Get out your popcorn, tourists beware, here comes a paranormal adventure with a historical twist, set in Egypt--and Britain.
From Chapter 29 'Darkness': 'Did I just try to dive into that goo to get at a dead guy?' Trueth asked.
Define dead,' Me...
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Seated on a mat in his room at the sanctuary, Metjen waggled the greyish flatbread in front of his face, then slapped it back on the plate in disgust. The fruit was overboiled, the bread was overdone and the hibiscus tea was far too strong. The deep red beverage was one of his favourites. Why the good sisters let his steep longer than the others' was beyond him. He was the youngest of them all, so there was no need to lower his blood pressure.
He slurped the sour liquid--sugar never seemed to find its way into the temple. At least the brew was hot. Too hot. But the tea did not help his headache. He wished he could mind-numb the twinge, but this was not how things worked, and he would have to seek his old mentor, Nebmutef, instead. Metjen pushed the remains of his breakfast aside. He rose to perform his ablutions in the pathetic excuse for a bathroom at the back of his cell and dressed in the ceremonial ankle-length white shendyt for today's festivities. An outdoor ceremony was unusual. In fact, he had never witnessed this ceremony before, it happened infrequently, or so the old priest had told him.
As he made his way towards the back corridor, he wondered what Iseret had in store for them. Earlier this morning what passed for a stampede in this place had limped, shuffled and wheezed past his cell, and most of the Servants were above-ground, extending the veil. He had been charged with preparing the holy chamber, so it would be ready to receive whatever object Iseret wanted to expose to the rays of the early morning sun.
Metjen yawned. In his opinion, the evening sun would have been better suited for the purpose. Whatever it might be.
As he passed through the back corridor, he could not resist and entered one of the storage rooms which housed their most precious possessions. Like the others lined up in a row, this chamber burst with heirlooms scrambled together by the faithful, when the old temples fell prey to the invaders. Any self-respecting archaeologist would have sacrificed body parts to get a glimpse of their collection. Not his parents though, they had already enjoyed this privilege.
Boxes were stacked upon boxes; furniture, vessels and amphora all creating a colourful chaos in the small room. Metjen shook his head at the mess and winced. His headache was deteriorating and he rubbed his temples. As he retreated, he brushed against the handle of a basket teetering on a table decorated with the webbed feet of waterfowl.
He pushed out his hand—too late. The basket took the plunge. A resounding crash was followed by floating dust motes and a memory of flowers. The basket burst open upon impact, spilling its load of amulets in a multi-coloured rush.
'Lord Metjen, what is it you are doing?'
Metjen sneezed twice and glowered at the brother whose solid body blocked the entrance. 'Does nobody ever clean in here?'
Khafa shook his head. He and his sister, despite being in their early fourties, were closer in age to Metjen than anybody else in the temple. 'Her Wisdom does not wish this to be done.' He stared at the objects covering the floor and nervously checked the corridor. 'You will need to clear this up. Shall I help?'
