The Amulet Of Bastet | An Egyptian Bedtime Story

Logan lived in the North Country,

Where winters were brutal.

Long months of biting cold,

Skies choked with heavy clouds and snowstorms that buried the world for days in silence.

Days of grey,

With overcast skies stretching endlessly,

Casting a monochrome pall over the landscape.

The trees,

Stripped bare since autumn,

Stood like skeletal remains against the whiteness,

Their branches brittle with frost.

Days of snow or freezing rain,

The ground either frozen solid or slick with ice.

Bitter cold,

So sharp it hurt to go outside,

The air biting at any exposed skin like tiny needles of ice.

A world drained of warmth,

Of colour,

And with each passing winter day,

He felt himself fading with it,

Turning grey too.

The lack of sunlight gnawed at him,

Seeping into his bones.

He knew that if he stayed through an entire winter,

Its weight would crush him.

The darkness,

The isolation,

It was a slow,

Creeping thing,

Tightening around his mind until his thoughts became as frozen and lifeless as the world outside.

So he made a rule for himself,

Every year he'd escape.

He saved relentlessly,

Cutting corners where he could,

Counting down the days until he could step on a plane and leave the cold behind.

It wasn't just a luxury,

It was a necessity,

A way to keep himself from being suffocated by the long,

Merciless winter.

As the season loomed,

He threw himself into planning,

Firming up the details as the days grew shorter and the cold crept in.

The process became a kind of refuge,

Something to look forward to when the first frost coated the ground and the days blurred into a cycle of darkness and cold.

He lost himself in the research,

Mapping out his escape with precision.

The places he'd stay,

The landscapes he'd explore,

The cultures he'd immerse himself in,

The food he'd taste,

Each detail carefully chosen,

Each decision a small act of defiance against the winter that threatened to swallow him whole.

Most winters,

He returned to the tropics,

Drawn by the promise of warmth,

Color,

And the slow,

Unhurried rhythm of life by the sea.

He loved the beach,

The heat of the sand beneath his feet,

The salt-laced breeze,

The hypnotic pull of the tide.

He'd spent countless winters on sun-drenched islands,

Where turquoise waters stretched endlessly to the horizon.

And the days ended in skies ablaze with golden crimson.

The ocean was his refuge,

Where time loosened its grip and the weight of winter dissolved.

Drifting in the warm sea,

Weightless and free,

Felt like shedding his old,

Frozen self.

He loved how the salt clung to his skin,

How the sun worked its way into his muscles,

Thawing the cold that had settled deep inside him.

But it wasn't just the ocean that kept calling him back.

It was everything.

The colors,

Impossibly vivid.

The endless green of swaying palms and thick-leaved plants.

Flowers,

Bursting in shades of scarlet,

Fuchsia,

And gold.

Colors that didn't seem to exist back home.

The air,

Heavy with the scent of blossoms,

Ripe fruit,

And sun-warmed earth.

The people,

Unhurried and full of warmth.

Their laughter,

Rolling through the air with the breeze,

Effortless and unrestrained.

Most of all,

It was the feeling of life everywhere.

In the heat on his skin,

In the scent of salt and fruit,

In the slow,

Sun-soaked rhythm of days,

Untouched by winter.

But this time,

He felt the pull of something different.

The desert.

The vast,

Sun-scorched expanse of Egypt.

So far from the beaches he'd always sought.

Yet,

Somehow,

Calling to him just the same.

It was the opposite of everything he usually craved.

But the more he planned,

The more it felt like he was meant to go.

As a child,

Egypt fascinated him.

Its myths,

History,

And endless expanse of sand,

Hiding secrets from civilizations long past.

He'd spent hours poring over books filled with images of pyramids rising against the horizon.

Gods with animal heads,

And tombs adorned with cryptic hieroglyphics.

He learned about the pantheon of deities,

Osiris.

His skin,

Green as new life,

The ruler of the underworld.

Anubis,

The jackal-headed guide of lost souls.

Thoth,

The ibis-headed keeper of wisdom,

Recording the fate of the dead on his sacred scrolls.

It was Bastet who fascinated him the most.

She was a cat.

Elegant,

Self-possessed,

And untamed.

A guardian,

Yet a hunter.

Worshipped for her grace,

Yet feared for her claws.

She protected homes and families,

But there was always something wild beneath the surface that could never be fully domesticated.

Her power wasn't in brute strength like other gods,

But in her quiet control.

The way she moved unseen,

With the patience of a predator that never struck without reason.

Unlike the others who ruled over grand cosmic forces,

She was smaller,

Quieter.

Her presence felt rather than declared.

