Charlie's War, part two

Continued from here

Poughkeepsie, New York

June 1915 – June 1916

Despite repeated attempts by his parents, his brothers, the Colonel, and his sister, Hank left Yale two years before receiving his degree and traveled by train to Toronto, where he volunteered for service in the Canadian Expeditionary Force. The officials with the CEF didn't seem disturbed by the fact that he was an American; they welcomed him with open arms, trained him, gave him a gun, and sent him off to France. He was the grandson of an Irish immigrant, after all. British blood ran in his veins.

The spring and summer of 1915 were a time of intense changes for the McNamaras. Not only had Hank shipped off to Europe to fight in a war that promised to change the world forever, but Charlie had been accepted to Vassar College in upstate New York, Junior's wife had given birth to their first child—a girl they named Isabella Marjorie—and Al began expressing the desire to leave school to pursue a career as a painter.

Charlie received only two letters from Hank during the summer months and both were brief and vague. He talked about how much he missed home and hot, home-cooked meals. He talked about basic training and how much he was looking forward to finally seeing some action. He described hearing mortars exploding in the distance and the constant chattering of machine gunfire. The only indication he gave about just how awful the conditions were for the boys was when he mentioned going out of his way to avoid the medical tents because of the stench and the constant moans of agony from the soldiers inside.

In September, Charlie and her mother packed up Charlie's things and boarded a train that would take them clear across the country to New York state. Charlie viewed attending college with a strange mix of apprehension and excitement. She was worried that her coarse, back-woods education and manners would ostracise her from her classmates. These fears were alleviated immediately upon meeting her roommate, a girl from New York City who found Charlie's stories of hunting and fishing and amateur archaeological digs fascinating.

October brought with it amazing autumn colours that put the golden Colorado aspens to shame. Vassar's campus had been planted with over two hundred types of trees, and the month's cold snap brought with it a patchwork quilt in a riot of scarlet, aubergine, and amber. It also brought another letter from Hank, a letter that Charlie cried over every night for a week.

Hank had finally seen battle in a skirmish with the Germans in a French village called Loos. It was mostly successful, but at one point, the officer in charge of releasing the chlorine gas timed it incorrectly and inadvertently gassed his own men, poisoning more than 2,500 of them. The reserve troops had been forced to march fifty miles in only four days and were utterly exhausted when they arrived on the front lines. They were inexperienced troops as well, and in the four-day period of the battle, the British lost 50,000 men, mostly to German machine guns. Hank described in detail what he experienced while in the trenches:

Men are blown into showers or their bellies are turned inside out. To die from a single bullet seems to be nothing. Parts of our being remain intact. But, Charlie, to be dismembered, torn to pieces, reduced to pulp, this is the fear that flesh cannot support and which is fundamentally the greatest suffering.

We eat beside the dead, drink beside the dead, relieve ourselves beside the dead and we sleep beside the dead in these trenches. The stench is awful. People will say that the front line was Hell. Hell cannot be so terrible as this. Humanity is mad; it must be mad to do what it is doing.

Charlie wrote to him, begging him to leave, to come back to America where it was safe. She didn't hear from him for months. The very real fear of losing her brother distracted her from her studies and her grades began to slip. Her professors eventually offered her the chance to write for The Miscellany News, Vassar's weekly newspaper, in an attempt to find a constructive outlet for her worries. She quickly took to it, becoming one of the most popular writers on staff, working side by side with Edna St. Vincent Millay to develop her editorial voice.

Finally, in February of 1916, Charlie's father wrote to her to say that he'd heard from a friend of a friend that Hank was still alive, though deeply entrenched on the Western Front with the CEF's 13th Battalion. This relieved Charlie greatly and she found she could once more concentrate on her studies though her dreams were still filled with the horrible images Hank had relayed to her in his last letter. She ended her freshman year at Vassar on a high note, receiving perfect marks in all of her classes, making many new friends, and had discovered a promising career as a journalist.

Poughkeepsie, New York

June 1917

“And so we can see that these two answers look different until we remember to include the arbitrary constant when we compute the antiderivative. Any questions?” Professor Ashby turned away from his blackboard, and peered over the top of his half-moon cheaters, scanning the classroom full of second-year calculus students. With less than a few weeks left in the school year, he was worried that his girls weren't paying attention to his reviews and wouldn't score well on the final. “No questions? Well, let's move on then.”

Just then, there was a knock on the classroom's door and a student stuck her head in. “Is Charlotte McNamara in here?” she asked the Professor, who turned and nodded to Charlie. The girl walked quietly to Charlie's desk and handed her a slip of paper and then exited the classroom.

