Bless the Child (40 page)

The trembling ceased again, and Maggie’s contorted face relaxed.

“I’m going to count from five to one, Maggie, to bring you back to ordinary consciousness. When I reach the number one, you will be fully awake, and aware of what has just happened. You will feel well and strong. Nod your head if you understand me, Maggie.”

Her head moved slowly up and down.

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . you are back in 1993, now in my office, Maggie. All is well. I will count backward from three to one—and when I reach it you will open your eyes. Three . . . two .. .
one,”
he said gently, encouragingly, worry under tight control.

Maggie opened her eyes and looked directly at Strater, her eyes wide and desperate. “I was there,” she breathed tremulously. “Oh, God! We were
all
there!” Tears slid down her cheeks and glistened in her eyes, as she struggled to an upright position. She put her head in her hands and wept.

Dr. Heinrich Strater laid down his clipboard and pencil, reached over to shut off his tape recorder with a definitive click. There was no sound in the room but Maggie’s sobbing.

He stared at her for a while before speaking. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured, handing her a box of tissues. “I simply don’t know what we have here.

“What happened to me, Doctor?” Maggie asked hoarsely.

Strater shook his head slowly, thoughtfully. “In truth, Maggie, I don’t know, I can only speculate . . .

“It would appear you became involved, somehow, in a parallel reality. Whether I has a basis in fact, or only in your own psyche, I cannot say.”

“In other words, Doctor, there’s a distinct possibility I may be cracked?” she said emphatically.

Strater smiled at her, great kindliness in his expression. “Someone once said that of William Blake, I believe, and Dame Edith Sitwell responded, ‘That was where the Light came through.’”

She looked at him bleakly.

“Who is to say what is possible?” Strater went on, trying to soothe her. “There are those who believe that memory exists for us at a cellular, or even a DNA level . . . There are others in the psychoanalytic community who would be more likely to think of this in terms of Oedipal development, or any number of neuroses or psychoses. I would prefer to keep an open mind.”

“I can’t describe to you how
real
it all was to me,” she said, distress making her voice unsteady. “I was that other woman—that priestess. I
felt
the youth and strength of her body, could
feel
her uncertainties . . . how can I possibly describe to you how vivid this all was for me, Dr. Strater?

“I knew
viscerally
the rites of the training she’d endured. Priestesses weren’t just
servants
of the Gods or Goddesses . . . they were
conduits
for the Gods themselves! That’s why they had to be pure; that’s why they had to be celibate! They were actually
used
by the God or Goddess as lightning rods to bring down the energy! Changed on a cellular level, so the energy of the deity could come through . . . they were the receiving station for the transmission! That’s why we speak of surrender to God . . . they surrendered their very being to the use of their God or Goddess. In my case, it was Isis.”

“Wasn’t Isis the Goddess of memory as well as all her other talents?” Dr. Strater probed. “According to the legend, didn’t she search the length and breadth of Egypt to find Osiris’s body, and then she
re-
membered him!”

Maggie sagged back against the couch, her mind on circuitry overload. “I’ve got to go back there,” she said softly. “the answers are there, I know they are. I’ve got to go back for Cody’s sake.”

Dr. Strater pursed his lips and his bushy brows knitted together in a judicious frown. “The only place you need to go back to today, Maggie, is your home. If you wish to attempt another regression—after you’ve rested and had time to think this through—I would be willing to work with you. But you must accept that I am a doctor, and my first concern must be your physical safety in
this
incarnation.”

Maggie nodded, rising from the couch. “I’m very grateful to you, Dr. Strater. I think you may have given me the key to a greater mystery than you know of . . . if I can just find the courage to open the lock.”

Strater put Maggie’s coat about her shoulders, and held the door for her. After she’d stepped into the hallway, he called to her. “Just one thing, Maggie . . . before you go. Please. Do you know what happened to you at the end of the regression? Do you know what it was that frightened you so?”

She turned to look at him again, an unreadable expression in her eyes.

“I earned the wrath of a Goddess,” she said simply. “And the time has come to pay the price.”

T
he village streets appeared alien to Maggie as she made her way home from Strater’s office. They seemed an unaccustomed gray, as if the desert sun that had seared her hypnotic memories had now been plucked form the world against her will, and all that was left was drab and eerie.

Stop it Maggie!
It’s dark, that’s all, she chided herself, acidly. New York,
dusk.
With all its stone-gray filth and dreary, cranky-looking faces hurrying home from work. No more. No less.

