Second Half Title
When I was a little girl, I still believed I was part of the world’s secret magic.
Mother wrapped her hair elegantly in white cloth. I begged and pleaded until she did mine as well. At the river, Mother gathered pebbles and sand, small plants, sun-bleached bones. I splashed along the banks, or rode on female hippos if Taweret, my aunt and the goddess of childbirth, was with us.
But my favorite place to be, even more than in the brilliant sun reflecting off the water of the Nile, was with my father. When I was old enough to navigate the steep, worn steps by myself, I was there every minute Mother allowed. As soon as I finished my morning worship, I’d skip straight down. Coloring on the floor next to Father’s knees as he nodded and watched things I couldn’t see. Giggling as I ran between Ammit’s unmoving lion and hippo legs. Memorizing the pictures along the walls, making up stories for the people portrayed there.
Mother gave me my very own paints, and Father proudly gave me a room. I’d never been happier. Countless hours down there I painted, sketched, planned. I drew the stories of my life on those walls, filled them with the people and places I loved. My mom, beautiful and strong. My dad, serene and kind. Grandma Nut stretching across the sky to watch us all. They were my family; they were my story.
My cat, cranky old Ubesti, came down with me sometimes, though she much preferred the warm, sunlit stones under the skylights in our house. One morning when I was barely thirteen, I decided I needed a live model for her newest portrait on my walls. She was in her usual spot, mangy fur dull and matted even in the light. I went to pick her up, expecting a yowl of protest, but was met instead with a limp, lifeless body.
My mother immediately knew something was wrong and came into the room to find me crying. She consoled me with a hug that soothed my hiccupping sobs, and a kiss that made my head stop hurting from the tears.
“Don’t worry, Little Heart,” she said. “How would you like Ubesti to be yours forever?”
I nodded, desperate. I’d seen my mother heal sick locals, witnessed her save a baby others had given up for dead. She was magic. Surely bringing my elderly cat back from death would be no problem—after all, she’d resurrected my father. Death was not a barrier for Isis.
She took Ubesti’s body from my arms and told me to meet her downstairs in my room. I nearly tripped in my haste to get there, pacing with nervous excitement. Even after all the potions and amulets I’d helped her with, she’d never done actual spells for me, and at that moment I loved her even more than I knew possible.
My father came in, smiling his soft, distant smile, and my mother followed him, beaming and carrying a large jar in her hands. It was carved with glyphs, the lid shaped like a cat’s head, all made in precious alabaster.
“What’s that?” I asked, eager to see what resurrection required.
“This is the vessel that will carry Ubesti to the other side, where she will wait for you.” Osiris nodded solemnly as my mother handed him the jar and he placed it on the large block of stone that I used as a table in the middle of the room.
“Wait—other side? What other side?”
“The afterlife,” my father said, looking at me with pride in his eyes. “I am pleased you chose her as a companion for your journey through death.”
I staggered back, staring in horror at the jar I now realized contained my cat. “You—she’s not coming back to life?”
“No, Little Heart, not to this life.”
The world shifted. My childhood rewrote itself, everything changing as I realized what this room was, what the person-sized, rectangular stone box was. “This is a tomb. This is my tomb.” I could barely see my parents through my tears, but their smiles hadn’t changed.
“Of course,” my mother said.
“I’m going to die?”
“Everything dies.” My mother took a few steps toward me, but I held up my hands, blocking her.
“You don’t die! He doesn’t die!”
“No, Little Heart, but you—”
“You’re going to just let me die? And put me in there, all by myself, forever?”
“You won’t be alone. You’ll be with your father and all your brothers and sisters who have gone before you.”
“But I won’t be here!”
“No.”
“You don’t care? That doesn’t make you sad? You’re not going to do anything to stop it?”
