Free Pockets of Darkness by Jean Rabe Page B

headpiece, marking the figure as wealthy.
    Who posed for this treasure? She pressed.
    She drew out an image of a stately man, sun-bronzed and reasonably handsome and sitting regally still for the carver. Bridget felt the carver’s hands run over the stone before making the first chisel cuts. It felt like a lover’s caress.
    “Kanefer,” Bridget pronounced as she looked outward from the chunk of limestone. She nearly succumbed as a weakness washed through her; psychometry magic often exacted a physical price. She trembled like she was about to suffer a seizure, her teeth grinding together as she fought for breath. The sensation of the intimate contact with something centuries upon centuries old was amazing, and Bridget drank it all in, steadying herself and taking in more and more until she nearly lost consciousness.
    The subject—Kanefer—had eyes as black as pitch, unblinking and looking like marbles set on a face that seemed too small for the tall, broad-shouldered body. Yet it was a striking face. The forehead was high and sloped, the head shaven, the chin and cheekbones sharp. His jewelry was considerable—a mix of gold and lapis lazuli that further indicated his wealth. Bridget let her senses spiral ever outward from the limestone, taking in the room in which the carver and Kanefer sat, seeing beyond it and espying impressive stone buildings—an intact Egypt before Roman armies, passing centuries, and vandals had broken down the structures.
    Who? Bridget repeated. Who were you, Kanefer? Bridget previously owned nothing that had belonged to a man named Kanefer, and she would not lower herself to search a history book for information. She considered such books and Internet sites only scattered speculations; as far as she was concerned her psychometry gift was the only reliable way to learn about the past.
    Who? Talk to me. Give up your secrets.
    Days passed in the blink of Bridget’s eyes. She gathered more memories from the stone, not wanting everything right away, and yet not wanting to shut out any details. She would return to this piece again and again, finding something new with each exploration. Now she would glean just enough to satisfy her addiction and yet leave her hungry for more.
    She touched her forehead to the stone and pictured her mind flowing wholly into it to intensify the connection. Then Bridget felt herself rising as if someone had lifted her. She looked out through the statue’s chiseled eyes and saw Kanefer holding up the finished art to admire. Stretching behind the man in the distance Bridget glimpsed the Nile Delta. Farmers carried wheat and flax that she knew would be woven into linen fabrics, perhaps into clothes that Kanefer would wear.
    This indeed was the dynastic period of the great pharaohs, and by the structures around Kanefer and the dress of the men and women who worked nearby, Bridget placed it after the unification of Upper and Lower Egypt. She watched two men nod to Kanefer and speak in low tones. Historians had deciphered hieroglyphs, but they’d had no clue to the spoken language of the ancient Egyptians. Bridget heard the language clearly while connected so closely to the statue, and through her mental magic and nearness to the long-dead Egyptian, she understood everything as if she was a native speaker.
    The men in attendance called Kanefer high priest and spoke to him in measured, respectful words, referring to him as “vizier” and “beautiful soul.”
    “He who called the world into being blesses us this morning, Kanefer,” one said.
    “The dreamer of creation brings the promise of rain for my field,” said the other.
    Bridget gripped the statue painfully tight. Of course! Kanefer was a high priest of Ptah, who the ancient Egyptians called the creator god. She opened her mind wider still and the lineage came at her in a rush. Kanefer was more than a priest, he was also a prince of Egypt, son of Sneferu, brother of Nefermaat I, married to a Hathor priestess and