She turned the key in the lock of home, and saw that her hand was trembling. She thought of calling Dev, or Peter, or Ellie, but even the effort of telephoning seemed beyond her.

Weary.
She felt so weary it was an effort to climb the stairs to her bedroom. Maggie took off the remnants of her eye makeup on auto-pilot, and splashed cool water on her face. Without undressing, she lay across the bed. There was a pounding in her head, as if something captive were trying to get out. And the dizziness was getting worse. There was something terribly wrong with her, but she was far too tired to care.

Maggie closed her eyes . . .

And awakened in Saqqara.

The temple garden was a colonnaded idyll of shade and sunlight. The royal gardeners had been consulted by the priestly ones long years ago in an effort to create an oasis worthy of Gods or pharaohs. Limestone from Sumeria, marble from Babylon. Irrigation conduits that could make even a desert into Paradise.

Mim loved the garden with its tranquil pool and lacy, swaying shadows from the fruit trees that ringed it. But, she was restless today and rebellious. It was the time of the Nile’s inundation; the time when all blood ran high to match the river’s fecundity, or so Meri-Neyt, her tutor, had said.

She didn’t like to fool Meri-Neyt, as she had today. The beautiful young priestess was friend as well as teacher, and she had a joyous disposition that made even the tedium of endless study, bearable. Mathematics, astronomy, architecture, philosophy, history, healing, religion. There was so much to learn and so much pressure to excel . . .

So, she had fibbed to Mari-Neyt and said she needed to rest in her cell today, instead of being tutored. The lie disturbed Mim’s conscience, but the call of freedom was hard to deny.

The pool had been commissioned for the visits of highly placed dignitaries, and was seldom used this time of year. Mim made her way to the garden carefully, excited by the mischief, and the prospect of her solitary swim.

But she was not alone. A young boy dove into the pool just as she emerged from the passageway door. His graceful young body cut the water like a dolphin, and he swam effortlessly the length of the pool and back again before he saw her watching.

“Wait!” he called out as she turned to go. “Don’t leave.”

There was ample time later to ponder what might have been her Fate had she not answered his summons on that afternoon so rife with destiny.

He left the water, shaking himself like a puppy, his long dark hair glistening in the sun. Mim was nine years old, and he seemed only a year or two more, but he was not as shy as she.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he said, imperiously for one so young, and she surprised them both by giggling.

“I live here,” she replied, trying to contain her mirth. “I am training for initiation.”

The boy eyed her appraisingly. “As am I,” he said, in the same serious mode. But then a grin broke free, and he added in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m supposed to be doing my studies, but I tired of them. What’s your name?

“Mim-Atet-Ra. But I am called Mim. And yours?”

“You may call me Karaden. It’s a great privilege, you know, to call me by my secret name.”

Mim giggled again. She had never known a boy before, except when she was very little, in her home at Mennofer. Here, at the temple, she had always been aware that her virginity was promised to Isis. Maybe all boys were pompous and overconfident, she thought, but she couldn’t be sure. At least, he was interesting.

“Are you not afraid that they will find us together?” she asked. He dismissed the question with a gesture of the hand.

“I am Karaden,” he said. “The servants must obey, when I speak.
All
must obey.”

Karaden. The name seemed lovely and elegant, so she repeated it softly.

“Do you really
not
know who I am?” he asked, sounding miffed that she hadn’t responded properly.

Mim shook her head.

“I am Snefru, the eldest son of Pharaoh. Heir to the Double Crown.”

That startled Mim, but she had been emboldened by their conversation. “If you are truly heir to Pharaoh, why are you alone here?” she asked, uncertain if she could believe his boast.

A cloud passed over the boy’s countenance, and when he spoke, he no longer sounded like a boy trying to be king, but rather, just a boy trying to be understood.

“It is difficult ever to be alone at the palace,” he said. “I have many duties that I must perform daily, and my father expects me to sit beside him when he gives judgment, that I may learn to be just. Everyone watches me. The Vizier and the servants. Even the lowly food taster spies on me, lest some misstep of mine send poison to his gullet.” The boy shook his head, seeming sadder and more vulnerable than before.

“It doesn’t sound like people should envy you so . . .” Mim said judiciously. “Do you have any friends?”

Karaden shook his dark head. “It is difficult to have a friend, when everyone curries favor. There is much to gain by being close to Pharaoh’s son, so it is hard to trust that anyone craves my company for myself, alone.”

