The Secret of the Scarab Beetle Read online

  To speak the name of the dead is to make them live again.

  ANCIENT EGYPTIAN PROVERB

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 William Meyer

  Interior illustrations copyright © 2016 William Meyer

  Cover illustration by Gerald Kelley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to:

  2395 South Huron Parkway, Suite 200, Ann Arbor, MI 48104

  www.sleepingbearpress.com

  © Sleeping Bear Press

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Meyer, William, 1979-

  Title: The secret of the scarab beetle / written by William Meyer.

  Description: Ann Arbor, MI: Sleeping Bear Press, [2016]

  Series: Horace J. Edwards and the time keepers; 1 | Summary:

  “After his grandfather mysteriously dies, eleven-year-old Horace is given a strange gift--a stone beetle. Horace discovers that he is the heir to an order of time-keeping guardians and finds himself transported back in time to the ancient Egyptian city of Amarna”-Provided by the publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015027722

  ISBN 978-1-58536-938-6 (eBook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Time travel--Fiction. | Inheritance and succession--Fiction. | Egypt--Civilization--To 332 B.C.--Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M5 Se 2016 | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015027722

  To my grandfather, who introduced me to the world of Ancient Egypt, and to my wife, who gave me the courage to explore it

  —Bill

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Laying beneath the swing, the right side of his face smashed firmly against the ground, Horace wondered how he’d gotten himself into this mess. For over a month now, he’d managed to go unnoticed—well, at least as much as any new kid could. And that wasn’t easy, considering Niles was the smallest town Horace had ever lived in. But now, with Seth looming over him, and Seth’s gang of sixth-grade goons ready to pounce, things didn’t look good.

  Horace tried to slowly push himself off the ground, spitting out a mixture of dirt and twigs. He barely got to one elbow before a second forceful kick sent him sprawling out across the woodchips.

  “What d’you think you’re doing?” mocked Seth. “Trying to get out of more work?”

  Seth was the meanest kid in Niles and also the biggest bully. Horace had routinely watched him trip unsuspecting classmates in gym and even kill innocent squirrels with his slingshot on the playground. And while Horace had done his best to avoid any trouble with him for over a month, this morning, when Horace had refused to let him copy his homework, Seth had lost it.

  “Look, look at how Horace is trying to squirm away.”

  The other boys around Seth were now laughing. Then one of them pressed his foot on Horace’s wrist.

  “Do you need to use the little girls’ potty?”

  Horace dared a quick glance to the side, wondering if either Anna or Milton, his two best friends—well, really his only friends since he’d moved—were nearby. But there was no sign of either one. Not even Ms. Shackles, the lunch lady, was in sight, and she constantly patrolled the yard, looking for kids to drag to the principal’s office.

  “What do you think we should do with him?” one of the other kids asked Seth.

  Horace grimaced at the thought of what Seth might have in mind. A sharp pain soon followed as a second shoe—from another boy—pressed down on his wrist.

  Seth smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea.” He reached down and picked up Horace’s sketch pad from the ground. It was the one Horace always carried with him to class, and the one he’d been drawing in before getting ambushed on the swings. “Look at all these pretty drawings,” Seth said sarcastically.

  “Don’t . . . don’t touch those.” For the first time Horace found his voice.

  Seth’s eyes lit up. “Oh really? Are these special?” Seth flipped to another page. “What’s this?” It was a drawing of a farm. “Maybe you should have spent more time working on our project instead of these stupid drawings.”

  Horace was growing desperate, and he began to plead. “I’m sorry, Seth. I’ll tell Mr. Petrie after lunch it was my fault. Just leave my stuff alone.”

  “Too late for that.” And with a sharp splitting sound that seemed to tear Horace’s insides in half, Seth ripped the drawing in two.

  Horace watched the pieces fall to the ground.

  “Please, please stop. What do you want from me?”

  Seth smiled and tore a second page in half. “I don’t want anything, Horace. I asked nicely for your homework this morning, but I guess you were too busy drawing.” More pages fell to the ground.

  Horace tried to get up again, but Seth’s two friends continued to pin him to the ground with their feet. His fingers were starting to turn purple from the pressure.

  One of the kids shouted to Seth, “I think Horace is crying!” The other snickered.

  Seth threw the remains of the sketch pad onto the ground. “Pick him up.”

  The two boys stepped off Horace’s wrists and yanked him into the air. They pulled his arms behind his back.

  “Now, Horace”—Seth was rolling up his sleeves—“I’m going to teach you a little lesson. The next time I want to copy your homework, you better let me. Or else—”

  “Or else what? You’re going to beat me up, just like you do to everyone else? I’m sure that’s going to be really tough with both my arms pinned behind my back. If you’re so strong, Seth, why don’t you fight me on your own?” Horace didn’t know why he said it; in fact, he probably never should have said anything, but it just came out.