Frowning softly, Charlie unfolded the note and read, “Please come to the Dean of Students office immediately.” With a dawning feeling of dread, she shoved the note into her book bag, gathered her things, and left the classroom, walking quickly towards the Dean's offices. What could have happened? Was it Papa? Had something happened to him? Could he be sick?

She arrived at the Dean's office and saw Al standing with the Dean himself. They were both wearing sorrowful expressions and Charlie's knees felt suddenly weak. Al looked up at her and rushed to her side, cupping her elbow and murmuring soft words that went unheard. It wasn't Papa. It was Hank. She knew it immediately. Something had happened to him in France. The world went a little grey at the edges and the next thing she knew, she was sitting down with Al's arm wrapped around her shoulders and the Dean kneeling at her feet. “Charlie? Charlotte, can you hear me? Eunice, bring her a glass of water. Quickly now, please,” the Dean said.

She nodded woodenly and turned to Al. “What happened?” she asked. It was terribly difficult to get words past the lump her heart had made in her throat. Someone pressed a glass of water into her hand and she mechanically sipped it. The coolness of the liquid made it somewhat easier to breathe.

“Papa phoned me at Yale and sent me here to get you. We're going back home, Charlie.” Al paused and glanced at the Dean for a moment, then back to Charlie. He reached out and laid his hand over her free one and said in a voice thick with tears, “Hank's been killed in France.”

There was a loud crash and the sound of glass shattering, and suddenly Charlie's feet were wet. She heard a high-pitched keening and it took her a moment to realize that it was her making that noise. She covered her face with her hands and shook her head back and forth, denying Al's words. A bubble of anger burst in her chest and she stood up, throwing a right cross at Al's nose. The blow landed perfectly, snapping his head back and breaking his nose to send a river of blood gushing down his face and onto the front of his snowy-white shirt. She screamed, “Don't you lie to me, Alfred Hanson McNamara! This isn't funny! Hank's not dead! Do you hear me! Hank's not dead!”

Mass confusion ensued. Al clutched his broken nose while at the same time tried to comfort his hysterical sister. Charlie collapsed in a heap on the floor of the Dean's office, sobbing and keening. The Dean called for a nurse while his secretary rushed around trying to staunch the blood flowing from Al's nose. Finally, the nurse came and pushed a sleeping pill on Charlie and tended to Al's nose. Charlie soon calmed down enough for Al to take her out to the car that had brought him from New Haven. They drove back to Charlie's room and Al helped her pack her things before driving back into the City and getting on a westbound train.

The next week went by in a fog. Charlie would have no memory of the train trip from New York to Colorado even years later. Her first clear memory after Al breaking the news to her about Hank's death was being crushed in an embrace by the Colonel on the front porch of her family home. The old man's cheeks were wet and he wouldn't let go of her hand all throughout Hank's memorial service. The entire town turned out for it, then filled the house afterward, forming up into little groups who spoke in hushed, reverent tones and tip-toed around the grieving family.

Charlie found she couldn't breathe and the walls of the house began closing in on her. “I have to get out of these clothes,” she said to the Colonel. She gently disengaged her hand from his and went up the stairs to her bedroom, where she changed from the confining, stiff black dress her mother had insisted she wear. She put on soft flannel trousers, a linen shirt, and an old denim jacket that had been handed down from Junior. Then she dug out her knee-high leather boots, put them on, found her rifle, and slipped out the back door, headed for the river. Her Mama had mentioned wanting goose or duck for supper.

Moments later, Junior and Al caught up with her, carrying their guns and wearing hunting gear, too. No one spoke as they cut their way through the new spring turf. They soon reached the river and headed towards their old blind, which they found in nearly-perfect condition. After making a few repairs to it, they settled in and began the worst part of hunting–the waiting.

Charlie broke the silence first. “What happened to him? Where did it happen?” She couldn't bring herself to say Hank's name.

Al and Junior exchanged looks and Junior eventually said, “It was at a place called Vimy Ridge. He and the other gunners were dug in and laying covering fire against the Germans. That's all we know.”

Charlie nodded and went back to staring out at the river, watching the water silently. The McNamara brothers exchanged helpless looks and watched the water as well. Finally, Charlie said at length, “Do you remember the summer I was twelve? When Papa and the Colonel took Hank and us on that dig down near Hartsel?”

“When you and Al found all those arrowheads and the big scraping stone?” Junior asked.

“Yeah, I remember that,” Al said, cracking the first smile since his father had phoned him with the news of Hank's death. “That was a great week.”

