Time Meddlers on the Nile Page 14

  His dad’s forehead rippled up into his hair. His lips twitched and trembled. His hands seemed to grip the reins tighter. He opened his mouth, as if he had something momentous to say. Matt braced himself for the sharp reprimand for his continual meddling, or the apology for forcing Matt to take such enormous risks. He waited for the murmur of fatherly concern that he might die and his dad would gladly take his place. He hoped he might say that Matt had great courage and strength, but all that emerged from his lips was a dry, “Okay.”

  Chapter 24

  Guilt

  The old man stared at her with open hostility in his eyes. Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her cross-legged position on the opposite side of the fire.

  “You can’t keep letting them grab people and turn them into slaves,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and focused on Qeskaant, who seemed more inclined to agree. “What do the raids really do? They just make the pharaoh and the prince angry. They still don’t listen, and they won’t change their ways unless you have the upper hand. You say you’re great warriors and if you gain some power over them . . .” Her voice trailed off as Qeskaant’s father—Nefkat, he’d called him—slammed his foot down on the sand.

  “We were great warriors,” he said. “But that was when we fought on the pharaoh’s side. Now we’re few and have no experience in battle. We can’t oppose organized archers whose shots have the accuracy of a hawk that can, from far up in the sky, locate and skewer a mouse darting through a thicket of trees. Neither can we overwhelm an army when we’re outnumbered five to one. We certainly can’t defeat a prince who’s so skilled that he killed four of our men in a simple raid. That we can’t do.”

  Sarah took a breath and sorted through her thoughts. The man had excellent points, so she had to puzzle out better ones.

  “I can defeat the prince,” said Qeskaant. “They were lesser men who fought with him, and they failed because they didn’t watch and they didn’t think. But I have watched him train his men and I’ve strategized. I also know his weakness. He always directs his men from mid-position, rather than farther back, as other generals do. I’ll aim straight for his chariot. Once I kill him, his army will scatter. Then we can make our demands to the pharaoh.”

  “You’ll ride through the middle of his army? Unharmed, my son? We’re fearless men, but we mustn’t be stupid. This girl makes you stupid.”

  Sarah bristled. “That’s not fair. Qeskaant was thinking of something like this before I came along. He wants to make a difference. It’s not stupid at all.”

  “And you didn’t influence him?”

  “No. Not really. I just agreed with him. I hate slavery.”

  “Do you really?” asked the old man. “Or is it that you love Taharqa’s slave?”

  Sarah gasped. How did he know about Matt? “This . . . this isn’t just about the slave. It’s about all the slaves. You feel as strongly as I do.”

  “We feel strongly, but we’re not suicidal. Find yourself someone else to mount your daring rescue mission. My son won’t take part.”

  “Father—”

  “Stop pining after a girl who doesn’t love you and coming up with reckless plans to impress her.”

  “That’s enough!” said Qeskaant. He clutched Sarah’s arm and hoisted her from the ground. “Come, Sarah. We’re not going to listen to my father’s nonsense anymore. We need some sleep before we head for the Nile in the morning.”

  Sarah gladly left Nefkat behind, and walked back to their shelter on quivery legs.

  “Forget him, Sarah,” Qeskaant said. “He’s old and no longer has the fire of the Medjay. He’d even stop us from raiding if he could. Our plan is sound, and we’ll go ahead with it.”

  Sarah nodded, but she was speechless. Was he really doing this just to impress her? Or did he believe in his cause enough to risk his life and his men’s lives for it? That was something Matt would do, but Matt would do anything to prevent a battle or war. His cause. Sarah bit her lip and tried to suppress the tears bottled up inside her. How could she keep encouraging Qeskaant when he might be doing this for all the wrong reasons? His plan was full of holes, as his father had been only too eager to point out. But how could she discourage him when she knew what the cost might be? Not only to herself, but to the world? Besides, slavery was wrong. It had to be the right thing to do. Matt would consider that, too.

