Horus and the Curse of Everlasting Regret by Hannah Voskuil Page A

Taharqa gave him the braided sling he’d fashioned himself and the rock to throw, for practice. The rock was a smooth river stone, and his brother had carved a unique symbol into it. His brother set the rock and sling in Horus’s small hand.
    “You place a rock here, and you use this sling to throw it very far, like this.” His brother demonstrated. He placed the rock in the sling and whirled it. It whistled through the air, gray against the blue sky, and landed in the distant dirt with a brown puff. Horus ran to retrieve it.
    When he returned, grinning, Horus looked into Taharqa’s big brown eyes, so like his own.
    “Now I can go fight with you!” Horus said.
    Taharqa laughed. “Ah, you’re still a child,” he said, almost wistfully. “This is for play.”
    “I’m not a baby! I can fight, too!” Horus placed the stone in the sling and tried to throw it, but it hit the ground not far from them and bounced aside.
    “It takes a lot of practice. You have time.” Taharqa sounded melancholy. He stood up, ruffling Horus’s hair before he left.
    “You should remain a child as long as you can,” he said.
    Horus had glowered with resentment. He’d thought his brother was mocking him. Later he realized what war involved: violence, bloodshed, vengefulness, and rage. On plaques in his exhibit, he’d read about men who had spent their entire lives fighting. He knew now his older brother hadn’t wanted Horus to hurry into that life. Such misunderstandings were what had led Horus to follow Turtanu around.
    Horus placed one linen-wrapped hand flat on the plywood, brushing off dust and paint flakes. He would sketch out what he wanted to paint with the pen Tunie had brought him, and figure it out from there.
    The mummy sat in front of the blank piece of wood, thinking. What should he paint? It had to be meaningful. It was nearly morning, and as he thought it over, he felt the strange pull of his curse calling him back toward his sarcophagus. He knew if he didn’t obey, the curse would eventually yank him there and whisk the plywood back into the cupboard and out of sight.
    He slid the plywood back in its place himself and padded over to his sarcophagus, holding the pen. If someone were to see it, he or she wouldn’t question its presence. One would assume a visitor had dropped it. The magic of the curse worked to keep Horus’s presence hidden from everyone but Tunie and Peter. He wanted to hold the pen and take time to mull over what he would paint. This was something else Tunie had done for him; she’d provided happy things to occupy his mind during the slow daylight hours. If only he could do something as nice for her.
    This was what Horus was thinking when he realized someone was prowling around the exhibit.

Perch scouted the woods and path to the museum, then let Tunie know it was safe. She was exhausted, and her eyes felt dry from too little sleep. Even Perch flapped droopily alongside her. Still, Tunie felt encouraged. Things were looking up! There might be a way for Horus to alleviate his curse. She and Peter had reported what they knew about Dorothy James’s kidnapping, and everything was in good hands. She hoped the police would find Dorothy quickly. With the reward money, Tunie could finally take her father to see a doctor—a good one—and pay for whatever treatment he needed. There would probably be money left over, too, enough for real food. She imagined a fish-and-chips dinner, and a fresh spinach salad, and ice cream for dessert! She wiped her forehead on her shirtsleeve as she opened the door to the museum. Ice cream sounded dreamy. It was a hot, sticky day already, a harbinger of the overwarm summer to come.
    The door creaked open, and Tunie called up to George. “It’s me—Tunie! I just forgot something down here last night.”
    “All righty, Tunie,” George yelled down the stairwell.
    Perch gave a yawn, showing the little white needles of his teeth. There was a dark nook in the stairwell,