“Isis said no. After fourteen years in the company of Anubis, she was weary of the ugliness one feels when obliged to look every day at a dull face. The vanity of Isis in this hour was greater than Her loyalty to Horus. So, She would only offer the simple sacrifice of the bull, and when the funeral was done, and Osiris rose, They returned across the storms to the new court of the Ka of Osiris where They would raise Their son to confront Set in the wars to come.
“Now, since Set’s powers had been reduced, the heat of His wrath no longer scorched the earth. After the yearly flood, Egypt flowered into so many oases that they grew together into forests, and Horus, conceived on the open sea, prospered in this damp climate, and grew powerful in His ungainly way. If His shoulders took on the strength of a bear, He moved nonetheless like an ape. Bent over weak legs, His sense of well-being was strong only in the trees, or down by the exhalations of the swamp. Yet, even at such agreeable times, He did not smile. For as He grew, Horus directed every thought toward the increase of His strength. Laughter, for instance, He did not permit Himself. It relaxed His muscles, and thereby allowed too much force to return to the earth.”
Here, my great-grandfather’s voice came nearer to me, and we traveled together in the thoughts of Horus as He brooded on the weakness of His lower limbs, and listened to the talk of war. If many thought the battle should take place between Osiris and Set, the Gods, after some debate, concluded that Osiris was too valuable to be lost. The Ka, being only one of the seven souls and spirits of the living, is outnumbered by just such a proportion of seven to one for any test of might.
Of course, some Gods argued there should be no contest at all because Set was unworthy. He looked like a brigand. He had grown heavy, and His red hair and red face were choleric. His skin was the color of a boil, His beard the hue of dark blood. There were ulcers on His face and hands, and veins in the bulb of His nose. His strength was fearsome, but as foul as His sweat was His breath since He drank nothing but wine that came from profane grapes. Indeed, He cultivated vines grown from the blood of thieves so foolhardy as to have robbed a temple, after which the thieves were devoured by a herd of lions at their own oasis. Now, when Set drank of this vine grown from ground moist with thieves’ blood, His breathing had the sounds of a storm. He ate the meat of the wild boar and left its juice on His fingers in order that His hands should never slip from a weapon. He lived in old skins whose scent was so repulsive that His servants deserted Him one by one to swear loyalty to Horus. Even His favorite mistress, Puanit, got up from His body one night, washed in the Nile, and set out for the camp of Horus. Set, on awakening, went to follow her, but became so drunk He fell asleep in the mud and returned home looking filthier than ever (as if Geb had been indeed His father). Word came back of Puanit’s exploits among Horus’ men, and Set was now ridiculed by His few remaining servants. Puanit described the boils on His bottom as fiercer than the sores of His face. She spoke of His testicles as slack, and only referred to Set by the contemptible name, Smu. All the while she made every attempt to seduce Horus, even declaring herself ready to lick His feet. The God’s toes, she promised, would be more nimble for the approaching battle.
Set started a fire of dead vines from the grove of His profane grapes, and took the flame into His lungs. Then He blew this fire over the wine, and was thereby intoxicated to a degree greater than He had known before. In the force of this drunkenness, He was ready for war, and left to seek Horus.
There, in the other camp, Osiris was asking His son, as He asked each morning, “What is the most noble act You can perform?”
“It is,” said Horus, “to avenge My Father and Mother for the evil done to Them.”
Then Osiris took Horus through exercises to strengthen His legs. Horus attempted, for example, to strangle an animal between His thighs (although so far He had done no better than to wrench the neck of a calf).
On this morning, Osiris asked a new question. “Which animal is the most useful for combat?”
“A horse,” said Horus.
“Why not a lion?” asked Osiris.
“If I needed assistance, I would think of a lion, but I want an animal to carry Me in pursuit of Set once He runs away.”