  Sarah slept fitfully, rolling over and over on the thin mat of fur in the shelter, coming face to face, more often than not, with the goat, who bleated a rebuke at her. “Sorry, Matt,” she’d mumble and roll again. In the morning she felt as if she’d barely survived a boxing match—her brain fried from overuse and her body battered from the rough ground.

  Qeskaant sat up and smiled at her, but his face instantly drooped in concern.

  “You had a bad sleep?”

  She nodded. “It’s hard to sleep beside a goat.”

  “I understand,” he said, ruffling Matt’s fur. Matt gave him an affectionate nip. “It can take time to adjust to goats. They’re rough and stubborn, but soft and tender when it counts, and they’re very loyal. Once you get to know them, you might prefer them to any other animal.”

  “I suppose,” said Sarah, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Was he really talking about a goat?

  “I’ll prepare breakfast before we leave. Think about the goat,” he said, “and your Matt.” He flashed her a tender smile, then ducked out of the tent.

  A shudder rippled through Sarah. Qeskaant definitely had feelings for her. This wasn’t good at all. But were they strong enough to make him do something reckless and stupid? Were his plans sound?

  He returned all too quickly and hastened her outside to grab a quick bite and mount his stallion for one more day’s journey through the desert. He took pains to avoid his father, who still managed to stab her with a glare before she reached the horse. Aiming for the west now, the Medjay mounted, while others herded the goats and sheep that would trail behind the company, but keep it in sight.

  In this way they began another seemingly endless trek—up winding dunes, down curling ones, around monstrous ones, over minor humps. It didn’t take long for the dry heat to siphon the moisture from Sarah’s tongue and skin. She tried her best to ignore the dogged thirst and her chafed thighs where they rubbed against the horse’s ribs, but desert travel still seemed like torture. Hours passed and a fog drifted over her, her eyes dreaming up patches of palm trees and her mouth imagining biting down on a juicy segment of watermelon. Then her head began to droop. Just when she thought she might scream if she didn’t get some fluid, Qeskaant handed her the goatskin canteen.

  Sarah drank deeply. When she tipped her head down again, she could make out something sparkling in the distance. Could it be water? She squinted and it looked like an olive-green snake winding through the sand. It must be the Nile River—hardly a streak in the distance, but still vivid against the bleached background.

  Yeah, it’s real. Not a mirage. Trees, grass, water!

  At the same time she realized this, Nefkat drew up beside his son’s stallion. He kept his eyes focused on the growing emerald belt, but whenever Qeskaant’s head was turned away, he’d look over and crinkle his eyes at her, an expression of disdain and something deeper, something darker. Sarah’s stomach knotted; her throat tightened. At first she’d managed to make friends with the Medjay, but now she was sure she’d made an enemy. She turned away from the spiteful old man and tried to keep her heart from thundering loud enough for him to hear.

  Something like this had only happened to her once before. Sure, she’d had arguments with other kids, and she knew that Chelsea, the class know-it-all—whom she and Matt had teased whenever they could, because she deserved it—felt no love for her. But she’d never experienced hate ripple towards her like heat waves, except from Nadine, when the evil woman had tried to shoot her. In a way, it was more terrifying than facing Nazis, because it was personal.

  Sarah tried to ignore Nefkat as they neared a cluster of
verdant palm trees that waved at them like long lost friends. Beyond these she could see row upon row of wheat and barley, and melons and other fruits and vegetables. In the distance, across the river, Sarah spotted the stone features of a pharaoh, chiselled into the cliffs that bordered the Nile.

  Who? What? Oh, it doesn’t matter. There are probably all kinds of monuments around here. How many times have I dreamed of coming here, seeing the pyramids, the tombs, the temples? But not like this. Never like this.

  Qeskaant aimed for the Nile, and a sprinkling of boats fastened to a jetty that extended from a collection of squat mudbrick houses. People in brightly-coloured kilts and dresses poured from these houses, alerted by the “thumps” and “neighs” of the approaching horses. Qeskaant waved and, with a wide smile, leaped from his stallion. He chatted jovially with these Nile dwellers, chuckling and patting their shoulders, and then pointed at the opposite bank. After a few minutes of negotiation, that involved the surrender of some scrawny sheep and goats, they ushered the Medjay men, women, and horses onto sturdy wooden barges and poled them across the river.

