The Notebook of Ammon

“I see you found my notebook.”

The baritone voice made me jump. I instinctively jerked my hand away from the black notebook I had been reading. “You abandoned it… I… I’m sorry. I looked to see if there was a name, and saw…” What had I seen? An ornate cartouche where the contact information normally went. “…let’s just say, I was intrigued.”

“You like my pictures then?” The voice manifested into a man who sat in front of me. He stood over six feet tall, with a strong jawline, amber eyes, and silken black hair that fell around his shoulders. With no emotion, he reached across the table and recovered his notebook.

“There are more than pictures in that book.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“My ancient Egyptian is rusty, but there was enough written in Greek to understand. I would need more time to translate the hieroglyphics, but I do recognize the symbols in the cartouche.”

“You understood my book?” His tone seemed unconvinced. “Who are you to read Greek and hieroglyphics?”

“I’m a doctorate student at the university, working on my thesis in ancient cultures of the Mediterranean. Learning Greek, among others, has helped with my research.” I pointed to his book. “The pictures in that book are items of legend. Perseus’s shield, the Knot of Isis, Excalibur, the Tide Jewels of Japan… and you have numbers like coordinates written next to many of them. Who are you? A treasure hunter?”

He folded his arms. “A treasure hunter?” He smirked. “Of sorts.”

“Of sorts? You have legitimate research in your notebook.”

The man produced a business card and handed it to me. Ammon Shams al-Din, Fine Art and Antiquities. “Ah, you’re a grave robber and smuggler.”

“Such conclusions!” he laughed. He tapped his notebook. “How many grave robbers and smugglers do you know that is fluent in ancient Egyptian, demotic, Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic…”

I snorted in my laughter.

He stopped talking at my ridicule. His eyes locked directly into mine, and, somehow, I knew he was gauging me. My chortles subsided. He was not lying. I knew he was not lying. The pages of the notebook made it clear that he was not lying. All the languages and more were in the book. I had seen them, recognized many even if I could not translate their meaning. And it was the multiple languages, the sketches of legendary items and maps, and latitude and longitude coordinates that intrigued me. Intrigued me more than the cartouche of the circle, ankh, and falcon head. I glanced down at the business card once again. The address indicated Aym Shams, a suburb of Cairo, famously known for being the home of Heliopolis.

“You’re here from Egypt?”

He nodded. “On business. There is a piece here I am hoping to acquire.”

I tapped the card on the coffeeshop table. “Your cartouche has the symbols of Ra – sun disc, falcon, and ankh; you hail from Heliopolis, the city of the sun; and your first name is Ammon. Do you fancy yourself an Egyptian god?”

Ammon folded his arms across his chest. “You pieced that together quickly.”

“Am I correct?”

“Yes and no. I do not ‘fancy myself’ an Egyptian god. But there is correlation between the notebook, my city of residence, and my name.”

His confession piqued my interest. Did he hope tying his name to the ancient Egyptian sun god would make himself marketable in the antiquities’ world?

“I see you have taken my bait. It is consuming your akh.”

I could not deny his statement. “I have many questions. Mostly about your book, but also why you would want to associate yourself with Amun Ra.”

“I have many answers,” he responded. “And the first is simple: I have left this book in many coffeeshops, in many cities, waiting for the one person who would not only be intrigued by it, but who would understand it.”

“Why?”

“I need a partner. Someone of your intelligence and interests.”

“For what reason?”

He stroked his chin in thought. “There are places I cannot access personally. But someone like you could. And it is in those places we can find,” he tapped his notebook, “those items in the book.”

I could not contain my laughter. “The items in your book aren’t real! They’re stories.”

“Stories derived from truth,” he answered me sternly. He leaned forward to once again lock eyes with mine. The amber of his irises nearly glowed. “No story is without truth. Myths and legend… they all existed, though not the way you’ve heard. And I can prove it to you.”

“Do you know what you sound like?” A madman. That is what he sounded like. And yet a part of me, a large part of me, wanted it to be truth. I wanted those items to be real. I wanted him to be real – the real Amun Ra. If he was real, if they were real, then everything I spent my life studying was real, not just stories of the past. My profession would not be confined to television shows, books, museums, and curriculum; it would be an adventure.

He smiled as if he could read my mind. “I know what the world would say. But that is why I looked for a specific person. A person like you. You know you want answers to all the questions you have.”

“Prove it.” My ultimatum felt simple enough. If he could prove he was not a madman, I would be willing to partner with him.

Ammon tilted his head. My response entertained him. “Meet me at the art museum tonight. Wear something nice. It’s opening night for the new exhibit.”

The new exhibit was History in the Art of Music. It was to showcase musical instruments from across the world and time. I had hoped to see the exhibit due to the many pieces from Greece, Rome, and Carthage that would be on display. I was not expecting a special invite to opening night. “I’ll be there at nine, in gold.”