  Seth started to grind his teeth. Horace had him. It was an unspoken rule of the playground. If Seth didn’t accept the challenge, he’d look like a coward, especially since Horace was half his size.

  Seth glanced over his shoulder to make sure there still were no adults around. Then he snorted under his breath. “Fine. Let him go. This shouldn’t take long.” His usually confident voice hinted at the smallest morsel of doubt.

  Finally free of Seth’s goons, Horace wiped his face clean and pulled a woodchip from his hair. There was no chance he could ever beat Seth in a fight. He knew that. But maybe, just maybe, if he could drag it out long enough, the lunch bell would ring and delay the inevitable for another day.

  A forceful shove by one of the kids behind Horace marked the start of the fight. Just inches from Seth’s face, he could smell the stench of potato chips and tuna fish from his lunch. Horace stepped back, and within seconds Seth sent his first punc
h flying toward his head. By luck Horace dropped his shoulder and felt it graze his right ear. Seth, who never missed and had thrown his full weight into the punch, was surprised by the sudden movement and stumbled forward.

  Horace used the extra second to spin around and prepare for the next attack.

  This one came higher, and Horace easily ducked again.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see kids starting to gather in lines by the far doors. He wondered if he just might get out of this mess alive. Probably another minute or two before the lunch bell rang.

  Unfortunately, his momentary distraction left him open to Seth’s next punch, a powerful uppercut to his stomach. A sucking sound followed as Horace gasped for breath, and the remains of his peanut butter sandwich came rushing into his mouth. He swallowed the acidic mixture and hunched over his knees in pain.

  Seth seized the opportunity and wasted no time sending another punch into Horace’s temple.

  Now Horace’s stomach was no longer the only aching part of his body; the side of his head was throbbing. Through blurred vision he could see Seth readying for the knockout.

  But just as Seth cocked his arm backward, one of the other boys called out, “What is that?”

  “What?” Seth stopped mid-punch, fearful it was Ms. Shackles.

  “Look! Up there.”

  An object was circling above them.

  “That’s just a bird, you idiot,” Seth replied. It let out a sharp cry, a perfectly timed response, but Seth turned back to his wounded victim, angered by the interruption.

  “That’s not just a. bird,” someone else added. “I think that’s a hawk or a falcon.”

  “What are you talking about? We don’t have time for this. The bell is going to ring any second,” snapped Seth. “Grab him.”

  But no one did.

  “Watch out!” yelled the boy behind Horace.

  “Run!” shouted another.

  “What the—” Seth answered in confusion.

  The mixture of feathers, screams, and blood that filled the air made it hard to say what happened next. But by most accounts, the final outcome was the same. Seth Davis, the meanest bully in Niles, Michigan, was the one rolling on the ground, while Horace Edwards, the undersized new kid from across the street, stood in a cloud of feathers.

  Chapter Two

  News of Horace’s feat spread through the school like wildfire. In seven years at Eastside, no one had ever successfully challenged Seth in a fight. Unfortunately, Horace never got much of a chance to enjoy his newfound glory. As quickly as the mysterious bird had dug its talons deep into Seth’s arm, Ms. Shackles had swooped Horace up by the collar and dragged him to the principal.

  Sitting on the wooden bench outside the office, Horace couldn’t stop thinking about the falcon. He had seen the bird circling moments earlier, and the next thing he knew, it was tearing at Seth’s arm. Horace had no idea why it attacked Seth or even what it was doing here in Niles. Falcons were rarely seen in southwest Michigan, and they definitely didn’t attack kids on the playground.

  “Horace,” a voice called from across the hall. The small head of another sixth-grade boy from Mr. Petrie’s class peeked around the corner.

  “Milton, what are you doing here? If Ms. Shackles sees you, we’ll both end up in the office.”

  The warning did little to stop Milton from dashing across the hall and crouching low next to Horace.

  “That was totally crazy! You destroyed Seth. On the way here I saw him crying in the nurse’s office.” Milton’s green eyes were wide with excitement. “So how’d you do it? Did you punch him in the nose, or was it a kick to the gut? I mean, no offense, but you’re the same size as me.”

  Horace just sheepishly smiled. “Honestly, I didn’t really do anything. I was barely able to avoid his punches, when a bird swooped down and started attacking his arm.”

  Milton looked at Horace doubtfully.

  “I’m not making it up. This crazy bird came down and went nuts. If it hadn’t shown up, I’m sure Seth would have knocked me out cold.”

  “Wait.” Milton paused. “You’re serious? A bird?”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s crazy. I would have loved to beat up Seth, but honestly, Milton, it was a bird.”

  The sound of voices in the office could now be heard.

  Milton peeked over his shoulder. “Listen, don’t tell the principal about the bird. He’ll never believe you.”

  Horace smiled back. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  The voice of Ms. Shackles was growing louder.

  Milton then reached out and handed Horace a battered notepad.

  “My sketch pad!”

  “I picked it up after the fight. Some of the drawings are a little crumpled, but I did my best to tape them back together.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No worries.” Milton raised his fist to bump Horace’s. “Good luck.”

