and the Mystery of Queen Tut
by Claudia Christian
Copyright 2011 Claudia Christian
Original chapter artwork created by Gaea Ray.
published by Xynobooks, LLC at Smashwords
Discover other titles by Xynobooks at Smashwords.com
Table of Contents
I was battling the Romans in Celtic Britain. I held a beautiful jeweled knife in my hands. I was Boudica, the ancient British warrior queen. I was strong and respected, leading my men into battle. I was winning!
I was asleep.
This last bit of truth became obvious to me when, smack in the middle of fighting the legions, the lovely smell of fresh-baked rolls wafted over the blood-strewn battlefield. My stomach began to growl with hunger, which really shouldn’t be a big priority when one is saving one’s clan from total defeat. It was enough to make me turn my chariot around and head back toward the land of reality.
When I woke up I noticed that it was raining on the heath again; no surprise there. It had rained nearly every day in the six months since we moved to England from New York. In fact, I’ve kept count of the sunny days so far. There have been four. And those weren’t even really sunny, just semi-sunny.
I do love Hampstead Heath, though. What’s not to love about nearly 800 acres of rambling, hilly parkland with ponds and ancient woodlands? The rain just takes a little getting used to.
In New York, we lived in a brownstone house smack up against our neighbor, but here we have a detached house and a nice big grassy yard. The yard has oak and elm trees and loads of hedges in which to hide things (and lose things, I have discovered.)
I had not been dreaming that heavenly scent. George was up early baking my favorite breakfast treat, scones. Scones are a great British invention; they’re like a biscuit but more dense, except you can’t call them biscuits because in England biscuits are cookies (another thing to get used to.)
Whenever our houseman George can’t sleep, he bakes. Actually, ever since he came to work for us, he’s been baking every day, so either he has a very hard time sleeping or he simply enjoys baking. Either way, my father (when he is home) and I end up being the lucky beneficiaries.
I got out of bed and carried myself through my morning rituals. I like my room in this house because I have a pretty view of the Heath. Because the house is over 300 years old, the ceiling is a little wonky and the windows have really cool shapes. My Dad said that they’re “of the Norman style,” which was around the year 1200. I’m learning a lot about English history because it’s everywhere I look.
Getting dressed is the easy part since I wear a uniform to school. It’s something I don’t mind at all, but if you were to talk to some of the girls in my school, you’d think we were being asked to wear a clown suit. They carry on about freedom of expression and all that, but I believe that I can speak my mind whether I’m dressed in a party dress or a pair of jeans.
Also, I like the fact that the kids at school who don’t have a lot of money look the same as the rich kids. It’s hard enough being poor without some bozo making fun of your old clothes. This way everyone is equal.
You can go about making friends and trying to learn something without having to compete for attention using clothes and jewelry. Being twelve is tough enough without adding peer pressure to the mix. That’s what my Dad said when he told me I was going to a school where you have to wear uniforms and now I have to agree with him.
Back to the facts, I got dressed in my navy blue skirt, white shirt, socks, and brown loafers. It’s a sharp look, I think. I had my hair cut short right before we moved to England and now it was about shoulder length. I’m happy I inherited my Dad’s dark brown hair; it’s a good match for my green eyes. If I’d gotten my Mom’s red hair, I would have been a social outcast in school, because for some reason English people make fun of redheads. A lot.
I think red hair is gorgeous, but to each his own, I suppose. They have a habit of calling redheads “ginger.” I find that confusing, because to me ginger is a spice and I happen to like it.
I headed to the kitchen, which meant passing through a corridor lined with old oil paintings of people I didn’t know. When I asked my father why we kept paintings of people who are not even our relatives, he said they make the house look older and statelier than it really is. To me, they are simply creepy because they always seem to be following me with their eyes. I stared back at them this morning, just to show ’em who’s boss.
I made my way down the huge spiral staircase that looks just like the one in the movie Gone with the Wind; past the library (my favorite room) and into the kitchen where George was fixing me a plate of breakfast.
