osiris is now the god of the Underworld and Thoth, in some aspects of their theology, serves as the gatekeeper between life and death."
He rapped the bowl of his pipe against the counter as Susan produced three wineglasses from a side cupboard. "Mmmm. A bit of an oversimplification, but the interpretation holds."
"So, let me ask you a hypothetical question," I said as he swept the detritus of ancient tobacco into the wastebasket. "Let's say that there was a high priest of Set. And this necromancer was using tanna leaves to animate dead bodies. But these dead bodies are not really alive—just . . . animated. Could the Scroll of Thoth be used to restore these dead bodies to life? To real life? Not just animated corpses?"
Susan hesitated in her pouring to cock a coppery eyebrow. "Hypothetically?"
I stared back. "Of course."
Her husband began packing his pipe with fresh tobacco. "Hypothetically . . . it might. Or it might merely negate the animating effects of the tanna or tanis leaves. On the other hand, it could destroy those same corpses as they are ensorceled by Set or his magicians: the power of Thoth is antithetical to the influences of Set."
I nodded. "Set was an enemy of Thoth and his master."
"Well, of course there's that. After Osiris went to rule in the Underworld, Thoth served Isis and her son Horus. He intervened to save Osiris's child on several occasions, including attempted assassinations by Set's minions. Later he served as judge between Horus and Set when they were brought before the tribunal of gods. The fact that he ruled in favor of Horus and against Set cemented their enmity."
"So, if an Egyptian necromancer were an acolyte of Set," I asked, "he wouldn't be too inclined to use the Scroll of Thoth in his incantations?"
"Good God, no. Set is the very incarnation of Evil, the god of opposition to all things good. Thoth is the god who supposedly invented all the arts and sciences: arithmetic, surveying, geometry, astronomy, soothsaying, magic, medicine, surgery, music, drawing, and above all, writing. As the inventor of hieroglyphs, he was named 'Lord of Holy Words.' As first of the magicians he was often called 'the Elder.' "
"But that's just one version of the old boy's credentials," Susan said, handing my glass to me. "According to the theologians at Hermopolis, Thoth was the true universal Demiurge, the Divine Ibis who had hatched the world-egg at Hermopolis Magna. They believed that the work of creation was accomplished by the sound of his voice alone." She handed a glass to her husband and then raised her own. "The Books of the Pyramids are a bit ambiguous about his pedigree, as well. . . ."
The Burmese with the bifurcated tail jumped up on the counter and sniffed the air adjacent to the open bottle. I set my glass by her and tipped it just enough to bring the wine within reach. The cat lapped delicately at the lip of the glass and purred, twin tails twining and untwining in rhythmic contentment.
"Sometimes he's listed as the oldest son of Ra, other times he's the child of Geb and Nut, the brother of Isis, Set and Nephthys. . ."
"But normally," her husband concluded, "he's merely friend and not member to the Osirian family. But, by any account, Thoth was a heavy mana-dude."
"Good," I said. I looked down at the blushing contents of my wineglass. I was thirsty. But not for wine.
"I'm not sure we answered your question," Susan said.
"I'm not sure you can."
"Well, if there is anything we can do in addition to the tanis leaves," Jim said, "don't hesitate to ask."
"Okay," I said. "I'd like to borrow your Scroll of Thoth."
Ahhh, Csejthe, you return. . . .
I had been staring into the inky blackness that seemed to stretch into infinity. Now my eyes refocused, expecting to see Dracula floating just outside the Beechcraft's wing window.
But it was only his voice fluttering in the back of my head.
Did you find what you need?
Maybe (I thought back at him.) I sent a mental picture of vest loaded with pockets of C-4 explosives.
This is your plan?
This is my fail-safe.
Fail-safe?
I'll be wearing this stuff the next time I go toe-to-toe with Kadeth Bey.
The Devil! You are serious?
As a heart attack. But the plastique is Plan B.
Plan B?
Just in case Plan A doesn't work.
Plan A?
And I want you right beside me.
For this Plan A of yours?
That's right.
So what is it you need for me to do?
Nothing. Just hang. I want you close to me.
For Plan A?
You could say that.
Then tell me of your plan.
No.
Then how can I help you with your Plan A?
You can't.
I do not understand.
I want you close to me just in case Plan A fails.
But if Plan A fails. . . .
Plan B (I thought), and sent him a mental picture of the probable explosion.
He left me alone for a while and I turned my attention back to the night sky.
It calls to you, he whispered, finally.
What? Art there old mole? "Hic et ubique" and get thee to a nunnery.
You are drawn to the darkness.
Not the darkness, old man, but the emptiness.
The emptiness?
The sky. It's empty, you know.
He had no immediate response.
When I was a child I used to lie on the ground and stare up at the sky, I mused. I used to believe that Heaven was an actual place. That it lay just beyond those distant blue curtains that shrouded it from earthbound, human eyes.
Now, looking up at the stars, I know better. The sky is an empty place. And except for a pittance of cosmic matter, the emptiness just goes on and on in all directions. Forever and ever. Amen.
