“Well, guess what? I’ve got a job there. In the gift shop. And I’m not giving it up. I don’t care if it embarrasses you or if—”
“That’s not the reason, Terry. I . . . it’s . . . your father had some superstitious ideas about this piece of jewelry they found on you. And, well, it scared me. I didn’t want it in our lives. Especially with Richard gone.”
I could see she meant it. That something about it troubled her. She’d told me how devastated she’d been when cancer took my father’s life, leaving her alone with a toddler to care for. Having been two years old when he died, I’ve got only one clear memory of him. Of being carried in his arms, while he smiled at me and pointed up at a star in a beautiful night sky.
I perched on the coffee table facing her. “Forgive me, Mom. I don’t mean to upset you, but this is stuff I have a right to know.”
She patted my cheek and nodded. “Did you get these papers out of the rosewood tea box?”
“Yup. It fell when I was reaching for a book.”
“Well, that box is all about you. And the little necklace you were wearing is in there.”
I bolt for the stairs.
I sit on the floor next to the partially spilled contents of the tea box. At first I think maybe there will be info about who my real mother was, but so far it’s just articles about Sumerian and Akkadian words. Big surprise. Richard Conn researched and taught about ancient languages.
But then, near the bottom of the box I find a sealed manila envelope with my name scribbled on it in black ink. And it isn’t flat. Definitely something solid inside.
I tear open the envelope and tip it. I tarnished silver chain falls out. Along with what looks like a tube bead, which rolls toward me.
“Oooh, neat. Lapis lazuli.” Deep blue with golden sparkles. About the size of my finger digit. I’ve read about these and seen plenty in photos and at the museum. I know this carved spool is a cylinder seal. They signed things with these back in Mesopotamia. Rolled its carved out shapes over soft clay leaving three-D imprints.
Too bad I don’t have any clay around. No way to tell what this looks like without an impression of it.
I dig into the box again and find another envelope. This one has a little hardened rectangle the size of a small candy bar. Yep, this is it. Mostly cuneiform writing and some crude drawings. And a little four-legged creature that looks like the mushrushu.
Too weird.
My mother calls up the stairs. “Terry? Aren’t you hungry? Get down here and eat some pizza.”
“Coming, Mom.” I stuff the impression back into its envelope and take it to my room, along with my cylinder seal and silver chain. If I hurry after school I’ll can get to the museum early enough to catch one of the professors in the tablet room near the library archives. I gotta know what this thing says.
After not once getting even remotely close to having a boyfriend, there I am, standing at my locker after last period, when Jerrod walks up and leans his shoulder against the locker next to mine.
“You ready for your second day among the ancients?”
I can almost see jaws dropping around me. Jerrod has only been here a week, and already every girl in the school is so obsessed over who he’ll date you’d think you were at the betting tables in Atlantic City
“Sure am,” I say. I try not to giggle. I’ve heard guys hate that. But a giddy bubble wells up inside. I purposely wore a jersey dress today, hoping Jerrod might look at me again. But I never imagined he’d really pick me of all the girls in the school.
Cool your jets, sweetie. He’s just stopping by to say hello.
“Want a ride to the museum?”
Stunned, I take a steadying breath and manage to say, “Sure. Thanks.”
He reaches for the books out of my hands and carries them along with his own.
Whoa. Am I in a teen movie or something? As we walk down the hall together, I note the envious and baffled looks. Truth is I’m baffled myself. Why would someone as yummy as Jerrod want to hang with me? I know I’m not too bad looking, but he could have any of the popular girls. I wonder if it’s because we had such a good time talking yesterday about the mythical creatures. Which reminds me . . . “I need to make a stop in the tablet room before I start today.”
“Why?”
I’m itching to tell him I’ve got a seal impression he will die for, but I’m not sure if it’s wise to show him, considering I’d have to lie about where it came from.
Last night I cleaned the silver chain and threaded it through the hole in the cylinder seal. This morning I tucked it into a compartment in my shoulder bag along with the terracotta rectangle that has the impression.
