---

SNAFU Part 32

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

*****

Have you ever had the feeling you might explode? I hadn’t until that moment. I was drawing in so much energy, it became a definite risk. How to reduce the risk? Good question.

I moved back from where I was standing, it might have been some sort of energy point. It wasn’t and I felt just as overcharged. I threw more energy at Oliver’s snake object. Instead of burning up he was absorbing it and growing stronger. It seemed not to be one of my better days.

“You foolish girl, how can you realise Sekhmet when you are dressed in such colours.” I was wearing a blue sweatshirt and jeans. What was he on about? I’d never found it necessary to wear special clothes before. In fact I had no idea what he was on about.

I tried creating more lionesses and Egyptian figures. It wasn’t working. As soon as I gave out the energy more flowed in. I almost felt myself glowing. I was certainly growing. My head was becoming very fuzzy and I had difficulty seeing straight. There was a throb in my brain, just like a classic migraine.

I moved behind a pillar, the snakes began to reach around and hold me to the masonry. If I didn’t do something quickly it would be too late.

I fell to the floor and rolled away. My head was pounding. Snakes followed me. I grasped one and energy discharged from my hand caused it to burst into flames. I threw it at Oliver.

He advanced towards me again. I ran behind another pillar. This was definitely a sticky moment. I imagined me emerging from behind another pillar and calling Oliver. He turned to pursue me. It had worked. I imagined another replica of me from another pillar.

He became confused, especially as I created another ten replicas. I felt the energy depleting as it was transferred to my replicas. They weren’t able to zap him very much, but they were a distraction and enabled me to recover somewhat.
The headache was easing and my sight returning to normal. I pondered on his comment about colour. I had no idea what all that was about. I was in blue, the colour of Chesed in the queen scale. Sorry, more tree stuff. So if it wasn’t right, what was?

A snake began to move towards me and I zapped it. I began a lesser banishing, creating a safe space around me. The pentagrams held out the snakes with their wall of fire, at least on a temporary basis. The question of colour nagged away at me. I bolstered the pentagrams, nothing would get in for a few minutes.
I needed help, but from where? Then something occurred to me. I knew the answer all the time. Justice or Geburah, is red. The colour of Sekhmet is red. It would be, she is the justice of Re. Impartial and at times merciless. A question of reaping what is sown, to be biblical about it.

Oliver was not being very nice to me, or to the others, come to think of it. I pulled off the sweatshirt revealing my cycling shirt. It’s very red. So were the cycle shorts I revealed by removing the jeans.

The snakes surrounded my safe space, almost enveloping it. A single ray of sunlight shone through the long window in the west of the hall. I walked through the fire of my circle breaking its power, and into the sunlight.

The snakes swarmed over me as I chanted the ancient words, invoking the goddess herself. I felt another surge of power. I continued my chanting. I felt myself growing, the solar disc was back. As I grew the snakes began to snap and bits of gooey reptile flew all over the place, often smoking as they went.
I spoke some ancient language in a voice that caused the windows to rattle. I was now about ten feet tall and an incarnation of Sekhmet. I was here to dispense justice. I did exactly that.

A series of coloured rays of light seemed to emanate from my solar disc. They focused on Oliver’s centre. It seemed they were a rainbow of colours. It began with violet, then blue, green yellow, orange… Then red. Once red appeared, the lights became more concentrated and focused, they became like lasers. They began to pulsate, each pulse larger than the previous. There was a strong smell of burning, of burning snake.

Suddenly there was a giant pulse, followed almost immediately by a scream, then a loud bang. Oliver exploded- again. I got covered in the slimy shit, again. So did everyone else.

This was not funny, but it was better than being rather dead; which seemed the alternative. This was the third time I’d encountered him and so far had won each time. I needed to track him down to his creators, to go on the offensive. But how?
For now, I commanded a spell which made them all forget what had happened, making it appear that a sewage pipe had exploded. It was easy enough. I had two lots of explosive, once I’d stripped the would be bombers of their murderous belts.
I let them go, they were innocents bewitched into doing as they had. They went off feeling very confused. My headache was nearly clear. I crept back up to the police watching in the gallery, they were all sat with a vacant look on their faces. More vacant than usual, I mean.

