Eliza opened her bedroom door a crack and looked through the small slit into the tan-carpeted hallway. It was deserted. Eliza breathed a sigh of relief. She stuck her head out and listened for any noises that would signify that she was not the only person up. To the left, her little sister Emily’s room was silent. Eliza cocked her head the other way to listen for her parents. Nothing. She was the only person awake in the whole house. That made sense, though, because it was five-thirty in the morning. The house was dark; only one long beam of moonlight lit the staircase, leaving the rest of the house in pure and complete darkness. Eliza left her room, a light jacket slung over her shoulder, fully dressed in summer shorts and her T-shirt with the blue-and-white stripes. She crept across the black hallway, clutching at her jacket. Feeling her pocket, she made sure that the note she had written yesterday was still there. Just to check it and make sure it was the right one, she took it out for a second and the words Dear Mom, Pop, and Emily shone across the top for a moment in the moonlight, but then she quickly folded it up again and roughly shoved it back into her pocket. Eliza started down the carpeted stairs, holding tightly to the banister as she went. Emily watched through band-aided fingers and her slightly open door as Eliza crept through the silent house. The second- to-last stair creaked as she stepped on it, and the banister shook as she tried to take all of her weight off of the steps. You miscounted, Emily thought gleefully, giggling softly to herself. I never step on the creaky stair. This, of course, was not true. Emily had made a horrible racket as she had come up the stairs just the night before, stepping on that creaky step, and the third one down, which was much, much worse, but of course, her five-year-old mind had already forgotten that. You miscounted, Emily thought gleefully Eliza’s head whipped around, hearing Emily’s giggle. “Emily!” she hissed, but Emily didn’t catch the harshness in her tone. “Hi, Liza,” she whispered, though it was so loud that Eliza hurried back up the stairs, counting right this time so that none of the steps creaked and complained, and hurried into her little sister’s room so they could talk quietly and not wake up their parents. “Shh, Emmy,” she said, gently now. “Don’t want to wake Mom and Pop.” “Pop.” Emily giggled at Eliza’s name for her father. To Emily he was always Daddy “Pop,” she said again. “Pop. Pop. Poppoppoppoppop.” “Emily!” Eliza hurriedly covered her sister’s mouth with her hand. Emily strained to see Eliza’s painted nails, which were a deep red right now, and had always fascinated the little girl. “You’ve got to be quiet, ‘K?” Eliza looked into her little sister’s brown eyes and repeated her demand. “Quiet.” Emily nodded and Eliza’s hand retreated from her face. “Where was you goin’, Liza?” Emily asked immediately, but, true to her word, she was very quiet this time. Eliza looked at her little sister. She thought about when she had been born. She thought about all the times that she had kept the whole family up all night with her relentless wails. She thought about how cute she had been as a toddler, and how much fun she was to play baby games with. And how annoying she was when she cried when she lost. And when she didn’t get just what she wanted right when she wanted it. Eliza thought about the green duffel bag that was hidden under the bushes by the mailbox. She thought about the red train tickets that were safely hidden away in the inside pocket. And she thought about the hulking black train that was waiting for her at the station across town. She thought about her little sister, and all of the times that she had wished that she was somewhere far, far away, and all of the good times that she would miss when she was gone. She thought about how her parents loved Emily more than they loved her, and then she remembered the fantastic birthday party they had thrown her when she turned thirteen. She thought about how Emily’s present had been a hug and a kiss, and how that had meant much, much more to her than all of her other presents combined. And she thought about Emily right now, standing there in front of her, waiting with bated breath for an answer from her favorite person in the entire world. “Where was I going?” Eliza repeated. “Yeah, Liza, where?” “Nowhere, Emmy, I’m staying right here.” Emily never questioned the answer that her sister gave. She leaned forward and hugged her tightly. “Good, Liza. That’s super good.” Eliza smiled and hugged her tightly back. Sarah Jick, 13Lexington, Massachusetts Sheri ParkRedwood City, California
July/August 2005
The Tale of Tawret
A large gray hippo waded in the clear, cool Nile River. His name was Akitomen. Akitomen’s wife, Tawret, glided alongside him. The couple both watched their children, Khufem and Maketuman. The kids played happily in the papyrus reeds, Tawret and Akitomen talked while keeping an eye on the kids. Tawret had always been a wonderful hippo mother. Loving, yet stern. During the middle of a discussion about the Nile’s flood, Tawret checked on the kids. She saw a papyrus hunting boat off in the distance. Knowing they might be in the mood for hippo, she warned the others. “Khufem! Maketuman! Hunters!” The family rapidly climbed into the sand-mud structure they lived inside. Back at the boat, the Egyptian men were arguing in fierce, fast Egyptian. “They got away, you moron!” the first man yelled. “It’s your fault! You should have lowered the net at least five seconds earlier!” the second one exclaimed. There