Logan remembered marveling at the hieroglyphics.

The way they weren't just letters,

But symbols full of life.

Owls.

Eyes.

Onks.

Falcons.

Each one a key to a world long vanished,

Yet still speaking across time.

He had imagined what it would have been like to read them effortlessly,

Standing inside a temple,

Where the walls whispered stories of gods and kings in the sacred script.

And then there were the archaeologists,

The seekers of buried time.

Howard Carter,

Peering through a small hole in the tomb of Tutankhamun.

The glint of gold,

Shining in the dark.

He had imagined what it must have been like stepping into a tomb,

Untouched for thousands of years.

Breathing in the dry,

Stale air of the past.

His footsteps the first to disturb the dust of that ancient world.

The art,

Too,

Had captivated him.

The painted walls of tombs,

Where men and women stood frozen in profile,

Eternally harvesting grain.

Fishing along the river and playing music under the shade of palm trees.

The gold and lapis of funerary mosques.

The delicate carvings of falcons and lotus flowers.

The towering statues of gods and rulers,

Their faces calm and eternal,

As if they'd never stopped watching over the world.

Most of all,

He'd been fascinated by their belief in the afterlife.

The way they viewed death not as an end,

But as a journey.

The soul had to pass through the underworld,

Navigating a treacherous path filled with demons and trials,

All leading to the final test.

The weighing of the heart.

He could picture the scene clearly from the illustrations in his childhood books.

Osiris,

Seated on his throne.

Anubis,

Holding the scales.

The heart of the deceased,

Balanced against a feather.

If the heart was heavy with wrongdoing,

It was devoured by Ammit,

The monstrous beast of the underworld.

But if it was light,

Free of burden,

The soul could pass into the field of reeds.

A paradise,

Where the dead would live as they had in life,

Forever in the presence of the gods.

He'd imagined what life must have been like along the Nile.

The great river that had given birth to it all.

He pictured boats gliding along its waters,

Fishermen casting their nets,

And farmers tending their fields after the annual flood left the land rich and fertile.

He'd tried to envision standing on the banks at dusk,

Watching the sun sink beyond the desert,

While temple priests lit incense and chanted prayers that had echoed for centuries.

Now,

As he mapped out his journey,

It was as if something deep inside him was awakening.

His inner child.

The one who used to get lost in these stories.

Who once built pyramids out of sand.

Who stayed up late,

Reading about mummies and lost tombs by flashlight.

Who imagined himself brushing away layers of dust to uncover long-forgotten relics.

That part of him had been buried under years of routine responsibilities and the ordinary rhythms of life.

But now it stirred.

It remembered.

It reached for the adventure he'd always dreamed of.

This trip would be something new.

Something unknown.

And that,

More than anything,

Made it feel like the escape he needed.

His flight was delayed for hours as a nor'easter swept in from Siberia,

Turning the world outside into a swirling blur of white.

The wind howled against the terminal,

An unrelenting force pressing in.

Inside,

Passengers sat slumped in chairs,

Wrapped in coats and scarves,

Waiting.

It almost felt like winter didn't want him to leave,

Tightening its grip.

Determined to hold him back.

The blizzard thickened.

Visibility vanished and the runways iced over,

Stalling any chance of departure.

It was winter's final act of defiance.

But the following day,

The storm passed and the sun broke through for the first time in days.

The sky,

Pale and clear,

Stretched above the snow-covered runways.

And as he boarded his flight,

He felt the first flicker of relief.

His escape had begun.

The journey to Cairo was uneventful and monotonous.

A string of airport terminals,

Cramped aeroplane seats and restless dozing.

Logan barely registered the meals or the drone of the engines.

None of it mattered.

What mattered was that each passing moment carried him further from winter,

Closer to the warmth he craved.

Finally,

Cairo.

The heat met him the moment he stepped off the plane.

Wrapping around him like an embrace.

It was dry,

Golden and weightless.

So different from the damp chill of winter or the heavy humidity of summer back home.

The cold that had settled in his bones for months began to thaw,

Dissolving beneath the desert sun.

He drew in a deep breath.

The air,

Warm as it filled his lungs,

Carrying the scent of sun-baked stone,

Distant spice and a whisper of dust.

For the first time in months,

The stiffness in his shoulders eased.

The dull aching in his fingers was already fading.

He was starting to feel alive again.

He made his way through the airport,

Collected his luggage and found a taxi to take him to his hotel.

Cairo blurred past the window in a rush of colour and movement.

Dusty streets,

Towering billboards and the constant flow of people and traffic.

The noise of car horns.

The scent of exhaust.