And so it went until an hour before sundown. They exchanged memories and stories of Hank, recalling his wicked sense of humour, love of practical jokes, and his fierce love of and loyalty to his family. They didn't shoot anything, forgetting entirely after a few hours of talking that they'd went to the river to bring home supper. When they finally made their way home, they discovered that everyone had left, leaving Howard, Marjorie, and the Colonel in rockers on the front porch. After a supper of warmed-up casseroles and a roast brought by the Sheriff's wife, Charlie went up to her room and re-read Hank's letters before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Continued here

Charlie's War, part one

Michigan Creek, Colorado

January 1915

The newspaper, a weekly from Leadville, was almost three weeks old when Hank brought it to Charlie's attention. He showed her a tiny article on the fifth page with the headline of Men Are Needed To Die For Their Country. It was about the Canadian Expeditionary Forces and its need for volunteers to go immediately to France and fight against the Germans. Charlie read it and then looked up at her brother with a confused frown on her face. “But we're not Canadians. Besides, Papa wouldn't ever let you join up. You're only twenty. You still have two years of school left.”

Hank looked disgusted at his little sister's fatheadedness and crumpled the paper up and threw it into the little wood-burning stove that heated the kitchen of the large house built on the banks of the South Platte River. The huge picture window in the parlour where the rest of the McNamara family was gathered commanded a breathtaking view of the expanse of the snow-covered meadow of South Park and the ring of mountains that encircled it on three sides. Winter had come late to the high country, but now that it had arrived, it had settled in with a vengeance, tightening its icy grip around the tiny community of Michigan Creek, covering the houses and stores and mines with a thick blanket of fluffy, white snow, all but cutting it off from the rest of the world.

“You don't understand, Charlie,” Hank said and took another sip of his rum-spiked eggnog. “You're only seventeen. America needs to get involved. The Germans and the Turks are threatening to swallow all of the Middle East and Europe. America's next and President Wilson would be best served realising that sooner rather than later!”

Charlie gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bad-mouthing the president was something Hank would never have thought of doing a year ago. She suspected his new friends at Yale had had something to do with that. He was probably just spouting some nonsense he'd heard from them. Charlie shook her head and sipped her milk after fixing Hank with a long, level look. “Better not let Papa hear you talk like that,” she said after a moment. “He'll have your hide. And you'd better forget joining up, too. Papa won't let you, Hank. Just forget it.”

“I'll be twenty-one in April,” Hank said smugly. “I'll finish out this year at New Haven, and then next summer, I'll go to Toronto and volunteer. If America hasn't already become involved, that is. If we have, then I'll just go to New York and ship out from there. I'll be in my majority then. Papa can't say a thing against it.”

“But Hank,” Charlie said, tears filling her dark brown eyes. “It's a war! Boys are being killed, shot at, gassed! Papa got a cable from one of his friends in New York and their girl's son was killed in France.” She shot off her chair and threw her arms around her brother's neck, hugging him fiercely, clinging to him as if she could keep him safe. “You can't go, Hank! You just can't!”

“Henry can't go where, darling?” asked their mother, Marjorie, as she entered the kitchen, carrying a tray of empty mugs. She looked at her children and a frown marred her delicate, porcelain features. She took in her daughter's tears, the fact that Charlie was currently smothering her brother in a tight embrace, and then turned coldly appraising Delft-blue eyes on her son. “Henry, what did you do to Charlotte?” she asked with just a touch of heat in her voice.

“N-nothing, Mama!” Hank answered immediately, turning a mute appeal on Charlie as he pushed her off his lap. Please don't tell Mama that look screamed. “I didn't do anything to her. We were... We were just talking about how I'm leaving to go back to school in a few weeks.”

Marjorie, always slightly sceptical of Hank's stories and explanations, turned those blue eyes on her daughter and arched a delicate wheaten eyebrow. “Charlotte? Is that true?”

Charlie, wincing at being called by her Christian name, looked back and forth between her mother and her favourite brother. On the one hand, if she lied to her Mama and Marjorie found out, there would her Papa to answer to. And on the other hand, if she told her Mama what Hank was planning for next summer, there'd be Hank to answer to. Of the two McNamara men, Hank was the far more intimidating.

“Yes, Mama,” she said and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I... I don't want Hank to go back to school. I'm going to miss him something awful.” The look she turned on her brother once their mother nodded and turned away spoke volumes about what Hank owed Charlie for covering for him. It also promised that the discussion about him joining the Great War wasn't over.

Michigan Creek, Colorado

February 1915

Hank and Al, the youngest of the McNamara boys, left to go back to Yale two weeks after Hank and Charlie's conversation in the kitchen. Life in Michigan Creek slowly returned to normal. Howard Senior and Howard Junior continued their business as attorneys, seeing clients when they could and clearing up any legal issues their out-of-town clients had developed during the previous months before those clients left Colorado to return to New York and Boston and Philadelphia for the winter.