It is true, Bassarab answered. When the sun goes down and the light withdraws from the world, one can see things more clearly.
I don't (I thought bitterly). I don't see clearly, at all. . . .
"Headache?" Smirl asked, breaking through my meditation.
I shook my head. "Just thinking."
"About life and death?" He smiled at the look on my face. "No, not telepathic: those of us who dwell beyond the boundaries of humankind think about it, too. Why not? You humans all do. You create religions and philosophies to sculpt sense out of chaos and promise something better on the other side of the dark. We have no theology that grants us eternal souls, existence beyond the grave. So we clutch at the edge of the cemetery gate and refuse to go gently into that good night. We are the embodiment of that rage at the dying of the light."
"So what do you believe?" I asked. "That you simply cease to be?"
He nodded over steepled fingers. "Do the complex array of memories, perceptions, emotions, distinctive selfness that each of us perceive as 'I' come undone and sift away into oblivion—irretrievable, nonexistent, forever lost?"
"Dust in the wind," I murmured, staring into the darkness, the emptiness outside my window.
And, when we are gone, our consciousness flown, are there other minds, other—things—waiting in the darkness, waiting to take up residency? Move into an abandoned body before it loses its viability?
What are you trying to say, old serpent?
That reality is not a one-way street. That, if there are spirits that grow ancient and strong in the cold and darkness, might not other souls grow great and powerful in the nurturing light?
Voivode and Poet, Vladimir? What would you know about the light?
You are young, Csejthe. Come back and prattle your philosophies to me when you have the experience of five centuries.
"Some of us do terrible things," Smirl mused. "And we suffer terrible things to be done to us. All because undeath seems better than death final and irrevocable."
The plane tilted, making a leisurely turn in the dark emptiness. "We're here," he said. And looked at me.
Pay attention, my dear Christopher: the game is about to be taken to a new level.
Smirl looked away. Looked back at me. There was something in his eyes—something I wasn't sure I liked. "May I ask you a personal question?" he asked.
"I guess so."
"What would make you happy?"
I stared at him. "Happy?"
"Happy. Assuming you successfully eliminate Kadeth Bey and survive the process."
I hadn't really thought much about happiness, lately. "Peace on earth," I tried, "goodwill toward men and women."
He grimaced.
"Loose shoes, a significant relationship, and a comfortable bed?"
"Seriously."
"Seriously?"
He nodded.
"I don't know." I did know. I wanted my life back. I wanted to erase this past year.
"You want your life back," he said.
"What would be the point of wishing?" My voice sounded steady enough.
"Precisely. So, beyond that, what do you want? Realistically?"
"Control."
"Control?"
"Of my life. What's left of it, anyway. Since that day in the barn, I've been a dupe or a pawn or a trophy for somebody or something. I want to be left alone." Bassarab's words came back to me: serve or be served.
Smirl shook his head. "You gotta know that's as unlikely as the first. Even if you were just another ordinary vampire, they wouldn't allow you to run rogue."
Just another ordinary vampire. . . .
"So, the point is," he continued, "which demesne are you going to be happiest with?"
The cat stirred in my lap, cocked its head, and regarded Smirl warily.
"Given the situation with New York, I'm sure you don't want to even consider one of their offers. And nothing against our allies in Seattle, but the message I'm getting here is that they're cramping your style."
The cat made a rumbling sound in her throat. It wasn't a purr.
"Now, Chicago, on the other hand, has enough territory and opportunities that a man of your needs and resources—"
The cat hissed and Smirl seemed to suddenly remember its presence. "Anyway," he mumbled, "the Doman of Chicago has authorized me to offer you an invitation and," he eyed the cat warily, "it wouldn't be fair to you to not enumerate all of your options." He cleared his throat. "That's all. You make up your own mind."
The darkness was suddenly perforated by a double row of runway lights below us.
"Gone," Lupé said.
"Gone," I said.
"But not far."
"Not far," I said.
"Apparently they were using the old hospital complex for a daynest."
"What? The remains of the old Mount Horeb Hospital out by Atkinson Road?"
Lupé nodded. "They vacated early, last night. Headed south. I think they've retreated to Weir—possibly to Bassarab's farm. I didn't want to get too close: the terrain is so open out there, they'd likely see me coming long before I could get a glimpse of them."
I nodded. Yawned. Glanced at my watch: a little less than two hours before sunrise. "Okay. I gotta get some sleep and I imagine you do, too. Let's get an early start this evening and I'll have more to tell you then."
As I shifted my weight on the bed, my canvas valise toppled over and spilled three old wine bottles that had been recorked and then stoppered with wax.
"Not more holy water," Mooncloud said as I righted the bottles, checked the seals for leaks, and returned them to the bag.
"Not," I agreed. I handed her the Satterfield's copy of the Scroll of Thoth. "You once told me that this contains Words of Power—your caps. What does that mean?"
She unrolled the papyrus and considered the writing. Then she looked at me. "If you're looking to bring your wife and daughter back—"
"Will it bring the dead back to life? Yes or no, Doctor?"
