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“Now, young man—”
“Timothy,” supplied the boy.
“Timothy, I’m busy. State your business, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“Four thousand four hundred years and nine hundred million deaths, sir …”
“My God, that’s quite a mouthful.” D.W. Alcott waved at Smith. “Another chair.” The chair was brought. “Now you really must sit down, son.” Timothy sat. “Say that again.”
“I’d rather not, sir. It sounds like a lie.”
“And yet,” said D.W. Alcott, slowly, “why do I believe you?”
“I have that kind of face, sir.”
The curator of the museum leaned forward to study the pale and intense face of the boy.
“By God,” he murmured, “you do.”
“And what have we here?” he went on, nodding to what appeared to be a catafalque. “You know the name papyrus?”
“Everyone knows that.”
“Boys, I suppose. Having to do with robbed tombs and Tut. Boys know papyrus.”
“Yes, sir. Come look, if you want.”
The curator wanted, for he was already on his feet.
He arrived to look down and probe as through a filing cabinet, leaf by leaf of cured tobacco, it almost seemed, with here and there the head of
a lion or the body of a hawk. Then his fingers riffled faster and faster and he gasped as if struck in the chest.
“Child,” he said and let out another breath. “Where did you find these?”
“This, not these, sir. And I didn’t find it, it found me. Hide and seek in a way, it said. I heard. Then it wasn’t hidden anymore.”
“My God,” gasped D. W. Alcott, using both hands now to open “wounds” of brittle stuff. “Does this belong to you?”
“It works both ways, sir. It owns me, I own it. We’re family.”
The curator glanced over at the boy’s eyes. “Again,” he said, “I do believe.”
“Thank God.”
“Why do you thank God?”
“Because if you didn’t believe me, I’d have to leave.” The boy edged away.
“No, no,” cried the curator. “No need. But why do you speak as if this, it, owned you, as if you are related?”
“Because,” said Timothy. “It’s Nef, sir.”
“Nef?”