The hum of life everywhere.

The taxi pulled up to his hotel,

A modest but comfortable place tucked into a busy street.

The lobby was quiet,

Check-in was quick and soon he was stepping into his room and dropping his bag with a sigh.

The space was simple but welcoming.

A large bed with crisp white sheets.

A small wooden desk.

A chair by the window with heavy curtains that could block out the city lights.

The air conditioning hummed softly,

But he switched it off,

Preferring to leave the balcony door slightly open to let in the warmth of the night.

From his window the city stretched in every direction,

Glowing under the golden haze of streetlights.

The distant sound of traffic,

Muffled voices and the occasional horn blended into a lullaby of urban life.

He lay down on the bed,

His body sinking into the mattress,

Exhaustion washing over him.

The trip had been long and now he was here,

His mind could finally rest.

Within moments he was asleep.

When he woke up,

Morning light filtered through the curtains warming up the room.

The city was already alive.

Car horns,

Footsteps,

The distant call of a vendor selling breakfast He stretched,

Feeling lighter than he had in months.

No snow,

No biting wind,

Just warmth.

After a quick shower he headed downstairs for breakfast.

The scent of fresh bread and coffee filled the small dining area.

He ate slowly savoring the flavors.

Rich,

Dark coffee,

Warm flatbread,

Soft cheese and sweet sticky honey.

It was a simple meal,

But after months of bland winter food it tasted amazing.

While he sipped the last of his coffee,

He pulled out his phone and scrawled through the list of places to visit.

The pyramids,

He'd waited years to see them,

There was no reason to delay.

Stepping outside he hailed a taxi and as the driver pulled into the morning traffic,

Logan felt it again.

That childhood excitement staring inside him.

The sense of standing on the edge of something ancient waiting to be discovered.

Today he'd see the pyramids.

As the taxi neared the Giza plateau,

The city gradually gave way to open desert.

And then,

There they were,

The pyramids.

Even though he'd seen them in countless books,

Photographs,

Documentaries,

Nothing prepared him for their sheer presence.

Rising from the golden sands,

They seemed both impossibly massive and perfectly balanced.

Their sharp angles cutting against the bright blue sky.

They weren't just structures,

They were something more.

Monuments to time itself.

To the lives and beliefs of people who'd walked this land thousands of years before him.

But as breathtaking as they were,

The reality of the scene was different from the quiet,

Almost mystical image he had in his mind.

Tourists swarmed everywhere,

Busloads of them.

Groups clustered around guides waving flags,

Cameras flashing,

Voices overlapping in multiple languages.

People posed for photos,

Some climbing on camels for staged pictures.

Street vendors called out,

Trying to sell souvenirs and bottled water.

It wasn't what he wanted.

He'd come here for something else.

He turned and started walking.

At first he moved aimlessly,

Weaving between groups of tourists,

Stepping aside as people took selfies.

Then as the crowds thickened,

He made a deliberate decision.

He'd walk away as far as possible until he could be alone.

He walked for a long time,

Past the main viewing areas,

The camel wranglers,

The souvenir stalls.

Past the thin ropes marking well-trodden paths.

Gradually,

The crowds thinned.

The noise softened and the familiar tourist landmarks disappeared behind him.

The further he went,

The quieter it became.

Until even the distant murmur of voices was lost to the wind.

The landscape changed as he walked.

The packed walkways gave way to loose sand and scattered limestone rocks,

Breaking through the surface.

The air grew thicker with heat,

Heavy with the scent of sun-warmed stone and dust.

Ahead,

The ground sloped upward toward a low ridge and something told him to keep going.

By the time he stopped,

He was truly alone.

He stood on a small rise,

The desert stretching in front of him.

Endlessly around him,

Untouched and undisturbed.

The pyramids loomed in the distance,

Stark against the horizon.

And for the first time since arriving,

He could truly take them in.

The silence was absolute.

The occasional gust of wind,

The only movement in this vast expanse.

He sank onto a flat rock,

The warmth of it seeping through his jeans.

Time felt suspended.

The past and the present,

Folding into one,

As if the weight of centuries still lingered in the air.

This was what he'd come for.

The heat.

The stillness.

The silence.

It wrapped around him.

The warmth of the rock beneath him.

The slow rhythm of his breath.

The whisper of the wind against the sand.

His body,

Still carrying the exhaustion of travel,

Relaxed completely.

Completely.

And without meaning to,

He drifted off to sleep.

The darkness swallowed him,

Deep and velvety,

But not empty.

It pulsed,

Alive with something unseen.

From within it,

A faint sound emerged.