Marjorie continued educating Charlie while the tiny town's single-roomed school house was buried under seven feet of snow. Truth be told, however, there was very little left for Charlie to learn in order to pass her entrance exams to any of three acceptable women's universities: Wellesley, Vassar, or Bryn Mawr. She was fluent in French and ancient Greek, and could read and write passable Latin as well; she excelled at mathematics and sciences and could churn out beautiful, moving poetry and often won debates against her father and brothers. Mrs McNamara finally decided half-way through the first sunny day in February that there was little point in continuing the lessons and released her daughter early for good behaviour.

Charlie celebrated by donning her warmest clothing and a pair of snowshoes before digging a path from the front door to the road that led into town, which had been minimally ploughed. The sun was shining brightly, setting the snow to glisten like diamonds and making Charlie squint as she picked her way through drifts that were sometimes three times higher than her own head. She waved to the few neighbours who had braved the brittle cold and stopped to speak to those who called out to her. She never lingered long, though; she was determined to make it to the Colonel's cabin before nightfall.

The Colonel was former U.S. Army Colonel Dudley Simpkin, a decorated veteran of both the War of Secession and the Indian Wars. He'd been an invaluable friend to the McNamara family when they'd first settled in Michigan Creek, ten years before. Coming first from Newport, RI, then Colorado Springs, the family carried with it the stigma of being not only rich but complete greenhorns as well, and the townsfolk took an instant dislike to them. Only the Colonel and the town's unofficial historian, Emmett Laird, welcomed the family with open arms, realising what a coup it was for their tiny community to have a lawyer of such talent, and whose client list was filled with America's blue blood elite. The fact that Howard was so intensely interested in the area's history certainly didn't hurt, either.

Simpkin and Howard bonded over late nights, discussing history and politics, and they taught Junior, Hank, and Al to hunt and fish. Finally after two years of begging, they gave in and taught Charlie as well. Over the next few years, it became apparent to the Colonel and to Mrs and Mr McNamara that Charlie would never be a proper lady, so she was allowed to go on weekend hunting trips with her father, brothers, and the Colonel. The year she turned fifteen, she requested a weekend fly fishing trip. Between the six of them, they brought home over thirty fish – none of them were less than a foot in length. The next year, when she turned Sweet Sixteen, she requested a hunting trip, where she bagged a huge four-point bull elk on her own. It soon became apparent that whatever the men in her acquaintance could do, she could do much better.

The Colonel's cabin sat in one of the only aspen groves in the open expanse of South Park, the site of an ancient inland lake in the time of the dinosaurs. On a good day, it took Charlie an hour to travel from the McNamara home on the river, but today with the snow, the trip spanned nearly three. When she arrived, she found the Colonel chopping wood in his expansive yard.

He was an impressive man, even at almost seventy years of age. His hair, sandy blond during his youth, had turned to a silvery-white though his full beard still retained strands of blond. He was as tall as her father, who stood a bit over six feet, barrel-chested and as strong, quick-minded, and agile as he'd been when he was fighting at the Battle of Milk Creek, where he won a Medal of Honour and an Indian Campaign medal. He'd given them back when he retired some ten years later, citing his firm belief that what the American government had done and was continuing to do to the indigenous population was nothing short of criminal.

The Colonel looked up as he split a final log in half with one powerful swing of his axe and squinted at Charlie. “Ain't ya supposed ta be learnin' now, girl?” he asked her, his voice gruff with good-natured annoyance. He'd never admit it to anyone, and certainly never to Charlie herself, but he thought of the girl as the child he'd never had, and he looked forward to her visits as a child looked forward to Christmas Morning.

“Mama said there wasn't anything left for me to learn, so she chased me out of the house,” Charlie said and went to give the man a hug. Her arms couldn't reach all the way around his massive chest and she felt as though her ribs would break when he swept her up in a bear hug of his own. After pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, he released her and put her back on her feet. She looked up at him and said seriously, “Got another letter from Hank yesterday.”

“He still joinin' up in the summer?” Charlie nodded and the Colonel sighed deeply and shook his head. “Durn fool boy,” he muttered. “Well, since ya walked all the way from yer house, ya might as well come in fer somethin' hot. Grab that axe, wouldja? Can't leave it out all night.” He moved off towards the cabin, limping more noticeably than he normally did.

Charlie shouldered the axe and left it in the small shed that contained the Colonel's tools before joining him inside the cabin. There was a fire merrily crackling in the hearth and a cast iron Dutch oven hanging above the flames. She went over to it, and covering her hand with the hem of her jacket, lifted the lid and took a sniff. “Mmm. Elk stew,” she said and picked up a spoon to give the thick stew a careful stir so it didn't burn.

