“However, Calchas soon developed an insatiable thirst for power and began to learn the arts of magic and enchantments. He became so skilled that many thought him to be as powerful as any of our gods. He sought to assassinate the pharaoh and assume the throne for himself, but was stopped just in time. He was impaled on a gold and bronze pole from which his spirit could never rise. The priests of the pharaoh cursed his soul, imprisoning it in the ruby and sapphire of his ring. Touching the stones would have immediately brought his soul back to the land of the dead from the darkness that holds it. Now, it is trapped forever.”

  “But how did drinking his bone . . . dust help us to understand?” asked Pandy.

  “He felt so sure that he would rise again and regain his former shape before the flesh left his bones that he mocked the priests and left a taunt: the ability to know all languages if anyone was clever enough to crush his bones and ingest them.”

  “How did you know this?” asked Pandy.

  “The slaves who carried him here spoke of it as they stood the bronze pole on its end. Naturally, they were all put to death for learning of the curse.”

  “Naturally,” said Iole.

  “Why did you tell us what to do?” Pandy asked the skull.

  “Yeah . . . before, you wanted to eat me. Now you’re helping us?” said Alcie. “Why?”

  “The boy wanted to know why I needed your . . . blood.”

  “But I was having trouble with some of the big words in Egyptian,” said Homer, looking off.

  “As I said, I don’t have much time left,” the skull added. “So I told him what to do. He obviously thought you all would benefit.”

  “It’s just that they laugh at me when I know stuff . . . ,” Homer complained under his breath.

  “All right,” said Pandy, looking at Homer.

  “Sheesh!” said Alcie.

  Pandy turned back to the skull. “I would like to know why you need our blood.”

  “My own curse,” said the skull. “But my story is simple. My name was Habib and I was a common bricklayer, working on the tomb of the great Tutankhamen. I stole an amulet, a symbol of the Eye of Horus, that had been blessed and left in the tomb for Tutankhamen to find after his death. The amulet was to heal any wounds to the pharaoh’s body as it made its journey to Osiris and the land of shadows. I knew that the priest’s blessing made it very valuable and it would bring a high price if I could sell it. But I was caught coming out of the tomb and condemned to death.”

  “By impaling?” asked Pandy.

  The skull of Habib looked at Pandy with what little surprise it could muster, sending the right eyebrow sliding down over the nose cavity.

  “Of course. You know another way?”

  “Figs.”

  “Please, go on,” said Iole.

  “I was executed two days later,” the skull continued slowly. “But unknown to anyone, including me, was that the chain and the Eye of Horus had fallen into my waistcloth and was pressed against my skin. It was still on my body when I was brought into this chamber. So I was not truly dead. My body decayed, but the healing eye amulet with its blessing has kept me alive for centuries. Enough years to see to hundreds of people interred here, including Calchas. My flesh is almost gone, but my tormented spirit has lived.”

  “Let’s get to the part with the blood,” said Alcie.

  “Whenever a life force entered the chamber, a priest, a slave, a mourner, anyone, the eye would try to heal and restore me by enabling me to kill him and drink his blood. The force would impale him, but at his moment of death, his blood was no longer useful. It’s the reason that this temple was abandoned: stories of the monster in the Chamber of Despair and the certain death that awaited anyone in here.”

  “If it’s keeping you alive, why did your bones crack and break just now?” asked Pandy.

  “Everything must turn to dust eventually,” replied the skull. “No matter that my soul will live on, this is the moment of my final physical death. I even doubt that drinking blood would have really helped at this point.”

  The skull’s tongue swelled up then shriveled again, turning darker by the second. It turned its sad, rheumy eyes on Pandy.

  “The boy has briefly told me of your quest. Your powers must be great indeed, young one, to have done the things that I witnessed in this chamber.”

  It paused for a moment, then with great effort spoke again.