"I'd rather discuss the ramifications—"
"No ramifications. No moral issues. As I said last night, we are past such philosophical meanderings. Before I take this plan, this crusade, a step further, I need to know what will and will not work. The road to this point has been littered with half-truths and lies and I will not go forward without knowing the truth."
"The truth," she said. And cleared her throat. "The truth is . . . I simply don't know."
I waited.
"Yes, there are Words of Power here. And, yes, change would likely be wrought upon dead tissue were these words invoked. But what kind of change?"
"So these are the words which Thoth spoke to raise Osiris from the dead?"
"Maybe. Probably. Who knows? Yes, there is power here. As a shaman I can tell you that powers invoked are designed to return a dead body to some semblance of the living state. But I can't tell you anything regarding the degree or quality." She reached out and grasped my arm. "And even should the body grow warm and its heart begin to beat once more, I can't tell you that the forces invoked by these words could accomplish the rest: could seek out that soul which had departed and return it to its former shell. I can't tell you that. No one can."
I raised my hand. "It is enough if you promise me that you can read the words and make dead flesh a living body once again."
She looked down. "I don't know that I can promise that."
"You don't know that you can? Or only that you will?" I reached out and cupped her chin with my hand. Raised her face and studied her moist eyes. "Taj," I said gently, "I need your trust in this. Trust me that I will do the right thing with this."
"Then trust me, too," she answered. "Tell me your plan so I can best help you."
I looked away. "I can't."
She caught my chin with her hand, turned my face back to hers. "Can't," she asked pointedly, "or won't?"
"Both, actually," I said. "I won't because we are plotting against creatures that are inherently telepathic. They have been one step ahead of us throughout this entire pursuit. The more each of you knows about the final plan, the greater the likelihood that a stray thought will be overheard. The greater the chance someone will unwittingly betray all of us."
And I "couldn't" because I still had to arrange a betrayal.
"Oh! Amon Ra," moaned a voice in the darkness.
"Oh!" echoed the sepulchral sound.
"God of Gods," it sighed in the blackness.
"Death is but the doorway to new life," the voice intoned, seeming to come from the earth itself.
"We live today. . . ." The hair on the back of my own neck was starting to rise. "We shall live again. . . ."
Cold, clammy hands clutched at me and—
I awoke to the sound of thunder and the rattle of rain against my motel room window. I rolled over and pulled my watch from the nightstand: 1:22 p.m. Outside it was dark.
I closed my eyes but sleep would not come. Perhaps I was feeling a little ambivalent about putting out the welcome mat.
I got up and began dressing. The cat merrowed from the foot of the bed and I found myself the object of its unblinking stare.
"What are you looking at?"
The cat merrowed again.
"I'm going out to the lobby for a paper." I pulled on a pair of cheap running shoes and Velcroed them snugly. "Don't wait up," I said, going to the door and palming my room key. "And don't use my toothbrush while I'm gone."
Locking the door behind me, I moved down the hallway, thinking furiously. First, I needed a taxi: the Chevy van was too hot to be driving about in broad daylight—even if it wasn't exactly daylight, now. Which was why I was going out, now. Which was why I needed an umbrella, first.
And then a taxi.
The motel lobby was devoid of pay or courtesy phones. I turned to the desk clerk, a plump, middle-aged woman with a greying beehive hairdo. She was lowering the receiver back into the cradle of the multiline at the back of the counter. "I was going to call a cab for you," she said, "but there's already one waiting outside."
Sure enough, a taxi crouched just beyond the glass door wrapped in gauzy curtains of rain. I looked around the lobby but no one else was in sight. I wondered how soon the real fare would show up and if they'd be inclined to share. Unless things had substantially changed since my departure, there was only one taxicab servicing Pittsburg and Frontenac combined.
I looked back at the desk clerk. I still need an umbrella, I thought.
"Here," she said, reaching under the counter, "you'll be needing an umbrella."
Interesting: unconscious domination coupled with telepathy. That thought was chased from my mind as I took the umbrella and moved toward the door. There was something else, now—something like an invisible force, an airy riptide that pulled me toward the hunched vehicle. As if the car were a domelit magnet and I was an iron filing with legs.
Get in.
The thought reverberated in my mind, but it didn't originate there.
Get in. Take a ride.
Why the hell not?
I opened the umbrella and pushed out into the rain. As I opened the back door of the cab a sodden brown mass of fur splashed past my feet and catapulted into the backseat. Twin tails attempted to wring each other dry.
"Hey," said the cabbie as I slid in next to the cat, "no animals without a carrier!"
"Don't mind the cat," I said, trying to reclose the umbrella and the passenger door simultaneously.
"I don't mind the cat," the driver said.
"She won't be any trouble." I hoped.
"Won't be any trouble," the driver said.
The cat seemed oblivious to the exchange, giving all her attention over to grooming her waterlogged fur.
"Serves you right," I said. "You should've stayed in the room."
"I should've stayed in the room," the driver said. The cab lurched forward and made a U-turn into the heart of the storm.