  Sarah joined Qeskaant on a barge—thankfully not the same one his father was taking. She was happy to be crossing peaceful waters for a change. No white water ride through cataracts this time, with a side order of crocodiles. Once they reached the west bank, Sarah noticed a sizable group of temporary shelters, like the dom palm huts Qeskaant had slapped together at the oasis. The Medjay rushed towards them. As soon as they drew near, other Medjay with huge tufts of curly hair and wide gleaming grins burst from the shelters and shouted, welcoming friends and relatives. Qeskaant dismounted and helped her down, but then left her beside the stallion as he joined the mingling, shouting, and backslapping. It was funny, but this hug-happy display left her feeling even more alone. Oh, how she missed Matt and her dad. A part of her even missed Nadine—the Nadine who’d saved Anne Frank, anyway.

  “You see their joy,” said a voice at her side. Sarah jumped and turned, noting, with a clench in her belly, that Nefkat had not joined the others, but was eyeing her like she was a toad. “But soon you’ll see their sorrow,” he continued, “if you don’t convince my son to stop this insane crusade.”

  “I-I can’t. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway. He’s determined to fight the prince.”

  The man’s gaze blackened. “You can, but you won’t. You don’t care for my people, nor do you care for the Kushites. If you keep buzzing your entreaties into my son’s ear, you will pay.”

  Sarah’s heart thudded against her chest. What did he mean by that? How would she pay? Nefkat flicked her a smile that never touched his eyes and slipped away into the crowd. He seemed to be as animated as his son now, despite the threat he’d just delivered.

  Forget him. She took several deep breaths, trying to slow down her fluttering heart. He’s just an old man. What can he do to me? Besides, even if he does try something, Qeskaant will protect me. I’ll be okay. I just need to stay close to him.

  Sarah flew to Qeskaant’s side and tried to look buoyant, pasting on a brittle smile, as she was introduced to at least three hundred people. It seemed that Medjay from every corner of the desert had travelled to this reunion, including nearly two hundred warriors, Qeskaant pointed out.

  As they prepared their evening meal, they reminisced about the days when they’d lived on the Nile banks, enjoying its lush crops until they’d grown hippo-plump, rather than having to forage far and wide for scarce food in the desert. They spoke of ancient battles, including those they’d fought as Egypt’s warrior guardians. But mostly, they drew together to forge new alliances. Families, Qeskaant explained, roamed the desert as a unit, but they met others once a year to find a mate and form new family units. It seemed the only way, since they were usually separated. Sarah found it interesting, an exchange like certain atoms made with electrons to keep a full outer shell and stay stable, but, like in science class, she couldn’t keep her mind centred on the discussions. She kept drifting back to Nefkat’s words.

  “Your father doesn’t like me,” she finally said.

  “He’s just angry. He’ll get over it.”

  “But what if he doesn’t. Would he . . . ?”

  Qeskaant gently patted her on the shoulder, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “Stop worrying, Sarah. As long as I’m with you, no one can harm you.”

  Sarah smiled, but inside she shivered. That wasn’t exactly reassuring. But he was right. He’d protected her all along and he wasn’t about to stop now. She owed him a great deal. And she’d owe him even more if he went through with his plan to provoke the prince. But she kept tripping back to his father’s words. What if he was doing it for the wrong reason, to impress her? Come to think of it, he might have kidnapped her for the wrong reason, too. To find a companion? A wife? Sarah shuddered. She knew they married young in this day and age. And he’d seemed embarrassed when she’d asked him why he hadn’t rescued Matt. Was he really thinking of rescuing Matt now, or was it all a show to try to win her heart—a show in which he and other brave men might die? Maybe his father had a point, and maybe she needed to stop him.