“Ya make summa them biscuits yer mama taught ya and ya can stay fer dinner,” the Colonel said and began to strip off his outer clothing, hanging them carefully on iron hooks next to the door before he went and sat down at a sturdy wooden table near the hearth. “And put on some coffee, too, while yer at it.” He took a pair of spectacles out of his shirt's breast pocket and settled them on the bridge of his nose. “Now then. Let's see this letter of yers.”

Charlie took off her outer clothing as well and hung it with his before she dug an envelope out of her pants pocket and set it down on the table in front of him. Then she donned an apron, made a pot of coffee, and began work on a batch of biscuits to go with the stew. While she mixed and rolled out dough, cut out dough circles with the mouth of a jelly jar and put them on a griddle to bake, the Colonel read Hank's letter a few times and then carefully folded it and slipped it back into its envelope.

“So,” he said. “We got less than three months to convince the durn fool boy not to join up's the way I sees it.” He took off his glasses and replaced them in his shirt pocket before turning to look at Charlie. “Yer mama and daddy know yet?”

She shook her head and sat down with two mugs of coffee. “No, sir,” she answered. “Hank made me promise I wouldn't.” She managed to look embarrassed. “I know I should, sir, but I don't want him mad at me.”

The Colonel snorted and sipped the coffee, noting with pleasure that it was better than any mud he could have brewed up. “Better mad atcha than dead's what I says. I'll talk to Howard if you'd rather,” he offered, giving her a way out that would preserve her relationship with her favourite brother.

“Oh, would you?” Charlie responded with a big grin. “I'd be ever so grateful!”

“Sunday, after church. Mebbe we can get yer mama to invite an old, lonely man to dinner. Speakin' o' which, them biscuits done yet?”


Continued here

Miracle Day

Nabta Playa plateau, Nubian Desert

Year 13 of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s Rule, second month of Shemu, day 14

Nefertiti had been away from her beautiful palace for more than two handfuls of days now, sleeping on a rough cot in a dirty canvas tent or on the deck of a tiny boat that seemed suspiciously unseaworthy, surrounded by animals and slaves and eunuchs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bathed properly or seen her glorious husband or played with her daughters in the cool shade of a covered courtyard. But all that would soon change. Today was the day they’d open the Sky Gate, and she could finally return to Akhetaten and reunite with the Pharaoh and her daughters. And while her husband’s kingdom would be safe for another year, she wasn’t quite so sure of her own safety.

In the past month, Meritaten had taken to rather publicly voicing her displeasure with not yet being named the Keeper of the Book and her mother’s successor. Nefertiti’s ladies had brought to their mistress a number of rumour concerning the young princess meeting with poisoners and other assassins as she planned a coup to become the real power behind Akhenaten’s throne, just as her mother was currently. Nefertiti had hired tasters for her own meals and had doubled the number of eunuch guards around her, but still she didn’t feel safe. Even in the middle of the Nubian Desert, more than sixty iteru away from her daughter’s influence, she did not feel safe.

Still, the Sky Gate must be opened, the spell her lord and husband had chosen for that year’s Miracle must be read, and the continuation of the Aten’s glorious kingdom must be perpetuated. So Nefertiti made the long, exhausting journey into the heart of the dangerous Nubian Desert and camped at the edge of the stone circle that pre-dated her own civilisation by more than a thousand years. On the morning of the fourteenth day of the second month of Shemu, in the midst of the hottest part of the year, the stars of the Hunter’s Belt aligned perfectly with the inner stones of the circle, and the High Priestess of Hathor’s Cult–a small group of women to which Nefertiti, her mother, her mother’s mother, and all their mothers stretching back in time belonged–could open the Sky Gate, read from the Book, and be heard by the gods.

The Queen awoke long before dawn and began preparations for the spell weaving she must begin at the exact second the stars and stones were in alignment. First she bathed as well as she could given her circumstances, then she donned her best linen dress and a robe made from the skin of some spotted hunting cat that lived far beyond the farthest southern border of the kingdom of Kush. Then she slipped her feet into delicate leather sandals and left her tent. Her most trusted handmaiden, Oshairana, and two eunuchs followed her, carrying a jar of water and the Book with them. Nefertiti had been fasting since they arrived on the plateau two days ago and would continue taking nothing more than a little water mixed with honey until after she had performed the Miracle.

Nefertiti seated herself cross-legged in the centre of the stone circle, right next to the Altar Stone, the middle of the three alignment stones, and fell into the meditative trance that helped her collect her will and harness the power of her own heka, her own powerful life force. And so she would remain until just before the Aten rose above the eastern horizon, gracing the land with His beautiful face once more.

