Unreliable Narration

She stood there, the Egyptian hieroglyphics before her, all black and beautiful and mysterious and…

Soon after startling her with the fact we were alive, she said she was an archaeologist. She knew Egyptian, read Arabic and understood Latin and Greek enough to study and translate it to scholars whose only language was English. But she didn’t know why we, Egyptian Man and Woman painted onto a cave’s wall, were so important. A man with a single long black ponytail squeezed together with a gold band. An Egyptian woman with short cropped black hair.      

We had black hair. So we were both painted with our profiles showing, our diamond eyes and black pupils entrancing her.                           

She reminded us of her dream:           

“And hopefully the most famous archeologist who ever lived.” She displayed a beaming smile on her small face. “I’m going to be a great one. Tourists, here I come. Because you’re about to see the greatest of them all. The best. Not only will everyone back at camp know, but also the tourists.”  

Unbeknownst to her, we raised our eyebrows, exchanging glances. She wanted to outrank the tourists, too?            

She turned around, saying she had taken notes and translated her hieroglyphics already on her work form. Digging up untold treasures from centuries past in Cairo has been a trip worth remembering. But she’s been here before. She’ll hopefully one day work in a museum, providing hundreds of inquisitive tourists Egyptian culture (and teaching Arabic, Latin and Greek at a high school or college!). She walked away, saying she was retreating to the camp to review her findings and learnings. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on Dr. Truck’s face when he listens to me describe everything in this ruck sack and journal in Egyptian! I hope he’s done eating that lunch. He said he’d break for breakfast, but that was three hours ago! Yep. It’s lunch time already, Pats! Time to eat some of that stew Chelsea cooked last night.” 

We told her telepathically we could read her mind. She stopped and turned around, something making the hairs on her freckled arms and neck rise. She slowly went forward, looking around in this dark place. After a quick laugh from us, she ventured, retaking the path. “How about you talk to me psychologically forever? Should with Chelsea.”    

Only the stalactites’ drippings answered her retorts after we answered. She soon blocked them out when she returned to our reddish brown sandy wall. But, our dream selves said, Man and Woman were sleeping! She blinked and furrowed her brows—why sleep if you have someone here to talk to? She looked all around. I guess…

She shrugged. Turning around, she promised herself she would get back to that table under the white tent, with Chelsea punching Dr. Truck’s arm when he said he didn’t like her stew and then bragging his soup we ate last week was better than hers. I need to relax! So many things have been happening. I need to focus and just get back to—

Was that…a yawn? She whipped around. Man’s arm rose, and then he spread the other arm, stretching. I got up and walked over to him. Taking hold of his hand, I pulled it, commanding him to get up. He grumbled, turning over I had to shake him. Demanding I leave him alone, he threw the blanket over him, covering his head and then himself completely. She saw me throw my hands on my hips, and bit her lip, too embarrassed to laugh. Would I wake up?

I sauntered over to my bed like I’d been scolded to go to bed without any supper, and flopped onto the four-legged thing. She cringed when I did so, because she said it looked hard. But I moved up to the head of the bed, and lay my head on a block of cement. A block of cement! No blankets. No comfortable bed. She wanted to scream. How could she sleep on nothing but a plastic thing with four legs—

A thing she said was a cellphone made a noise. “Yes?” She sounded surprised. Cell coverage picks up around here? In a cave?

“Where are you? We’re all here at the tent. Dr. Truck and his crew are going to be leaving for the next pyramid and Sphinx. Please hurry. I don’t want to rush you, but you’ve been in there a long time.”

“Sorry, but I found this amazing cave painting! The characters come to life.”

Silence. 

“No, I’m serious!”

No answer.

“I’m serious—”

“I’m seriously thinking of dragging you back out here, Napoleon, if you don’t come quick. Dr. Truck pulls out any minute now.”

“Chelsea!”

An impatient sigh. “Yeah!”

“Come in here. You need to see this!”

“Nap, please get out here!”

“Chels—sometimes, you need a little adventure. Besides, we can’t just work all the time. We need—” 

“You need—”

“Just get in here!” Then she put that thing away. Geez, she can such a workaholic. Just lighten up, will you? She stepped back, taking Man and me in more. She said she didn’t need to be so up close and personal. She felt she was intruding. So she let him and me breathe.

Won’t Chelsea get a kick out of this?! Maybe I’ll get a promotion once I prove these people are real. Because they’re real talking people. Dr. Truck and his crew will listen as I explain all about the cave’s magical wall. Then they’ll promise me to talk to the head of the Archeology department back in Albuquerque. Because I’m the best—

“Napoleon!”

Whipping around, she shot out her arms and grabbed who she said was a paleontologist, steadying her before the painting. “Do you see what I see?” She stood behind her.

