A Pharaoh Through Time

By Carol Harrisville Young

She’s a student from the East End of London, and he’s the famous King Tut.

The moment the handsome stranger, pursued by an assassin and claiming to be Tutankhamun, walked into Christine’s life, she is transported from her home in the East End and carried back in time to the sands of Ancient Egypt where she finds her life and that of the man she has come to love hanging in the balance.

Pursued by a power-hungry priest who wants them both dead, Christine and Tut find themselves and their friends in mortal peril as they escape imprisonment, and try to prevent an all-out war and the collapse of a royal dynasty. As the mystery of Tut’s true identity unfolds, Christine finds herself falling in love with the young king, and the time comes when their love is put to the ultimate test. Christine is faced with a difficult choice, remain 3,000 years in the past, or return to her own time in 21st Century London, forever separated from the love of her life by the sands of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Harrisville Young
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005279974

Carol Harrisville Young

My name is Carol Harrisville Young, and I've done a myriad of things in my life. In addition to raising two wonderful children who have embarked on their own adventures, I've been a museum curator, lifeguard, janitor, supermarket checker, potato-chip factory worker, archaeologist, fossil primate bone collector, anthropology teacher, web programmer, T-shirt painter, horseback riding instructor, veterinary nurse, blogger, and web content writer. My husband and I share our home in New Mexico with three goofy dogs, three demanding cats, and three wonderful horses. I love to travel, and I've been fortunate enough to have spent a year in Cambridge, England as a child, where I first saw the treasures of Tutankhamun at the British Museum in London. I've been to my niece's wedding in India, and I've visited Germany, France, Italy, Greece, Austria, the Czech Republic, Nepal, Iceland (twice), Central America, and Peru. My passions have always been reading and writing, and I’m setting out on a new journey writing works of young adult fiction.

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A Pharaoh Through Time

Copyright 2020 Carol Harrisville Young

Published by Carol Harrisville Young at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About Carol Harrisville Young

Connect with Carol Harrisville Young

Acknowledgments

I give a heartfelt big thanks to my sister. In 1971 she organized a trip with me and my two brothers to travel by train from Cambridge England to the British Museum in London to see the Tutankhamun exhibit in 1971. At the tender age of 9, this historical exhibit lit a spark in my heart and instilled in me a life-long fascination with Ancient Egypt and archaeology. Thank you to my children and my sister, who read my manuscript and provided valuable input. Thank you to my husband, my soul-mate, and travel partner. Thank you to canva.com for the book cover design tools. And last, but certainly not least, a big thanks to my father, who passed on his love of the written word and the travel itch on to me.

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to my mother. I miss you, your laugh and your smile, your unfettered love and support. This book is dedicated to you, mom.

Map

CHAPTER 1

My boyfriend, the love of my life, is an Egyptian Pharaoh. Hard to believe I know, but it’s true. I first saw him at the Corner Shop where I worked part-time as a checker. It was another gray March day in London, it had been raining all morning, and the streets and walkways outside were slick. Many people passing by the shop window looked sullen and soggy, clinging to their coat collars and hunched under umbrellas. I was at the register, checking out Mrs. Harris, and wearing my usual red apron and a big white name tag in the shape of an apple that read, Hi, my name is Christine. Mrs. Harris was a regular at the shop, she was in her ‘80s and always dressed up for her shopping. Today she wore a neatly ironed skirt, and a blue blouse trimmed with a pearl necklace (probably fake pearls) under her brown raincoat. Her frosty hair was piled up on her head, and covered with what looked like cellophane to keep the rain off. She always did her shopping at the same time every afternoon. She bought some crisps, bottled water, cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, and some chocolates. As I helped bag her groceries, we chatted about the miserable weather, and wouldn’t it be nice if we had an early spring, and other mundane things. I smiled at Mrs. Harris as she gathered her bag and left the shop, the door chime ringing as she pushed open the door. I remember these details about Mrs. Harris because that day when he walked in through the shop door, everything for me changed.

I looked at him, he was tall and wore some kind of long cloak made of a coarse brown fabric, what my father would call a djellaba, a loose-fitting cloak that people in Morocco wear. As he wandered the store, my eyes followed him, he kind of looked like a monk or some guy out of a science fiction movie. The hood of his cloak concealed his face in a dark shadow. He went down the candy aisle and disappeared from my view, but I was still able to track him with the security camera display on the register computer. I checked out a few more customers, keeping one eye on the security camera. He stopped at the end of the candy aisle, then walked past the household cleaners and laundry detergents, the hood of his cloak still pulled over his head. Then he just stopped and stood there. That’s when I decided to see what he was up to. My co-worker came around the corner of the crisp display, wearing the mandatory red apron and an apple-shaped name tag that read, Hi, my name is Hakim.

Hakim, I whispered, Be a love and watch the register for me will you? I need to check on a customer.

