by Paula Guran
“A terrible eater,” said Ferhid. His tone was venomous. “A picky eater.”
“I can’t put my finger on exactly what it was about her,” said Miss Jackson. “But there were times when she was watching us, taking notes on everything we said and did, as if she knew what we really meant and we didn’t—there were times when I could have happily strangled her.”
So we were all glad to see the last of her. It didn’t mean she wasn’t missed. It was hard to go back to how we’d been before; it was hard to stop being irritated with everyone just because she wasn’t there asking us to be. There was a space left that no one else would fit inside. Ferhid kept setting her plate at the table for three days after she’d gone.
I’ve tried to tell all this as carefully as I could. Davis with the sunlight flashing off his spectacles. Miss Whitfield dipping her hand in the fountain. Mallick in his nightshirt. Ferhid’s smile. Miss Jackson kneeling before God’s face in the clouds. All that happened. All that was real. I’d rather you looked at that instead of at me. And yet here I am.
Some people are sensitive to exposure and some aren’t. Miss Whitfield left her mark on me, but took no mark in return. Miss Whitfield was the sort of person who could touch Tu-api’s skull, undisturbed, as it had been for centuries, and even move it and still not be changed by doing so. Me, I’ve always been the sensitive sort.
The night after Miss Whitfield’s departure I went again to Tu-api’s tomb. The silhouette of the ruined ziggurat shone in the moonlight. There was the hum of bugs; a dog barked sleepily in the distance; my footsteps thudded in the dust. The wind was cool and carried the smell of cooked chicken. My relief was enormous. The only reason I’d thought of murdering Miss Whitfield was that she was an awful woman who often talked about murder. There was nothing supernatural at work here; it was all perfectly normal, and everyone had felt the same.
The moon had risen, round as an opened rose. I walked away from it into the perfect darkness of the tomb. I owed Tu-api an apology. How could I ever have thought, even for a minute, that she’d curse me into murder? I begged for her forgiveness. It was the first time I’d spoken to her aloud.
She was not the only one listening. Gossipy Mallick had apparently told Patwin his suspicions regarding me and Miss Whitfield, and Patwin, being more discerning and trained to read puzzles far older and more mysterious than I, came upon the truth of it. He’d followed me, and when I spoke, he was the one who responded. “What’s this about?” he asked, and what could I possibly say?
“You can’t be coming here any more at night by yourself.” Patwin stepped toward me. “You can’t be thinking this way.” He took me by the arm. “Come back to bed.”
I let him lead me over the moonlit dust to the expedition house. As we went, he analyzed my errors. I was guilty of romanticism, of individualism. I was guilty of ancestor worship. I had entertained the superstition of an ancient, powerful curse. I wasn’t even bourgeois; I had barely made it to primitive.
There was no need to lecture me. I knew all those things. He put me to bed as if he were my mother, sitting beside me for a while, pretending nothing was wrong with me, just the way my mother had pretended. “You need a girlfriend,” he suggested. “It’s too bad Miss Whitfield has gone. It’s too bad Miss Jackson is already spoken for.”
I stopped listening. I’d just realized something about myself, something so unlikely, so unexpected, that no one would ever have guessed it. I myself would never have guessed it. Mother would never have guessed it, and she would be so surprised when she found out. The thing I realized was this: I was the sort of person who would do anything for love.
I’d never felt so joyful, so alive. Who could call that a curse? I’d never felt so serene. Mr Davis or Mr Patwin? Mallick or Miss Jackson or Ferhid? All or none of the above, and what if I got it wrong? But it had never been my choice to make. What I would do was whatever she asked.
Poor Patwin. I had only to turn to see his face. He’d believed so firmly in the march of history, it left him blind to the danger in the moment. Poor Miss Whitfield. Served her right, though, choosing Carter over us. How sad she’d be to have missed it all. Poor Miss Jackson. She’d never figured out that the secret is to love someone already dead. Then nothing can happen that doesn’t bring the two of you closer together.
Serenity is, of course, a transitory state, just like living. Whatever Miss Jackson may wish to believe, humans being humans, eternal peace is found only in the grave and not always even there. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
But why spoil things with the long view? Let’s leave me there in the moment, flooded with love. Patwin is talking and I am trying to make him happy by agreeing with everything he says. I agree that my infatuation with Tu-api is at an end. I agree that, circumstances being different, I would have considered Miss Jackson or even, God forbid, Miss Whitfield. I agree that when the weather grows too hot and we all go to our separate homes for the summer, I will put serious effort into finding a girlfriend who is alive. I agree that love can be usefully examined with the tool of Marxist analysis. I hand over my photograph and watch Patwin tear it up, both of us pretending there is someplace he can put those pieces where they won’t last forever.
