Chapter Six: The Resistance

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Jonathan never thought that the Eiffel Tower would become a symbol of subjugation.

But there he was, scurrying through the Parisian streets, trying to avoid getting anywhere near it. On both the first and second levels, Imhotep’s troops were stationed, keeping an eye on everything that they could. Imhotep was particularly concerned with Paris, because it was here that the resistance movement was the most powerful and organized, and here the most militant.

He walked quickly, keeping his head down. The wind whisked against his face and his eyes teared slightly in the cold. In these times, it was prudent to be as unnoticeable as possible, to blend in, to have people forget his face a minute after speaking with him. He had no doubt that Imhotep remembered him, and remembered him well. It was practically a miracle that the Creature had not sought him out to personally punish him, as he had with Evy, Rick, Alex, and the Med Jai. When Imhotep had come for the O’Connells, Jonathan had been in Dublin, visiting old friends. How lucky that weekend trip had been. If he had been staying with his sister, as he often did, when Imhotep had showed, Jonathan knew he would be a slave as well. And then he would have absolutely no way to help Evy or her family.

Jonathan suspected that Imhotep had not bothered to seek him out because, unlike his sister and her husband, Jonathan was not a Princess or a Med Jai reincarnated. He had not played a role in the ancient cycle. The High Priest may have wished for personal vengeance against him, but his hatred of Jonathan was recent, and therefore cut less deep.

Jonathan had no doubt that if presented with the opportunity, however, Imhotep would relish taking revenge. Thus he, especially, needed to keep a low profile.

These last months had changed Jonathan. He was no longer the carefree, fun-loving rascal he had been before Imhotep’s rule. He was harder, more serious, tougher, angrier. Of course there was still much of the old Jonathan in him. He was still the practical joker, usually optimistic and happy. It was just that he had suddenly assumed more responsibilities, was faced with high stakes and more dire consequences.

It was when the resistance had scored a big victory, during times of triumph, when he was able to forget his fears for Evy and her family. Jonathan drank and was lively and pretended, for those few hours, that it was the old days, that nothing had changed.

He suddenly veered off the main street and moved stealthily down an alley, his shoes silent on the cobblestones. He walked about a block, then stopped, knocking three times on an ordinary wooden door. A small slot opened briefly, a single brown eye staring up at him. The door swung open. Jonathan slipped inside, and the wooden door shut silently behind him. The alley was cold and empty, as if no one had ever been there.

“Jon,” Jacques voice broke into Jonathan’s thoughts as he put down his sacks and removed his coat. “You get what we needed?”

Jonathan grinned. “Enough for a few days, at least.”

Jacques nodded. “Good, bring it to Margot in the kitchen.”

Jonathan lifted the sacks and walked down the dark hallway towards the kitchen. It was dim in the hallway. As he walked his arms skimmed the dark wood paneling. Pausing at the kitchen door, he shifted the weight of the bags in his arms and pushed his shoulder into it. As the door swung open, harsh light poured into hallway, and he blinked, his eyes unused to the brightness. He stood dumbly for a few moments. Margot’s laugh interrupted him.

“Having a little trouble there Jon-Jon?” she chuckled as deposited the bags by stumbling blindly into the room and dumping them onto the nearest table. He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted.

“Thank you for your support, sweetie,” he said cheekily as she laughed again.

She was a large, overweight woman with messy brown hair. She must have been around forty years old. Jonathan liked her, and felt sorry for her. He knew that her son had been killed by Imhotep’s armies, and she helped the resistance by cooking their meals. It was the only way she could help.

“Oh, you again,” she said, but she was smiling. She liked Jonathan.

“I’ll let you know, Margot dear, that I never miss an opportunity to amuse you,” he said grinning.

“You mean unintentional amusement?” she asked, smiling.

“You know, old mum, that every funny thing I do is planned for your enjoyment.” He bowed awkwardly, and, laughing, turned and started making his way back down the dark corridor.

