Another Pan (35 page)

When the bell rang and it was time to start class, Professor Darling walked to his podium. He was still staring off into a distance as he flipped to the right page in his workbook. Wendy knew that whatever was occupying his mind, it wasn’t as simple as the success of the exhibit. To the outside world, the exhibit was going great. The governor’s office had even asked the professor to attend a gala, where they would present him with some kind of award. Whatever was bothering her dad, thought Wendy, it had to be big. Not many things could turn the jolly professor to such brooding behavior.

“Hey, Professor,” said Marla from the back of the class. The professor was flipping the pages while staring out the window with a far-gone look on his face. “What’s the story?”

“The story?” echoed the professor.

“Why’s he so out of it?” Wendy asked John. He didn’t respond. He probably thought it was Wendy’s fault — that their dad was worrying about her relationship with Peter.

“Yeah,” said Marla, ignoring the snickering. “The fourth legend of the
Book of Gates
.”

“Ah,” said the professor, “Marcus Praxis, the Nubian god-warrior.”

Marla sat up in her seat, intrigued. Something told Wendy that these legends were going to make their way into the lyrics of Marla’s psychedelic goth rock band soon. Well, at least she wasn’t making fun of their Marlowe-owned house or flipping twenties at her head anymore. “What did Praxis lose?” asked Marla.

“Everything,” said the professor.

“But all of them lost everything,” said Marla. “That’s the point.”

“Yes,” said the professor, “but they didn’t
have
everything. Praxis alone collected a fortune, found requited love, and conquered the world.”

“Cool,” said Marla.

“Praxis would have been as famous as Alexander the Great.”

“So he really lost his fame,” said Marla.

“His place in history,” amended the professor. “His figurative immortality.”

Wendy glanced again at the windowsill, where moments before she had helped Peter hide to hear clues from Darling’s fourth lecture through the open window. She knew Peter was smirking at that last comment.

Professor Darling sighed as he glanced at his notes. “I do encourage you all to visit the book in our exhibit and see the sketches that go with each of these stories. Take advantage of these last hours of its stay at Marlowe.”

“What?”
said Wendy, a bit too loudly. She could almost hear Peter panicking outside.

“What do you mean,
last hours
?” said John, also alarmed.

“Well,” said the professor distractedly, “I’m taking it to the gala. I’m presenting the governor with a token from the exhibit. It’s customary.”

“But you can’t!” said Wendy. Her father flushed at her volume, and a few kids looked up from their doodling. “I mean . . . it belongs to the British Museum, right?”

“Yes,” said Professor Darling. “I have the proper permissions, of course. It’s on loan to the governor’s offices only for a short time.”

“The governor’s
offices
?” said John. “You mean in
Albany
?”

Professor Darling chuckled. “Yes, that
is
still where they keep the capitol.”

“But I thought . . .” Wendy searched for the right words. “I thought you said this book was the original gate book . . .”

“
Book of Gates
. No, I’ve long abandoned that notion. Sometimes, Wendy, the smallest, most inconsequential items are the most important. I’m focusing my research now on the figurine and the small jars. Don’t worry — the book will be in good hands. Simon’s mentioned something about applying for some sort of curator job in Albany, correct?”

The professor looked at Simon, who nodded solemnly. Wendy wondered if John understood that Simon had engineered this loss, that he was isolating the book for himself. Probably not. He probably thought Simon was protecting a valuable artifact for posterity. Still, it was obvious that John did see one thing: opening the gates without the book — or getting their hands on it once it was sent to the capitol — would be impossible.

“Now,” said Professor Darling, “back to Marcus Praxis and his great loss.”

Wendy knew that Peter was fuming on the other side of the windowsill. She could practically hear it as her dad began the fourth legend.

A just reward is a precious thing. If a person is robbed of the rightful credit for his deeds, of the right to be praised or punished according to his own humanity, then he is nothing. If his place in history is obliterated as though he never touched the earth, a bitterness builds inside
.

So goes the story of one family with a curse on its line, of Elan’s dark legacy, full of the cruelest injustices. The house that cannot die. Their stolen lives linger on, still flowing in their bones. Life has been mummified inside them, forming an ever-living bonedust — a new kind of immortality
.

Hundreds of years after the betrayal of Harere by her sister, Nailah, the House of Elan languished in desolation. With each passing generation, the family became more and more entrenched in a legacy of regret. Soon, they were nothing but bandits, floating up and down the fertile Nile, ambushing caravans led to water, and hijacking merchants
.

The Children of Elan were the most feared gang in all of Cairo, roving the City of the Dead, desecrating family tombs for precious objects. Ambitious officials often hired them to assassinate rivals. If they paid extra, a lot extra, Hurkhan the legend, leader of the infamous gang, would personally attend to the matter
.

It was said, only in the quietest corners of the city, that Hurkhan had a taste for killing. He was an abomination to Elan’s bloodline, to Egypt, and to humanity. He had used the blacksmith’s sharpening wheel to grind his own teeth into a jagged bracket of razors. His smile was grotesque. No one would speak of Hurkhan and everyone prayed that he would not speak of them. But this legend is not of Hurkhan the bloodthirsty. It was someone else who bore the weight of Elan’s heritage. . . .

Hurkhan had spent much time sharpening his skills with the Nubian tribes, using his fearsome reputation and grotesque acts of violence to frighten the elders into allowing him to stay among them when he needed to hide. There, he had fathered a son with one of the Nubian princesses. When Hurkhan’s son was born, no one could deny that he was beautiful. Somehow, by the gods, he had taken the best of his parents’ odd coupling. He was strong, shrewd, and courageous, like his father. He was also kind, just, and generous, like his mother. His skin was a dark bronze
.