“The Good Shabti,” an enthralling novella-length combination historical/science fiction thriller, was nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award. The words shabti, shawabti, and ushabti (along with variant spellings) are often used synonymously, which is not completely accurate, but all are small human-shaped figurines usually representing a person who would perform a certain task (agricultural labor, baking, brewing, various skilled crafts, etc.) for the deceased in the afterlife. As for the pharaoh depicted: Mentuhotep II had a lengthy reign (c. 2009–1959 BCE). During it, he reunified Upper and Lower Egypt leaving a prosperous kingdom. According to most (not all) sources, however, it was Mentuhotep IV (reigned c. 1947–1940 BCE) who was followed by Amenemhat. A few of Mentuhotep II’s bones have been identified, but no trace of Mentuhotep IV’s mummy has been found.
THE GOOD SHABTI
Robert Sharp
“O King Mentuhotep, he who has revitalized the heart of this land, the Divine One who wears the white crown, our benefactor, the One who unified the Two Kingdoms, the being from whence all wisdom is derived, son of Hathor and the Lady of Dendera, and to whom we owe our very breath . . . ”
A breath is drawn, the voice continues.
“ . . . Giver of wisdom, bringer of the flame and the light, our guide, our ruler, our father! We thank thee for commanding us to come into Your Divine Presence and we beseech thee to bestow upon us the honor of doing whatever is your will.”
This is the signal for the retinue to prostrate themselves before The Presence, and there is a rustle as fifteen men and three women place their knees, bellies, and foreheads on to the stone.
They wait. Three from the rear, Bak finds a pair of feet just two thumbs from his nostrils. The soles are cracked and variegated and they stink. Bak does not move.
Finally, the pure tone of The Presence washes over them.
“Get up.”
They exhale and rise. A scrape of pottery, a light clink of metal, and a thud of wood as they pick up what they were carrying.
“Come,” says the king, when fifteen heads have bobbed into his eyeline. “Take your places, let us begin.”
The words unleash the retinue, and they billow out of formation to their spots around the room. The women pad over to the far wall, and sit. The scribes unfold their bundles and their tools. Bak nods to the two other handmen, and they scurry, platters in hand, to their post immediately behind the king.
Amenemhat, the vizier, the one who gave the oration, is the only one who does not move. He straightens his robes and flexes his shoulder blades a little, and observes the activity around him. Looking into the room, over the king’s shoulder, Bak can see that Amenemhat is taking great care to project calm and control. But little twitches give him away—Amenemhat is grin
ding his teeth.
It’s not surprising. This is an unscheduled meeting. The king was supposed to be at leisure this evening, and yet, not ten minutes ago, just as the sun went down, a call had gone out to the compound that the Divine One wished to see the vizier.
And so now they are here, and the king is breathing very deeply. His fists are clenched, as if he is spoiling for a fight. Bak snorts to himself at the very idea. The vizier is going to get it in the neck now, thinks Bak. Better him than me.
Amenemhat takes the initiative. “What would you have us do, O Divine King?”
“Summon my brother from the Western shore,” says Mentuhotep.
Amenemhat looks puzzled, but nods anyway. “Of course, my . . . ”
The king speaks over him. “And send out word to the administrators that the festivities following the Feast of Heb Sed shall be canceled.”
In the corner, the women gasp. Amenemhat’s eyes widen. Concealed panic, thinks Bak. But you have to admire the vizier’s control.
“And finally, muster a full company of men.”
“As always, your wish is our destiny, my lord. But may I . . . ”
“Yes, Amenemhat, my wish is indeed your destiny. And you shall fulfill it, and I shall not justify myself further.”
The room shuffles in disappointment. Is that all? Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?
Amenemhat lowers his eyes and bows. I bet he’s wetting his robes in relief, thinks Bak.
The king’s body pivots, and Bak snaps out of his musings. In an instant, the eyes of the Divine One pierce him.
“Some water?” says the king. Bak and the two other handmen are suddenly the focus of the room.
They are well drilled. One holds the bowl, the other pours from the jug. When they are done, they pass it to Bak, and he passes it toward the king.
