She Walks in Shadows(39)
MAGNA MATER
Arinn Dembo
IT IS AN ingrained habit of the human species to spin tales about the origin of the universe and to exaggerate the importance of their own place in it. One can collect the evidence of this essential narcissism the world over and find it in any set of cultural folk tales, but in no culture has the practice of self-worship been honed to such perfection as among those of European descent. Europeans call the worship of their own species “Humanism,” and have been building great temples dedicated to this peculiar cult and its idolatry for many centuries. Of these, there is none still standing which is greater or more revered than the one that stands on Great Russell Street in the heart of London. They call it “the British Museum.”
I walked up to the collection of marble galleries on the afternoon of September 30th, dressed in long skirts and a gray trench coat. I kept my shoulders hunched, my head covered by a gauze snood; the day was too dry and warm, too sunny to use the usual black umbrella to shield my face. After I mounted the front steps and passed through the doors beyond the Ionic columns, a guard stepped up to me.
“Excuse me, Miss.” He was moving to block my path. “But you’ll have to check that case.”
I looked up to catch his gaze and his eyes widened, pupils immediately dilating. He stepped aside for me, getting out of my path — an almost unconscious gesture of deference. Blood flushed his cheeks and his thick neck. For a moment, I saw myself reflected in the mirror of his corneas, seeing what he must see: a woman of his own race, young and fertile, with pale hair and piercing eyes.
The long raincoat with its deep pockets, the leather suitcase I carried in one hand — these were the things that had concerned him moments ago. If he was later questioned by the authorities, he might remember having seen them, but it was likely he would not. He would only remember that I was beautiful. Selective blindness and amnesia — most convenient for this sort of work.
I walked away quickly, releasing him from my gaze, toward the north wing. I was stopped three times on the way to the Library of the Royal Anthropological Institute, twice by guards and once by a well-meaning clerk. I sent them all stumbling away from me confused and blushing, not certain who I was but convinced that I was not subject to their authority, and continued through the echoing halls unmolested.
I had been following my prey for some time, studying his patterns and waiting for the moment to strike. Today was the perfect opportunity. I spotted him immediately as I entered the large reading room, a portly older man in a tweed suit, his head bowed over a recent journal while a stack of similar journals waited on the table at his right elbow. He sat in his favorite leather chair, a lock of long, fine, white hair swept boyishly over the bulging dome of his forehead, a pair of glasses in his hand. The tip of one black plastic earpiece was tucked into the corner of his mouth like a pipe, as he sat idly reading and chewing.
I crossed the room casually, stopping here and there to admire the stacks. There were over two hundred thousand volumes in this collection. Part of me yearned to turn aside and satisfy my own curiosity. I hesitated more than once, thinking of the rare books in the Christy collection and how easily I could spend this day hunting among them. How long would it take to find evidence of my people among those volumes, all written by the first European explorers of Africa, Asia, Oceania? How difficult would it be to pass the guards with one or two of those priceless volumes in my empty case? At minimum, there might be a surviving copy of Observations on the Several Parts of Africa hidden away somewhere behind glass.
When I was close enough, I took the chair beside the old man. Oblivious, he continued his reading until I spoke.
“Excuse me, sir.” He raised his head raised sharply, like a gazelle startled at the watering hole. “But aren’t you Louis Beatty?”
He turned toward me, already pleased: There was no sweeter sound than his own name spoken by a young female admirer. He had not yet put his glasses back on and it was obvious he could not see me clearly. I waited for his pupils to dilate, opening for me like black flowers blooming for an invisible sun ... but he only squinted at me with a grandfatherly smile.
“Yes! Indeed. Guilty as charged, Miss.” His voice was bluff, jovial — a voice for funding committees and university deans. “And you are —?”
I sat for a moment, vexed and fumbling for words. Robbed of my powers, I would have to improvise. “A student of your work,” I said at last. “I enjoyed your lecture on the Olduvai finds last year.”
“Ah, excellent.” I could see him begin to dismiss me, his attention already slipping back toward the journal in his hand. His thumb still held his place. “So glad you enjoyed it, dear.”
“I was quite interested in your theories,” I said quickly. “Particularly the notion of separate pre-Human species in Africa.” I cleared my throat nervously. “I am very interested in primatology. Humans are just another primate, after all.”
It was a gamble. The old man had invested a great deal of energy in his female protégées over the past decade, sending one brave, determined young woman after another out into the wilds. He had already dispatched three of them over the last decade to study other living apes, two to Africa and one to Borneo.
“You are referring to my arguments regarding Zinjanthropus bosei and the other australopithecines of that period?”