Author's Note:
Dear all,
A very different direction this story is taking! I hope it isn't very complicated! So much for working on the thesis eh? The priority obviously goes to the story.
By the way, might anyone tell me who's the elder of the Carnahan siblings?
Some background that is taken off Arabnet:
The outbreak of WWI had brought Egypt as a Protectorate under the British Empire when the Ottoman Sultan pledged support for the Germans against the allies. During the war, the 6th son of Khedive Ismail, Fouad, had become Khedive of Egypt but his authority was to be constantly challenged by Egyptian nationalists who fed on the popular resentment of foreign domination. In September 1918 Egypt made the first moves toward the formation of a wafd, a delegation to voice its demands for independence at the Paris Peace Conference.
Sa'ad Zaghloul was the leader of the nationalist movement during and after the first war and in 1918 he formally presented the British High Commissioner with a demand for complete autonomy which was rejected out of hand. Zaghloul's eventual arrest and deportation to Malta resulted in widespread anti-British riots, forcing the British to back down.
In 1922 the British ended the protectorate and recognized Egypt's independence, while maintaining control over the essential government institutions and the Suez Canal. Fouad was proclaimed King of Egypt in March of the same year and the years that followed were characterized by a triangular power struggle between the British, the King and the nationalist Wafd party which had the support of the population.
Chapter 1 - Discovery
London, 1926
Autumn dawns were days of splendour, only when she did not have to wake up early for work. The change of the seasons, subtle, soft, she thought, one of humanity's oldest and inexhaustible wines. Everything looked at rest, still, exhales and inhales, darkness and light.
Save for Jonathan Carnahan's resonant snoring.
The clock showed an impossible six-twenty with the squint in her eyes, the plain of gray hanging over her room, over the sky. London was waking up, the groggy giant metropolis that ironically proclaimed eternal wakefulness, the wheels of its gigantic machinery reluctantly churning as the day slowly lightened.
The shadows that cast a black sheen on an aged picture frame on the bedside table slowly disappeared, cutting away the strong contrast of light and dark shades to reveal a family, a posture-conscious man and his Middle-Eastern wife, their two babies.
Evelyn Carnahan's room had remained unchanged for years, a pristine and perfect preservation of quaint Edwardian décor even when she spent the years in Egypt, courtesy of the faithful housekeeper who had pledged undying allegiance to the Carnahan family.
She smiled wryly - Mrs Ellby acquired heart palpitations when she saw the defacement of her room - the memory was fond as she gazed at the ancient amulets that now hung irreverently on the side of the table, an obscure papyrus scroll that displayed itself proudly behind the family portrait, etchings made from the drawings at Deir El-Bahri shouted the power of Hatshepsut over the relics of Edwardian England.
Egypt is in my blood.
Her eyes fell on the portrait as it had unfailingly daily for the past years that she had returned to London - feeling a pinch of guilt for not missing her parents more.
Rohan Carnahan and his unusual wife Rahiq Mahadeva Carnahan - parents whom she had uneven knowledge of; the father and the mother who had brought Jonathan and her up until he vanished mysteriously in Egypt during the first world war, and her intensely exotic Egyptian mother who had followed him back to Egypt and had never returned.
She groaned as she left her warm bed and stretched languidly, dressing and making her way to the kitchen until the glint that came from the odd position of silver scarab beetle stopped her in her tracks.
A makeshift paperweight that was placed atop several tattered sheets of paper, letters, they looked to be, correspondences that looked too old to be bothered with.
Of course.
Jonathan Carnahan's excitement overflowed.
Darling sleepy head,
Found them in a drawer, a drawer in a part of that oak table that we never knew existed. The one which made you cry at the grand age of 6 whenever you sat on it. Read immediately the moment your eyes open.
It had indeed been a long time since Jonathan was particularly thrilled, she conceded. Removing the scarab beetle paper weight, she took up the pile of letters, some hastily written, others thought out with a careful hand, admiring the bold, elegant script that she knew without a doubt belonged to her father.
She was immediately intrigued; the correspondences a key that unlocked the world of her father and his erratic behaviour when the Great War started.
Hmm.
She picked them up gingerly, flipping them through; they seemed to be grocery lists, mundane notes about household matters before her eyes settled on the fourth sheet of paper.
1916, Cairo
The office of the British Commissioner of Egypt
Sir Reginald Wingate
To: Mr Rohan W. Carnahan
It is my greatest pleasure to inform you that the position of political analyst with our foreign office that you have been seeking after is finally available.
A reply however, is needed as fast as our courier allows
"Evy!" She looked up, startled, to see Jonathan Carnahan peering over her shoulder.
"I see you've found them, look at this, look!" His hand impatiently flipped the next correspondence upwards, pointing vigorously at the 7th sheet of paper.
"A letter from Mother's egyptian family -"
"...dated around 1917"
"Read!" She ordered smilingly.
"Hold on, Jonathan, translation, translation." She trailed off, scanning the untidy Arabic that now looked foreign to her eyes.
"I'll do it." He announced, snatching the paper from her. "A no-frills paper, no-frills writing. No waiting."
"To Rahiq Mahadeva Carnahan,
Salaam,
Ithn'an habash kam'muh nuwn r'yat sama'kan yatta'jih kulu'wana," He announced with a flourish, holding the paper at a considerable length from his eyes, squinting.
"In English!"
"Your uncle is critically ill, wounded in gunfire. But the point of this letter is not to say any whys and hows. You know that he is one of the most prominent members of the Umma Party, and had pushed for the development of the wafd.