  “I do not know if it will help, but I would like you to take the Eye of Horus. It is the only thing I have and it was never really mine to begin with. Use it as you can. Perhaps . . . by passing it to worthier hands, the great Nephthys and Osiris will pity me and allow me into the land of the dead. It is the only thing I can do.”

  “Thank you,” Pandy said, watching as the light in its eyes began to fade away.

  “It is there, wound around my rib bones, underneath that bit of cloth,” said the skull, gazing in the direction of his shattered skeleton.

  Pandy walked to the pile of bones and peeled away the centuries-old gauze covering the tiny floating rib at the bottom. There, a thin gold chain and a miniature golden eye the size of a green olive glinted in the dying firelight. Holding it in her hands, she approached the skull again.

  “Thank you,” she repeated.

  “Wear it and you may be surprised,” said the skull, coughing softly. Then, in a whisper, it said, “The people pray where you come from, don’t they?”

  “Of course,” said Pandy.

  “Then, perhaps, you might say one for me. You seem to be important. Someone important might listen.”

  Pandy walked up to the skull and bent down very close.

  “I will. I promise.”

  And the last of the light in its eyes went out.

  No one said anything for a while. Finally, Homer said, “How long do you think we’ve been in here?”

  “An hour, at least,” said Iole, straightening herself. “The sun’s probably set.”

  “Great, out of the dark and into the dark,” said Alcie.

  “Well, at least the air will be fresh. Come on,” said Pandy, tightening the small clasp on the chain and settling the eye onto her neck. She wasn’t certain but she thought the pain of her many wounds lessened in that instant. Picking up a small piece of wood still alight with flame, she led them back across the chamber toward the entryway.

  At the opening, Pandy turned around.

  “What?” said Alcie.

  Pandy gazed at the pole shards, the huge murals on the walls, the terrible piles of bones disappearing into blackness. For a second she thought that nothing Hera could conjure up could ever be as bad as this chamber. Then she almost laughed out loud—this room would be a child’s playroom to Hera.

  “Pandy?” said Iole.

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s get out of here.”

  As they trudged up the gentle incline toward the surface, the air was indeed fresher with each step and the light was growing brighter.

  “Good,” said Homer, “sun’s still up. Maybe we’ll find a nice spot to camp.”

  “Camp?” sputtered Alcie, as they neared the opening onto the temple terrace. “Sorry, but I’m not leaving this temple tonight. It’s covered . . . except where the roof has fallen in. It’s kinda protected . . . except where the walls have caved.”

  “We should try to make up some time . . . ,” Iole began.

  “But best of all, since this place is known to be so . . . like . . . haunted,” Alcie continued, following Pandy onto the terrace and into the setting afternoon sun, “there won’t be anyone around to mess with us.”

  She put her hands on her hips, as if to say “and that is that!”

  At that moment, across the large open terrace, forty-seven pairs of eyes saw three girls, one large youth, and a snow white dog emerge from the burial chamber beneath the temple, dirty and bloody, togas askew and hair wildly mussed.

  And forty-seven mouths opened in unison to let out the most terrifying scream.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Into the Light

  6:47 p.m.

  Only one person actually threw something, as far as Pandy could tell in all the confusion and noise. A candied orange rind, aimed with no precision whatsoever, caught Pandy on the left side of her face, right on the spot where the golden shrapnel teardrop was embedded under her eye, causing it to bleed again for a few seconds.

  But the ancient Chinese woman who threw it was now fleeing off the terrace and down onto the desert, along with almost everybody else.

  Seconds later, the terrace of the temple was empty.

  Pandy, Alcie, Iole, and Homer ran to the edge and stared down.

  “Wait! Please,” cried Pandy, stepping forward, listening to the panicked cries and whispers below.

  In a split second, Pandy took in the entire scene: men, women, youths, maidens, a few children, and one woman clutching an infant. None of them bore any resemblance to each other, or to any people Pandy had ever seen in her life, dressed in clothing of bizarre cuts and mismatched colors.

  “Who are they?” asked Alcie, quietly.

