A Life of Death: Episodes 9 - 12 by James Roy Daley, Weston Kincade, Books Of The Dead Page B
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nodded, ignoring it. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“What?” Dr. Mayna asked.
“There’s another way,” I mentioned, “to find out right now.”
Dr. Mayna glared up at me. “We’re not desecrating these remains. To break any of the skeleton’s bones would be sacrilege.”
Another yank pulled more hair from my scalp. I winced, but didn’t turn around. “I w-wasn’t thinking that,” I stammered. “I have a feeling there’s more to this than you realize. I think Jill was murdered.”
Dr. Mayna’s eyes drew to slits. “Detective Drummond, everything you came up with about Jack was interesting, but I have no way to verify it. I don’t know whether to believe you or not. Everything you said seemed genuine, and I have to admit that I was excited by it, but it was almost too good to be true.”
“Let me try,” I pleaded. The fear of experiencing yet another gruesome death had been overshadowed by curiosity and what I could only assume was Jill’s ghost prompting me the only way she could.
“Look, you’ve been very helpful, but this skeleton is off limits now. I see no evidence of foul play. The other one I wanted you to look at is over here.” She turned, gesturing to the third, most-broken skeleton I’d seen upon entering. From a few yards away, it appeared as though they had mismatched some of the bones, but my gaze found its way back to Jill’s skeleton and the cylinder cap protruding from her hand. Dr. Mayna’s last brush stroke revealed ornate carvings around the edge and across the top, but there was too much dirt encrusted in it to tell of what. A curious swirl caught my attention and I brushed the dirt away with my thumb. Immediately, the aroma of aged leather wafted to my nose. The pressure of a hand settled onto my shoulder. Then Jill, Dr. Mayna, and the room swirled into blackness.
* * *
“Sacmis, you can’t be this way. What will the others say? All over Set Maat, it will be said that you left me for him. I will be shamed,” pleaded a voice I knew.
The darkness dissipated, replaced by twinkling stars over a desert valley, the brief light of the crescent moon painting the cliffs and bedrock an off-white.
Khasek shook his head and stepped toward me, his black curls dancing around his strong jaw. The whites of his eyes bore into my soul when he loomed near, and the sweet smell from the dried clove he was chewing drifted to me. “Give it back,” he demanded, holding his hand out for the cylinder. “The letter in it was meant for you, not all of Set Maat.”
“I don’t care. I love him,” I cried in a language and feminine voice that wasn’t my own. Warm tears flowed down my cheeks as though attempting to match the currents of the Nile, and I clutched the wooden object tighter. In my other hand I held a quivering knife, its blade extended toward the man.
“You cannot. You belong to me!”
“I’ll show your confession to the elders, Khasek. We are not married. I can—”
“You can do nothing without my permission!” Khasek interjected and pried the knife from my hand. I then realized the ornate curls of the engraved wood cylinder were leaving a painful impression in my right palm and knew what letter he was referring to. I tried to calm down, to loosen my grip enough to assuage the pain, but thoughts of the small case vanished when Khasek ran the edge of my knife along his own cheek, the shaped-rock blade trimming a swath of his nightly whiskers. “This is mine now,” he whispered, “until you learn to use it without threatening to hurt people.”
Questions flew through my brain as I tried to decipher the situation, but they were overridden by the growing panic and fear in Sacmis’s mind. “Please let me go,” I pleaded in a mournful whisper.
“Go where?” he asked, his eyes glazed. “Panhsj is dead. Before, I could understand you wanting to run after him, but now you know the truth. There’s nowhere to go, no way to get to him.”
“But I love
“What?” Dr. Mayna asked.
“There’s another way,” I mentioned, “to find out right now.”
Dr. Mayna glared up at me. “We’re not desecrating these remains. To break any of the skeleton’s bones would be sacrilege.”
Another yank pulled more hair from my scalp. I winced, but didn’t turn around. “I w-wasn’t thinking that,” I stammered. “I have a feeling there’s more to this than you realize. I think Jill was murdered.”
Dr. Mayna’s eyes drew to slits. “Detective Drummond, everything you came up with about Jack was interesting, but I have no way to verify it. I don’t know whether to believe you or not. Everything you said seemed genuine, and I have to admit that I was excited by it, but it was almost too good to be true.”
“Let me try,” I pleaded. The fear of experiencing yet another gruesome death had been overshadowed by curiosity and what I could only assume was Jill’s ghost prompting me the only way she could.
“Look, you’ve been very helpful, but this skeleton is off limits now. I see no evidence of foul play. The other one I wanted you to look at is over here.” She turned, gesturing to the third, most-broken skeleton I’d seen upon entering. From a few yards away, it appeared as though they had mismatched some of the bones, but my gaze found its way back to Jill’s skeleton and the cylinder cap protruding from her hand. Dr. Mayna’s last brush stroke revealed ornate carvings around the edge and across the top, but there was too much dirt encrusted in it to tell of what. A curious swirl caught my attention and I brushed the dirt away with my thumb. Immediately, the aroma of aged leather wafted to my nose. The pressure of a hand settled onto my shoulder. Then Jill, Dr. Mayna, and the room swirled into blackness.
* * *
“Sacmis, you can’t be this way. What will the others say? All over Set Maat, it will be said that you left me for him. I will be shamed,” pleaded a voice I knew.
The darkness dissipated, replaced by twinkling stars over a desert valley, the brief light of the crescent moon painting the cliffs and bedrock an off-white.
Khasek shook his head and stepped toward me, his black curls dancing around his strong jaw. The whites of his eyes bore into my soul when he loomed near, and the sweet smell from the dried clove he was chewing drifted to me. “Give it back,” he demanded, holding his hand out for the cylinder. “The letter in it was meant for you, not all of Set Maat.”
“I don’t care. I love him,” I cried in a language and feminine voice that wasn’t my own. Warm tears flowed down my cheeks as though attempting to match the currents of the Nile, and I clutched the wooden object tighter. In my other hand I held a quivering knife, its blade extended toward the man.
“You cannot. You belong to me!”
“I’ll show your confession to the elders, Khasek. We are not married. I can—”
“You can do nothing without my permission!” Khasek interjected and pried the knife from my hand. I then realized the ornate curls of the engraved wood cylinder were leaving a painful impression in my right palm and knew what letter he was referring to. I tried to calm down, to loosen my grip enough to assuage the pain, but thoughts of the small case vanished when Khasek ran the edge of my knife along his own cheek, the shaped-rock blade trimming a swath of his nightly whiskers. “This is mine now,” he whispered, “until you learn to use it without threatening to hurt people.”
Questions flew through my brain as I tried to decipher the situation, but they were overridden by the growing panic and fear in Sacmis’s mind. “Please let me go,” I pleaded in a mournful whisper.
“Go where?” he asked, his eyes glazed. “Panhsj is dead. Before, I could understand you wanting to run after him, but now you know the truth. There’s nowhere to go, no way to get to him.”
“But I love
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