George is a retired sergeant-major who (for some reason unbeknownst to me) enjoys taking care of me, though you certainly couldn’t tell that by the way he acts. Gruff is his middle name. My father met him while playing golf. Since George’s wife had also died not too long before that, they had a lot in common. My father claims that being in the military for so long made George the way he is, but I think he’s just naturally quiet and that he doesn’t much care for people.
Normally, that would be fine, but I happen to be a very talkative person. George is the type who considers a shrug a sufficient response to anything. It leads to a lot of one-sided conversations. I’m glad he decided to move with us to England though because I sure would have missed his cooking. George is British by birth, so I think he was happy to leave New York and come back home.
“How did you know I was up?” I asked as he loaded my plate full of toast, eggs, and, of course, a scone with clotted cream and butter.
“Toothpaste,” he responded. George has an unbelievable sense of smell.
In fact, when he was in the British Army, they would make him sleep with his head sticking out the flap of the tent because he could smell the enemy coming. I found it strange but it’s the truth.
He even had all sorts of offers later from perfume companies who wanted him to come work for them as their “nose.” That’s the person who sniffs a bunch of fragrances until they hit on one they think would make a ton of money. George declined.
He said he didn’t want to be around perfume all day. Also, he figured he’d have to talk to people and that certainly didn’t appeal to him. He went to work in a bakery instead, and came to work for us after the bakery. He still bakes every day but he only has to deal with two people now, which suits him better.
Still, I was amazed that he could smell my toothpaste from all the way downstairs. The other day I overheard him calling the neighbors (who live a good half-mile away) to tell them it was high time they changed the hay in their barn. It smelled so bad it was giving him a headache. Then he went so far as to tell the lady of the house that she had also better look in her refrigerator. There was some moldy cheese in the back of the second shelf. Boy, was she embarrassed.
When George does speak, it’s kind of loud, like he’s barking commands or something. I’m used to it, but I have one friend named Hilary, the niece of my neighbor Mrs. Bixby, who won’t come over anymore because he really frightened her once.
I have to admit it was my fault. You see, I had told her, as a joke, that George couldn’t speak. That he was mute. She believed me because every time she came over, he was silent.
One night we were playing with a Ouija board in my room. All the lights were turned off and just a candle was lit so that it was particularly spooky. The shadows on my walls were taking on eerie shapes and my little nightlight in the shape of a daisy kept flickering on and off. The wooden pointer started to move on its own which scared us both half to death. We thought we had contacted a ghost!
While we were scared and deciding what to do next, the door to my bedroom flew open and a voice shouted, “Dinner!” I, of course, knew it was George—but not poor Hilary!
She knew my father was out of town and she thought George was mute, so to her it had to be the ghost! She screamed and hid under my bed. I could see the bed shaking up and down. I tried to calm her down by explaining to her that it was just George, but it didn’t do any good.
She kept to her hiding spot, all the time yelling at me, “It can’t b-b-be George bec-cause he’s m-m-mute!” That made me look really silly in front of George, since he didn’t know about my little joke. Hilary was hiding and stuttering, George was trying to figure out what was going on and I was trying to explain everything to both of them when, without a word, George picked up the Ouija board and left the room.
I eventually calmed Hilary down by getting under the bed and apologizing for my joke, but she still didn’t believe that it was George and not a ghost. She made me swear that from that moment on I would go to her house to play.
It really was a shame, because this house has so many great places to play, what with all the secret rooms and a widow’s walk and everything. Then there is all the property to run about on. I even have my own garden where Hilary and I were trying to grow some things like blue bells, baby potatoes and sugar peas.
After thinking about this time with Hilary, over breakfast I asked George what happened to my Ouija board. He simply replied, “Dangerous,” and walked away. I had no idea what that meant, but figured I had best leave it alone, so that was the end of that. I had to get to school. I ate my breakfast, thanked him and headed out.