“You’re nothing but trouble, Jonathan Carnahan!” she called after him. He grinned over his shoulder and continued down the long hallway.

Jacques turned as Jonathan entered the darkened room. They were operating in several brownstone houses, in thin dark rooms. It was dangerous for too many of the resistors to live together, so they were spread out all over Paris. But the main leader of the Paris branch was Jacques, who lived in the Latin Quarter. Jonathan, as the only man to help defeat Imhotep still out of captivity, lived with Jacques and the leaders of the movement. “The supermarket didn’t give you any trouble, did they?” he asked, raking his hand through his thick brown hair.

Jonathan shook his head, his mood plunging from light and cheery to serious. “Actually, as I was getting the bag, the clerk whispered a personal thank you for our efforts. I have a feeling that most of the shopkeepers and storeowners will be more than happy to assist us.”

Jacques turned more fully to face Jonathan. “Jon, you must be careful,” he said raggedly, betraying how little he had slept in the past few days. “Any one of them could be spies. We must only take from Ousmane, and only during the hours I have specified. We know the loyalty of so few. And we cannot risk being found out, not for free supermarket goods.”

Jonathan nodded. “Yes, old chap, I know...” he walked over and plopped down in a large armchair. “It’s so hard pretending all the time, hiding as though we were doing something wrong...” Jonathan sighed, leaving his sentence unfinished.

Jacques nodded, and plopped down on the couch opposite Jonathan. “I know,” he said.

There was a pause. Jacques sighed heavily and leaned forward. “We have lost contact with our American agents in New York. I sincerely hope nothing has happened to them, I hope Imhotep’s guards have not found them...” he trailed off, looking at the wall. “Jon, we are running out of options.”

Jonathan leaned forward pointedly. “That is why we must find the books.”

Jacques sighed again. “Jonathan, it is difficult searching for books that may not even exist. Even if they do exist, they could be anywhere in the world, or are probably already in Imhotep’s possession.”

Jonathan shook his head. “They exist. Jacques, I have seen them, I have held them in my own two hands. My sister Evy,” he paused, just for a second, to force back tears he knew would come if he thought about her, “read from the Gold Book herself, which is what made Imhotep mortal the first time we encountered him. Jacques, they are real.”

Jonathan looked down, and slowly reached into his pocket. He withdrew a small, seemingly unremarkable, box. It was a dull silver in color, but even in the dim light, resting innocently on his hand, it seemed to exude a presence, a barely contained, sinister power. “This is the key to our problems,” he said, his lips twisting slightly at his unintended pun. He flipped the switch and the key hissed as it opened, spreading its wings.

“Jacques, we have a hidden weapon. We have the key to the books, without which Imhotep has no use for either one. He does not know that we have it. This can be used to our great advantage.”

Jacques stood up, starting to pace around the room. “If we knew where any of the books were. If Imhotep has them both, even with the key what power do we have?”

Jonathan stood too. “That is why we must find the remaining Med Jai.”

Jacques turned. “It is said that those ancient warriors are all dead.”

Jonathan looked at him. “But they might not be.”

Jacques hesitated, then exhaled heavily, sinking back down onto the couch. “I have been so strong, for so long, and I am so tired.” He took a deep breath, then looked up. “You are right, of course. We must try anything.”

Jonathan smiled grimly, a facial expression Evy had never seen him make. He remembered back to Ahm Shere, when they had resurrected Evy. How easy it had been, to restore life like that! How much simpler things had been then. It had been them against the Creature. It had always been him and Evy, his baby sister, and Rick and Ardeth, fighting for what was right. Now everything was more complicated. Rick was a slave, Ardeth was probably dead. And Evy. His precious, darling baby sister. Evy. She could be dead too. The thought made Jonathan want to rant and scream and cry.

He had never been too good at protecting her, although he always promised her he would. And he had no idea where she was or if she was hurt. Even if he did know he was powerless to help her. After their parents died Evy and her family became Jonathan’s life. He knew he often screwed around, chased after pretty women and drank and gambled. But he hoped, more than anything he had ever wished for, that Evy knew how much he loved her. Because Jonathan was afraid he would never get to tell her that. There were so many things Jonathan wished he could tell her.

