Author's Note: Hey guys. Sorry for the slow update speed. It's the holiday weekend and I'm swamped with volunteering at different places as well as visiting with family. I know this isn't long, but I wanted to get at least something up. Will post again ASAP, but I doubt the updates will be daily, unless you want very short chapters. Happy belated thanksgiving to all those who celebrate and thank you all for being understanding.
2. An Explosion for Christmas
I'd been to the British Museum several times before. In fact, I've been in more museums than I like to admit. I tied to count how many once and the sheer number makes me sound like a total geek.
[That's Samuel in the background, telling me that I am a total geek. Thanks, Bro. Love you too!]
Anyway, the museum was closed and completely dark, which made sense given the fact at it was nearing 8 p.m., but the curator and two security guards were waiting eagerly for us on the top of the steps.
"Dr. Kane!" The curator shouted, running down the steps towards the cab. Her hair looked greasy, like a bad adaptation of a mullet, and she was wearing a cheap pantsuit. I tried not to be too judgmental of people I didn't know, but I'd seen mummies with more hair and better teeth. She shook my mom's hand vigorously, like she was meeting a rock star. "Your last paper on Akhenaton—brilliant! I don't know how you translated those documents!"
"Ak- henna- who?" Samuel muttered to me.
"Akhenaton," I explained. "Egyptian king, cult leader. The one that worshipped Aton, the giant sun orb. You know."
"Didn't know," Samuel said. "Don't care. But thanks."
Mom expressed her gratitude to the curator for hosting us on a holiday, after hours and all. Then she put her hand on my shoulder. "Dr. Martin, I'd like you to meet Carla and Samuel."
"Ah! Your daughter, obviously, and—" The curator looked hesitantly towards Samuel. "And this young man?"
"My son," Mom said firmly, giving Samuel a smile.
Dr. Martin's stare went temporarily blank, the implications of what she just said dawning on her. Doesn't matter how open-minded or polite people think they are, there's always that moment of confusion that flashes across their faces when they realize Samuel is part of our family. I hate it, but over the years I've come to expect it. To be honest, when I was younger, it was one of the reasons I didn't like coming to visit him. The stares and hushed whispers started to fade into the background over the years, but they still caused a moment of agitation.
The curator regained her smile. "Yes, yes, of course. Right this way, Dr. Kane. We're very honored!" The security guards locked the doors behind us. They took the luggage Mom and I had with us, but when one of them reached for Mom's workbag, she interjected.
"Ah, no," Mom said with a tight smile, her hand gripping the handle tighter. "I'll keep this one."
The guards stayed in the foyer as we followed the curator into the Great Court. It was ominous at night, long shadows from display cases towering over us like demonic figures. Dim light from the glass-domed ceiling cast crosshatched shadows across the walls like a giant spider web. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the cold white marble floor.
"So," Mom said, "the stone would be…?"
"Yes!" the curator exclaimed. "Though I can't imagine what new information you could glean from it. It's been studied to near death since it's discovery in 1799—our most famous artifact by far."
"Of course," Mom said. "But you may be surprised."
"What's she on about now?" Samuel whispered to me.
I didn't answer him. I had a sneaking suspicion what stone they were talking about, but I couldn't figure out why Mom would drag us out on Christmas Eve to see it and god forbid I give Samuel the wrong answer. I wondered what she'd been about to tell us at Cleopatra's Needle—something about our father and what happened the night he died. It was really beginning to concern me that my mom was glancing around as if she expected those strange people we'd seen at the Needle to pop up again? We were locked in a museum surrounded by guards and some of the most high-tech security. Nobody could bother us in here… At least I hoped not.
We turned left into the Egyptian wing, one of the larger exhibits on display. The walls were lined with massive statues of the pharaohs and gods, some covered in gold, others sculpted out of limestone. But my mom passed them all without a glance and went straight for the main attraction, placed on a pedestal in the middle of the room.
"Beautiful," my mother murmured. "And it's not a replica?"
"No, no," the curator promised, her head bouncing like a bubblehead. "We don't always keep the actual stone on display, but for you I made sure that this is quite real."