Hakim was about my height, and being the art student, tried to play the part with a man bun, a goatee, and black combat boots that laced up to his knees. He was like a brother to me, we had known each other since we were in primary school, our parents were good friends, and we had a history of skipping classes in secondary school, and smoking cigarettes behind the gymnasium. Our boss Mr. Zakariah affectionately called the two of us, Bonnie and Clyde.

Alright Chris, nodded Hakim. He walked behind the register counter and looked at the security camera display on the computer screen. Hakim wrinkled his brow and pinched his fuzzy goatee, Do you think he’s trying to snatch something? I can call Mr. Zakariah. We won’t want any trouble.

It’s alright, I’ll just ask him if he needs any help. Maybe he’s elderly or something.

Hakim squeezed my arm, Be careful. I’ll be watching up here.

I smiled at my long-time friend and headed down the bakery aisle that ran next to the cleaning and laundry aisle. I thought this way, I could peek at the Stranger in between the shelves. As I walked closer, I peered between several loaves of wheat bread and got a glimpse of him. His face was still covered by his hood, but he seemed confused because he was shaking his head and whispering to himself in some language I’d never heard before. As I was spying, I also saw him lift his hand to scratch his head, and on his wrist was a huge gold band, embellished with what looked like turquoise and precious stones. It looked very expensive, and kind of old-fashioned. As I scanned his figure, my eyes stopped at his feet. He was wearing leather sandals, like the kind you wear at the beach, covered in goldwork and jewels. I thought it strange that he’d be wearing sandals in London, in March when it’s raining. I thought he must be freezing. I took a deep breath, and walked around the corner, stopping just a few feet in front of him. He raised his head, and I could see two deep green eyes peer at me from under the hood of his cloak.

Can I help you, sir? I asked. Is there something that I can help you find?

He tilted his head as if to hear me better. I repeated myself, asking if I could help. He moved back a few steps but didn’t answer. I was hoping that Hakim was keeping a good eye on us from up in front of the shop.

Are you alright? I asked. I had the feeling that this person was lost in some way, and based on what he was wearing, definitely not a native Londoner.

He answered me in some kind of language I’d never heard of before. I’d taken French in school, and spoke Farsi at home with my parents and younger sister, but what came out of his mouth was nothing I had ever heard of before. He took another step back and continued to speak in that strange language.

It’s alright, really, I tried to reassure him. If you need help I can call someone for you. Do you have any family or friends who can come get you? I repeated the phrase in French and then Farsi, but he clearly didn’t understand what I was saying.

Christine, what’s going on here?

I turned around, it was Mr. Zakariah, he must have come back from his tea break. He stood at the end of the aisle, also wearing a red apron, his hands on his hips and his shoulders squared. He was a beefy man, and in his younger days had been a boxer, and it was pretty clear at this moment that he wasn’t afraid of a fight. He looked over my shoulder and asked the stranger what he needed. The stranger answered in the same strange language.

Mr. Zakariah asked me to step aside, and I did a bit too quickly, accidentally knocking over a bottle of bleach. My clumsiness must have startled the stranger because he stepped back, and his hood fell off of his head. Our eyes met, and I was amazed at how green his eyes were. They were a bit wide-eyed at this moment, like I’m freaked out kind of wide, and his face was the color of milk chocolate, and he looked to be about the same age as me. I was in a state of limbo, transfixed by his gaze, and that face that could win any girl’s heart in an instant. He was gorgeous!

Christine, barked Mr. Zakariah. Call the police, I don’t need indigents or beggars in my shop.

But Mr. Zakariah, maybe he’s just lost or something? I felt sorry for this visitor, he didn’t seem like a homeless person to me, especially with his gold bracelet and fancy sandals.

Mr. Zakariah turned to me. Just do it, Christine, the police can locate his family, or friends if he has any here. Mr. Zakariah looked the Stranger up and down and shook his head. One thing’s for sure, he’s not dressed for London weather.

I hurried to the front of the store and grabbed my cellphone from under the cash register.

What’s up Chris? asked Hakim, Who is that guy? He sure is dressed weird, like he just walked off the set of some movie or something. Hakim added, He’s pretty good-looking too.

Mr. Zakariah wants me to call the police, I answered as I dialed and held my cellphone up to my ear. My heart was pounding, and I had this weird sensation that the Stranger was someone important, or maybe someone in danger. After a few rings, a Sergeant Woods answered, I explained the situation and she told me they would send someone over.

As I put my phone down, I looked at Hakim. I tried to talk to the guy, and he just answered in some gibberish language. Mr. Zakariah tried to talk to him, too. I’m not sure where he’s from, but I don’t think he speaks English. I tried a few phrases in French and Farsi, but nothing.

