“Things Left Behind”
It’s funny, the things I carry with me.
How Egypt sunk itself into my soul the way I find sand in
my books, my suitcase, and my hair.
My paper proposal to The Journal of Egyptology will discuss in precise detail the manner in
which the ancient priest Imhotep lived and died but will say nothing to
describe the taste of his rotting lips on mine. I feel Hamunaptra has changed
me in some indelible way; yet outwardly, I betray no clues to suggest that I
have seen things few humans have or will.
I find myself thinking back of the woman who almost
consumed my life for hers. I wonder which one of them – Anck-su-namun or
Imhotep – launched the plan to assassinate the pharaoh. Was she merely a pawn
in Imhotep’s plan for power? I went to university, I passed aside marriage to
pursue a career I adore; what future did Anck-su-namun possibly see before her?
A prisoner draped in gold and fine linen, dripping with scented oils, and
perhaps the least free woman in the kingdom. Was Imhotep her savior or her
condemner?
I realize that it is a
pointless pursuit to understand the motives of evil creatures, so instead I
focus on the tangible things that accompanied my exodus from Hamunaptra. I have
knowledge that will expand the understanding of Egyptian culture, a real chance
to impress the Bembridge Scholars, and a . . . curious new relationship.
The women in books never
describe their star-fated lovers as ‘curious,’ but I cannot think of a better
adjective to describe Rick O’Connell. As I write this, in our tiny shared train
compartment, I can’t help but feel glad that he’s stepped out for a bit. I
still care for Rick as much as I did in the desert, but simple caring isn’t
enough. I know so little about him. Is this merely shellshock-induced
infatuation?
I wish I could hide away in
the solitude of a long, hot, silent, soak in a modern English hotel room and
perhaps figure out a few things.
The compartment door slams open and Rick returns
bearing tea and sandwiches; he and Evelyn are returning to England carrying a
fortune in Egyptian gold, yet their liquid assets only allow them to travel
second class.
“Oh, that looks lovely, thank you,” Evelyn says.
“Sure,” he says. “What’re you writing?”
Evelyn casually flips her notebook closed. “Details on
our experiences; I’m sure I’ll be able to dredge a good many papers out of
this.”
“Good,” he says.
The conversation lulls, as it has been doing since
they setting out for England. Whatever spell the desert cast over them that spurred
their romance-under-fire, apparently its powers were daunted sometime during
the jostling, uncomfortable, boring, and otherwise disappointingly real trip.
“Don’t you like tea?” Evelyn asks, seeing Rick
hasn’t even filled his cup.
“Uh, no, not really,” he says apologetically. “Boiled
weeds aren’t really my thing. No offense, I know how you Brits worship the
stuff.”
“On behalf of my country, I take no offense.”
Rick smiles awkwardly, not sure if she is kidding.
“So,” Evelyn says.
Rick tries to think of something, anything to hold
up his end of conversation, but can’t think of a single thing. It’s much easier
to talk to girls when you’re both drunk or trying to avert an apocalypse.
“You never told me where you’re from,” Evelyn says
“America.”
“Yes, I can see that. Er, hear it,” she stumbles. “I
mean, your accent.”
He nods. “Yeah, I get it. I’m from Illinois. Heard
of it?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
This is ridiculous, Evelyn thinks. She had a
beautiful night with this man when they were crossing the desert on camelback;
lying under the stars in the dark, talking and getting to know each other –
pretty darn well, too, at least on Evelyn’s scale of experience. He hasn’t so
much as kissed her since that night; the mood hasn’t been the same as it was in
the desert, and neither of them knows how to manufacture it.
I know we have chemistry
somewhere under this hesitation, Evelyn thinks.
“Do you want to play cards or something?” Rick asks.
“Sure. Gin?”
He makes a face. Lacking poker chips, his natural
inclination is to suggest a more fun thing to bet. But if a girl like Evelyn
expects a decent date before a kiss (in the real world beyond deserts and
danger), she’s hardly going to be up for strip poker. “Yeah, sure,” he says.
Time is all we need, Evie thinks. I hope.
~*~
Continued
in “Since We Came Home.” Feedback appreciated at annegirl11 at juno dot com.
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