I conjured up a story for them to believe about a methane gas explosion from an underground sewer pipe. They accepted it, then set to rescuing the people within the hall, who were all a little shocked from the bangs.

No one would know I had even been there, so I mounted my bike and rode off home, anxious to get the slime off me before my parents got back.

I was organising some food for our evening meal when they arrived. “What happened to you? I asked, looking at their dishevelled states.

“You would not believe it, Jamie. A sewer exploded just like a bomb, right in the middle of a Bach cantata.”

“You’re joking?” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

“We are all covered in excrement and goodness knows what else.” Said my father, my mother was already getting into the shower.

“So it was a pretty shitty concert then?” I said, smirking.

“There is no need to be crude.” Cautioned my dad. “I’ll bet Browning didn’t have to put up with such things.” He chuntered on as he went towards the bathroom.

“Which do you mean, crude offspring or exploding sewers?” I called after him.

“Both,” he shouted back. “Do me a favour, get me a large Scotch and water.” He then disappeared into the bathroom.

I got him his drink and my mother a glass of white wine, which I also had. Then on with the dinner. The chicken portions I’d put in the slow cooker earlier were pretty well done, it was coq au vin. I finished the sauce and did some vegetables.

I knew I was in for an entertaining evening as they gave me their accounts of their experiences. I put another bottle of wine in the chiller, it could be a long night.
I was right. We talked until midnight and they were convinced it was a natural occurrence, methane in a sewer. At least I didn’t have to explain anything and it was a pleasant enough evening.

We did talk about other things too, but my mind kept wandering to how I might track Oliver to his source. I had absolutely no idea myself, nor any of who could help me. I needed a psychic detective.

I woke the next morning still wondering where I might find a helper. I purified myself and preyed at my little altar for help from my goddess. She had saved my life last night, once again! Perhaps I could prevail upon her to assist me once more.

Once I get into my prayer ritual, something older takes over and I speak in this ancient language. I have no idea where it comes from, but it would have been ancient before the first pharaoh was born. Nothing of it remains in my recall afterwards, as if I am used as a vessel or channel, nothing more.

I continued my prayers, and suddenly a picture of a man appeared in my mind. Moments later a name came to me. Was this the person who could help me or the instigator of the problem? The problem with oracular stuff is it comes as a two edged sword.

I wrote down the man’s name and tried to remember his face. I finished my devotions and thanked her highness for her help. I looked at the pad. I had written it in cuneiform script. Life was not getting any easier.

At breakfast I spoke to dad. “Know anyone who can translate Egyptian cuneiform?” I asked.

“Not offhand,” he replied. “I’d try the school of Ancient and Oriental Studies, up near Kate’s (St Catherines, to you). I used to play rugger with Andy Wilson. He might still be there. If so, give him my regards and remind him he owes me a fiver.”

“You can collect your own debts.” I chided, “But I will give him your regards. If he’s still there.” At least I had some possible help.

I cycled to the school of A&OS, and spoke with the receptionist. “Excuse me, does a Mr or Dr Andy Wilson still work here?”

“Yes he does, but he’s in a meeting at the moment. Are you a student?”

“Not really.” I said, thinking, “How do I get around this one?” I paused and then reached inside my handbag. “I’m with the SIS.” I said flashing my ID.

“Captain Curtis.” She said reading it, “Goodness you are young for a captain especially in the intelligence services.” She shook her head in some disbelief. I can hardly help my age can I? “Curtis, no relation to Tom Curtis in Doubting?”

“Yes.” I sighed, “He’s my father.”

“I’ve known him for years, I used to live over that side of town in those days. I typed his first book manuscript. What was it called now?”

“John Keats, the man and the mythology.” I answered.

“That’s right. He’s so clever your dad.”

“So he keeps telling me.” I answered. This was tedious.

“Didn’t I see your picture in the paper, you won some medal or other?”

“Yeah, I got one for swimming.” I lied, just to pass the time of day.

“Swimming was it? I thought it was for something else.” She looked confused. “I’m sure it was for something else.”

