A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  The village matriarch was a woman well advanced in years, who lived in a space carved out of the belly of the mountain. She said to them, “This is a village of temporary refuge—we won’t turn you over to any guards or soldiers or priests, for we hate them all, and we answer to no Pharaoh or god, other than Set, who has been generous with us, and who killed all the other gods. But you must not stay long—we do not wish to mix with other folk.”

  “We cannot proceed by way of the river,” said Akhenaten.

  “Everyone watches the river,” said the old woman, “especially if there are fugitives at large. Your only choice is to move from village to village, until you vanish into the northern reaches.”

  “And how can we do that?”

  “Why don’t you purchase a couple of mules? Have you got the money for that?”

  Akhenaten was silent. He looked questioningly at Ka.

  “Well, then,” said the woman, “you’ll continue your journey on foot.”

  Ka got to his feet. He reached into his belt and drew out a little bundle of worn cloth. It contained a few small nuggets—they were dirty, but their yellow color announced of what metal they were made. He offered them to the woman. “Will this suffice?” he asked.

  The woman’s eyes flashed. “But they are stained with dried blood!” she said.

  “Be that as it may,” Ka replied, “they are gold. Meat of the gods.”

  The following day, as they were loading food supplies onto two donkeys and preparing to resume their journey, Akhenaten asked about the bloodstained gold pieces. “They are my master’s teeth,” replied Ka indifferently. “I extracted them from his mouth—he had no need of them anyway.”

  The days of traveling continued, night blending into day, the unending cycle of existence: each evening the sun boats departed from the sky and left it empty for the glittering stars who were the daughters of Tuut. At this time the cold winds set in motion by the wings of the falcon Horus blew upon them. The farther they got from Thebes, the safer Akhenaten felt. They made stops in small villages. Sometimes they plucked unripe fruit from the fields; sometimes farmers took pity on them and provided a loaf of wheat or barley bread. This was the meal they always expected, for bread is the food of farmers, Pharaohs, and gods alike. Akhenaten recalled how, when he became Pharaoh, among the most important acts in the ceremony of his enthronement had been the distribution of bread to everyone, followed by a visit to the temple to divide a loaf of bread with the goddess Hathor, for a bridge between the world of men and that of the gods was formed when the two entities shared morsels of the same loaf. But now their moments of satiety were rare. Especially as the mountain drew in from the edge of the river and the wastelands closed around them, hunger was constant.

  The mountains of Ament, rocky formations evocative of sorrow, came into view. Their foothills had borne witness to the clash of the gods; behind these rocks the sun first hid its face, and then there was no more light until Osiris was sent forth. Boats ceaselessly plied the river, transporting guards and angry priests who watched the riverbanks with their searching eyes. Akhenaten and Ka stayed hidden for days before resuming their journey. Now small islands appeared in the middle of the river, each of them a submerged part of Osiris’s body, around which silt and water moss had collected—in this way had the perennially fertile islands been formed. Around them circled the crocodiles that devour sinful hearts, and hippopotamuses, with their huge, yawning maws.

  Where the watchful mountain receded a bit, papyrus plants grew at higher elevations, a sign of life in the face of waste and desolation. The land was swathed in green, and the lowing of the sacred cows could be heard—a gift of the gods. The body of the goddess Hathor had been transformed into a cow, and the gods had sent cows down from the heavens, distributing them generously to the farmers who toiled throughout the valley.

  The two travelers did not always depend on donations of food—rather they would recompense the farmers by setting to work with them—digging small canals, building dams, and clearing the irrigation ditches of plant matter that sucked away the water. In the moments before sunset Akhenaten would observe the herons as, invariably, they turned northward toward the mouth of the river, like unsettled spirits seeking a place of permanent rest.

  When they had collected enough food, they would move on. They passed heaps of mud brick, limestone quarries, and pottery workshops. They would not sleep anywhere but beneath the shade of a sycamore: the tree of life, which gave shelter to all fugitives and kept beasts of prey at a distance. No dreams came, but there were unremitting nightmares. Akhenaten learned not to fear the wolves, but to be at ease with their voices in the dark of night. The long journey had left them scruffy and dirty, obscuring their features to the point where no one troubled to look at their faces anymore. Gypsies seized the mules, and outlaws robbed them of whatever food they had. For long days they were tormented by hunger, but they managed to reach Dendera, where the god Ptah formed the first pottery clay. At one of the mud-brick dumps they found a place to work in exchange for enough food to stay alive, and shelter to keep them from the cold. Akhenaten was happy at this trade, for this mud was composed of all the constituents necessary for the formation of life, and could be transformed so as to take on the shapes of all creatures. He learned to mold the rough clay before firing it, and to paint it after it had been baked. The artisans were confined to the colors applied by the ancient god—green, like the verdant fields, background for a picture of the snake Uto, who suckled Horus in his infancy; and red—like the color of the Nile when it surged in readiness for the flood. Akhenaten realized, as he mingled with all the people amongst whom they passed—farmers, shepherds, builders, carpenters, and even Gypsies and bandits—that he was, like them, made of clay, and not from the light of Osiris, as he had once been wrongly taught. Time lost its rhythm for him, as the trades in which he engaged blended into one another—he thought he might walk the road forever. He was changing, his hands growing both rougher and more dexterous. His fingers grew broader, clever at grasping implements, like all craftsmen. Now he recognized the value of the hand depicted by artists upon the temples, and why the sun’s rays were represented as the fingers of a human hand. His protruding belly had withdrawn into itself and grown firmer; his legs were straighter. He had become proficient at working in various handicrafts, and at negotiating the balance between days of hunger and days of satiety, as well as sleeping in the open, or else in the shadow of a boulder.

