Night At The Park (Ahkmenrah X Tim Murphy)

Chapter Two: The Strange Land

SMALL TRIGGER WARNING:  Tim's PTSD will be shown in the latter half of this chapter.

When Tim came to, he was lying on a soft, plush surface. Something thin and warm covered him. Its scratchy material was rough against his skin, and a few loose, feather-like strands tickled his nose. The air was cool and dusty, yet rather unlike the musty atmosphere of the old pharaoh's tomb. It seemed more . . . free, as if he were lying in the open air.

He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. A migraine pounded in his skull. He was about seventy-five percent sure that he was dead, yet also . . . did dead people need to sneeze?

At last, the strands tickling his nose and the dusty air got the better of him. He let out an ungodly, "Achoo!" that his grandpa would be proud of.

"Careful, son, or you'll dirty my pots!" cried a loud voice nearby.

Tim's eyes flew open.

He was lying on a rickety cot. A thin, wool sheet blanketed him. Hovering above him, glaring with intense, beetle-black eyes, stood a dark-skinned, stern-looking woman.

The woman smiled crookedly at him.

He yelped and scrambled back against a nearby wall, tripping as his feet tangled in the sheets. As he extricated himself, his heart beating in his throat, his eyes darted around the room wildly, taking in his surroundings.

Apart from the woman, he seemed to be alone in a small, dim, very cluttered room. Curtains covered the windows, blocking the sunlight outside. Shelves lined almost every inch of wall, carrying books, candles, buckets of tools, and ceramic statues. A rug blanketed the ground, covered in such a thick layer of dust and grime that Tim couldn't see the pattern beneath. Plants of all varieties flourished around the room, half-concealing an old, rickety door leading presumably to another room. In one, cramped corner of space that was clear, a stone table with dark wooden chairs was pressed tightly against the wall. Clay pots, plates, and bowls of all sizes were stacked on a shelf nearby, and above them, a Christian cross with a loop on top instead of just a straight line hung: An Ankh, the Egyptian symbol for life.

He shifted his eyes back to the woman. She was old and whizend, with heavy wrinkles around her mouth and large bags under her dark eyes. This, coupled with her evident crows feet, told Tim that she might've been somewhere in her fifties. She wore a light-colored, linen robe tied around her waist with a rope that had frayed at the ends. Her hair was black and had been woven into thick dreadlocks that curtained her strong jaw. A beaded band wrapped around her head, seeming to hold her hair in place. Perhaps she was wearing a wig.

Mouth dry, Tim reached into his right pocket where he kept the switchblade his grandpa had given him. With a trembling hand, he flipped it open and pointed it at the woman. "Who the hell are you?"

Despite being threatened with a knife, the woman didn't react. She simply stared at him with a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Who–are–you?" he snarled, placing a harsh enunciation on each word.

At last, the woman spoke.

"Calm yourself, child," she clipped. "So long as you do not touch my pots, I mean you no harm."

With a great deal of hesitation, Tim lowered his weapon, placing it by his side in case he needed it again. After he made it clear that he had no intent on moving away from the wall, she spoke again.

"They call me Ahura. What do they call you?" Her voice was now laced with a sweet and genuine tone. Tim noticed she had an accent. It was peculiar. He'd never heard anything like it. If he had to liken it to a region, it would be British.