  “They’re the people you said wouldn’t be around to mess with us,” said Iole.

  “Hello. My name is . . . ,” Pandy began, but her voice trailed off.

  A soft jangling sound began from somewhere in the crowd. Pandy could see nothing for a second, then people began to make way for a solitary figure moving steadily through the group. Something about the gait was masculine, yet the person was dressed in a long, dark robe a woman would use when visiting the baths, and a single braid of black hair looped over both shoulders. The face was impossible to read through the wrinkles. In each hand the figure held a ribbon with coins or small metal discs sewn onto it, softly shaking them with every step. Dido gave one short bark then promptly hid behind Pandy’s legs.

  “What sort of spirit are you?” the figure asked in high-pitched Cantonese, slowly ascending the steps to the terrace.

  “I’m not a spirit,” she immediately replied, pausing in her mind to roll around the short, sharp sounds of the Chinese language she’d just uttered. “Gods,” Pandy thought. Drinking the ashes of Calchas not only allowed her to speak any language, but also since Calchas knew what each language was, that information must now be passed on to her!

  “It’s Chinese,” Pandy heard Iole say to Alcie.

  “Duh!”

  The sun, hanging very low in the sky, had begun to create shadows all over the terrace and the desert below.

  “Then which among you is the spirit?”

  “What do you mean?” Pandy replied, now certain that the figure was an incredibly old man.

  “I will banish the spirit you brought forth from the tomb, but it’s been some time since I have been troubled by such foolishness and I do not want to choose the wrong one. Tell me, which is the spirit and what sort?”

  As he spoke, he moved into the fading sunlight. Pandy had never seen such a face: hundreds of fine wrinkles covered every centimeter. The nose was so small as to almost not be there and the mouth had somehow been pinched so tight that the lips had disappeared. Pandy couldn’t see the mouth move when he spoke.

  “Tell me quickly, before the spirit jumps into one of my people.”

  Then Pandy realized his mouth wasn’t moving at all.

  As she hesitated, thinking her brain was extremely tired, the man began to jangle the coins much louder.

  “I see you will not tell me. Selfish, selfish. Very well, little fish, I will banish you all to the Yangtze River and all souls will share in the exile of the evil one!”

  The man opened his mouth, revealing teeth that had been filed into sharp points, and inhaled a huge breath.

  Alcie stepped forward, standing directly in front of the old man.

  “You’re not banishing anyone, anywhere—especially Pandy! If you try it, you’re gonna have to go through me!” she cried in Cantonese.

  “Wait!” shouted Pandy. “None of us are evil. I just told you, we’re not spirits!”

  The man ceased his jangling, turning his head to look at each of the group.

  “You came from beneath the temple,” he thought-said.

  “How’s he doing that?” Alcie asked over her shoulder, still confronting the man.

  “No idea,” Iole said.

  Pandy instantly realized the problem.

  “Okay, okay, I know we came out of there,” Pandy said, pointing to the entrance to the burial chamber. “But I was only in there because I fell through a trap in the desert. And they”—she gestured to Alcie, Iole, and Homer—“were only there because they came in to find me. We are not part of the curse of this temple. We’re just trying to get to Alexandria, sir. And we got a little . . . lost.”

  “Sir,” said Alcie, backing away.

  “That’s correct, sir,” said Iole.

  “Sir,” said Alcie again.

  The man simply looked at them for several minutes. Then he looked at the entrance to the burial chamber, then out toward the Nile, then back to his people, who had remained silent the entire time.

  “Our animals are tired,” he began, his mouth not moving at all. “And I’m tired. And my mother is very tired. You’re lucky we stopped. We shall find you sleeping quarters and you are welcome to eat with us in the main tent, but don’t go poking your noses into anything else, little fishes.”

  He turned and descended the steps leading down to the desert. Suddenly, the ancient Chinese woman raced past him, her voice raised in a yell, ready to hurl handfuls of candied orange rinds.