“Um…” Her eyes went wide, and she swallowed. “Uh...y-yeah.”

“Do you hear what I hear?”

Silence reigned. Then Chelsea blinked. “Um…what’s going on? They’re just sleeping.”

“Yep. And they move. In their dreams.”

Chelsea, frustrated, yanked out of her grasp. “Napoleon, how are you going to become a world-renowned archaeologist when you aren’t even respectful now? How are people going to respect you then? I don’t even respect you now!”

“What?” An irritated retort.   

“Think about it! Napoleon, friendship doesn’t happen out of spite. It happens because we choose to have a relationship with each other. But all the friendship I see is one where you’re the superior one and me the inferior one. I’m tired of this seesaw relationship.” Then she left.               

Napoleon bit her lip, forcing herself to return to our dream selves. The real we were still sleeping. When I woke up, Man jumped off his bed, the blanket falling to the floor, and ran over to me, talking to me about his dream. I gasped, recounting the same events. We both turned to Napoleon, ordering her to tell us who that other woman was. She spoke broken Egyptian.

That girl was her friend, Chelsea. She left, but Man claimed she left the cave forever. Maybe, I added, she went off to serve Ra in the afterlife. Because, in his dream, she went to sacrifice herself. Man said this Napoleon girl needed to, too. That was the only way to appease the wrath of Ra. The sun god who didn’t just shine for this selfish girl but for everyone.

Until she stole that sunlight of amiability by disrespecting him!       

She said she knew he was god of the sun. But I interrupted: “In my dream, that Chelsea also went off to die for her people, saying she’d rather sacrifice herself to the sun god and serve him forever than to die a lonely, treacherous death and become Anubis’ tortured slave. So she left, sacrificing herself to Ra, when our lands were invaded. The captors took her and murdered her after they failed to get her to tell them where the gold lay. She went willingly, I said, because she was that loyal to her people. But, Man said, there was one that stayed back.

That’s me. Napoleon thought of her “people,” the rest of the archaeologists and paleontologists who were off exploring some other cave. She knew she was alone. But, she claimed, she could always walk to the place—Chelsea was so dramatic when it came to distance. Her next trip would be within walking distance.

She told us we’d watch what she’d do far into the future because she was going to be the first Napoleon to dig up treasures untold. One day, when she has her own tools and notebooks and sketchpads, she’ll become the first Napoleon Chimes. The next archaeologist would be the next Napoleon Chimes.      

A tinge of disapproval poisoned her tone of voice as she ranted on about everyone else’s discoveries being second rate. Afterwards, she stood there, wondering why we weren’t fascinated. I told her we were paintings on a wall of an Egyptian cave as punishment for having disrespected Ra at one point (and, thus, under house arrest here in this home). Because of this, we understood the severe consequence of disrespect. After we talked, I listened reluctantly. Man ignored her.   

She continued, saying Chelsea and she were girlfriends. “We grew so close over the years together as scientists traveling the world with our sketchbooks and notebooks and notepads smearing with pencil sketches of pyramids, King Tut’s tomb, Queen Nefertiti’s throne and crown and enough symbols of hieroglyphics to practically use as a student manual on how to speak Middle Egyptian.”

She shrugged, smirking a little. “At least I had that kind of notebook. Maybe Chelsea was the artist around here, but I knew I could teach someone who knew nothing about hieroglyphics. At least I knew what I was doing!”          

She finally stopped. I mumbled something and then went on to explain all Man and I wanted was to live a good life—not suffer under someone like Napoleon. She protested, saying she didn’t understand Chelsea. “I mean, can’t she see it? Me standing before thousands of people as they basically interview me on what I know, understand and, thus, can tell them about Ancient Egypt.” She shook her head. “I just don’t really see the point in hearing about all these facts when I already know them. I don’t even know whether Chelsea knows everything. Besides,” she shrugged. “It’s not like she’s ever been great at the writing aspect of archaeology.”

I told her Chelsea was selfless—she died for her people. Only when you give yourself up for someone are you truly worthy of greatness. I also said no matter who she was going to be, she should be that kind of person now. “In other words, be great now. It’s no use to become great if you can already be great.”  

Napoleon said: it wasn’t that I didn’t know what I was doing. It was just I didn’t understand why Chelsea had to bother me so much while I was working on something important. Well, maybe not extremely important, but whenever I was hard at work, she’d disturb me. Then I’d tell her my interesting findings and, more importantly, what the head of the department would think once they find out these things were dug up by me! Chelsea would just roll her eyes and walk away.                      

Just like she did when she entered this cave. 