“Mistress. The Aten comes!” Oshairana’s delicate, soft voice pierced Nefertiti’s meditative trance, and the Queen opened her eyes to peer directly east of where she sat. The horizon was golden above the line of far hills, and Nefertiti rose from her seated position, giving her handmaiden a thankful nod before reaching for the Book.

It was a heavy thing, its covers fashioned from thick clay tablets and held together by thin strips of leather. The pages inside were delicate papyrus sheets, beautifully illustrated with paint made from crushed gemstones and pure gold taken from her husband’s private mine less than half an iteru from the very spot where she now stood. Laying the Book on the Altar Stone, she glanced towards the heavens and saw that the three stars were very nearly in alignment. She hurriedly opened the Book and carefully paged through it until she came to the spell Akhenaten had selected as this year’s Miracle.

Keeping her hand on the Book, she raised her face to the east and watched as the Aten awoke and stretched out His life-giving rays towards her. Just before one of them penetrated the very centre of the circle’s eastern-most trilithon and caressed the Altar Stone in front of her, Nefertiti released her heka in an explosive breath and began her incantation, weaving the power into a key that would open the Sky Gate.

Directly above her head, three points of light appeared first as pin-pricks, then gradually grew wider, soon becoming gaping black holes in the sky. They joined, forming a single blue-edged maw through which nothing could be seen but unending blackness. Nefertiti’s eyes reflected this emptiness, the black nothing in the sky swallowing down any trace of colour in her irises and even consuming the white of her sclera. Her dress whipped around her ankles in a whirlwind that affected only her; a halo of blue, crackling energy surrounded her, arcing between her fingers and the Book, the Altar Stone and the two other stones on either side and the ground at her feet.

The Aten’s rays touched the stone upon which the Book rested and the Sky Gate was finally open. Lowering her face from the Aten’s arrival, the Queen read in a loud voice:

“Aten sits on his Throne of Millions of Years, and there assemble for him the Nine Gods with Hidden Faces who dwell with him in the Mansion of the Sun. O you who sit on your thrones, let me address you and beseech you on behalf of my lord and husband, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, he who wears the pschent, he who is called Meryaten Wer-nesut-em-Akhetaten Wetjes-ren-en-Aten, he who is the Son of the Sun. Let him sit on the throne of Aten, let him be reborn and go forth in the shape of a living spirit whom the common folk worship on earth. Let those who would harm him be driven off from the land of the Aten. Let him see the Aten, let him go forth against his enemies, let him be vindicated against them in the tribunal of the Great Aten, in the presence of the Great Aten. He who is the most trusted heir of the Great Aten, his name will be strong for you and assuredly you will live daily through him.”

Nefertiti let the rest of her collected heka go in a soft sigh and closed the Book. The swirling hole in the sky above her head slowly separated into three individual points of light once more and shrank away until they blinked out of existence. Nefertiti’s eyes went back to normal and she, her handmaiden, and the two eunuch guards held their breath now, returning their gazes to the eastern horizon, and waited for the Aten’s response to the sorceress’s appeals. If the sun’s light rose from where it now caressed the Altar Stone and lit up Nefertiti’s face, the Great God would grant her wishes for the year and Akhenaten’s kingdom would be safe from invasion. But if no light touched the Queen, it would mean that the Aten was displeased with his Son, and Akhenaten’s kingdom and throne would be in terrible danger.

The light of the Sun slowly crept up the Altar Stone and illuminated the Queen’s linen dress, then the long, slender column of her throat and finally, graced her beautiful face. All four Egyptians breathed a profound sigh of relief. Their world would be safe for another year; the Aten was pleased with his Earthly Kingdom, and would grant the Queen’s wishes on behalf of His Son, Akhenaten.

The North Palace, Akhetaten, City of the Sun

Year 14 of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s Rule, second month of Akhet, day 9

“No, Oshairana,” Nefertiti said urgently, pressing a clay tablet and the Book into her handmaiden’s arms. “You must do this for me. Meritaten can never have this knowledge. She will not use it for the Aten’s glory but for her own. You must take these and hide them away. Hurry!”

“But mistress–”

“Oshairana, go. Now. Before that daughter of Ammut comes for me again.” The Lady of the Two Lands pressed a kiss against Oshairana’s forehead and gently shooed her out of the Royal Suite before firmly closing and barring the door.

The tiny Nubian slave girl, who had been raised at Nefertiti’s feet and was as close to the Queen as the Pharaoh himself, wept openly as she stood in the darkened hallway of the North Palace. Since the last Miracle Day, the Princess Meritaten had made two separate attempts on her mother’s life. Only Nefertiti’s physician’s quick actions saved her from a painful death by poisoning. The Queen feared she would not survive a third attempt and so had entrusted Oshairana with the tablet necessary for opening the Sky Gate and the Book of Aten's spells, and bade her find a safe hiding place, revealing it only to Nefertiti’s daughter, Ankhesenamen, after she became Tutankhaten’s wife and Queen.