“No. Do I look like someone who could win medals for anything much?” I asked winding her up.

“An oscar for fibbing, Captain. You won a medal for something in Iraq.”

“Okay. You win. I got one for killing Iraqis. Actually they gave me two. Kill two get one free sort of offer.”

“Why are you being so sarcastic to me?” She asked, almost hitting me between the eyes with the question.

“You started it.” I said in self defence.

“What do you mean?” She huffed back at me.

“You said I was very young to be a captain.”

“Well you are.”

“….some of us have greatness thrust upon us.”

“Look here Miss Sarky Boots.” She paused for a moment. “I always thought Tom had a son, not a daughter.”

“He always wanted a daughter, so I got a sex change.”

“Very funny. Are you really his daughter?”

“Yes, sadly I am.”

“Do you have a brother?”

“No. It’s just me.”

“Why did I think he had a son?”

“Probably because they gave me an ambiguous name. Jamie can be either boy or girl.”

“So I see. I always thought it was a boy’s name.”

“Neither I nor Jamie Lee-Curtis, would agree with you.”

“You could have a point.” she said.

“Point? I think that’s game set and match.” I declared, almost smugly.

“Now I can see you’re Tom’s kid. Same sort of pretentious point scoring over an inferior opponent.”

“My father may be accused of many things, but that is not one of them. Neither I hope am I. However, if you want I could probably persuade Special Branch to examine you and your family with the usual toothcomb, or would you prefer MI5 to do it?”

“Are you threatening me, young lady?”

“I never make threats. Look how long is this meeting going on?” I was bored and tired of the old tart’s insinuations.

“Your dad would never have threatened me.”

“My dad was probably terrified of you.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?” She almost spat at me. I was beginning to wish I had never started this conversation.

“My father has a long history of being terrified by his secretaries. I recall him being awake half the night because he needed something to be retyped by some old bat or other. Apparently, some new evidence had just been discovered and the article for the “The Spectator,” had to be rewritten.

“I remember retyping that article. So I’m an old bat am I?” She said standing on her dignity. I had gone so far down this road, there was now no opportunity for retreat.

“Weather’s stayed fine.” I mused attempting to change the subject.

“I think I might call your father and tell him how rude you are,” she threatened.

“Feel free, but it won’t come as any news to him.”

“No; I don’t suppose it would. Young trollop!” She muttered the last part under her breath. Now I was many things, but that was not one of them. A lesson was on its way for this woman. I almost chuckled with anticipation.

A moment later, a door opened and two or three people emerged. I hoped one was Dr Wilson. A man about my father’s age approached the receptionist. “Any calls for me, Monica?”

“No, Dr. Wilson, but you have a visitor.”

“I’m not expecting anyone, probably a journalist, tell them I’m out or something.”

“I don’t think I can…..” She hesitated and I interrupted.

“Actually, it’s me Dr Wilson. My father suggested I come and see you.”

“Look I’m not interviewing students for next year yet, leave your name and I’ll write to you.” He tried to dismiss me.

“I’m not a student.” I drew out my ID card again.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for the press either.” He began to move off.

“You had better speak to her.” Said Monica in a loud voice. “Her dad’s Tom Curtis.”

This brought him up sharply. “I always thought Tom had a son?” He said to himself.

“I can assure you I’m all girl, and he is my father.” I countered.

“Oh! Look I can give you a few minutes. Through here.” He pointed along a corridor and then an office two doors along.

We entered a room full of books and pictures of ancient Egypt. I recognised many of the places and figures immediately. “So you’re Tom’s girl?”

“Yes, Dr Wilson.” I sat on the chair he indicated.

“So how is your dad?” He said, sitting behind a huge oak desk.

“Pretty well, thanks. He asked me to remember him to you.”

“Please return the favour.”

“Of course.” I replied. I looked at this man sat opposite me. He was tall, with a grizzled beard and straggly thinning hair, greyer than his beard. His brown eyes twinkled as he spoke.

“To business. How can I help?” He said.

“This.” I said, handing him the paper I’d written the day before.

“Egyptian cuneiform.” He said as he glanced at it. Then a moment or two later said, “Is this a joke? Where did you get it?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Do you know what this says?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here.” I replied.