Well, the cops should know what to do. Maybe he’s one of those refugees who just got off the boat. Hakim popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

I punched Hakim in the arm. What a thing to say. If you remember our parents were refugees.

Hakim chuckled, I knew that would get a reaction out of you. I’m just fooling with you Chris, trying to lighten the mood, you know.

I shook my head and smiled. Always the smart-ass Hakim. Then my mood changed, It’s just so strange.

What’s strange? Hakim leaned against the register and crossed his arms, he still kept one eye on the security camera, Mr. Zakariah and the Stranger were still standing a few feet apart in the aisle.

Well, did you see his bracelet and his sandals? I asked.

Hakim frowned, I didn’t notice, other than his weird medieval cloak, and his gorgeous eyes.

The bracelet on his wrist looked like gold, and had some fancy designs on it, and his sandals looked like they had gold edging. I shook my head. Since when does a homeless person wear such expensive stuff?

The sound of the police sirens interrupted our conversation. I turned around and looked out the window, there were two cars, sporting the traditional blue and yellow checkerboard pattern of the London police, their bright blue lights flashing. Two officers emerged from each car, radios in hand, and entered the shop.

Hello, said a burly officer, his name tag said Officer Willis, he looked to be about six feet tall and had shoulders almost equally as big. His expression was one of annoyance more than anything else, and he didn’t waste any time questioning us. He approached us, took out a notebook, and asked Did you call about an itinerant? As he stood there, the other officers poured in and fanned about the shop. Where is he?

He’s down aisle five, the cleaning aisle, I replied. Our manager Mr. Zakariah is with him. And then as an afterthought, I added, He doesn’t seem to be dangerous or anything. The officer ignored me, his eyes drawn to the security camera display.

Officer Willis coughed, We’ll see about that. He spoke into a radio which he had on his belt. Fan out, the suspect is in aisle five. Approach with caution.

Hakim nodded at the officer. Oi, what do you mean suspect? He hasn’t done anything, he’s probably homeless, or lost or something.

Willis spat back. That’s for us to determine, and you two stay up here. Then he joined the other officers.

Hakim and I continued to watch aisle five on the computer screen, we saw Mr. Zakariah, the Stranger (what we were calling him now), and all four officers. The officer's lips were moving, trying to talk to our unusual visitor. Mr. Zakariah slowly backed away, and the police gradually surrounded the hooded figure, who must have felt penned in like a wild animal, because in a flash Hakim and I saw him try to run past two of the officers, but one officer grabbed his cloak, and the Stranger stumbled. All the officers jumped on him, and all I could see was a mass of flinging arms and legs.

I ran from the counter to aisle five, Hakim close behind, and we soon joined Mr. Zakariah. The scene before us was something out of a wild animal show. The Stranger was shouting in that unknown language, throwing fists at the police, struggling against their attempts to hold him. His hood was torn in the fight, and I saw his face again, his wonderful green eyes, and he was completely bald, but he was still gorgeous. He kneed one officer in the face, and blood started to flow from her nose. Officer Willis managed to get the Stranger on his stomach, placed his knees on the back of his head, pulled his arms behind him, and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. The Stranger still struggled and continued to shout, the pile of officers holding him down. Mr. Zakariah, Hakim, and I watched in silence, and I was secretly impressed with the Stranger’s strength, and I fantasized that maybe he had some impressive muscles under that robe. After all, it took four police officers to restrain him.

The Stranger finally stopped struggling, probably accepting his fate, and since his hands were in handcuffs, there was little he could do then. Two officers pulled him up off of the floor, the other officer with the bloody nose stood trying to stop the flow of red with her hand, and officer Willis dusted off his shirt, his breaths coming fast after the wrestling match.

That mate is called ‘resisting arrest,’ so we’re taking you in. Maybe a night in jail will jog your memory and you can tell us who the bloody hell you are. The two officers grabbed the Stranger by the arms, still handcuffed, and rushed him out the door, and pushed in into the back of the police car.

Willis turned to us. I’ll need a statement from each of you about this bloke, so don’t leave. He turned to me, You’re first. Mr. Zakariah and Hakim left for the front registers and I stood there with the officer.

I told him about the Stranger, how he walked through the shop doors after Mrs. Harris left the shop, and how he walked around the aisles, didn’t seem to speak English, and how he seemed a bit lost.

Lost? Officer Willis asked, his pen poised above his notebook.

I shifted on my feet, Well, it seemed that he was just standing there in the cleaning aisle, looking around, and not doing anything. Like he was confused, or lost. The officer continued to write in his notebook as I spoke. And the cloak he was wearing, it’s just kind of out of place in London in March. And then his sandals, and that weird language he was speaking. It’s almost like he came from another world. I shook my head. That’s all I can tell you, I don’t know much more.

Without looking up from his scribbling, Willis asked, Have you ever seen him before?