  Milton disappeared around the corner, and another figure was soon by Horace’s side.

  “Come with me, young man. The principal is waiting.” Ms. Shackles’s maniacal grin showed off her two missing canine teeth. “And he’s not happy.”

  Horace walked into the principal’s office and found himself in a dark, windowless space. There was a plastic plant in the corner, a portrait behind the desk, a framed print on the wall that looked only half complete, and a few knickknacks on the shelf. It smelled of dust, like a used bookstore or an old library. Ms. Shackles motioned for Horace to sit down while Mr. Witherspoon, the principal, finished studying a piece of paper.

  “Ms. Shackles, would you please bring in the perpetrator of this act?”

  She drew her head back in confusion. “He’s right here, Mr. Witherspoon.”

  Mr. Witherspoon lurched forward in his chair, squinting through his bifocals, his mustache fraying in every direction and his thinning gray hair flapping to the side.

  “This young man?” Mr. Witherspoon opened his eyes wide and grimaced slightly at the sight of Horace sitting across from him. Horace’s head barely reached the top of the desk.

  “Yes.” Ms. Shackles’s reply was firm.

  “I thought you said he was in sixth grade?” He rubbed his jaw slowly.

  This made Horace feel even worse.

  Mr. Witherspoon twisted his mustache in his fingers and sat back in his chair. “Thank you, Ms. Shackles. You can return to the playground now.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Witherspoon? I’d be happy to stay and help.” There seemed to be no other job she’d rather be doing than handing out punishments to the students.

  “No, that’ll be fine. I think we can handle this ourselves.”

  She flared her nostrils and reluctantly stepped out of the office.

  Mr. Witherspoon waited a moment and then turned back toward Horace, clicking his fingers rhythmically on the oak desk. “So, where shall we begin? Let me see here.”

  Horace could not easily decipher what Mr. Witherspoon was reading under his bushy brows.

  “Edwards, yes, Edwards. That sounds so familiar.” He paused, and then his eyes widened again as if a light had turned on. “We just registered you for school this summer. You just moved here. Wait a minute—that’s right. I remember. Oh my, how did I forget? You’re related to Flinders . . . Flinders Peabody. You’re his grandson.”

  Horace blinked in surprise.

  Mr. Witherspoon squeezed his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Yes, yes, I see.”

  But what did he see?

  “The eyes are an uncanny resemblance.” He paused. “Here, behind me.” He picked up a faded photo from the shelf.

  Horace leaned in to see a group of three men in the photo. One looked like a much, much younger version of Mr. Witherspoon (eyebrows as unkempt as ever). The second, Horace had never seen before, but there was no doubt about the third. It was his grandfather.

  With Mr. Witherspoon’s encouragement, Horace looked closer at the photo and saw his familiar resemblance to his younger grandp
a, but it wasn’t the eyes. It was his hair; it was sticking straight up.

  “Your grandfather and I used to travel all over the world when we were younger.” Mr. Witherspoon let out a loud laugh. “There was nothing Flinders couldn’t find.” He smiled. “Not even your grandma could escape his pursuit.”

  He let out another laugh. “Yes, that was a long time ago, though,” added Mr. Witherspoon, half to himself. “My, how things have changed.”

  It was weird to think of Mr. Witherspoon traveling, or being anywhere besides school. Horace never really thought about teachers or principals not being in school, as if the school were the only place they existed.

  “Now, how could Flinders’s grandson find himself in any sort of trouble?” Mr. Witherspoon asked with a trace of sarcasm.

  Horace wasn’t sure where to start. Should he mention the bird? Milton had made it pretty clear that was a bad idea. He began carefully, “Well, I was out on the swing when another kid came up to me.”

  “Seth . . . Seth Davis. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s the one you attacked with your nails? Brutish act, brutish act.”

  Horace now realized what Ms. Shackles had told Mr. Witherspoon.

  “Well, Seth came up to me when I was on the swing, and challenged me to a fight.”

  “A fight?” Mr. Witherspoon paused, weighing the truth of Horace’s story.

  Staring at the dust that had gathered at the base of the picture frames, he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere near Mr. Witherspoon’s eyes, or his eyebrows, for that matter. It was starting to feel like a giant spotlight had turned on him. He continued, the words in his head swimming again in circles. “He . . . He pushed me to the ground.”

  “Really?” Mr. Witherspoon’s voice showed growing doubt. “And then?”

  Horace wasn’t sure how much longer he could drag things out without mentioning the bird. If there was one thing Horace was really bad at, though, worse than math, even, it was lying.

  The phone rang, and they both looked down at Mr. Witherspoon’s desk.

  “Oh, I hate getting interrupted.” Mr. Witherspoon scowled. “This thing never stops ringing.” He stuck his head out the office door. “Ms. Neely, will you please take a message for me?” He turned back toward Horace. “Where were we?”