“My favorite color.”

I suspected as much. When I arrived at the art museum that evening, Ammon greeted me as one would an old friend and offered his arm to me. Though he visited from Egypt, he had already rubbed elbows with the art and business elite of the city. I was introduced as his newest business partner and did not protest the audacity. I was too intrigued at what piece of legend could possibly be at the museum. As we rounded a glass display of lyres and pipes, he stopped in front of a pan flute. The instrument was ornate with leaves carved into the wood.

“Beautiful, are they not?”

“They are nice,” I agreed. “Let me guess. You’re going to tell me they’re Pan’s Pipes.”

“Syrinx, chaste follower of Artemis. Driven to desperation in running from the amorous goat-god Pan, she pleaded for help from river nymphs who transformed her into water reeds. Pan cut the reeds to form his pipes, naming them after the one he destroyed.” Ammon smiled at me. “That is the story at least.”

“And is the story true?”

“Not quite so magical. Syrinx desired to create an instrument that could play on its own. Upset that her invention would cause the loss of his job, a piper killed Syrinx and stole her instrument. He used it for himself, claiming to be the greatest musician of his time. His musicianship granted him access to the finest women; thus, he became widely known as an ‘amorous god’. And he was certainly not half-goat.”

I nodded. “Interesting retelling of the story. But is in no way the proof I require. These are merely a pretty set of pipes.”

“You know the names of the Greek muses, I take it?”

“Of course.”

“Lean close to the pipes and repeat their name in order.”

The request seemed futile, but I appeased him. Leaning forward, I whispered, “Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, Urania.” To my wonder, the pipes lifted on their own and began playing a beautiful melody. The music was hypnotizing. All I could see, hear, or feel was their song. And then the music stopped.

Ammon eyed me with a smile. “My dear, you have become prey to Pan’s Pipes.”

“How? And how…”

“The muse names in order start the pipes. Reverse and they stop. You fell prey to them because you are an unaltered human. I am altered. The artifact does not work on me because the technology that created the item, enhances me.” He slipped the black notebook out of his pocket and opened to a page that indicated the pipes. The sketch was accurate; the names of the muses appeared in Greek next to it. “I am collecting this technology. It should have been destroyed when we left, when all of us left. But we did not do what we were brought for.”

I frowned. He had proved there was something to his story. But now he spoke in riddles. “We?”

“The early families. Those who were brought here to earth to help the fledgling humans find their footing. We were technologically superior. We enhanced ourselves with nanotechnology and genome research. When we arrived on this planet, we were instantly revered for our superiority. In our homelands, we were average, but, on earth, we were gods.”

How could I respond to such a declaration? I stared at the pipes, amazed at what he spoke of yet it all seemed plausible with the evidence before me. “Then you are Amun Ra.”

“No. I am his descendant. We are enhanced, not immortal.”

“If you’re enhanced, whatever that is, why do you need me?”

He tapped the glass of the display case. “Not all pieces are in museums. Some are still hidden in vaults with many protective measures. Some of those measures are genomic in order to protect the technologies from other first families, such as the House of Ra – me. But you, you are a daughter of Eve. Your DNA is not connected to my family; you can enter with ease.” He shrugged. “Of somewhat ease.”

I turned my attention directly to Ammon. “And what do I get out of it?”

“Twenty-thousand dollars, cash, tonight, as a signing bonus. Make yourself comfortable. Then we discuss a six-figure salary with bonuses for each item found.” He smiled. “And, most importantly, enhancement.”

“Enhancement?”

Hours later, I stood in Ammon’s hotel room observing a grey bodysuit. If I knew nothing about it, then I would have thought it was an average diver’s suit. “Put it on,” he instructed me. “Take it into the other room. It will need to cover you from head to toe. And once it is on, you will feel intense burning and nauseating pain. It will last for several minutes, but at the end – you will feel stronger, your senses will be heightened, and you will know… everything.”

I am not one who handles pain well, but I could not refuse all that the enhancement offered. For twenty minutes, I writhed on the hotel restroom floor. I rolled in my own vomit. I felt my jaw turn inside out and back again. My eyes were blinded by blood. I cried out but my parched throat could make no sound. Five minutes into the pain, I regretted my decision. Ten minutes in, and I wanted the release of death.

But at twenty minutes, the pain disappeared. I felt stronger than ever before. I could pull the vanity out of the wall with one hand. My enhanced sense of smell detected the lavender from the bottled soaps and the food make-up of my vomit. My eyes opened – the tiles glistened with a sheen I had never noticed. Then all of human flashed before my mind’s eye. I knew everything.

“Welcome.” Ammon knelt next to me. “It seems to have been a success. Come. We have work to do.”