“You are ready,” said Osiris. “Before this, there was little question in My mind about the outcome, but now I know My Son will be Lord of the Living.” And He promised a horse if the need should arise for pursuit. Then Osiris told Him to wait for Set in the open plain outside the walls of Memphi and try to lure Him into the swamp where neither would have footing. That way, the contest could depend on the strength of Their arms. In a great atmosphere of confidence, Horus went off to meet His uncle. At the last moment, Isis even gave Him the withered thumb of Set She had used to guide Her through the swamp. This thumb, She informed Her son, could extricate Him from one great trial, so He must wait to use it wisely.
Menenhetet looked at me, however, as if dissatisfied.
“What is wrong,” he asked, “with the training of Horus?”
“In it, I don’t find,” I replied, “any of the divine intelligence of Osiris.”
“It is not present,” agreed Menenhetet. “Osiris doesn’t seem vengeful. Secretly, I will tell you that He is not fond of Horus. The boy is void of charm.
“Moreover, Isis is bored these days. She speaks fiercely to the youngest Gods. (Revered by everyone as the noblest wife of all, the pleasures of flirtation are closed.) While She thinks Her son is a dank and solemn monotony of strength, She must pretend to enthusiasm for His mission.
“Horus, in His turn, is ignorant of His parents’ feelings. His life is so empty of interest that He knows only that He has not much desire to become Lord of the Living. When His exercise is done, His mind is empty.
“Yet, in the camp of Horus, not one servant or warrior dares to speak of disaster. The most obvious difficulties won’t be discussed. Horus, for example, is utterly innocent of the sentiments of real combat. He does not know how panic can swallow the mind when facing a deadly man. He has not seen the eye of that opponent! Besides, the camp has been disrupted by Puanit. If, in preparation for battle, there is any mood worse than false confidence, it is carnal mischief. The most sensible exercise for Horus is to concentrate upon His legs. Instead, He is twitching with unaccustomed pleasure at the thought His toes might soon be licked.
“Well, They meet on the field Osiris has suggested, in what are now the gardens about the Temple of Ptah, but then it was only the edge of an unnamed marsh, and the followers of Horus and the few remaining servants of Set came together and formed a great circle about the two warriors. Thoth, Osiris, Isis, Nephthys, and four other Gods appeared to serve as judges.
“In that circle all waited, and Horus stared at Set across a distance of twenty paces. A silence descended into the grove, and it lasted until the moment Horus could not bear to wait longer, and took out His sword, a sound of withdrawal as noisy in this quiet as a snake crossing a bed of shells, and Set’s breath was as hoarse in reply as if combat had commenced. Yet when He removed His sword from the scabbard it was with the quick and whistling sound of a blade well drawn, and They moved then toward each other, but slowly, the air filled with caution.” Here my great-grandfather extended an arm as if to share this combat with me, and again I could see what he saw.
Now Horus and Set came into reach. When each slammed a sword against the other’s blade, the advantage was to Horus. His arms were stronger—that was clear from the shock to both—and His hands were fast. The smell of Set grew rank with the sweat of twice-fortified wine. Aware that the power He took from His grapes might soon evaporate, He went on attack, looking to confuse Horus with rapid moves from side to side, but His attack was soon worn out by these exertions. Set drew back a step. Each tried to stir, each man searched for breath. Each was wondering whether the other was as quickly used-up as Himself. Now, They continued by the quiver of an elbow, or the inclination of a knee, just out of distance of each other.
Horus began to fee
l as if Set’s exhaustion was greater than His own. Were Set’s responses as slow as they seemed? Horus flung His shield. Sudden as that. There was Set without a sword. And His skin was close to the purple of old meat. He took a step backward, then another, and in that instant Horus lunged to take Him through the heart, a clumsy move. A warrior as old as Set was not to be finished so simply. He ducked under, caught Horus by a leg, and gave a twist to drop Him. Then Set smashed His shield into Horus’ unprotected face. The blow shattered the nose of the boy, and drove His teeth through His lips. His sword leaped out of His hand. Set kicked it away, whereupon Horus seized the shield of Set, hurled it, and missed. Now, both were unarmed.