When the boy came of age, Hurkhan returned to the village to claim his son. In the alleys of the City of the Dead, the underground began to whisper. The Children of Elan had arisen with a new son. But no one had seen this new street prince. No one had seen him because Hurkhan had other plans
.

Lately, Hurkhan had been uninformed of the goings-on within Cairo and the pharaoh’s palace. He needed a new spy in the royal house. As it happened, his son was the same age as the new pharoah, Amun-Ra, who was a petty and jealous young man
.

No one would suspect that the Nubian boy was the rumored son of Hurkhan. But his tribal name was not suitable for the sly affairs of courtesans. Hurkhan gave him the name Marcus Praxis, knowing the young pharaoh’s fascination with the Roman clans
.

Marcus Praxis did not know he was a spy. He only went to the court of Amun-Ra to find a friend. Hurkhan lived, as always, in the shadows, watching the two boys grow as close as two brothers, waiting for his chance to use Marcus for his purposes
.

Amun was not nimble, like Marcus. Nonetheless, all the courtiers let the frail pharaoh win at games. He could not win chariot races, as Marcus did, but the courtiers pulled back their horses to let him pass. Marcus was the only one who would soundly defeat Amun at every game they played
.

Amun-Ra grew envious, and even though Marcus Praxis was his best friend, somewhere, deep down, the pharaoh hated him — especially in the presence of Layla, the daughter of a minister. To young Amun-Ra and Marcus Praxis, Layla was the ocean. Her splendor outshone Alexandria’s lighthouse. She was famous for her fiery nature. People called her fierce, an unstoppable force: a windstorm
.

Over the years, Marcus became a great soldier, courageous in battle, and the commander of the most elite warriors. When it seemed as if the wars would tear all of Egypt apart, his spear shone and struck fear and regret in his enemies. He was given credit for saving the empire from ruin, and he rode into the city to a hero’s welcome
.

“Amun-Ra is pharaoh. Marcus Praxis is pharaoh builder!”

“Amun-Ra is god. Marcus Praxis is god maker!”

What Marcus Praxis had achieved was monumental. Poets wrote songs in his honor. Craftsmen built him statues. Artists painted his image throughout the kingdom. And most important, Layla chose him as her companion. Word spread that he would become the greatest name among all the peoples of the East. Amun-Ra burned with hatred
.

But soon, Hurkhan showed his wicked face to Marcus once again. In the palace garden, one dusky evening, Hurkhan approached his son, the commander of all Egypt’s armies, with a scheme. He had amassed a horde of barbarian warriors, mercenaries, and thieves, in the desert just outside Giza. Marcus Praxis could purposely lose this battle, letting Hurkhan’s criminal army overrun Cairo. Hurkhan would ascend the throne. But so would Marcus Praxis, after his father’s eventual death. It was a devious plan
.

Marcus could not deny that Amun-Ra was a terrible ruler. His taxes starved the people. His law had become overly severe. But Marcus Praxis would not betray his people to Hurkhan’s army. His father snapped his teeth in frustration, for Marcus was too strong to kill there in the garden. Hurkhan retreated into the shade, and back to his army
.

Marcus returned to his loving wife and their children. It was not long before the Egyptian army heard of Hurkhan’s men. The people of Cairo squirmed under the threat of more war. They called for Marcus Praxis to bring peace once again. Marcus Praxis kissed the beautiful Layla’s tears and promised to return. Then Marcus rode to Giza
.

Deep in the desert, the two armies faced each other. At the head of Egypt’s army stood Marcus Praxis, the legend of the day, his soldiers shouting in perfect unison. Among the roguish horde stood Hurkhan, the myth of the night, his men cackling and cracking their teeth. All the empire stood between them. From the palace balcony, Amun-Ra and the court waited for sounds of battle. Layla would not listen. Amun-Ra grinned, for he knew there was nothing to listen to. . . .

Marcus Praxis lowered his sword, the signal for his soldiers to attack. He sprinted ahead of them, unafraid of leading the charge. But when the great general reached the middle of the battlefield, he knew that his army had not followed. Hurkhan’s men had also stayed in place. Marcus knew he had been betrayed. His spurned father smiled like a crocodile as he watched his son standing lonely between two armies
.

At the command of Hurkhan, both armies raised their bows, and together they wiped the memory of the great general Marcus Praxis from the earth. Far away at the palace, as the court awaited the sound of war, Amun-Ra returned to his chamber, but not before ordering Layla to be his wife. Hurkhan’s army was allowed to ransack all of Cairo, but would stop short of the palace. For days the city burned. The bandit army took all that they pleased. They had only one command. All statues of Marcus Praxis were to be shattered, all murals scratched out of the stone. His name would be erased from the histories of great men. Marcus Praxis would be no more, and the great achievements of Amun-Ra’s kingdom would be credited to the pharaoh alone. Amun-Ra the brave. Amun-Ra, great warrior. Amun-Ra, savior of his people
.

Before the carnage was done, Hurkhan claimed the body of his son. In a ritual of debasement and desecration, the monster removed his son’s organs and preserved the hollow body as a trophy, a relic of war that he hid in the winding alleys of the City of the Dead. He used sawdust to stuff it and linens to wrap it. And so, in creating his grotesque monument to himself, Hurkhan mummified his son’s remains, trapping in his bones so much more than he knew. It is said, only in the quietest corners of the city, that beautiful Layla, who died soon after her marriage to Amun-Ra, wanders the dead city to this day, searching the intricate maze, looking for a token of her beloved
.

The bitterness of this injustice devoured Marcus’s soul. And so, he died with his life trapped in his bones. The goddess of death took the general’s mummy and the bonedust with it. She shielded it with her greatest weapons, fearing that someday death might be conquered. The Dark Lady hid the mummy in a place where no one could reach it, a legendary labyrinth of the gates, guarded by powerful deities that no human could overcome
.