the reign of Tuthmosis IV.
Titles tumbled from Bridget’s mouth: “Lord of Akhmim, Priest of Min, Master of the Horse, His Majesty’s Lieutenant Commander of Chariotry.” All those things Yuya had been called. The tomb, like so many others, had been plundered. But not everything had been taken. Shabtis, including this one, carved statuettes that were meant to animate in the afterlife as servants, had been left behind to be discovered by archaeologists and placed in museums.
This piece had been in a museum.
Bridget gulped in the dusty air of the warehouse and the pleasant scent of Dustin. His hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. Dustin was talking to her, but she paid no attention, she was lost in the images emanating from the shabti. Drunk on it, she couldn’t release the connection. Couldn’t? Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to. Wanted to take the precious shabti back to her brownstone and shut everything and everyone else out and delve deeper into ancient Egypt.
“Bridget!” Dustin raised his voice and broke through. “Are you all right?”
“Mom?”
Bridget tried to wave them off, but her arms felt like lead. So old, this magnificent piece, so filled with history and memory and pictures.
Bridget pressed for more. This shabti, made of cedar, had changed ownership several times, ending up at the Malawi National Museum in Minya, Egypt, and put on exhibit. She saw it in a display case, as clear as if she’d been in the museum.
“A little more,” she whispered, curious how it ended up in her warehouse in New York City. She heard chaos in her probing, a crowd, shouts, sirens, and whistles. It was August of 2013, and a riot was in progress outside the Minya museum. She watched armed thieves scurry in, break the case and steal the shabti, along with many other items. A jumble of news bits hit her like pellets from a scattergun. Looters had ravaged ancient sites and museums in that turbulent summer that year, stealing what they could carry away while demonstrators set fire to things all in a clash between Egyptian security forces and the supporters of the ousted president Mohamed Morsi. Bridget remembered the reports; hundreds died and thousands were injured.
In the bloody conflagration, this ancient piece within her grasp had gone missing. Bridget clearly saw the face of the men who had taken it—and the museum’s other treasures—registered their names and tried to remember every detail about them, every scar and feature, heard the protestors in the background, felt the calloused and careless hands of the thieves on the wood, then felt it pass from one hand to the next to the next until it rested in one darkness followed by another and another.
The hold of the ship that brought it here? Yes, but more.
Its recent black surroundings did not have the feel of a ship.
The blat of a horn flittered at the edge of her thoughts. A ship’s horn. Then a different sound, persistent. Honking. A jarring sensation. Foreign cursing.
The lurching of a damnable New York City taxi!
The darkness that had most recently cocooned this shabti had been the trunk of a cab.
“Mom?”
Bridget’s throat had gone desert dry. She swallowed and worked up some saliva and broke the connection with the shabti. She was slammed by the sensation of awakening from a three-day bender. “This piece, this little statue … it came with the shipment from Genoa today?”
“No, boss. Not that piece. One of Marsh’s buddies lifted it from some rich dude’s apartment on Eighty-Fifth. Marsh told him maybe you’d want that little statue for your antique shop, told him you like the old stuff. Ugly as hell, ain’t it? Marsh was supposed to be here tonight, but I heard he had to go to the hospital and—”
“Marsh isn’t feeling well,” Bridget said, making a mental note to call and check on him later, pay the hospital bill and hope the concussion wasn’t serious. “Marsh’s friend. The one who brought this. What is his
Titles tumbled from Bridget’s mouth: “Lord of Akhmim, Priest of Min, Master of the Horse, His Majesty’s Lieutenant Commander of Chariotry.” All those things Yuya had been called. The tomb, like so many others, had been plundered. But not everything had been taken. Shabtis, including this one, carved statuettes that were meant to animate in the afterlife as servants, had been left behind to be discovered by archaeologists and placed in museums.
This piece had been in a museum.
Bridget gulped in the dusty air of the warehouse and the pleasant scent of Dustin. His hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. Dustin was talking to her, but she paid no attention, she was lost in the images emanating from the shabti. Drunk on it, she couldn’t release the connection. Couldn’t? Wouldn’t. Didn’t want to. Wanted to take the precious shabti back to her brownstone and shut everything and everyone else out and delve deeper into ancient Egypt.
“Bridget!” Dustin raised his voice and broke through. “Are you all right?”
“Mom?”
Bridget tried to wave them off, but her arms felt like lead. So old, this magnificent piece, so filled with history and memory and pictures.
Bridget pressed for more. This shabti, made of cedar, had changed ownership several times, ending up at the Malawi National Museum in Minya, Egypt, and put on exhibit. She saw it in a display case, as clear as if she’d been in the museum.
“A little more,” she whispered, curious how it ended up in her warehouse in New York City. She heard chaos in her probing, a crowd, shouts, sirens, and whistles. It was August of 2013, and a riot was in progress outside the Minya museum. She watched armed thieves scurry in, break the case and steal the shabti, along with many other items. A jumble of news bits hit her like pellets from a scattergun. Looters had ravaged ancient sites and museums in that turbulent summer that year, stealing what they could carry away while demonstrators set fire to things all in a clash between Egyptian security forces and the supporters of the ousted president Mohamed Morsi. Bridget remembered the reports; hundreds died and thousands were injured.
In the bloody conflagration, this ancient piece within her grasp had gone missing. Bridget clearly saw the face of the men who had taken it—and the museum’s other treasures—registered their names and tried to remember every detail about them, every scar and feature, heard the protestors in the background, felt the calloused and careless hands of the thieves on the wood, then felt it pass from one hand to the next to the next until it rested in one darkness followed by another and another.
The hold of the ship that brought it here? Yes, but more.
Its recent black surroundings did not have the feel of a ship.
The blat of a horn flittered at the edge of her thoughts. A ship’s horn. Then a different sound, persistent. Honking. A jarring sensation. Foreign cursing.
The lurching of a damnable New York City taxi!
The darkness that had most recently cocooned this shabti had been the trunk of a cab.
“Mom?”
Bridget’s throat had gone desert dry. She swallowed and worked up some saliva and broke the connection with the shabti. She was slammed by the sensation of awakening from a three-day bender. “This piece, this little statue … it came with the shipment from Genoa today?”
“No, boss. Not that piece. One of Marsh’s buddies lifted it from some rich dude’s apartment on Eighty-Fifth. Marsh told him maybe you’d want that little statue for your antique shop, told him you like the old stuff. Ugly as hell, ain’t it? Marsh was supposed to be here tonight, but I heard he had to go to the hospital and—”
“Marsh isn’t feeling well,” Bridget said, making a mental note to call and check on him later, pay the hospital bill and hope the concussion wasn’t serious. “Marsh’s friend. The one who brought this. What is his
Similar Books