Jerrod’s car is a black BMW. I think of Mom’s beaten up, aging Civic and figure his family must be well off. He opens the door for me and sticks our books in the back seat. I inhale fragrant cedar incense. I don’t know what I’d expect a guy’s car to smell like, but not that.
He’s so mysterious. I’d once heard some girls in gym class saying he lived alone in some big house near the river. “Um, how come your parents moved to Philadelphia? What do they do?”
Instead of answering, Jerrod says, “Ms. Cresley told me your father had been an ancient languages professor at Penn.”
I nod, but now I worry that he might know I’m a foundling. Except that he seems so nice I’m guessing he wouldn’t look down on me for it.
I peek at his profile and can hardly believe how handsome he is. Or that I’m sitting this close to him. I watch his hands on the steering wheel and mine curls in my lap as I remember the feel of his touch.
Out of the blue he says, “So you like that little mushrushu dragon. The one you were looking at yesterday.”
“When I got so dizzy I thought I’d fall over.”
“I would’ve caught you.” He glances at me and I practically melt.
“Actually, Jerrod, I wanted to ask you about them. I haven’t been able to find out much.”
“They’re protectors, guardians. Not just of treasure or kings, but the earth.”
“Seems like most dragons are. At least that’s what I’ve read. Then of course there’s Hollywood.”
“Hollywood?”
“Dragons in movies.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” He focuses on the street ahead. “Except I’m talking about real dragons.”
“Get out.” I laugh. “You aren’t serious.”
“Sure. And they’re all related, you know. In every culture.” He grins. “One big dragon family.”
I shook my head. “Love those dragon families. Papa Dragon and Mama Dragon. And all the baby dragons playing around on the floor. And then there’s Auntie Millie and Uncle Harry Dragon. And—”
“You don’t believe me.” His sober tone surprises me. Suddenly I feel I’ve somehow disappointed him, and I hate the feeling.
He parks in a lot across from the museum and I say, “Wait’ll you see this.” I pull out the lapis lazuli seal and show him.
That radiant smile returns and it’s like the sun just came out again. “This is super. Where’d you get it?”
The inevitable question. “Oh it’s something my father had.”
“You should wear it.”
“I don’t want to lose it.”
“You won’t.” He leans toward me with the chain and slides his hands beneath my hair to the back of my neck.
I’m in such heaven there’s no way I’m going to object. His touch is so sensitive, his hands warm. I can feel his minty breath on my cheek and wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
“Looks beautiful, Terry.”
My cheeks go red. We head out to the museum, the cool lapis resting at the hollow of my throat. I run a finger across its carved ridges, thinking, This little hunk of lapis lazuli is the only thing I’ve got from the parent who abandoned me.
As we climb the marble stairs to the second floor I start getting that woozy feeling again. When I reach the landing I notice an odd kind of buzz in my head.
I chalk it up to some kind of barometric thing. Until I hear deep, cello-like minor chords. But the only musical instrument around is the reconstructed bull lyre standing in the gallery on my right.
Tell me the chords I’m hearing aren’t coming from this instrument that’s seven hundred years older than the Great Pyramids. Especially since nobody’s playing it.
I walk toward the lyre. The gold bull’s head on the front turns luminous. The lapis, silver and abalone set into its wooden body go all sci-fi shimmery. And, whoa, I’m suddenly listening to it play a melody I’ve never heard before. The sound multiplies. Gets louder and louder. And crazier. Discordant. Wild.
I hear Jerrod say something, but his words are like a distant echo. Lightheaded and panicky, I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, telling myself I’m not the kind of person who freaks out over these things. But the screaming vibration envelops me, cutting through me, penetrating my chest as if it’s going to shatter me.
My legs give way. I feel myself falling. And falling. The museum lights go dim.
Then everything goes black.
The museum is gone. Vanished. I’m surrounded by thorny shrubs and tall grasses that make my skin itch. I don’t hear the moans of the ancient bull lyre. I’d say I’m relieved it’s gone except now I hear shouts and weeping and frenzied screams. And the crackle of fire. Do I smell smoke?