Finally my mother caught on, and her expression softened. “Oh, Isadora, when you understand—”
I ran out of that horrible room. For the first time in my life I did understand. All of the stories, the histories I’d been raised on? I had no part in them. My parents brought me into the world to die. They didn’t love me enough to keep me forever—they didn’t even pretend like they did. My entire childhood of warmth and love was a drawing in the sand—impermanent and fragile and gone in a breath of wind.
Just like me.
1
Nut, the sky goddess, had disobeyed Amun-Re god of the sun. She’d taken the god of the earth as a lover. Amun-Re feared that introducing more gods into the world would create an imbalance of power.
Amun-Re put a curse on her that she could not give birth on any day of the year. But Amun-Re did not account for Thoth, gentle god of wisdom and writing. Thoth challenged the Moon herself to a game, and won enough light to create new days. Because those days were not cursed, Nut was able to give birth to Osiris, Isis, Set, and Nephthys.
Osiris, Isis, Set, and Nephthys went on to commit theft, adultery, fratricide, and even attempted murder and extortion against the sun god himself. In retrospect, Amun-Re was probably on to something with that whole “more gods, more chaos” thing.
I FORGET TO ACCOUNT FOR THE TIME OF YEAR when I turn on the sink to scrub the charred remains of the lamb skewers I’m cooking. A torrent of water shoots out, bouncing off the pan and soaking me.
“Chaos!” I shout, furious. I shouldn’t even be making dinner. We’re having family over, so Mother wants everything to be nice. If she wants it to be nice, she should cook. But no. It’s summertime. Every summer Isis mourns the death of her beloved husband, and the Nile overflows with her tears. Used to be the whole country would flood, but then they went ahead and dammed the dang thing. That, combined with the lack of worshippers, means now when my mother enters her period of mourning, the only difference you can tell is a substantial increase in water pressure. Awesome for showers, but otherwise pointless.
Still, she uses it as an excuse for everything. Yesterday I asked what was for dinner, and all I heard back were wails for the death of her husband.
Made even more awkward by Father, sitting at the dining room table in his robe and mummy wrappings, reading the paper. Because sure, he was murdered, it sucked, but guess what? Not dead anymore!
I slam the pan back onto the stove and throw new skewers on it. This kitchen was supposed to be ornamental. When I was designing it last year, I never thought I’d actually have to use it. I don’t even know how half the state-of-the-art appliances work. They were picked based on color scheme.
Despite a second try, the skewers come out more charred than browned—my mother’s efforts to domesticate me foiled yet again.
I throw everything together and balance it on my hip as I walk out of the kitchen (eggplant walls, shiny black granite counters, sleek black fridge, apparently useless black stove set flat in the counter) and into the dining room. This room is butter yellow with white wood paneling, and a black table to pull in the color theme from the kitchen. The table is perfect: sleek, modern lines, not a scratch on it, one of my best buys ever. It’s also occupied by two of my least favorite relatives—Horus, my nightmare know-it-all of an oldest brother, and Hathor, his drunken floozy of a wife.
I slam the platter of charcoal, sauce, and garnishes down in the middle of the table and then sit for dinner. Mother clears her throat primly. She looks strange. Normally she barely gets out of bed during her mourning period, but other than the occasional freakout like yesterday, she’s been downright perky.
“Did you pray?” she asks.
“For the last time,” I say, narrowing my kohl-lined black eyes at her, “I refuse to pray to my own parents. It’s ridiculous.”
“Osiris?” My mother looks at him as though he might, for once, step in.
My dad slowly turns to the next page of his newspaper. This one’s in Tagalog. The whole family is blessed with the gift of tongues (even me), and my dad’s hobby is reading every newspaper he can find in every language imaginable. No doubt he realizes that newspapers are a dying form. He sympathizes with all things obsolescing and dead. He is the god of the underworld, after all.
I smirk at her, knowing that the second she appealed to him I won the argument.