  When they reached the city of Abydos, Akhenaten knew he was near the end of his travels. He entered the city’s enormous temple, presided over by statues of the jackal-headed god, guardian of the dead. Jackals had cavorted around him throughout the journey; now a young priest assured him that the actual head of Osiris was buried in this place, that a jackal served as its protector from the gods of wickedness, and that people by the hundreds made pilgrimages here on every special occasion. Akhenaten approached the spot the priest had pointed out to him, and seated himself before it, trembling.

  “I do not hate you,” he whispered. “I am not powerful enough for that. You are not the evil god, Amun—you have suffered greatly and paid a high price for your godliness, with all the parts of your body scattered far and wide throughout Egypt. What sort of country demands the dismemberment of its gods before it can calm itself?”

  On they went, and suddenly the forest of silver leaves emerged from the shadows and stood before them, as well as the vast lake, still as a solitary heart. Akhenaten could smell Akhetaten before he saw it: the lime and mortar that had lingered in his nostrils before . . . he didn’t know how many days ago. He was confident that if he walked the streets of the city now, no one would recognize him, with his tanned skin, the heavy beard obscuring his features, and the lamentable state of his clothing. He would have to reassemble the fragments of himself.

  The stone wall of the city appeared in the distance, surmounted by torches whose flames flickered in the night breeze. Akhenaten signaled to hi
s companion to halt, feeling that he dared not enter the city now. He must recover his breath, which seemed spent, after such a long time on the run.

  “The city has surely locked its gates,” he said. “Let us spend the night beneath its walls.”

  Ka, who did not see the use of waiting, said, “I don’t believe you are fleeing this city as well!”

  Akhenaten leaned against a tree and calm began to settle over him. He studied his roughened hands and his broad feet with their fissured skin. He felt he no longer needed any god. He had been right when he believed in the sun that engulfed him as it did everyone else, but he would not allow anything to enslave him.

  “Throughout this journey,” said Akhenaten, “you have not asked me who I am. Neither did I tell you, for I knew you would not believe me. I am the Pharaoh of this city, Pharaoh of this whole country!”

  Ka stared at him, astonished. He didn’t know whether Akhenaten spoke in earnest or whether he was teasing him. “I knew,” he said, “that you were a person of some rank, for I did not see the brand of slavery upon you, or the ruggedness of a farmer. But now you go too far—the Pharaoh is a god, not a helpless human, a fugitive!”

  “Perhaps you are right about that, but it will not be much longer before you know that I speak the truth.”

  “If you are truly Pharaoh, then let us approach the gates of the city, so that you can call to the guards to open them for us.”

  “I’ll not enter my city in such a state. All I ask of you is that you follow me for what is left of this journey. It is the last gamble you will risk: to remain a slave fleeing death, or to become the faithful subject of a Pharaoh.”

  Ka looked at him, his eyes flashing. There was no gamble, for he had nothing to lose. They would go forward, together to the end.

  They walked on, toward the city walls. Akhenaten trembled with longing, imagining himself pressing his lips at last to Nefertiti’s long neck, clasping his daughters in his embrace and burying his face in their hair. He would be the first person to enter the city, with the earliest light of day, amid vendors, farmers, construction workers, and servants. He would go at once, before anyone saw him, to her wing of the palace, and take her and the girls in his arms, concluding this episode of his life without rancor or vengefulness.

  Suddenly, they stood still, hearing the sound of heavy breathing penetrate the quiet of the night. They turned about, each grasping his staff—having lived together through such moments as this many a time, they had learned well to stand back-to-back and resist whatever came. A little spot of light glowed, a twinkling of false stars; a rancid smell arose and there was a faint roaring sound, but the wolves did not appear. Still, the travelers had entered the wolves’ domain, and they must leave it at once. They began to walk away, but saw a tiny creature huddled beneath a tree—the diminutive ghost of a strange animal. It moved, rose, and stood upon its feet: another illusion from the mirage of the forest. A sound came from it, not a bestial howl, but something between a whimper and an entreaty, weak and feeble, containing nothing of that animal tension. They exchanged glances, mystified. It was a small child, naked, frail and emaciated, with a dirty face from which none of its features could be discerned but two gleaming eyes. He stood holding out his arms pleadingly, still making that odd cry. What had brought him to this place? And why hadn’t the wolves devoured him? Was he a wolf under enchantment?