was another person on board. She was a young woman, about seventeen in age. Her name was Cleometrapen. Cleometrapen had dark silky hair that cascaded to her waist. She had dark, smooth skin. At a quick glance, she looked like any other mildly attractive servant girl in a plain blue linen dress. Well, except for the golden flute tucked within the folds of her skirt. If you looked closely enough, you could see her eyes: celery green with thick lashes encircling them. One could look even harder and see the swirling specks of blue and purple within the green. But nobody ever did. She was a simple servant, an accessory to take on hunting trips, a person existing solely to cater to whims. No more. Possibly less, but no more. Tawret had always been a wonderful hippo mother. Loving yet stern While the two men were fighting, Cleometrapen took out her flute and put it to her lips, with their perfectly applied red ochre. She began to play. Cleometrapen’s fingers flew on the marble-rimmed holes. She played and played, the sweet, woody notes covering the unpleasant noise of the argument. Attracted to the music, the hippo family glided over. Sadly, the men noticed the hippos and threw their weapons randomly in the water. A weapon was headed straight for Khufem. In a split second, Tawret jumped over. She saved Khufem, but the spear punctured her hide. With a cheer from the men, they hauled Tawret out of the water and onto the boat. Cleometrapen cast an apologetic glance at the hippos as the boat sped off. Khufem, Akitomen, and Maketuman mourned. The Egyptians had bread and vegetables. Why did they need Tawret? Every night, after the children fell asleep, Akitomen would pray to the god Osiris, leader of the underworld. He begged for the gods to return his wife. During the second week, Cleometrapen sat in the servant hutch. It was a very modest place, made of mud brick. Against one wall a bed stood, its headrest a simple stone structure. Against the opposite wall, there was a small table with a piece of bread. Pushed neatly under the table was a stool. This room was just like the servant girl who lived in it. At a quick glance it appeared modest, plain, nothing really special. But, also like Cleometrapen, at a second look you found something very interesting. There was a papyrus basket, complete with a delicate golden lock hidden carefully under the bed. A bit unusual (just like the girl’s celery-green eyes), yet still nothing really special. If one would actually take the locked basket from beneath the bed and snap the fragile lock, they would find a tiny sparkle of light inside. The same thing would happen if you cared to look deeper into Cleometrapen’s eyes. And at this moment, Cleometrapen looked into the sparkle. She saw Ra’s face and began to speak to him. “Ra, this is Isis here.” Yes, you heard that right. Cleometrapen was Isis, visiting her people in the form of a servant girl. “Greetings,” Ra replied in his deep, loud voice. “You must be hushed,” Isis replied. “I have another servant girl living near my hutch.” “Yes,” Ra agreed. “Now why is it you contact me, Isis?” “I have spoken with my husband, Osiris. He has said that river horses of the Nile have begged for their missing family member.” Cleometrapen began her story, making sure to include the fact that it was she who was to blame and the part when Tawret saved her child, Khufem. Isis said all this because she knew that the god and goddess council had decided that a goddess of motherhood and home was needed, and preferably in animal form. Many divine creatures had the head of an animal, but none were pure animal. They felt they needed at least one to represent the non-humans on the earth. “Ra, this is Isis here” Ra listened carefully. He was particularly impressed with the part when Tawret saved her children. He too was thinking exactly what Isis was: animal goddess. However, they would have to consult Osiris. He had Tawret in the Valley of Laru. “We will consider giving her goddess power. Isis, you should talk to your husband, Osiris. He should have input.” “Thank you.” Cleometrapen looked away for a second to hide the basket further, and when she looked back, Ra’s face had left and the spark was plain once more. Following his ritual, Akitomen prayed that evening. Cleometrapen stayed up later than usual waiting. She had the basket in her arms, yet this time it was to be used as a communication with common creatures, not with her fellow gods and goddesses. Khufem and Maketuman went to sleep, and Akitomen knelt on the hard-packed dirt floor. He pleaded for his wife, though at this point he had lost hope. “Will my wife be returned to me, Great Ones?” Akitomen asked. Cleometrapen, sitting on her bed, heard the prayer through her spark. She said one sentence: “She may return, yet not in
My Landlord on an August Morning
My landlord wakes to a dawn where everything is silent, and even the trees still linger in the unconsciousness of night. Dewy grass dampens his shoes as he strolls out over to his most used patch of land: the garden. The smells are soft and fresh and the rain’s clear drops from the night before are a blanket strung with pearls, that drape over the green leaves of lettuce as he walks over to tend them. A cricket sounds in the strawberries, awakening the rustle of wings, but the bird passes over, gliding on an invisible thread through the air. My landlord’s hands, rough, yet tender in his work, soften the moist earth at the roots of the unwanted, allowing him to pull them up, and let his green, leafy children live on. Alyssum Quaglia, 12Piermont, New York