Oshairana ran from the Palace, slipping out silently through the Garden Room, scaling over the walls one-handed, and landing in the soft sand between the palace complex’s most outer wall and the road that led south into the city. Staying in the shadows of the buildings that lined the Royal Chariot Route, she quickly made her way to a T-intersection and turned east, moving through the shadows past the great Desert Altars, toward the Royal Wadi, which was located just an iteru away now.

The handmaiden had decided she would hide the tablet and the Book in the Pharaoh’s tomb, which was still being built. She would hide them in the dais upon which the Royal Sarcophagus would sit. It was the perfect place. No one but a Pharaoh could enter a tomb after it was sealed. The knowledge of the Cult of Hathor would be safe until such time as its location could be passed on to Nefertiti’s chosen heir.

Just before sunrise, Oshairana entered the Pharaoh’s unfinished tomb, silently, reverently walking with her head bowed. There were workmen’s tools in a basket by the entrance and she stooped to pick up a hammer and chisel. Setting down her precious bundle for just long enough to carve out a hole in the dais, the young girl set the tablet and the Book into the hole and then quickly filled it back up, packing down the rock chips and smoothing a layer of sand over it. Then she replaced the tools in their basket and left the tomb, racing back to the Palace as fast as she could go.

When she arrived at the North Palace, it was in an uproar. Servants and guards were weeping and tearing at their hair, flinging themselves bodily on the ground, screaming and keening. Oshairana grabbed a passing guard by his forearm and demanded, “What has happened? Why is everyone screaming and crying?”

“The Lady of the Two Lands and her daughter, Meketaten, have died!” the guard shouted at her and shook her hand off his arm before he jogged away, leaving the handmaiden to stare dumbly after him in utter incomprehension. Died? How? When? Oshairana shook herself and set off towards the Royal Suite, certain that the guard was misinformed. Nefertiti couldn’t be dead; Oshairana had just spoken to her a few hours ago.

The doors to the Royal Suite were hanging broken off their hinges, bits of wood scattered on the floor at the entrance to the Suite. There were four Medjay guards standing on either side of the doorway and inside, the Pharaoh himself sat on a couch, his face covered by his hands, shoulders shaking in silent grief. Standing around him wearing expressions of equal grief and bewilderment were his vizier, Ahmes, Nefertiti’s Steward, Meryra, and Meritaten herself. Seeing the Pharaoh in such a candid and private moment stunned Oshairana, and she stood stock-still, staring at the scene before her.

Meritaten’s head snapped up and an expression of rage filled her eyes. “There she is!” she shouted, pointing at Oshairana. “Medjay! Arrest her! She killed my mother!” The guards sprang into action, roughly grabbing Oshairana and pinning her hands behind her.

The Pharaoh’s hands dropped away from his face and he looked up at Ahmes with confusion. “I know this girl,” he said, standing and moving forward toward Oshairana. “She is my Beloved's handmaiden. Nefertiti loves...loved...her as a daughter.” He stopped just a few cubits away and stared at the girl, who looked back at him, her eyes dark with fear. “Did you kill Nefertiti?” he asked in a soft voice.

“No, my Lord!” Oshairana said desperately, pleading with the Pharaoh.

Meritaten boldly stepped between her father and the servant. “Of course she did, my Lord Father. She poisoned my Lady Mother and my Royal sister and then fled.” The Princess gave Oshairana a dangerous look, reminding the handmaiden of a crocodile before it strikes. “She came back to watch us find their bodies and grieve. She must be executed, my Lord Father.”

Ahmes slid up next to the Princess, moving silently on the stone floors like a snake moves over the desert sands. “I will see to this, my Lord,” he said in a voice like the wind across bare rock. “You must rest now. Meritaten will take care of you now.” The Princess nodded and a complicated look passed between her and the vizier before they turned to the Pharaoh, putting their arms around him comfortingly.

Akhetaten stared a moment longer at Oshairana and the expression of betrayal and despair in his eyes caused the young girl’s heart to break in her chest and finally, she wept. He nodded to Ahems and allowed Meritaten to draw him away, deeper into the most private areas of the suite. The Medjay dragged Oshairana away, followed by Ahmes, and threw her in a storage magazine, bolting the door from the outside.

Somehow Meritaten had succeeded in killing her mother, and somehow Meketaten had gotten in her sister’s way, too. Oshairana curled up on the dirt floor of the tiny, windowless room and wept bitter tears. Her life was over now; in just a few hours, she would be beheaded in the courtyard of the Great Palace in the Central City. But she would die knowing that her mistress’s most prized possessions and the secrets they contained would be safe forever from Meritaten’s grasp.

