Ancient Evenings

by Norman Mailer

Now, in the darkness, by the bank of the lake, Heqat said, “In Syria, to the east of Tyre, the brides of many men are bought at auction. The most beautiful bring a good price to their family, but for ugly women in whom there is no interest, the father of the bride must pay the groom. So there comes an hour in the auction, when the passage of money changes its course, even as the tides of the Very Green wash out and then wash back. Much money is paid by the father of the ugliest bride.”

  The story had succeeded in capturing Him. There were murmurs from the little queens. “It happened,” said Heqat, “that one woman was so ugly her new husband grew ill when he looked at her. Yet soon after her marriage, she was befriended in a dream by the Goddess Astarte. Good and Great God, our Astarte is the most beautiful of all Goddesses in the temples of my land, and we even say that She is to us as Isis to the Egyptians. Now, Astarte said, ‘I am bored by beauty. I find it common. So I take notice of you, poor ugly girl, and offer these words-of-magic. They will protect your husband and sons from every disease but the one chosen to kill them.’ Then Astarte disappeared. The husband of this ugly woman, however, grew so rich in vigor that he made love to his ugly wife every night and they had many children who were also healthy. When at last the husband died of the one disease chosen to kill him, the woman asked to be auctioned again. By this time her power to enrich those who lived closest to her was so well known that she commanded the highest price at the auction. More was paid for her than for the loveliest bride. Thereby, every principle of beauty was turned about on that day. Now, in my land, they cannot tell the good-looking women from the ugly, and they honor long crooked noses.”

  She bowed. Her tale was done. A few of the little queens began to giggle, but Honey-Ball commenced to laugh. Her mirth came from a powerful throat, yet the sound was so rich at its foundation and spoke so well of the recollection of old pleasure, that Menenhetet thought it beautiful.

  “Have more kolobi,” said Usermare. “Take a good swallow. Your tale is next.”

  Honey-Ball bowed. Her waist was as thick as the waist of any two women beside her, but she bowed well enough to touch her knee.

  “I have heard of a Goddess,” she said, “who has rose-colored hair. None know Her name.”

  “I would like to see such a Goddess,” said Usermare. His voice was as powerful as her voice.

  “Great Ozymandias,” she said, and there was mockery as delicate as the lift of a wing in the manner she spoke the name for it was the one by which nations to the East would call Him, “if You were to see this rose-colored Goddess, You would hold Her, and then She would be a Goddess no more, but a woman like any of us.”

  The little queens giggled with great happiness. The insult was safely contained in the compliment, and Usermare could only reply, “Tell your tale, Hippo, before I give a squeeze to your belly, and the banks of this lake are covered with oil.”

  “A million and infinity of apologies,” said Honey-Ball, “for delaying Your amusement. Oh, Great Ozymandias, the skin of this Goddess with rose-colored hair was white, and so She loved to lie in a marsh by the green of the wet marsh grass. There came one day a shepherd who was also beautiful, and stronger than other men. He wanted Her as soon as he saw Her, but She said, ‘First you must wrestle in My pool.’ He said, thinking to tease Her, ‘What if I lose?’ Oh, She told him, he must give Her a sheep if he lost. The shepherd seized Her hair, and pulled Her to him. Her head smelled as sweet as the rose, but his hands were trapped by the thorns in Her hair. So She seized him by the thighs and threw him, and sat on his head. Then he discovered thorns in the hair of the other forest. Oh, his mouth was bleeding before She let him go. He had to give Her a sheep. Next day, he came to fight again, and lost, and gave up another animal. He fought every day until his flock was gone, and his lips were a sorry mouth.”

  Now, Honey-Ball began to laugh and could not stop. The power of her voice, like the first rising of our flood, had a strength to pull in all that was on the banks. One by one, other little queens began to laugh, and then the eunuchs, until all were sharing the spirits of this story.