But times had changed. Nothing was easy anymore, or simple. He just hoped Evy knew. He vowed to himself that he would do everything he could to find her and defeat Imhotep and set her free. And Jonathan knew the key was their chance.

He remembered, ages and ages ago it seemed, how Alex had raised Evy from the dead by reading Ancient Egyptian from the Black Book. That had only been a year and a half ago. Alex was such a smart little boy! His sister’s child. Evy’s child.

Evy had saved Jonathan from being killed by Anck-su-namun at the last moment, stopping the killer blow. Evy had saved him more times than he could recall. She was so brave. He missed her so much.

And as they ran down the hallway to help Rick, Alex had handed him the key. “Hold onto it, Uncle Jon,” Alex had said. So Jonathan had kept the key, pushing it down into his trouser pockets and forgetting about it, forgetting about it until he had pulled it absentmindedly out of his pants in the hotel room a week later. Jonathan allowed himself a small smile at the knowledge that Imhotep assumed the key was buried in the deserts of Ahm Shere.

“Imhotep cannot be everywhere at once,” Jonathan said. “There is a way to defeat him, and a way to trick him. We must find the books and take them to the Med Jai. There is no other way.”

Jacques paused. “Were it not for your role in the past, I would not believe you. But I trust you. You have dealt with this creature before and won.”

Jonathan grinned. “You mean you finally believe the fairy tales and the legends?”

Jacques smiled ruefully. “I do not know how much to believe. Some of the stories contain such,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “spectacular elements.”

Jonathan laughed. “Whatever part of the story you think is the most unbelievable,” he said, “is the part that is probably true.” The tale of how they had defeated Imhotep not only once, but twice had circulated rapidly. At first it was used as a rallying cry. When the great armies of the world gathered in their darkest hour to fight Imhotep, the tale was Truth, it was the possibility of salvation. It was only after, when Imhotep had gained complete control, that the story become legend and myth, a tale of gallant and handsome heroes and the beautiful woman who stopped the Creature and twice saved mankind. It became a story of the resistance, a story of the oppressed.

Jonathan sometimes stopped and listened to it being told in the streets of Paris. The storytellers were marvelous, and Jonathan sometimes found himself getting caught up in the noble majesty of what they had accomplished. Of course, the story had been changed in some ways, and Jonathan sometimes snickered at his own noble portrayal. None of the awed crowds suspected that one of the main characters was standing right beside them, a hapless, ordinary fellow. But he and Evy and Rick and Ardeth had become heroes in the public eye, four names that were on everyone’s lips, a story that bound the world together in the fight against Imhotep. Their story gave people hope.

Jacques stood, looking at Jonathan philosophically. “It is known all over the world the story of Imhotep and Anck-su-namun, and how three thousand years ago they murdered the Pharaoh for their love. It is known that Imhotep became a walking plague, a living Creature, a man with insurmountable powers. It is accepted that Anck-su-namun was brought back to life, and that Evelyn O’Connell, a modern woman, was Nefertiri, the Princess of Egypt.” He paused, looking off into space. “It used to be that people would never believe such stories, tales of reincarnation, ancient curses, mystical powers, people rising from the dead. Now, people have seen such spectacular horrors that they believe anything.”

Jacques took a few steps across the room and stopped at the fireplace, resting one arm on its marble mantle. “I have sworn myself to the Resistance, to die fighting the creature. But how can we fight a creature with powers not of this world?” He sighed. “Jon, even if we get the books, how can we hope to defeat him?”

Jonathan reached over and grasped Jacques by the shoulders. “We must,” he said. And in the silence, in a dark room hidden under the streets of Paris, they made the sign of the resistance.

And, halfway across the world, in his beautiful palace, Imhotep held Anck Su Namun. Both of them in love, both joyous. Both unsuspecting.

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