  Before they could resolve to be on their way, the light of the moon revealed the shapes of the wolves surrounding them in a great circle, mouths gaping and tongues lolling. They stayed where they were, standing back-to-back, fearful that any movement on their part might rouse the creatures, but the wolves, in any case, closed in on them slowly, until they could see their wide eyes and their sharp teeth. Akhenaten and Ka brandished their sticks, and as the beasts howled and charged, Akhenaten wielded his stick and struck one of them on the head—he had grown skilled at aiming blows, at maneuvers, at defending himself. The wolves, however, did not retreat, but took up the attack once more. He felt one of them sink its claws into his leg, and he struck at it without mercy. Then he heard Ka’s voice saying faintly, “My staff’s broken.”

  “Look for a tree branch, quickly!” he shouted, as the circle of wolves closed in. He realized that his back was now unprotected—Ka had fallen to the ground, and at once two wolves had pounced upon him. He cried out, trying to fend off their teeth, as Akhenaten turned and began striking his two assailants. But all the wolves set upon the fallen man, raking him with their claws and teeth. They held fast, unwilling to relinquish their prey without a fight. Akhenaten, however, was striking out at them in a frenzy of blows, and so they redirected some of their ferocity toward him, swift and agile in their assault. He was no longer that pampered Pharaoh, who withdrew and fled—he did not withdraw—it was the wolves who withdrew. They left the prostrate form, turned tail, and fled. It was his first victory, but it came very dear, for here was the body of Ka, flung down upon the ground and covered in blood. Akhenaten placed his hand upon him—he was shuddering and gasping for breath, and Akhenaten did not know what to do. He drew aside the rags that covered Ka’s chest; there were wounds and teeth marks all over him. “You’ll be all right, my friend,” he said gently, “and we’ll go to my city.”

  Ka smiled through his pallor, but still his body shuddered in unbearable pain. He closed his eyes. Akhenaten waited for him to open them again, but this he did not do; he shook his friend cautiously, but there was no response. Death had pursued him all the way from Thebes, and in this spot it had overtaken him at last.

  Akhenaten heard a whimper beside him: the little creature was staring at him. He gazed back at him until he was certain that it really was a human child. Then he brushed away the dirt that obscured his features, and his fingers encountered a bit of spittle smeared around his mouth. It was still sticky—could the child have been nursing? Could it be that the wolves had been suckling him? How long had he been here, and how old was he now?

  He looked at the still form that lay upon the ground. Had he surrendered his spirit? And had Atun sent another in its place?

  Akhenaten stood up and began gathering fallen leaves, which he spread over Ka’s body, laid out lifeless at his feet, until it was completely covered. Then he sat beside Ka for a while. The creature sat down, too, and silence fell over everything. Moments from that strange journey passed before Akhenaten’s eyes—the fear, the hunger, the constant wariness. How was it possible that they had slept side by side, and eaten from the same bowl—the slave returned from the dead and the heretic Pharaoh?

  The horizon grew pale, and the torches atop the city walls were extinguished. He stood up, and with a final farewell glance he took the hand of the strange little being, who murmured contentedly, closing his little fingers around the Pharaoh’s hand. Akhenaten soon discovered that the child could not walk normally, so he picked him up and carried him toward Akhetaten’s walls.

  They entered the city with the first light of dawn, amid a group of construction workers, street cleaners, and farm women from the villages, who were carrying vegetables, eggs, and fowl. There was nothing in the Pharaoh’s appearance, nor in that of the skinny, naked child, to arouse suspicion. Akhenaten carried the child through the nearly empty city streets, through stillness without color or life, in the hours before the sun intensified. Why was the city waking up so late? There were many black-clad women sitting beside the wall, as if in a state of perpetual waiting. Some old women leaned feebly upon canes; few guards kept watch over the walls, and still fewer were stationed before the Pharaoh’s palace. Everything was mournful. The little boy rested upon his shoulder, overcome by sleep; it seemed he was mute, incapable of any human speech. The Pharaoh attempted to climb the marble stairs, but he was stopped by a guard, who looked him over with obvious disgust. He would allow no beggars near the palace. In an effort to get the guard to recognize him, he made him scrutinize his face, but he was odd-looking and he smelled bad, and the guard pointed a spear at his ches
t and told him to be off. So he withdrew, and seated himself beside the old women and beggars, who were waiting for charity from the luminaries who entered the Pharaoh’s palace. The sun rose higher. The child awoke hungry and looked at him beseechingly, then stuck his fingers in his mouth. Akhenaten looked back at him—what could he do?

  A group of servants emerged from the palace carrying a large tray laden with loaves of bread. The beggars and old women surged forward, as the servants tried to establish order amid the jostling crowd, so that each person would receive his share. But the mendicants knew that the number of loaves was always smaller than that of the hungry. Akhenaten spied the minister by the name of Ai, standing at some distance and watching as the bread was distributed. He remembered putting Ai in charge of this task. His chance had come at last. Taking hold of the child, the Pharaoh rose to his full height, thrust out his chest, and advanced confidently toward the minister, ignoring the spears of the guards, which were pointed at him. Alarmed, Ai stared at him. Then he peered into his face, stunned, his mouth open in astonishment as he heard the Pharaoh say imperiously, “Make way for me to enter my palace, Ai.”