  Maybe it was the kolobi, or it could have been the whim of the King, but when the merriment of the little queens did not cease, He, too, began to laugh and drank half a goblet, and passed what was left to Honey-Ball. “Ma-Khrut,” He said, “you are True-of-Voice indeed,” and by the way I heard it through Menenhetet’s ear, resonant as a bell, I knew that Ma-Khrut had been her name in the days when she was slender and beautiful, and that caused my mother, my father, and my own Pharaoh to utter a small cry of astonishment in their thoughts, for as I now learned, Ma-Khrut is a title given only to the greatest and wisest of priests, only those who are most True-of-Voice, those who utter the sounds of the most profound prayers in the clearest and firmest tones (since in that manner they are able to send back in recoil, like an army in flight, all Gods who might interfere with the prayer). Only High Priests are granted such a title of respect. Yet here was Honey-Ball given the name of Ma-Khrut. It could only mean She-who-is-True-of-Voice.

  “Usermare-Setpenere,” said Honey-Ball, “if I speak with clarity, it is because of the awe I know at the sounds of Your name.”

  The little queens murmured their assent. Their piety was added to the mist on the lake. To pronounce the many names of Usermare in the most immaculate tones was said to be a power great enough to rock the earth.

  “That is good,” said Usermare. “I hope you always say My name with care. I would hate to cut off the toe of your other foot.”

  One of the little queens gasped so unexpectedly she could be heard. The others ceased to laugh. Honey-Ball turned her head as if slapped. Still, she murmured, “Oh, Sesusi, I will become twice as fat.”

  “No bed in the House of the Secluded will then be strong enough to bear you,” He told her.

  “Then there will be no bed,” she answered, and her eyes flashed again. Menenhetet was much affected. Her presence on this night was so different from other occasions when she was merely fat and limped about on feet sore from her weight. Tonight, ensconced on a gold bench, for the golden chairs were much too narrow, she seemed massive, yet majestic as a Queen, at least in this hour.

  “Tell another story,” said Usermare, “and tell it well”

  “Why, if I do not, Great Ozymandias,” she said, “I will of my own choice give up a finger.” A few of the little queens could not help themselves, and laughed aloud at her audacity, most of all Nubty, the little goddess of gold, who had been given such a name because lately she had taken to wearing blond wigs, which is to say, hair from a lynx dusted in gold, and all said it was to encourage the Pharaoh to see her as like to Rama-Nefru when He was among the Secluded.

  “Make this story long,” said Usermare. “I like long stories better.”

  “There is one that tells of two magicians,” said Honey-Ball. Her speech was like a wind that holds birds motionless in flight, just so full was it with the sound of her voice. “The first to know is Horus of the North. Before he was even born, he was allowed to sleep at the feet of Osiris.

  “The other magician was called Horus of the South. He was black. He had been given his name by Nubian priests who stole many rolls of papyrus from the Temple of Amon at the First Cataract. Back to the jungle they took this knowledge and practiced for a thousand years until they were very wise. Then they became the teachers of the black magician, Horus of the South, until he left for Thebes to frighten the Pharaoh.”

  “Which Pharaoh?” asked Usermare.

  “Great Beloved of the Sun, I cannot say, or I will bring misfortune upon Egypt.”

  He looked furious but did not dare to insist. “Tell your story, Ma-Khrut. I will see if I am happy when you are done.”

  In the darkness, one white butterfly came over the heads of the women on a wandering flight, and the silence was so profound upon the lake that I thought I could hear the flutter of its wings.

  “On his way to the Court, across all of the distance from the jungle of Nubia to Th
ebes, this Horus of the South took care each night to take a papyrus from his book of magic and dissolve it in wine. Then he would drink, and the magic words written on the papyrus would travel to the interior of his thoughts. Thereby, Horus of the South grew impregnable with wisdom. By the day he appeared at the Palace it could be said of Horus of the South that the lights in his eye had the Secret Name of Ra. Yet when he knocked on the door to the Twin-Gates, a charioteer was there to arrest him. For many witnesses had run forward in advance to say that the strange Nubian who approached had the odor of sorcery. That was true. One cannot swallow too many words-of-magic without reeking of roots and rocks.”

  “I like this story,” said Usermare.

  “Horus of the South said to the guard, ‘No bonds will hold me.’ He raised a finger, and the cord that lashed his wrists broke into many pieces that scurried away like worms.”

  “Did you see it?” asked Usermare.

  “Great Lord, in my sleep, there I saw it.”

  Usermare drank more kolobi and expelled His breath. “Look,” He said, “at My magic. Even the white butterfly is singed by the fire of My mouth.” The butterfly, passing, most certainly wavered. The little queens giggled.