No, I replied. I’ve never seen him before. I thought to myself I would remember the Stranger if I had seen him before, who could forget those eyes and that face, and those broad shoulders.

Alright, miss... Officer Willis raised his eyebrows at me.

Miss Ahmadi, Christine Ahmadi, I replied.

Miss Ahmadi, thank you for your time, and I’m glad you notified us. We don’t get many calls about indigents in this neighborhood, but it’s best to be cautious. The way he resisted arrest and gave my officer a bloody nose, he could have been a threat to you and your co-workers.

What’s going to happen to him, officer? I asked, my stomach started to do flip-flops. Is he going to jail? What if he doesn’t have any family or friends? The idea suddenly sent me into a panic.

Officer Willis answered, He’s being booked for resisting arrest, and we’ll fingerprint him and try to find out who he is. Hopefully, he has some kind of ID on him. If you’re concerned, you can always contact me at the station. He handed me his card with his phone number and email and walked towards the front of the shop to get statements from Hakim and Mr. Zakariah.

I stood there for a moment, replaying the events in my head. The fancy bracelet and the sandals, and the strange words, the coarse brown cloak he wore, his gorgeous green eyes and those shoulders. Stop it! I said to myself, concentrate. I remembered when I first asked if he needed help, he said something that sounded like khere, and another phrase he was shouting when the police were struggling with him sounded like aneg u raman keme. From my linguistic class at the university, the phrases sounded like Middle Eastern, but nothing I had heard of before. Such a strange-sounding language, and then I realized that my professor, Doctor Haggerty may know. He was my Introduction to Linguistics professor, and he was also an expert on ancient languages and civilizations. Sadly, I’m not one of his better students, since I find the subject of languages a bit boring, and as a result, nearly failed the last exam because I couldn’t bring myself to study for it.

It took another half hour or so for officer Willis to finish his interviews with Mr. Zakariah and Hakim, and with all of the drama and police cars in front of the shop, several customers dropped by to ask what happened. Hakim was more than happy to tell them every detail, adding some suspense and mystery to the tale. Always the aspiring entertainer, that’s Hakim. By that time it was late, daylight had long since faded, and the street lights cast a soft glow on the wet streets of the East End of London. Mr. Zakariah said he’d had enough excitement for one day and told Hakim and me to close up shop. Hakim counted the cash in the cash drawer, recorded it in the logbook, and placed all of it in a zippered canvas bag, while I swept and mopped the aisles.

After we were done, Mr. Zakariah congratulated us on a good job with the Stranger. You two kept your heads and didn’t panic. I appreciate that more than you know. He asked for the cash bag, Hakim handed it to him, Mr. Zakariah unzipped it and took out a few pound notes. Go buy yourselves something to eat on the way home, or a latte or something. He handed us the notes.

Oh Mr. Zakariah, I blurted. You don’t have to, you asked us to call the police and we did. We didn’t do anything special.

Oi, said Hakim as he punched my arm. Speak for yourself Chris, I’m a starving musician and artist, I need all the cash I can get. He eagerly took one of the notes.

Take it, Christine, consider it a bonus. You earned it today. Mr. Zakariah smiled and handed me the note. I looked down and noticed that it was a 100 Pound note. I looked up at my boss, about to protest, but he wagged his finger at me. Get going you two, before I change my mind. I’m tired and I’m going home.

Hakim and I did as he said, and we all exited the shop together, pulling our coats up to keep out the rain as we stepped out onto the damp street. Hakim and I waved goodnight to Mr. Zakariah, and we both started walking down Fifth Street towards our neighborhood, trying to avoid getting splashed by the traffic that sped past us. My parent’s house was only a few blocks from the shop, but Hakim always insisted on walking me home after dark. His protective nature annoyed me sometimes, but I was glad to have him with me that night. He was like a brother to me, the brother I never had, and my mother was always asking when we were going to start dating. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I wasn’t his type if you know what I mean. But I love him to pieces, and always will.

We talked about the day’s weird events, and soon I was on the front steps of my parent’s two-story house. Through the living room window, I could see both my parents sitting on the couch in the front room reading the daily newspapers. They were so old-fashioned that way. I didn’t see my baby-sister, she must have been upstairs doing her make-up or something. Our house was a modest red brick home, with three bedrooms, a small kitchen, a living room, a small fenced backyard, and a garage in the back. I had lived there all my life and hadn’t been much anywhere else. Growing up my parents would take us on trips to beaches at Tawkey by the Sea, or on camping trips in the mountains around Cornwall, or up to Cambridge and Oxford to visit friends and cousins. At that time I’d never been anywhere except England, which is strange knowing that the great city of Paris is only a one hour flight from London, and my friends at the university routinely went for long weekends to Italy, the Alps, and Germany. But my family and I never really traveled, and I know the reason lies with my parents and the hardships that