Brushing powdery dirt from my palms, I stand on unsteady legs. I peer through the bushes at what looks like a campsite. Huge tents. Not the kind you get from L.L. Bean. These are dark and hairy, like they’re made of animal skins. And some of them are burning. And . . . ohmigosh. I glimpse bodies on the ground. Twisted and bloody.
This can’t be real. Must be some horrible nightmare. I slap my face and try to think myself awake. Nothing changes. And if this is a dream, how come I’m still wearing the same jersey dress I put on this morning? And carrying my leather shoulder bag. I open the flap on my bag, pull out my phone. Totally dead.
Panic rising, I turn around myself. Where the heck am I? And how did I get here?
I hear male voices nearby and see two men jogging toward the thicket I’m in. They’re wearing capes and short kilts. Like Roman soldiers. No, the leather helmets that strap under their chins look more like the ones used in ancient Sumer. Not taking any chances, I sink into a crouch, knees at my shoulders, tucking myself behind the scrubby foliage. The two men pause so close to me I could reach out my arm and touch their legs.
I listen to them talk. Their language sounds like the Sumerian-Akkadian words my father worked with. And what’s really weird is I understand what they’re saying.
They’re definitely soldiers. Talking about the battle going on here with the Guti tribe. I recognize the name. I read about the Guti. Rugged nomads living in the mountains near ancient Sumer.
A few thousand years ago.
Am I in some kind of time warp? Is this all because of that cylinder seal? Will I wake up in the museum if I just tear it off?
I’m about to reach my hand up to break the chain and toss the thing away from me, but I freeze when I hear orders barked out to the soldiers: round up prisoners worth taking, kill the rest — and search the border areas for stragglers hiding in the brush.
My mouth goes dry. No way could I pass for one of the soldiers. And I doubt they’d believe I came here from the future, since I hardly believe it myself. I wonder if I might be invisible, like Scrooge when he travels with the ghost in Christmas Carol. But I don’t dare move. Being wrong could be fatal.
So I wait here, shaking inside, but not moving a hair. By the time my arms are totally bug bitten and my legs go numb, some unexpected company arrives. The four-legged kind.
The dog’s keen nose brings a group of soldiers right to my hiding place. I’m a really fast runner, but the needles and pins in my feet turn my attempt to bolt into a hopeless lurch.
The men surround me in seconds. I’m no fighter. If I can’t even face down Cheryl Quigley, how am I supposed to handle five big soldiers? But I scream and punch and kick. When a footswipe sends me to the ground on my back, the horror of what’s coming sinks in. No, this can’t be happening!
I hear a strange growl and see one of the soldiers go flying. The others turn toward a guy who can’t be more than my age from the looks of him. But he’s moving with the speed and ferocity of a wildcat. He’s obviously one of the Guti. Dressed in only a Tarzan-style kilt. Red and black tattoos all over his incredibly powerful torso and arms. Beads and what look like animal teeth braided into his wild, chestnut-colored hair.
I roll to my feet, brain-straining to figure out how I can help this guy. He’s already managed to dispatch the five soldiers. But we both hear the sound of more coming. A lot more.
He grabs my arm and says, “Hurry. This way.”
I snatch up my shoulder bag, kick off my cork sandals, and take off barefoot. The mountain terrain is rough. Rocks and roots bruise my feet, branches slap my face, but I move faster than I’d ever run before. I refuse to die here in this strange place.
My Guti friend seems to have a plan. After several dodges and sprints, we finally duck into a shallow cave and drop onto our butts, both of us panting and breathless.
“Rest now,” he says. “This is a sacred place. They won’t find us here.”
His voice is deep, entrancing. And the crazy thing is that I realize his language is different from what the soldiers spoke. But apparently I’m a walking Berlitz program lately, because I have no trouble understanding him —or speaking it myself.
I cut my eyes sideways for a peek at this guy who probably just saved my life, and I can’t help noticing he is truly hot. “I can’t thank you enough, um . . . what is your name?”
