Hathor's Mirror

TWO | THE SOUL-STEALER

I lift up the phone, squinting against the light, moving back and forth in search of the perfect shot. A heartbeat later, a face fills the screen. I lower the phone. My 'rescuer 'is there, all up in my personal space. I take a step back even though he smells delicious, like a sun-warmed pine grove with a hint of honeysuckle. It reminds me of evening hikes on the Greek island of Aegina. Uncertainty flickers across his hardened features. He narrows his eyes at my phone, tilts his head to see the other side. I tighten my hold on the phone. Apart from whatever else I happen to have in my jeans pockets, this is my only connection to home. To the future. My future. I have more than ten thousand photos in my phone, and I'll be damned if I let some hokey ancient with a bronze knife take it from me.

I take another step back, switch the lens to selfie mode and thrust the screen up to his face. "You stay back!" I say, wiggling the phone at him menacingly. "Or I will take your soul!"

He blanches at his image. Blinks. Lifts a finger to touch his cheek. Recoils when his image mimics him. He looks so undone I almost feel sorry for him. He takes another look at me then, reverence in his eyes. Gone is his arrogance and his certainty of who he is and what he is, of his status, whatever that may be. Fear saturates him as he drops to his knee and bows before me, his fist pressed to his chest.

Now I am undone. I have no idea what the protocol is for dealing with people kneeling in front of you. Do you tap them on the shoulder when you get bored of the kneeling, or just walk off and hope they follow you? I dither then decide to take a stealth photo of him while he's got his eyes fixed on his toes in his sandal. It's a great shot and I'm feeling really pleased with it when I hear him rise to his feet with a rustle of starched linen.

"My lady," he says, low, "I am not worthy of your forgiveness. With power as this it is no surprise that you survived the scorpion cell."

"The scorpion cell? That's intentional?" My thoughts grind to a halt to point out the obvious. "Wait. You speak English?"

"English?" he repeats. It sounds awkward on his tongue.

"Yes," I say, pointing at myself, the phone still in my hand, catching him averting his eyes from it. "My language."

"My lady," he says, his expression grave with respect, "I am speaking the language of my people. Perhaps it is called English in your empire?"

I say nothing because I don't know what to say. It seems time travel comes with local translation. Which means I must be speaking Ancient Egyptian. I just wish I could hear it. All I hear is English. I have an idea. I pull the phone up, switch it back to selfie mode and say into the screen: "The last thing I remember is the mirror."

I watch the movements of my lips hoping for a total mismatch, like a dubbed over foreign film. But everything is as it should be. My lips match my words. I shove the phone back into my pocket and stick another pin into my growing list of things to think about later.

I turn to my rescuer, who eyes my pocket wary as a cat that's had the misfortune of unearthing a snake. "Tell me your name," I say, "and where you are taking me."

He bows, elegant as a courtier. "My name is Menkheperre, I am Chief of the Royal Guard of Pharaoh Maatkare who has commanded me to bring you to them if you still lived."

I wave my arm towards the city. "Well then, let's do this. If I can survive a scorpion cell, I'm pretty sure I can survive an interview with a pharaoh."

I catch Menkheperre suppress a smile.

"What?" I ask as we move toward the open gates of the white and gold city.

"You speak most strangely," says Menkheperre. "It is...refreshing."

"Speaking of refreshing," I say as we pass under the gates and into the courtyard of a bustling market, "I need a drink."

He gestures to a nearby water bearer. She serves him a cup which I take and drink greedily. She serves me another in a half bow, without spilling a drop or ever once looking at either of us. From a small pouch tied to his belt he drops a sliver of gold into her upturned palm. She weeps with gratitude and follows us through the market heaping the blessings of the gods on him and his descendants.

At last, we breach the noise of the market into the relative calm of a shady plaza where groundskeepers sweep the avenue clear of fallen palm fronds. Despite the day's rising heat, the plaza is cool. Citizens go about their business, though none pass us by without pausing to give Menkheperre a reverential bow.

"Tell me," I say as we cross the plaza. "What is it about you that has everyone bowing to you? You said you are Chief of the Royal Guard." I shoot him a sidewise look to see if he's paying attention. He is, with alacrity. "Where I come from no one bows to guards."

"Your empire must be very strange if its people do not honor those who protect their sovereign." He cuts me a look. "All will be revealed in due course."

"Hm," I say, thinking the opposite. I figure I might as well use the time to try to get my historical bearings. "And in what year of the reign of Pharaoh Maatkare would we be?"

Menkheperre lifts his brow. "You have the power to take my soul, but do not know the year of Pharaoh Maatkare's reign?"

"That's right," I say, patting the pocket with my phone. "Us soul-stealers have far more important priorities to think about than keeping track of historical dates and times."

"Historical?" He stops and turns to me, his eyes move over me, examining me in a way I am not sure I like. His gaze returns to mine. I notice his eyes are very dark in a quite nice burnt-topaz kind of way. "My lady," he says, cold, "we are alive, right now. This is the present, not history. I would advise you not to speak so carelessly in the presence of Pharaoh, else you might wish you had perished in the scorpion cell."

He walks away as though he once more has the upper hand and I shoot him a look of pure annoyance. How dare he get all high and mighty with me? I am from the future. I know things that would blow his ancient mind to smithereens. Ice cream for example. And flying to Thailand for a holiday. Live streams from the International Space Station. The Internet. AI. (Ok screw AI, the job-stealing bastard). Binge-watching Netflix. Botox!

Just to spite him, I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of his retreating figure framed by a pair of date palms and the clean lines of city long lost to the sands of time. It's pretty good. Definitely one for Instagram. Might even go viral because it looks so realistic. I stop and look around the plaza, taking in the details of a world lost to time, cared for by people no one remembers. The scent of roasted meat wafts from the market. It smells delicious and the incongruity of it all strikes me right between the eyes. I look back down at my phone again at the photo of Menkheperre, walking through the dappled shade of the palms when it hits me...I might never eat ice cream again.

I look up and catch Menkheperre standing in a pool of sunlight waiting for me, his head tilted in a concerned way that tells me he's not a total dick. I wrestle down the panicky thoughts threatening to undo me, of being stuck here forever and never going home again. Of being lost to history, an outlier with no family, no home, no past and no future. I shove my phone back into my pocket and cross the plaza into the warm pool of light to join him. He walks on.

"I think," Menkheperre says after a moment, "you are not what you seem."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," I return.

And out of the blue, he laughs, rich and melodious.

"You, my lady," he says with a quiet shake of his head, "will not soon be forgotten."

And I know he means by him. And somehow it makes me feel a little less bad.