I was feeling pretty good in spite of the rain. On my way to school, I passed by Mr. Bagley’s house. I stopped for a moment to admire his flower garden. As I stooped over to sniff a beautiful rose, something shot between my legs and I leapt about 10 feet in the air! It was Peaches; Mrs. Bixby’s despicable cat.
I know I’m not supposed to hate any living thing, even a cat, but there is something about this particular cat. I have always had a very, shall we say, strong dislike for this feline.
First of all, it has a silly name; Peaches. Okay so that’s not really a good reason to dislike the cat. Secondly, it has no voice. I know what you’re thinking: I shouldn’t blame a cat for something it can’t help. But it is most disconcerting when you’re walking along feeling all right and all of a sudden, without any warning and from out of nowhere, out springs this tiny little ball of teeth and fur to attack you. It frightens the living daylights out of me!
Peaches is a runt, too. I would say that at the very most she weighs about a half a pound, so she can really sneak up on a person. It’s the fright that really bothers me. When she bites my legs I can hardly feel it, but I don’t like to be taken by surprise.
In any case, the cat really scared me, putting me in a sour mood all the way to school. After that unpleasantness, I walked quickly, glancing at the mown lawns, nice gardens and stone walkways around me, and looking for anything else nature had in store.
Luckily, the rest of the way to school proved uneventful. It was your standard walk down an English road, all thatched-roof houses covered in ivy and with pretty little gardens linking them. The grey skies were quite dramatic and the air heavy with the thought of rain.
Upon entering my first class, Mr. Willem’s Ancient History course, I was struck with the thought that something odd was going to occur in class today. I get these premonitions quite often, and they usually pan out, so I figured it would be wise to keep my eyes and ears open. I once predicted that a fire would break out in the science lab and it did happen when Timothy Reynolds accidentally added boric acid to his experiment instead of baking soda. Luckily, no one was injured. I took my seat as Mr. Willem began his daily lecture.
Mr. Willem is quite an energetic speaker, though at times he is difficult to follow due to his habit of eating while he lectures. Among other medical problems, Mr. Willem is carrying around a little too much weight. (It has also been said that he’s a hypochondriac. I had to look that one up in the dictionary. I cannot imagine wanting to be sick all the time, but I guess it’s a common enough condition.)
This particular morning was no different from any other. Mr. Willem was carrying on about everything from Ramses to Nefertiti, flinging his hands around while consuming a rather gooey-looking biscuit. All of a sudden, he started to get really excited.
He was explaining about the ancient Egyptians’ habit of burying their cats, embalmed and mummified. They believed in a different afterlife than most modern people do and they believed that lots of gods inhabited the earth in the form of animals.
“Bastat!” he shouted with enthusiasm. (That’s the name of a cat god the Egyptians worshiped. They even had special cemeteries for their cats. They also worshiped cows as the goddess Hathor and falcons as the god Horus, if you’re interested.)
Mr. Willem was really getting into it now, when all of a sudden he paused and began to cough. The cough started out light, but then a few crumbs flew out of his mouth and his face turned a little reddish. As we all waited patiently for the lecture to resume, he started to gag, and the gagging became a horrible retching sound. Mr. Willem’s giant face moved from a scarlet color to the most amazing shade of periwinkle blue!
From this colorful display, I realized the horrible truth. This wasn’t one of Mr. Willem’s normal munching displays; he was choking! Furthermore, if we students continued to stare at him, transfixed by the horrible sight of our teacher writhing around on the floor, he would surely die!
Upon realizing this, I quickly made my way (on wobbly legs, mind you) towards Mr. Willem who by now was moving towards a smashing shade of cornflower blue; rather like the color of the carpet in my own bedroom.
In his hand was the biscuit he had been so happily munching just moments before. One of the students, coming to his senses, bolted out of the room to get help, since nobody seemed to know CPR or the Heimlich maneuver.
I looked down at Mr. Willem flipping about like a fish out of water and vowed that I would speak to the Headmaster about teaching CPR in our school, pronto. I tried to calm Mr. Willem down and shouted out to the class for someone to fetch some water.
