Cursed Times - Only Yesterday! Sequel to Wattys 2015 winner!

Chapter 17: Metjen - Cracking Up

From Metjen's tower, the view over the temple of Ra was certainly impressive. Magnificent pillars, grandiose staircases, holy lakes, gardens and ornamental ponds acted as a playground for the milling multitudes. From up here, they looked like termites swarming all over a collection of antique dollhouses. Even the far-away voices added to the overall effect when they were not carried away by the blasted wind. A magical wind, a wind that also prevented his voice from carrying down, from being able to scream for help.

Not that anybody would come to the rescue, after all he was supposed to be their sun-flowed superman. Still, he enjoyed observing the scenery outside. It kept him connected with humanity and a life he was about to lose shortly. Very shortly. Tomorrow morning, to be precise.

The outside was also preferable to the room lurking at his rear. The wraparound sight bestowed by the cursed Blessing was not always an advantage. Certainly not right now when he would have much preferred to block out the view. A view, any normal human being would not be able to see with their backs turned. But then he was not normal, had not been for a long time. So far he had managed to mind-shut it all out, but the effort was becoming more difficult with time.

Not that he lacked for anything-to the contrary. People were falling over themselves to feed him, make him feel comfortable. A soft bed, delicacies, wine-had he wanted them, they would have been his. Including entertainment of the carnal variety. They had pushed in a couple of voluptuous handmaidens from the land of Punt, complete with ebony skin, curves and black braids. Metjen wondered whether somebody had talked to his brother. He could not care less. Not that they were not his type. They were. But not right now.

This is the end, he thought. I did not expect death to strike so early. I had a full life ahead of me.

All this was not fair. But then, life seldom was. Nor was death. Right now, he was locked in the golden cage that would become his launchpad to oblivion. How would it feel to be terminated? Stupid question. He would be no more, so why bother?

They had brought him here, to prepare, to meditate and prepare for the ceremony, to focus his strength-only to fizzle out like a failing firecracker.

Maybe he should be furious, but funnily enough there was no anger. Instead, he suffered from an inner chill, as if the universe was coming to him, not vice versa. Even the daylight seemed out of place, felt as if it should be night. The endless night of outer space. Acid burned the back of his throat. Metjen swallowed resolutely. He would not feel sorry for himself, nobody else did either. He was used to sending his ba from his body, used to sending out his ka. He would do it one final time; then worry no more.

He thought of the handmaidens. The Aztec civilisation had come much later in history; he had no reason to suspect his fellow priests had copied and pasted the ritual of Tezcatlipoca. If they had, he would have had another year to live, not another day. Maybe he should have learned to play the flute. No time left for that either. On the flip side, having your heart torn out was no better than having your brains fried. His thoughts in any case were moot; both times, the end was inevitable.

'Metjen? Where are you? This is so—freaky.'

She had come. So had the rest of his family. He had refused to see them; there was no point. They should remember him as he had lived. Seisi might have been good company during those last hours; yet as a priest of Ra, he was blocked by all that infernal red-tape.

Metjen gritted his teeth; he did not want to have this talk. But he had to. He owed Trueth that much.

He heard a crash and a crack from the direction of the entrance. Something clattered to the floor and broke. 'Bloody hell, what IS this? I would expect to see these frigging things at a fun fair, but not here?'