  Honey-Ball waited until her silence became more powerful than the sound of Usermare drinking His kolobi. Then, she said, “Since no cord could hold him, Horus of the South walked across the parade ground and said to the Pharaoh, ‘I am Horus of the South. I have come like a plague upon Egypt. No magician has strength against me. I will take You back to the Kingdom of Nubia and my people will laugh at You.’ ”

  “Aiiiiiigh,” shrieked one of the little queens, but Honey-Ball did not pause.

  “Before the Pharaoh could even reply, Horus of the North came out of the House of the Secluded, and said, ‘My magic is as powerful as this plague!’ The Pharaoh shook His Flail seven times to declare that He would like a contest between these magicians but His nobles begged Him to wait. They knew Horus of the North as the son of one of the little queens, no more. They had not seen him sleeping at the feet of Osiris in the Land of the Dead. But the Pharaoh knew,” said Honey-Ball, and all the little queens clapped their hands at His wisdom.

  “Horus of the South did not seem frightened, however. He held forth his empty hand, and, lo! a stick was in it. ‘Medu’ he said, ‘is the word for stick. It is also the word for word. Therefore I draw a magic word with this stick.’ He said all this in a great mumble: ‘Medu is the medu for medu, as is medu, medu. Whereby medu may beget medu.’ But with the point of his stick he drew a triangle. A flame rushed out and burned in the air with such a great noise that all of the Court drew back.” Now, Honey-Ball ceased speaking and looked most solemnly at Usermare before she continued.

  “Horus of the North, however, stood up and drew a circle about his Pharaoh. The flames drew back. Now, in the other hand of the magician of the North appeared a golden cup which held a little water. Horus of the North hurled those few drops into the air, and they came down as a mighty rain that put out the flames. Horus of the South was left as wet as the river that brought him here, but Horus of the North and his Pharaoh were dry. Yet, when all the nobles began to laugh, Horus of the South laughed back and most heartily, and without hesitation drew the rude figure of an anus in the air. That is a circle with spokes like the wheels of the chariots You have captured, great Usermare. It was dreadful! Into this circle came a mighty wind out of the terrible jungles from which this Nubian had come, and in it was the smell of all the foul wind expelled by the Nubian lords to show their contempt for the Court of the Pharaoh.” Despite themselves, a few of the little queens giggled, but Honey-Ball pretended not to have heard and went on.

  “In reply, Horus of the North waved the tip of his stick in upon itself like a spiral, and all the winds loosed by the Nubian were spun into a tight skein around the shaft. Poof! Horus of the North withdrew his stick from these braided winds, and the skein burst into flame.

  “Now Horus of the South showed his teeth, and his head became as ugly as a serpent. He said to the Pharaoh, ‘Hear me: Your Court will be Your tomb!’ and, with that, cast his stick into the air. At the height of the throw, the stick refused to come down, but floated overhead and spread out until it was like a great flat stone above. Now, Horus of the South said: “This roof will collapse and You will perish beneath unless You agree to come with me to the Land of Nubia.’

  “ ‘What will happen in Nubia?’ asked the Pharaoh.

  “ ‘My people will see You on Your knees.’

  “ ‘Then I will never go,’ said the Pharaoh.

  “ ‘Perish.’

  “In great fear, all waited for Horus of the North. He was pale, but the color of his eyes turned to silver, and he smiled under the shadow of the great stone roof that hid the sun. With a cry, he, too, threw his stick into the air. As they watched, it turned into a barge which rose upward until it came to rest beneath the great roof of stone, and then it heaved and groaned until it was able to raise the stone roof back into the sky.

  “Horus of the South now said three strange words. On the instant, he was invisible. It proved of no protection. At once, Horus of the North repeated the three words backwards, and Horus of the South was obliged to come forth again. Now, he was a black cock, his wings clipped. In such a situation, he could only utter the most terrible howls of lamentation.”

  “How did they bury him?” asked Usermare.

  “Oh, not yet, great Sesusi. Horus of the North called forth a soldier to cut off the part that lives between a cock’s legs. At this, Horus of the South made much commotion. He begged the Pharaoh to save the life between his legs.