Horus’ face was like the disembowelment you see on a battlefield. Still He came forward to close with Set. But the older man stepped back and took off His breastplate so that He might be more comfortable when grappling. Horus did the same. In another minute, both were naked. Since each, for His separate reasons, wished to fight in the marsh, They were soon off the field and into the swamp. But as They entered the mud, Set turned to all who were watching and revealed a mighty erection. It stood out like a branch strong enough for a man to climb upon. Even the followers of Horus offered up their approbation, for it was a mark of great merit to have an erection in combat. That spoke of true bravery since combat was obviously His desire.
To show agreement, Menenhetet now separated his robes to show his own phallus. I might as well have been struck with the shield of Set. For Menenhetet presented a stout knob and shaft. I pretended not to notice, but began to feel as fatigued as if I were in combat myself, and my lungs and liver shook, a curious remark if my Ka (like any other) was without the substance of liver and lungs, but then I realized that my Canopic jars were vibrating at my feet.
“You are nearer to a comprehension of Khert-Neter,” murmured my great-grandfather, and covered his thighs.
“Contemplate the shame for Horus,” he said. “Having been shown once to the Gods with His smashed face, He was now twice exposed. His lower powers were puny. ‘Look upon the future God of the Living,’ cried Set and threw a handful of mud into Horus’ face. Blinded, Horus in a vertigo of elbows and knees went tumbling over a stump into the swamp water. Immediately, Set pushed Horus’ head and shoulders into the muck. Now, the boy’s arms had to be used to keep His nose above the water. His weak legs were up behind Him on the stump. Down between His buttocks rammed the hard phallus of Set, and ohhhh,” said Menenhetet, “what an entrance! Lava was ready to boil. The Nile prepared to froth. Isis turned paler than Her bark of papyrus, and Osiris became transparent again. A scream went up from Horus like the wail of a mortal boy, while Set was throbbing with pride. As He held the separate cheeks in His separate hands, He singed the boy’s shoulders with the fire of His breath, and made ready to take entrance. No God dared to speak if Horus was to be cleaved. For this wasn’t a buggery like the sports of your boyhood where one coward inches up the lost resistance of another. Here was one of the Great Gods entering that male womb where time is buried.”
“Womb …?” I stammered.
“In Khert-Neter,” said Menenhetet, “there is a river of feces deep as a pit. Across it, the dead must swim. The Ka of all but the wisest, most prepared, or most courageous, will expire in that river, weeping for their mother. They have forgotten how they came out of her. Between piss and shit are we born, and in water do we die the first time, slipping off to death on the release of our waters. But the second death is in the full pits of the Duad. Do I sit before you and fart? Do you smell every odor of the constipated, the gluttonous, the sulphurous, the caustic, the fermentative, the infectious, the rotten, the corrupt, the putrescent? It is because I had to swim the river of feces, and succeeded in crossing only at a great price. The spirit of human excrement is now in the breath of my Ka, which is to say, in my emotions, and in my irregular courtesy. Small wonder that every disproportion is also in my manner, yes, every happiness that was interrupted, every injustice to an honest endeavor, as well as all the squandered seeds of tender love that found no root, and this is not even to speak of energetic lust when it has no place to go but to the coils of one’s digestion (although much of such lust turns to piss) enough! You have no gift for your trip to Khert-Neter if you do not comprehend that shame and waste may be buried in shit, but so is many a rich and tender sentiment as well. How then can this cauldron of emotion be no more than a burial chamber? Is it not also part of the womb of all that is yet to come? Is not part of time reborn, by necessity, in shit? Where else can be found those unresolved passions which—frustrated, unworked, or, by their stench, maniacal—must now labor twice as hard to germinate the future?”