New Series

While work continues on The Pirate's Bride, I've also begun the process of readying a new series for publication. It's a pretty big project, covering five generations of the Carnahan family, beginning in 1928 and ending in about 2050, and spans the globe from Egypt and Morocco, to England, France, Austria, and the Caribbean. It combines elements of historical romance, spy thrillers, and a bit of science fiction. I started writing it in 2011 and I think I'll be able to publish the first book, Journey of A Lifetime, sometime this year.

Here's a sneak peek at the first book in the Ruins of The Past, Legacy of The Future series:

The first thing Anderson noticed upon stepping off of the train was that other than a larger crowd, Port Said really didn't look much different from the last place the train had stopped. There was the same haphazard mix of cultures and languages; English, Greek, French, Arabic, Hebrew, and even Mandarin were audible. One could have one's pocket picked by an Egyptian urchin, one's soul saved by a well-meaning Scottish Presbyterian minister, buy a phial filled with genuine mummy dust, or arrange a romantic tryst with a Bedouin princess all within the space of twenty paces. There were the same tired and hopeful faces waving the same cheap wares at the descending tourists, who all looked the same, too. He supposed he himself didn't look any different, either. Maybe a bit more educated, probably a lot richer, but still the same on the surface. Inside, though, he didn't feel much like them at all. He'd bet half his father's fortune that not one of these over-dressed and under-cultured Reubens were going to do anything that would involve actually getting their hands dirty.

He collected his luggage and hired a porter to follow him to whichever hotel he booked for his stay in Port Said. Once Anderson left the station, however, he discovered just how different the city was from Casablanca, Algiers, and even Tripoli. Port Said looked as though pieces of Paris had been picked up and transported to Egypt. Broad, tree-lined avenues, marble-faced buildings, and motor cars puttered down the streets. Even the majority of faces on the streets were European though of course there were smatterings of darker Arabs and Orientals mixed in.
As he stood on the sidewalk in front of the station, it became apparent, though, that he was indeed in Africa. A breeze blew in off the desert to the south of the city, bringing with it the heat and dryness that awaited him once he began his adventures. Every street sign and business sign he could see were written in three languages—English, Arabic, and French. The closest signs advertised cheap beds that were no doubt filled with all sorts of vermin, cheap food that probably involved eyeballs or brains, and cheap booze that probably came from someone's bathtub.

He turned to the south for a moment, letting the wind play against his face. He fancied he could even catch a hint of the burned-flint smell of desert sand winding its way through the far stronger layers of human and animal odors. The breeze stirred something inside of him. Maybe it was unusual for a third-generation rich kid from America to feel this way, but that dry wind called to him. He just knew something special was waiting for him out there in that desert. First things first, though. A hotel, preferably one without bed bugs in the mattresses and quiff in the lobby. When he spotted the plain, elegant sign for Hotel Georges, he nodded and strode off in that direction, waving for the porter to follow him.

The Return of Loreley Jones

As you know if you've read The Jezebel's Daughter, it was meant to be a stand-alone book. The ending really shut the door on any possible sequel. But a few of you who have read it demanded that I continue Loreley's story, and after a talk with one of my closest friends and fellow author, I've figured out a way to continue her story. There are some surprises in store, however.

Below are the first two paragraphs of the first chapter of The Pirate's Bride. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

When she left, all the light and air was sucked out of the world. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I was left with a single haunted word on my lips—Loreley. The memory of her face was burned into my brain. The way she smelled and tasted and felt in my arms was imprinted onto my very soul. The memory of seeing my child in her belly would keep my spirit moored to this Earth for eternity.

A rising tide of sheer rage overtook me and I slammed my fist into the unforgiving rock wall of my dank prison cell. “No!” I shrieked, some detached and emotionless part of me shying away from the madness in my voice. “No! I cannot lose her! I will not lose her!” I struck the wall again, feeling something in my hand shatter, and I collapsed to the floor, curling up in a sobbing, wretched ball, keening out my grief, my frustration, my anger.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to all my readers! I hope you have a warm and wonderful holiday. Thanks for your interest in my little stories.

The Jezebel's Daughter is now available as an audiobook!

Yes, you read that right! Thanks to the AMAZING P.J. Morgan, you can listen to Loreley and Sebastian's story while you drive, clean the house, or work out. Be sure to check out the audio sample to get a sneak peek at what's in store for you when you download the audiobook!

Get it here: The Jezebel's Daughter on Audible.com

PS--I also have free download codes for the first five people who ask for them! All you need to do is promise to review it. Email me for details.