We were staring at a slab of dark gray rock about three feet tall and two feet wide. It sat on a pedestal, encased in a large glass box. The flat surface of the stone was chiseled with three distinct bands of writing. The top part was written in Ancient Egyptian picture writing: hieroglyphics. I had seen these many times, but I was still hazy about what each meant. The middle section was more foreign to me, and I had to rack my brain to remember what my dad called it: Demotic, a kind of writing from the period when the Greeks controlled Egypt and a lot of Greek words got mixed into Egyptian. The last lines were in pure Ancient Greek.
"The Rosetta Stone," I said.
"Isn't that the computer program they advertise on the telly?" Samuel asked.
I wanted to tell him how stupid he was, but the curator cut me off with a condescending, nervous laugh. "Young man, the Rosetta Stone was the key to deciphering hieroglyphics! It was discovered by Napoleon's army in 1799 and—"
"Oh, right," Samuel interjected, forcing a smile. "I remember now."
I knew he was just saying that to shut her up, but my mom wasn't as easy to fool, and seemed keen on educating him about the history of the stone.
"Samuel," she said, "until this stone was discovered, regular mortals...er, I mean, no one had been able to read hieroglyphics for centuries. The written language of Egypt had been completely forgotten. Then an Englishman named Thomas Young proved that the Rosetta Stone's three languages all conveyed the same message. A Frenchman named Champollion took up the work and cracked the code of hieroglyphics."
Samuel chewed her gum, unimpressed with the lack of action or drama in the story. "What's it say, then?"
Mom shook her head. "Nothing very important. It's basically a thank-you letter from some priests to King Ptolemy V. When it was first carved, the stone was no big deal. But over the centuries...over the centuries it has become an incredibly powerful symbol. It's perhaps the most important connection between Ancient Egypt and the modern world, that managed to span the gap between time and reignite a dead language. I was a fool not to realize its potential sooner."
She'd lost me, and apparently the curator too.
"Dr. Kane?" she asked. "Are you quite all right?"
Mom breathed deeply. "My apologies, Dr. Martin. I was just...thinking aloud. If I could have the glass removed? And if you could bring me the papers I asked for from your archives?"
Dr. Martin nodded. She typed a near 16 digit code into a small remote control, and the front of the glass box clicked open.
"It will take a few minutes to me retrieve the notes because they're located in my office," Dr. Martin said. "For anyone else, I would hesitate to grant unguarded access to the stone, as you've requested. I trust you'll all be careful." He glanced at us kids like we were troublemakers.
"We'll be careful," Mom promised.
As soon as Dr. Martin's steps receded, Mom turned to us with a frantic look in her eyes. "Children, this is very important. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you have to stay out of this room."
She slipped her workbag off her shoulder and unzipped it just enough to pull out a heavy bike chain and padlock. "Follow Dr. Martin. You'll find her office at the end of the Great Court on the left. There's only one entrance. Once she's inside, be quick and wrap this around the door handles, then lock it tight. We need to delay her for as long as possible."
"You want us to lock her in?" Samuel asked, suddenly interested. "Brilliant!"
"Mom," I exclaimed, "what's going on?! You've been acting weird all night and now you want us to lock the curator in her office? Are you going to steal something?"
"We don't have time for explanations," she said. "This will be our only chance. They're coming."
"Who's coming?" Samuel asked.
She took Samuel and I by the shoulders, pulling us into a hug. "Sweethearts, I love you. And I'm sorry...I'm sorry for many things, but there's no time now. If this works, I promise I'll make everything better for all of us. Samuel, you're my brave young man. Take care of your sister for me. Carla, I know that I'm acting strange, but you have to trust me. Remember, lock up Dr. Martin. Then stay out of this room!"
With that, she gave us a push and we started off down the hallway. I trusted my mom enough to follow her instructions, but my heart never beat as fast as it did, running towards the curator's door.
Next chapter will show how the Kane siblings managed to get the curator locked in her room, and the reveal of what Dr. Julia Kane was up to with the Rosetta Stone. Thank you all, please review with any suggestions for other stories or comments.
Cat