Mim cocked her head to one side and regarded him with curiosity. “I could be your friend,” she said. “There is
nothing
I can gain from you or your father. I was promised to the Goddess at birth, and my life will be what the Goddess wills. No more, no less.” She looked at the troubled boy with honest eyes. “I, too, am lonely,” she said. “My tutor, Meri-Neyt, is a lovely person . . . very smart and very funny, sometimes. But she is many years older than I.” She paused to think a moment, then said, “On my honor, I will never betray your trust, Karaden, if you wish me to be your friend.

He paused to consider the offer. She was only a girl, and appeared to be somewhat younger than himself. But she had a nice face; open and free of subterfuge. And, she was right that there was little influence she would ever need beg of Pharaoh. Priestesses of the Goddess were beyond worldly needs.

“I will be your friend,” he pronounced as if bestowing the Crown Jewels, then he pulled a ring from his finger and held it out to her. “You may keep this as a token.”

Mim giggled again, and moved toward the pool. “I need nothing of yours, Karaden,” she called, as she waded into the refreshing water. “But I will race you to the other side, and
win!”
And she was off like a minnow beneath the silvered surface, with Karaden only lagging behind long enough to wonder why anyone would refuse a gift from Pharaoh’s son.

Meri-Neyt
sat on the stone bench, her cloak draped over the books beside her. She was very fond of her young charge; she understood only too well the torturous journey the child would have to make in her company, before she could hope for initiation.

Meri-Neyt’s humorous disposition lightened her lesson giving, and Mim sprawled now on the ground at her feet, listening diligently, as Meri outlined the rigors of the spiritual path ahead.

“The
Neophyte’s
journey through the First Degree will teach you of the soul’s descent into Hades, Mim,” Meri-Neyt was saying. “This is symbolic of the soul’s incarnation in a human body, of course, and is essential to your understanding of your destiny. After that, will come to the
Initiate’s
journey, in which you will learn the meaning of karma, and how to eventually escape the wheel of earthly rebirth. There will be many tests, of radically increasing difficulty, as you ascend the ladder of Enlightenment. Finally, you will reach the
Hierophant
phase, in which you will explore how a seeker after the Greater Mysteries may learn to unite her individual soul with the Divine Oversoul. Only after this, can you aspire to the Order of Mlchizedek.” Meri paused to see if Mim was listening.

“To join this Order you must survive the final initiation in Knut, the awesome House of Hidden Places, from which place of trial few ever return. This is why I teach you so relentlessly, Mim. Why I instruct you so strenuously in the mystery teachings of Thoth-Hermes, and feed you only the finest fruits, seeds, nuts, grains, vegetables, and plant proteins to enliven your brain and heart. You must be strong of body, mind, and spirit to survive the ordeal ahead.”

“I understand your concern for me, Meri,” Mim said, forcing herself to pay attention to her tutor. “And I am well content with my life, dear teacher. The temple studies give me pleasure as well as aggravation . . . and I love the Goddess beyond even what you know.” Mim turned her face toward Meri earnestly.

“When I surrender myself to Her divine energy, I feel myself the luckiest of mortals.” Truth was that Mim felt so deep a union with the Divine Mother that she often sought her out when she was troubled, just as if she were an earthly mother. With Her, she cried and laughed; to Her she offered a daily accounting of her life.

Meri observed her student closely. It was true that the girl had an uncommon devotion to Isis, that except for its exceptional innocence and piety, might have bordered on the profane. From the first, the child had seemed to feel almost a sense of camaraderie with the Divine Mother. It was a curiosity.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Mim” she asked the girl seriously, “that you might falter on the path of righteousness that leads to the foot of Her Eternal Throne?”

Mim looked genuinely shocked by the thought. “I am woefully imperfect, Meri-Neyt, as you well know. And I do worry sometimes, that I may fail Mother Isis through my ignorance. But she seems not to have withdrawn her favor from me because of my inadequacies.”

“The way to Her is long and arduous, Mim, dear,” Meri said, the compassion of one who has already suffered in her tone. “Love alone will not be enough to protect you on the pilgrim’s way.”

Mim frowned at the thought.

“Whatever the Mother demands of me, I will give,” she said.

Mim would have cause to recall these words in the fullness of time.

The
years of training sat well on Mim-Atet-Ra’s shoulders, despite their rigors. She had a special gift for healing and spent many more hours in the healing temples than was required, as she possessed the skill to loose the Ka from the body during surgery, and was much in demand by the trepanners and surgeons.