His full, sensual lips widen into a truly sexy grin. “I am Rigmai, son of Yarlagan, panther warrior of the Guti.”
I’m about to tell him my name when his expression changes. His brows knit. He leans forward studying my face. “It’s you, Tiriqan. The gods have finally brought us together.”
What? “Did you just say Terry Conn? You know my name?”
“I am Yarlagan’s fourth son,” he says, as if that explains everything. “When did you come out of hiding? I’ve been waiting for you.”
Whoa. Not every day a girl has a looker like this say he’s been waiting for her. But . . . “But how can you possibly know me. I’m not—”
“Your face is exactly like hers.”
“My face? But—”
Rigmai gently wraps his hand around my ankle, lifting my foot. And, yeah, it sends a wave of heat through me. But then I see he’s looking at the ugly blue birthmark on my left ankle.
“The Divine Lady’s mark. I’m right. It is you, Tiriqan.”
“Are you saying Tee-ree-con?”
“The name your father gave you.”
My breath catches. Of course my last name is his, but how would this guy know my father was the one who chose to name me Terry. Not Teresa or anything. Just Terry.
I ease my foot away. “Look, if you’re some kind of shaman, will you please help me go back.”
“I don’t know where you were hiding, Tiriqan. And why would I send you back? Your parents made me swear to watch over you.”
“Say what?” My parents? Will he believe it if I tell him I was born in Philadelphia a few thousand years from now?
“I’m sworn to protect you. And I’ll be a good mate to you.”
“Mate?” My voice rose an octave. “As in . . . marriage?” What is going on?
“I know you’re different, Tiriqan. I know that women of your family line often choose not to marry. I would never attempt to force you to be my wife.”
Well, at least we got past that one. Not that I’m afraid of Rigmai. I feel totally safe with this dude. I can tell he’s one of those principled warrior code types.
“Even though you were promised to me.” That winsome smile again.
Definitely time to leave. Loser life or not, it’s my life, an
d I want it back. I unhook the chain, tuck the seal into a zipper pocket of my shoulder bag, and wait to see if that will do the trick.
Nothing happens.
The reality—if that word can even apply here—of the situation hits me hard. I’m stuck. Trapped. And have no clue how this happened or how to change it. I drop my face into my hands, and burst into tears.
Rigmai scoots close to me and wraps me on his arms. I’m grateful he doesn’t ask me to explain. Or offer stupid feel good phrases. When my crying jag subsides, he lifts my chin, wipes my tears, and places the softest brush of a kiss on my lips.
He looks even better up close. And the earthy scent of his warm skin makes me think of the community garden along the river in Philadelphia.
I wonder if I’ll ever see it again.
I follow Rigmai out of the cave. The sun is going down and casts a purplish hue over the mountains. He stands a moment, obviously listening to things I can’t hear. With a decisive nod, he leads me down a trail through the forested mountains. Some parts go through barren cliffs where raptors circle above canyons.
At one point Rigmai snaps his gaze to the sky. “No.” He takes my hand and breaks into a jog. But we barely make two yards before an enormous winged creature appears in the sky above us. It looks like an asag dragon. With huge brown wings, a snake’s tale, eagle’s feet and a lion-like head. I think about the conversation I had with Jerrod. Is this proving him right?
Rigmai curses himself for having no weapon on hand. He throws rocks, which bounce off the mammoth creature like pebbles. The asag swoops in and catches the back of my dress in its claws, lifting me into the sky. I scream and try desperately to wiggle out of its clutch. But I only go higher and higher, traveling across the mountains, campsites and villages like dots on a map.
The distress of running from the soldiers is nothing compared to this. Asags are not nice dragons. They have demon blood. A part of me wonders if it would be better to fall to my death rather than be mutilated or eaten by an asag.
We cross a river and the image below strikes me like a blow. Just like my vision yesterday during my dizzy spell, here I am soaring above a city of dun colored buildings tightly packed along meandering streets. Especially since I feel the flight slowing. We’re descending. For what? For the asag to make a dinner of me?