Soft,

Rhythmic,

Almost like the whisper of shifting sand.

But layered with something deeper,

Something ancient.

The echo of unseen footsteps.

The murmur of voices speaking in a language he didn't know,

But somehow understood.

He was no longer in the desert.

He stood inside a great hall of stone.

Its vast columns stretching into infinity.

Their surfaces,

Covered in intricate carvings that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.

The air was heavy with the scent of myrrh and something older.

Spices.

Incense.

The faint trace of warm fur.

He turned,

Sensing something.

And there she was.

Bastard.

She didn't walk.

She prowled,

Moving with grace so fluid it seemed unreal.

A shifting presence,

Flickering between woman and cat.

Her form never quite still.

One moment she was draped in linen,

Gold glinting at her throat.

The next,

A sleek black cat with amber eyes that gleamed with fire.

The line between the two blurred,

As if she was not bound by the rules of form or time.

He tried to speak,

But the silence swallowed his voice.

Yet Bastet understood.

She always understood.

With a flick of her wrist,

Or was it a paw,

The stone walls peeled away like layers of a dream.

Revealing something older.

Something sacred.

An isle stretched before him,

Dark and glistening beneath a sky that was neither night nor day,

But something in between.

The constellations were unfamiliar,

Burning brighter than any he'd ever seen.

Along the riverbanks,

Torchlight flickered,

Illuminating the ruins of a temple,

Half buried in sand,

Forgotten by time,

But not by the gods.

The wind carried whispers,

Prayers,

Devotions,

Voices from another world.

He couldn't hear them,

Not in any language he knew,

But he felt them pass through him.

A weight that pressed against his chest.

They spoke of offerings left at sacred altars,

Of protection sought in the night,

Of unseen eyes watching from the darkness.

He felt something stirring beneath the surface,

Something ancient,

Something waiting.

Bastet circled him now,

Watching.

She didn't speak,

Yet something passed between them.

Something unspoken,

But undeniable.

Not a question,

Not exactly.

A knowing,

A recognition.

The sand shifted at his feet,

Slowly,

Something small and dark emerged,

Half buried,

As if the desert had been waiting for him to find it.

The moment he saw it,

He knew it was meant to be uncovered.

His fingers reached for it,

Drawn by a force beyond understanding,

And the world shattered.

He woke with a start.

The sun had shifted in the sky,

Casting deep golden shadows across the dunes.

The silence was thick with something unseen.

The wind stirred the sand,

Carrying only the sound of the desert.

For a moment,

He thought he could still hear the whisper of voices.

His fingers felt as though they held something.

He looked down at his hands,

Empty,

But the feeling remained.

The dream clung to him,

As heavy as the desert heat.

He could still see Bastet's flickering form.

The ancient temple,

The weight of something she'd wanted him to understand.

Had she shown him something?

No,

Not shown,

Given.

He exhaled slowly,

Running his hands through the sand beside him.

Then,

His fingers brushed against something.

Carefully,

He swept the sand away.

Half buried in the golden dust lay a small black object.

He picked it up,

Shaking the grains free.

The cat stood upright,

Its body slender,

Yet powerful,

Shaped with an elegance that seemed both human and feline.

Its posture was poised and dignified.

Despite its stillness,

There was movement in the lines.

The effortless grace of something caught between two worlds,

Never fully one or the other.

Its ears were long and alert,

Its head held high.

And though its face was smooth and featureless,

The polished surface of its eyes caught the light,

Reflecting gold in a way that felt impossibly lifelike.

The craftsmanship was exquisite,

Every detail deliberate,

Every curve infused with a sense of purpose.

The amulet was small,

Fitting perfectly in his palm,

Yet it was heavier than expected,

As if it carried something beyond stone.

A shiver ran through him despite the warmth.

It was her,

The same presence from his dream.

It belonged in his hand,

As though it had always been waiting for him.

Not just an object,

But a message,

A sign,

Or maybe something deeper.

No,

Not a coincidence.

The thought surfaced,

Unbidden,

But it felt true.

A link between what was and what remained,

Proof that the past didn't vanish.

Only lay hidden,

Waiting beneath layers of sand and time.

He ran his fingers over the delicate lines of the carving,

Tracing the elegant details,

The weight of history pressed into stone.

How long had it been buried here?

Days,

Years,

Centuries,

Millennia.

Was it once placed with intention,

An offering to the gods?

Or had it simply endured,

Shifting with the desert sands,

Waiting for the right hands to find it?

The wind stirred again,

Lifting the sand in soft spirals around him.

A whisper in the silence,

Not demanding an answer,

Just waiting.