  “ ‘I will save you,’ said the Pharaoh, ‘if by the balance of Maat, you agree to let me make eunuchs out of all Nubians I capture. Do you assign such rights to Me, and to the sons of My sons for a thousand years?’

  “Horus of the South wept. ‘I am lost,’ he cried out, ‘so all of Nubia is lost. Do what You will. I promise not to come back to Egypt for a thousand years.’ When the Pharaoh nodded, Horus of the North gave a sign. The cock grew feathers and flew away. But the leg between the legs of all captured Nubians was lost, and they learned to serve in the House of the Secluded for all Pharaohs to come.”

  “That is the truth,” said the eunuchs of the little queens, “that must be the true tale of how we are here,” and a sigh came up from them.

  “Is this the last of your story?” asked Usermare.

  “All but the last.” As if to show that many Gods were with her this night, whatever light could be found in the waning of the moon lay on her face, and the eyes and nose and mouth of Honey-Ball were beautiful, or at least would have been, if not surrounded by the full circle of her face, round as the moon. Within that face, however, her eyes were large and dark, her nose was most delicate, and her mouth was curved and very soft for so strong a woman.

  “What is the end?” asked Usermare.

  “Oh, great Sesusi,” said Honey-Ball, “since the time of which I speak, more than a thousand years have passed. Horus of the South may now be ready to return.”

  “If that is so, how can I find Horus of the North?” asked Usermare. He spoke lightly, but His voice was heavy with the kolobi.

  She shrugged. In the dark, the force of her gesture was felt in the air. “Let me offer a prayer to the Ka of Horus of the North. The great magician may wish to find his successor.”

  Now, it was no longer Honey-Ball’s voice I heard in my ear but Menenhetet’s. I sat up straight as if tugged by the hair. So deeply had I been listening to his thoughts, that his voice was now as startling as the cry of an animal next to your tent. “So soon as she spoke of a successor,” my great-grandfather most certainly said, “I began to shiver. In the warmth of the night, I was trembling. One little queen pointed to me, and cried out, ‘Why do you fear the story?’ I told her that I was not afraid, only cold. But I was afraid. Honey-Ball had looked at me more than once, and I had dared to look back into her eyes. A thought had c
ome then from her to me. It said: ‘I will teach you a little of these arts of magic.’ ”

  TWO

  Now that his voice had, however, risen again to the surface of his thoughts, my great-grandfather looked much refreshed, and began to muse aloud on several subtle matters.

  “In this hour of His drunkenness,” said my great-grandfather, “I think Usermare was much disturbed by that tale of two magicians. For, as You know, it was His belief He was going to be killed in the Gardens of the Secluded. Now to speak of how He was right about such a suspicion when it was not true, must prove confusing. He was never assassinated. Yet, by another measure I would say He was all-but-killed in this year, and I was the one to do it, even though, as we all know, He lived until He was very old, old-as-Ra-is-Ramses-the-Second, we used to say, and I was even a High Priest in the late years of His Reign. Indeed He died only a few years before my second life was lost. I still remember children saying at His funeral: ‘God is dead,’ and they wondered how the sun could shine. He was a Pharaoh for sixty-seven years. Yet after this night, even though He would reign for another thirty-four, I still do not think there was a season when Usermare did not fear the return of Horus of the South.

  “Of course, I did not know it that night. He showed no fear. To the contrary. If the story told by Honey-Ball had immediate power over my Monarch, it was to arouse His desire. One could almost feel the glow of His belly. It rose in my great Pharaoh like a fire beneath the fumes of kolobi. The eunuchs began to chant. Their hands struck their thighs with many little taps in a rhythm so quick I could hear the chirping of the crickets and the hooves of horses. One of these eunuchs even had a way of running his fingertips over his knees with a slipping sound to give you the patter of a brook or the slap of the smallest waves. To this accompaniment came forth many moths and butterflies from the dark and they flew in and out of our ears as if we were water-grass and they as numerous as little fish. Honey-Ball began to hum, and her voice was so resonant that once again I could not recognize the woman I saw. Other times, she had seemed without shape in her clothes, yet from the moment she came out of the water tonight, her body looked firm, and she was not without beauty. Like some who are fat, her flesh was slack in dejection, but could fill with blood when she was happy.