“Very well.” She cuts a dainty bite of the blackened mess and chews it, a very nonseasonal smile gradually pulling at her mouth. My mother is beautiful, in a warm, comforting sort of way. Wide hips, full lips, and a bust that inspired art for thousands of years. I’d prefer not to have inherited that from her, but in the grand scheme of things it’s not something to complain about. I’m also rocking her same thick, jet-black hair and large almond eyes, though I have heavy bangs that skim my eyelashes and layers that obscure my jawline, strong like Osiris’s. Still, no one’s making any statues of me.
And no one ever will.
Hathor takes one bite and gags, washing it down with her glass of beer that magically refills itself. She’s the goddess of beer. And sex. My mother’s favorite son married an eternal lush. It’d be funnier if Hathor weren’t always slinking around, touching everyone and giving long, lingering looks to anything that moves.
Her dramatic, cat-eye-lined gaze fixes on me. “Essa!” she coos. “This is wonderful.”
“It’s Isadora.”
“Of course!” She laughs, low and intimate. “After all this time I can’t keep track anymore! If only your mother would branch out a bit.”
Sometimes it hurts to be forgotten while I’m still alive. But she has a point. Every single one of my mother’s hundreds of offspring have had variations of her name or my father’s. Hathor and Horus (and pretty much everyone else) don’t even bother trying to remember my name.
“Nice as always to visit.” Hathor smiles at my mother. Or bares her teeth, really.
“It’s such a pleasant surprise when I invite my son to a family dinner and you tag along, too.” My mother’s smile has even more teeth.
After a few tense moments between the two of them, Mother imperiously breaks eye contact. Then she beams at us, clearing her throat over and over again until Osiris finally sets down the paper and looks at her.
“I asked you here for dinner because I have an announcement. I’m pregnant!”
Father blinks slowly, his eyes as black as his skin, then picks the paper back up. “A bit ahead of schedule. What about this one?” He nods in my general direction. I’m too shocked for the this one to sting. I’m sixteen. She has a baby every twenty years. Twenty. Not sixteen. Of all of the traditions the goddess of motherhood and fertility could throw out the window, this is the one she picks?
Isis shrugs, trying to look guilty behind her delighted smile. “I thought we could shake things up a bit. Besides, Isadora’s getting so big.”
“What, I had a growth spurt so now I’m expendable?” I can’t believe she’s replacing me already! She could at least pretend I matter even though she didn’t care enough to make me last forever like stupid Horus.
I’m so mad about this—I am—I’m furious. The only reason there are tears in my eyes is because I used too many onions in dinner. “Besides,” I say, trying not to sniffle, “you’re the one who’s always going on about schedules and traditions and doing things the same way all the time so that chaos can’t creep in and mess things up!”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Horus says, eating with gusto. “Keep the family line going.”
I glare at him, knowing exactly what he gets from my mother having more babies. What they all get. I won’t pretend otherwise. “Are the batteries running low? Time to pop out a new little worshipper who will be more obedient?”
Mother’s glare silences me with a familiar burst of pain. She shakes her head, and the pain eases a bit. “Don’t be dramatic, Isadora. You can help me with the baby! It’ll be good practice for when you have your own in a few years!”
Oh, death, anything but that. There are enough statues of her nursing miniature pharaohs everywhere I turn that I vowed long ago never to have kids of my own. No squealing babies sucking on my girls ever, thankyouverymuch. I quickly wipe under my eyes. Stupid onions.
“You’ll be a great help to Mother,” Horus says, flashing his falcon-bright eyes at me in a cold smile.
“Gee, thanks, Whore-us.” He can’t hear how I spell it, but it makes me feel better just knowing.
“When’s the new one due to arrive?” he asks our mother, and she beams back, practically glowing now that she is in full maternal-glory mode.
“Two months.”
I choke. “Two months? Aren’t babies supposed to take, like, four times that long?” I lean back and look at her stomach. Now that I stare, there’s a definite bulge. And she’s been wearing her flowiest ceremonial robes lately. I hadn’t thought anything of it.
“I waited for the right time to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Bang-up job on that one.”
“Isadora . . .”