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.