He had never been this eloquent, nor as elegant in his appearance. I could no longer see the dust of his pores in the glow these words gave to his skin. Out of the lines of his wrinkles came a play of light. Yet the finer he looked, the more I was ready to distrust him. His language had too powerful an effect on me. I was now aroused and by the sweetest turnings of sex; my belly was as sentimental as a flower, and my buttocks in honey—I had never felt so agreeable before. Was this the power and pleasure of a woman? Whatever had become of my pride in a phallus as dependable as my arm? To go soft before these hymns to the sinuosities of shit! It used to be legitimate, if a filthy habit, to jam the force of one’s own cock into the ass of any friend (or enemy) weak enough to take it, a way of measuring ourselves, but nonetheless! every mark of a noble Egyptian was his detestation of such dirt. The smell of the mud was too close to our lives—our white linen spoke of the distance we maintained from such subjects, the whiter the better. So were our walls white, and the complexion of our Gods when we painted Them. So were our noses most distinguished when they turned up nicely. Yet here was Menenhetet seducing my attention with the glories of this repulsive topic.
“You are dead,” he said, “and the first shock is that your mind will now seek to appreciate what formerly it despised. If I have survived it is because I overcame all sense of abhorrence in swimming the Duad.” He was now so gentle that into my sweet arousal came an unexpected tenderness for Menenhetet, the first I had felt. That gave a sense of rest. I needed to like someone other than myself! But as if my great-grandfather had no need of my good feelings, he went back without warning to his account of Set’s attempt to bugger Horus.
“Did He succeed?” asked Menenhetet. And replied, “Not at this time, not here. Horus still owned, we must remember, the old thumb of Set that Isis tied into the thick hair of His head. Now, head down, the bolt of Set riding on His sphincter, He knew that if He did not escape, the Land of the Dead might yet be carved out of His bowels. So, He reached up a hand, tore out a gout of hair to free the thumb, and waved it in the air. Set’s erection was lost. Abruptly Set’s penis was as small as His amputated thumb, and Horus, in a tempest (at last!) of godly fury at what almost had been done to Him, seized the testicles of Set with such force that the calm of the heavens was forever disturbed. The sudden noise of a squall is equal to the fury with which Set struck back at Horus’ brow, and the young man’s face was soon hideous, His eyes half uprooted. He looked like a hippopotamus.
“On this moment, they entered a new form of battle. While transformations are common in godly war, and the Gods seek to be artful in Their choice, still, They must also be ready to take up the form of any beast They come, willy-nilly, to resemble. So, when Set tore the eyes of Horus half out of His head and gave Him the expression of a hippopotamus, Horus was obliged to turn into that unfamiliar creature.
“They fought then in a bog, hippopotamus against hippopotamus, with grunts, hoarse slaverings, and atrocious roars, Their limbs so short and sturdy that when each got a leg of the other in His throat, the spectacle became as obscene as the sight of hogs suckling in a trough.
“Yet the judges were not disgusted. This part of the battle was expected to thrash in the mires, and gather up the repulsions of the atmosphere, drain the swamps, and flush the filth of the Nile. It woul
d have been a great purification if it had gone on, but Set called a halt. The slime of Their bodies had begun to excite Him. He was losing ferocity too quickly. Set had assumed that Horus, being younger, would be rendered anxious by such slippery contact, but to Horus, this steaming intimacy was gloomy. He wanted His teeth in Set—none of this slithering of torsos—He strained for that luminous instant when the rage of your effort can taste the blood of the other. His lower teeth protruded, His nostrils drew together, His skin in repudiation of such oily struggle grew bristles. His lower teeth were like tusks. He had changed into a wild boar.
“Applause came to Him from the Gods Who watched. It was daring to choose the animal most like Set, and brilliant to select such a transformation now rather than to let Set choose it for the end. Horus could hardly have done better. Was there another hour of His life when He was more of a wild boar? He and Set came charging out of the marsh and ran up and down the field, slashing into each other’s flanks, biting ferociously, sobbing and shrieking, carving wounds into one another until a spray of blood flew off each time They came together with a crash.
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