The Cult of Osiris

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The time-weathered face of the Great Sphinx regarded Macy Sharif impassively as she paced before its huge stone paws. She didn’t give the ancient monument so much as a glance in return; in the two weeks she had been here, the Sphinx and the pyramids beyond had gone from awe-inspiring wonders to mere backdrops for a job that had fallen far short of her hopes. In the first week she had taken hundreds of digital photos and video clips, but now her camera was just a weight in one thigh pocket, untouched for days.

How had Egypt, of all places, turned into such a crushing disappointment? From an early age, she’d been entranced by her grandfather’s stories of the land of his birth; tales of kings and queens and good and evil in a land of wonders, better than any fairy tale because they also happened to be true. It was an exotic, romantic world, as different from Miami’s wealthy Key Biscayne as Macy could imagine, and even as a child she’d been determined that one day she would experience it for herself.

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