“Where did you get it?” He asked again.

“I can’t tell you that at present.” I lied. Well, he’d hardly believe me anyway.

“You better had, or I won’t translate it for you.”

“That’s your privilege.” I said, “I’ll take my paper back.” I stood to leave.

“You have no idea what’s written here, do you?”

“I told you that already. So please tell me or give it back to me and I’ll find someone else.”

“Is this a joke?” he asked again

.
“If it is, I’m not laughing.” I responded.

“No you’re not, are you?” He mused for a moment, adding, “Okay, I’ll tell you what it says. Please sit down again….um.”

“Jamie.” I offered.

“Jamie, please sit.” I did as asked. “You’re sure this isn’t a joke?”

“Quite sure.”

“Okay, I believe you. What this says is, ‘Dr Andrew Wilson, School of Ancient and Oriental studies.’ Now do you see why I thought it was a joke?”

“Yes I do,” I added.

“So are you going to tell me who wrote it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did,” I answered.

“Try me,” he countered.

“It’s a long story and you said you were busy,” I riposted.

“That was before a beautiful young woman threw me a puzzle. I have plenty of time for this sort of thing. It’s a nice piece of script, who wrote it?”

Thinking for a moment about whether the truth was a good idea or not, I decided it was. After all, I’d been told to contact him. “I did.”

“Is this some sort of game?” He said, the twinkle had gone from his eye.

“No it isn’t. It’s deadly serious, and I mean deadly serious. This is going to take some time.”

“Fine, I’ll get Monica to get us some coffee.” He picked up the phone and issued a request to Monica. As he did so, I hurriedly rethought the lesson I was going to give her, reversing the collapse of her knicker elastic as she next walked along the corridor. I blushed as I did it.

I explained about my link with the ancients and Sekhmet. He of course pooh-poohed it, so I was obliged to produce a lioness. He seemed impressed with that, especially as it licked his face. He was most interested in the ancient language and asked me to do a ritual for him sometime, which he could record and use as a research project. I wasn’t sure about that, one bit. But the wisdom of the goddess was not to be questioned and he was there to help me.

“So what does your goddess expect me to do for you?” He asked an hour later as I concluded a précised narrative.

“I don’t know. I suspect it’s in finding who the group are, who seem intent on destroying me.”

“But I’m an Egyptologist, not a magician or occultist.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see how I can help.”

“The goddess Sekhmet does not make mistakes. It must have been important that I contact you to assist me in tracing this group and neutralising the threat.”

“Exactly what does that mean?”

“Doing what is required to protect myself and those dear to me. Twice, they have come close to hurting my parents. It is intolerable. As far as I know, their attacks were unprovoked. They seem almost Qlippothic.”

“Hey, that’s Hebrew, not Egyptian.”

“I know, but the Qabalah is such a universal model, and besides I like its universality. I’ve been reading quite a lot recently. “

“Do you belong to some form of group?”

“What Qabalah group, no why?”

“Shall we say, I have more than a passing interest,” he said in an almost hushed tone.

“You said you weren’t into occultism?”

“You said you were Tom’s daughter.”

“I am.”

“He had a boy.”

“Feel free to call him.” I said blushing deep red.

“Yes, I’ll do that.” He picked up the phone, “Monica, can you get me Tom Curtis. Thanks.” He put the phone down again. “So who are you?”

“I’m Tom’s daughter.”

“You have a brother?”

“No.”

He stood and shook his head. The phone rang. “Hi Tom, yeah she’s here now. I thought you had a son.” He listened to my father’s response. “I could have sworn it, still I’m sure you know your own child. I owe you a fiver? As I recall you owed me the money.” He laughed, and after some further small talk he put the phone down.

“It seems my memory isn’t what it was. I apologise for doubting you. What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

“Nothing as far as I know, unless HM Government decide otherwise.”

“Come around to this address at seven thirty sharp. I’ll ask the group to allow you to talk with them. I can’t promise they’ll do so.”

“I understand.” I said and took my leave of him. I had to speak to my goddess and see if it was a fair trade that he research my ancient language. ”Small world,” I thought as I left him.