We are very loyal to the cause of Egypt; the independence of Egypt shall be accomplished. It is said that there is strength in numbers, and the wafd shall not be a delegation that has a mouth without limbs which will move according to the will of Allah for Eygpt.
I ask for your return, now. You have lived in Egypt all your life, and a mere 7 years in England when you went west with your husband and your children..."
He broke off, puzzled.
"Why is it I can't remember such details?"
"Apart from the fact that you walked around with sheep's wool pulled over your eyes, half-drunk for 23 out of the 24 hours in a day, there's no other reason." She retorted playfully, snatching the letter out of his hands, examining the portion that he had just read.
"Aw..."
She waved the piece of paper impatiently.
"Don't you remember? We lived in Egypt, came back here and then we left again to find father, only to be distracted by Imhotep and his wiles, and after that, we returned again." She grimaced at the last part, realising the life that she had led only consisted of the frequent shuttling between Egypt and London.
The European woman whose spirit and soul were Egyptian, easily ensnared by things that are sometimes more fantasy than she realised.
"Now who's idea was it to return hastily?"
"Well, Jon, the future certainly isn't told through my eyes."
"Why aren't you mentioning his name?"
"Who's name?" She inquired mock-innocently.
Jonathan Carnahan heaved a rueful sigh.
"Alright, if you say. I will make it all clear, to show you that time heals all wounds," His sister condeded. "That it now has no more of a hold on me." She cleared her throat, hesitating. "Because Egypt held painful memories then, when Rick O'Connell and I decided to part ways. So I am now, depending on the interpretation, either an eligible governess ripe for marriage or a spinster who will wallow in guilt. Up to you to choose."
"Bah! Positively old-fashioned, obsolete, tried and tested, old mum."
"Do not distract me from the letter! Why did you stop reading?" She slapped his back, causing him to lurch forward, stamping his foot down to regain his balance.
"Alright, alright, old mum. Continue such behaviour and we'll see which next man is athletic enough to challenge you when he comes along!" He hurrumphed, and started off once more.
"Oh, bollocks, get on with it!"
"Your father and this uncle are in negotiations. They have been meeting with a very powerful man in Egypt - you are aware by now that power is always slippery and those who truly wield it are almost never seen. He brings with him, should integration of forces be successful, tens of thousands that will be at the disposal of the wafd. The man, whom you met years earlier, is Ishaq Bay.
Your help is needed, I repeat, in this family. Our ties are too strong to be severed by 7 years. Bring your husband if you wish; he can take care of himself, but spare the lives of your young ones."
Silence.
"Intriguing." Evy said expressionlessly, looking through the contents of the letter.
"May Allah protect you always, signed, Sayyed Mahmud Mahadeva."
"Grand-uncle Sayyed?" She asked.
"Probably. I never knew mother was involved in Egyptian politics."
"We wouldn't have known anything," Evy pointed out, "Too young to care, too young to understand. We thought mother's folks were chilling people and kept our faces turned towards the 'civilised' side of the world, which was father's, so to speak. Watch out Jonathan. A beautiful face might just hide a cunning, shifty brain."
"So you are saying that we do not quite know our mother at all."
"What I am saying, is that you are probably right. She never told us of her activities, neither did father, they simply looked happily married to us and that they were. Both of them left for Egypt when you and I were in boarding school - I came home to an empty house, several articles of clothing thrown around, as if they were too unimportant to fit into their trunks. Must have been a hurry." She got up hurriedly and set the water to boil.
"You think it was the letter? Our housekeeper was given strict orders to preserve the house as it was."
"So they thought that they were coming back to us then. No one knew that they never would. Strange that we only found these sheets of paper now." She shifted, and tip-toed to grab the basket of eggs, but the distance which they stood far exceeded the length of her arms.
"Dear brother, the eggs."
"So does this mean anything, Evy?" He handed the eggs to her, and then she saw that his gaze was unnaturally clear, the look on his face perceptive.
"Yes it does."
"Back to facing the demons huh, sis?"
"Breakfast, Jon?"
"Certainty, Evy. Now back to where we were -"
"Perhaps, perhaps not," she interrupted. "We will set out to do what we have always wanted to do, minus the distractions of the last time."
"For god's sake, Evy, don't you mention clump all the memories of the last time in Egypt as 'distractions'. I know they mean something - No no don't shake yer head, big girl." He wagged a finger, and said softly, "I sense this isn't just about Dad and Mum, Evy," He paused and said somberly. "It's also about you; you've been restless for 2 years and even in a state of drunkenness any fool can pick it out. The closure that you crave does not entirely lie with the fate of our parents."
She stared at him disbelievingly, her insides rioting against his frankness, yet amazed by the perspicacity that he was capable of and yet so seldom revealed, thanking him silently that he saw the moment important enough to share it with her, the niche in their unusual sibling relationship opened anew.
"Sometimes I forget brother to remind you that your sharp insights pierce the souls of the dead and living in London. But yes, assuming you are right, Jon. What do we do then, how?"
"Ishaq Bay. Ardeth Bay. See you any possible connection? I do say Evy, I feel quite proud of myself." Jonathan raised a brow.
"Worth a try nonetheless." She ignored that smart-mouthed quip. "With any luck, I might just find work in the Museum again. And you and your educated being might perhaps find the same post as a research assistant."
"Well, old mum. An excellent spirit that you're showing!"