  “Qeskaant,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  She paused and looked into his wide, soulful eyes. They reminded her of green, soulful eyes, stubborn, determined eyes that she needed desperately to remember in order to keep going. Eyes that belonged to the one person who gave her a purpose, who could forge through anything—the only person who made her stronger than she was. And she realized she couldn’t do it.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said.

  * * * *

  Later that night, Qeskaant told Sarah that he’d already sent some men to begin raiding the nearby town of Faras before the Medjay celebrations.

  “That doesn’t mean the prince will arrive anytime soon, but at least we’ve set things in motion,” he added with a smile.

  “At least,” Sarah agreed, although a tremor rippled through her. She snuggled under the fur blanket, feeling anything but secure. It was as if a presence were rustling in the dark, whispering proof of her evilness into her ears. She imagined that presence had wings. She looked over at Qeskaant, immediately sinking into sleep, as if it were nothing to go into battle, and even less, something to worry about. She was being horrible. Just horrible.

  Admit it, the winged presence said. You’re doing this out of pure selfishness. You have absolutely no idea if you or Matt or anyone can stop the destruction of the timeline. You’re sending these young men off to fight because you miss Matt. You need him.

  Was it true, what the old man had said? Was she doing everything to get back to Matt because she loved him, and, by doing this, going against everything he stood for?

  Tears escaped her eyes and soaked her cheeks.

  Why can’t I do the right thing, Matt?

  She sat up and reached towards Qeskaant, to shake him awake. But when her hand had spanned half the distance between them, she heard a ripping sound in the tent. She was seized from behind, a hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled, but it was useless. Someone strong and determined dragged her from the shelter.

  She tried to scream: Wait. I was going to talk him out of it.

  But she couldn’t utter a word. She couldn’t even move. The winged being flew up to her ear and whispered in a voice that was hollow and defeated, Too late.

  Chapter 25

  The Prince’s Test

  Matt had been grinding his teeth and ignoring his father for countless kilometres when the prince finally raised his hand and waved him forward again. Was this it? The surprise Taharqa had mentioned? What could it be? A ceremony of some sort? An induction into the army? Some special type of armour or weapon? Matt was already wearing a stiff leather helmet, instead of the straw bowl caps other men wore when not on the battlefield. Perhaps Taharqa would present him with a sword.

  He trotted forward, and for the first time in hours, grinned.

  “Yes, Taharqa?”

  “Matt,” the prince said, for
once not returning Matt’s grin. “In order for you to fight alongside me—assuming we have a battle forthcoming—you need to be better prepared. A gazelle, a duck—each takes skill to bring down. But they’re trifles. Hunting them will only improve your accuracy, but it won’t expose you to the true ferocity of battle. I’d been thinking of this even before we arrived at Napata. Somehow I have to train you in record time. So I came up with a solution.”

  “Great,” Matt replied, although a feeling of dread crept into his gut.

  “This will be a challenge, and don’t look to me or my men to help you. You won’t have us to protect you in any true battle, if we’re engaged ourselves.” The prince paused and detached the leather scabbard that clasped a solid iron sword topped with an elaborately carved wooden handle trimmed in gold. “Take my sword, in case you run out of arrows, or time.”

  Matt gulped and accepted the scabbard, swinging it around his waist and tying it tight. What did the prince have in mind that might use up all his arrows? Would he have to fight a man?

  “There,” said the prince, leaning over the side of the chariot and pointing into the distance. Matt squinted and saw a small troop of men surrounding the large iron cage of the lion. They carefully opened the gate and released the beast, then dodged back to their horses and galloped away.

  “Take down the lion, Matt. And don’t return until you do.”

  Matt gaped. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You want me to kill the lion?”

  “Before it kills you,” said Taharqa.

  Matt turned back to him, but he realized there was no point in arguing. The prince’s jaw was rigid, his eyes like polished rock, his lips firm. This was Matt’s surprise—and it certainly was—but instead of a reward, as he’d expected, it was a training exercise, and a deadly one at that.