I looked at her, but I could see that she weighed down. By what? I asked. She seemed to not want to answer. I sighed, hoping my dream would come true. Lying there, I sighed and curled up. Maybe I’ll actually see something happen. I’ve been forgetting for a long time. Chelsea should come back. She needs to join us. Napoleon can get off her camel of disrespect and walk with us for once.

Maybe she will. In my dreams.

Man and I returned to our beds and went back to sleep. My dream self heard her say she saw something like a bracelet being given to these little Egyptian girls. The bracelet had beautiful red and yellow dye about them. They played with each other, but she focused on the beauty of the scarlet and sunshine yellow of the cloth bracelets. These girls may not know her, but she said she felt she knew them--at least through their bond that was represented by their colors. The girl with the scarlet bracelet made her think about Chelsea and her seemingly harmless arguments. We may laugh, but deep down, Chelsea had said some things that made her feel she was offending her.

"She never listened to me. She never let me say the things I needed to say."           

She also said she felt she was on the outside looking in, literally. While she was outside the picture and not an Egyptian like these four characters, she still felt cold, alone and distant. Misunderstood. She stood there, watching our dreams.    

Now we will take over:

When they were over, one of us asked whether she wanted to even be here, but she said she wanted to be with Chelsea. I asked who that was. She reminded me she was her friend and co-worker. I didn’t understand the latter word. She sighed when she said she was just her coworker.   

Man suggested for me to go be her friend, too.

She looked at him. “I am!”

“I want someone like Chelsea. Will you show Ra some respect?!”

She glared at Man. She said she had friends named Chelsea and Dr. Truck and Drs. Roads and Cavern and Weaver. Some of the girls she didn’t like but we got along. There were some other guys she was close with. But we all looked after each other, knowing that should any of us get hurt while away from camp or base, we’d be right there for each another. She cared about Chelsea like a friend. Man rolled his eyes.

“For Pete’s sake, I am who I am! Besides, did you ever care about sacrifice? You’re still alive!”

Man looked at me. We exchanged glances, and then returned to Napoleon. She balled her fists—she didn’t come here for a therapy session. She came here to do her excavation work. Well, now that it was getting late (she felt), she needed to head back to the camp. Base wasn’t far away, she remembered. In fact, she could ride a camel. Right? 

She started going, but Man and I told her to come into our world.

But she ignored us. What if the others were back at base or, worse, frantically looking for me? What if I was reported as lost, abducted or suicide? Or there was a homicide? Nah, she shrugged. They’d be here, searching for me, if there was some kind of case of anxiety sickening the crew. 

She said she didn’t understand why everyone—even Chelsea—was so mad at her. “I’m kind. I’m friendly. I even hosted our annual Christmas, Thanksgiving and Fourth of July parties at my house. I loved, worked hard and did well at my job. I hoped to get a promotion within the next few weeks.”

I rolled my eyes. She pursed her lips, walking reluctantly up to the wall. She put her hands on it. She pushed, and gasped as her hands started going through. She went all the way through, soon staring in awe at our Egyptian beds, lamps and other exquisite household items. But she wrapped her arms around herself and turned around, searching for a way out of here. “I need to get out of here. I need to go back to base. Chelsea is probably worried sick!” 

Napoleon repeated what she had done to get in.

“You’re only the best if you want to be the best.” Man said.            

She turned around, confusion written all over her face. “What?” Napoleon snarled.

“You can’t be the best if you’re just like everyone else. We used to be like you until Ra punished us by making us be under house arrest. If you sacrifice yourself, you will appease Ra’s wrath against you for your disrespect.”     

Napoleon exited, scoffing, and walked away from the wall. I cried that pride isn’t going to get her to become that famous archaeologist—it will only end in failure. She turned around, staring quizzically at me. She said she wouldn’t be caught dead becoming a scaredy-cat like Chelsea. Man and I said our dreams were connected because we understood each other. Napoleon commanded us to stop the cryptic language. “I can’t become an archaeologist if I sacrifice myself!”       

She balled her fists, saying she envied those girls’ bond. We said such a relationship only works if respected. One cannot be higher than the other—that’s unequal. The language was a little vague, but she claimed she understood those girls. Cuteness aside, they had something she lamented never experiencing: a true friendship. Chelsea and she simply worked side by side, but their relationship would never change from disinterest and disrespect.            

Suddenly, invaders crashed into the place, attacking Man and me. Napoleon lunged into our world. She tried freeing us, but she was ripped away. Napoleon struggled against her captors but was then thrown in front of us.             

She silently fell to her knees and held her wrists out. 

I turned to Man, and we both promised to see each other in the afterlife. I looked at Napoleon, her eyes shut and her face small. She seemed true. As Man and I were being led away to be sacrificed to Ra, I yelled out to her.     

Then I saw her sacrificed upon the altar.

I smiled.

Napoleon, here we come!