  “Mother!” the man looked at the old woman. “Calm yourself. Put the oranges back into the reading jar.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Tell Ng to prepare something out of the ordinary. We’re having little fishes for our evening meal.”

  His laughter could be heard as he walked into the desert, followed by the old woman who, craning her neck, never took her eyes off of Pandy, Homer, Alcie, Iole, and Dido.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Campsite

  7:00 p.m. (exactly)

  “Alcie,” Iole said, “that’s a couple of times now you’ve put yourself between one of us and something dangerous.”

  “Right,” Alcie replied, moving toward the terrace steps. “And your point would be? Pom-OH-granates! Great Apollo!”

  Pandy, Iole, and Homer joined Alcie standing on the top step, transfixed by the sight below.

  In the shadow of the temple, a dozen or so large tents had been erected in what could only have been a few hours. They were arranged in a circle around several large black wagons and a very crude makeshift corral holding many odd-looking animals: abnormally large horses, goats with horns twice their own body length, beasts that resembled both horses and dogs at once with big humps on their backs, several cages full of enormous cats of varying bright colors, one cage holding a red snake, two cages full of hummingbirds, and one empty cage of ornately carved ivory.

  Now that any danger had obviously passed, people ran, strolled, and sat between the tents; many gazed warily at the group still on the temple terrace.

  But it was the tents themselves that were most intriguing, and even though night was swiftly falling, Pandy could see everything clearly because lamps were being lit, illuminating everything from within.

  Each tent was a different color and shape, but nothing so common as red or yellow, square or round. One tent looked just like a pistachio nut, another had all the intricate shadings of a fresh peach and resembled a floor pillow, including gigantic tassels at each corner; still another, shaped like a staircase, was the color of a blue sky at sunrise: clouds, rays of sun, and all. One tent, in the form and coloring of a mountain, had smoke, ash, and sparks—and a delicious aroma—billowing up and out of a hole in its top. Pandy saw tents shaped like a jar, a human foot, a head of garlic, and a pink and white seashell. And one, almost invisible in the growing dark, was in the shape and color of . . . a slug. She also thought this last one might actually be moving.

  Pandy could tell immediately which tent belonged to the old man, not only because she saw him enter it, but because it was by far the largest and brightest; a giant tangerine tent with several crimson and lemon-colored banners fluttering high above each, bearing the initials WCL in beautiful Chinese calligraphy.

  As they descended to the desert, a young girl, perhaps three or four years older than Pandy, wearing a headdress of brilliant feathery plumes approached the group.

  “Why do they have to stay in my tent?” Pandy heard the girl mutter as she drew closer.

  She stared at Pandy with her brown almond-shaped eyes.

  “I know you little girls can’t understand me . . . ,” she began haughtily in her native Mayan.

  “Every word,” said Pandy.

  The girl stopped short, her mouth open. A full five seconds later, during which Alcie just grinned at her, she began again in a slightly softer tone.

  “I am called Usumacinta, for the great river of my people, and I descend directly from the Wizard of the Fatal Laugh, first of the created and formed men. You will all share my tent tonight . . . except for you,” she said, looking to Homer. “You will sleep at the opening to protect your women.”

  She turned her back and strode across the campsite toward the blue, purple, and white tent shaped like the head of garlic.

  Pandy was looking at Alcie.

  “Nope,” Alcie said. “I’m too tired to have anything to say to that. But I’m thinking a few things.”

  “Doesn’t she want to know who we are?” asked Pandy, following in Usumacinta’s footsteps.

  “We’re not dangerous. I don’t think she or her people could care in the slightest,” Iole said.

  “Everyone seems to have ‘people,’ ” Homer mused.

  “We have ‘people,’ ” said Iole.

  “Right now, we have us,” said Pandy.

  As they passed groups of people all talking at once about them, so many different languages came rushing in upon Pandy’s head that it began to throb. As they reached the entrance to Usumacinta’s tent, they each were slightly glassy-eyed from processing so many new sounds.