Just then, the doors burst open and a tiny sprite of a woman came bounding in with the other student closely behind her. Jumping over chairs and hurdling desks, she landed next to Mr. Willem. By this time he had appeared to calm down considerably. In fact, he looked like he was sleeping.
She began administering an excellently-applied Heimlich maneuver. It was at this moment, somewhere between her breaths and the class’ collective gasps, that I noticed something strange and entirely too apparent to ignore. This tiny woman with her dark hair and unique nose bore an uncanny resemblance to King Tut!
Indeed, as strange as it sounds, she really was King Tut! I mean, she was the spitting image of the boy king we had been studying in class for the past week. Mr. Willem had been showing us photos from Howard Carter’s expedition and this woman had the eyes, the hair, the profile; everything was the same. Wouldn’t Mr. Willem be surprised to wake up in Tut’s arms!
I began to think of my discovery’s potential. If this woman looked so much like him, maybe Tut actually had been a girl. I was tired of all of the historical figures we studied being boys, anyway. Didn’t girls ever do anything spectacular?
All we kept hearing about was great kings and explorers and generals and they were always men or boys. Why couldn’t we learn about the great women in history: Joan of Arc or Queen Elizabeth, say?
Who’s to say King Tut wasn’t a girl? I’ve always thought he had a feminine look, anyway. This was going to be my next great challenge: to prove King Tut was a girl, not a boy.
Right this minute, however, there were more important things happening and my research would have to wait. Mr. Willem was not responding to this woman’s very earnest and efficient efforts. It was then I noticed the package of biscuits Mr. Willem had been munching on. I picked up the package and looked at the label. I thought perhaps someone had put poison in the box or something.
I noticed that, though the label read chocolate biscuits, one of the ingredients listed was strawberries. Mr. Willem is allergic to strawberries!
I remembered him talking about it in the middle of a lecture on the plague. I couldn’t remember how we got from the plague to his allergy, but he said that.
“Mr. William’s not choking!” I screamed. “He’s allergic to strawberries!” At the mention of the word “strawberry,” Mr. Willem shot up and spat out the words, “Get nurse! Adrenaline!”
At that, Mrs. Tut (who later turned out to be Mrs. Goldfarb, the mother of a student at our school) hurriedly jumped up and ran to fetch the nurse. Mrs. Goldfarb was slightly panicked due to the nature of her activities.
Mrs. Goldfarb’s son, Lionel, threw the discus over 100 yards in our school Olympic games the month before. I discovered his throw was a complete fluke. As it turned out, one of Lionel’s competitors in the discus throw placed a wasp in Lionel’s pants, hoping the subsequent sting would cause him to lose.
Instead, it had exactly the opposite effect and caused young Lionel to throw the discus a most incredible and winning length, all the while spewing an extraordinary variety of curse words, some of which I have yet to figure out.
Anyhow, tiny Mrs. Goldfarb returned quickly with the nurse, who shot poor Mr. Willem full of adrenaline. Soon after, he rallied, everyone breathed easier and class was dismissed.
On the way home my head was swimming with ideas about King Tut, whom I truly believed to be Queen Tut. I had to figure out if there was any truth to this. I thought I had better get in touch with my friend Felix, as he might have some ideas on the subject. He considers himself an amateur Egyptologist.
Felix and I have known each other since we were babies. When I lived in New York, he was my neighbor. Right before we moved to England, Felix’s family moved to Australia, so we communicate by computer now. I have to say, I miss seeing him from time to time. I think he must be a little lonely, too. I mean, he’s stuck on an ostrich farm thousands of miles away from anything familiar. He never chats or e-mails about other friends, either. At least they speak English in Australia.
Another thing making me think that Felix must be pretty lonely is that his parents recently made him get rid of his potbellied pig, Muck. The pig was named after its habit of wallowing in, well, muck. Felix’s parents said that Muck was making the ostriches nervous. Consequently, the ostriches weren’t being romantic.