Mentuhotep hesitates for a moment, then reaches. The rings on his fingers chime against the rim of the bowl, and, just like that, it is in his hands. Success.
The king takes but a single sip, and then passes the bowl back. Bak sees that the Divine Arm is shaking a little. Something is not quite right. Has anyone else noticed?
King Mentuhotep turns his back on Bak, and toward Amenemhat once more. “That is all, vizier. Do what I ask.”
“We shall. I shall.”
The gaze of the king sweeps around the room, and alights upon the women.
“You, what is your name?”
One woman glances at the two others, to be sure it really is her that the king is addressing. She whispers. “Hena, Your Majesty.”
“Yes. Hena. You tonight. Let us go. The rest of you can leave.”
Amenemhat makes an extravagant bow, bending from the neck, the waist and the knee all at once. It’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over, but, like a crane, he manages to keep balance, and rises once more to full height. His eyes are on the king the whole time.
But wait a moment. What now? Is the ritual continuing? The king staggers forward a step, and falls to one knee! He lowers his head. Is he bowing to his own vizier?
Hena, the girl, gasps. Everyone else is silent, and her short squeak flutters about the chamber like a bird in the rafters.
Then it is Mentuhotep’s turn to inhale. It’s a horrible wheeze, the breath of an old man, but entering the body of a man in his prime.
At the peak, the zenith of the inhalation, a heartbeat. Then the king places his hands on the floor—like a dog, Bak thinks—and retches. It is a hideous noise, the sound of the throat screaming as it is pulled out of the body. A cup full of watery blood splashes on to the floor, in front of the king’s hands.
Bak is the first to react. He abandons his post and his fellow handmen, and rushes to Mentuhotep’s side. Without thinking, he thrusts both his hands under the king’s armpits, and heaves the shaking body off the floor. But the king is limp, he’s not helping himself. Bak cannot support the weight on his own.
“The king is ill!” shouts Bak, to the frozen retinue.
Amenemhat’s eyes flare hot with anger. He strides toward Bak, pointing. “Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” he shouts. It is as if, for a moment, he has forgotten Mentuhotep’s blood on the tiles.
“The king is ill!” screams Bak, again. “Someone help me!”
“Let me in! Let me in I say!” The voice is confident and British. It expects to be obeyed. “Did you not hear me? Open this damned gate, you bloody jobsworth!”
Arabic voices are speaking now. First one, then another. There is laughter.
“Don’t you give me that, you Neanderthal!” shouts the Brit. “Don’t you know who I am?”
There is a rustling, clattering sound, a wire fence being shaken by desperate hands.
The group steps out of the facility and into the compound. The noonday sun is violent on the eyes, and Ruth’s hands instinctively go up to her brow, so she still cannot see the owner of the voice on the other side of the barrier.
“Open. This. Bloody. Gate.”
His verbal sparring partners begin chattering again. Ruth’s Arabic is appalling, but she can make out the word khedim repeated over and over. She knows it means servant. The guards are claiming that they cannot possibly open the gate, because it is above their pay grade.
From the front of the line, Botha, the head of the team, speaks. “Can I help you, bru? You lost or something? You don’t want to be out this far into the desert at this time, yah? You’ll catch sunburn.” Botha feigns innocence. Ruth suppresses a smile.
“I am not lost,” says the man on the other side of the fence. “I am merely here to retrieve my exhibit.” He pushes his fist up to the wire fence and wiggles a finger through the hole. “In that truck there.”
Botha, Ruth, and the guards turn to look in the direction of the waggled digit. There is indeed a large truck parked in the middle of the compound, one that had not been there this morning.
“And who might you be, bru?”
“I am Doctor Robert Ingle and I am curator of—” he corrects himself “—I am the Director of the Royal National Museum of Antiquities.” He pauses for effect. Ruth can see that he considers that an important title. “And that truck has something that belongs to me.”
“Really? Well, Doctor Robert Ingle, head curator of the Royal National Museum of Antiquities—” Botha also pauses for dramatic effect. “—I am Doctor Frans Botha of the Emir Sharif Ali Al-Maud Institute for Research Sciences. And I’m pretty sure that whatever is in that truck belongs to me. It is in my facility now, isn’t it?” Botha turns to look at Ruth, seeking approval. She nods. What is it that they say? Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
“That’s ridiculous,” says Ingle. “Look, that truck contains a major archaeological artifact. It was donated by the new government of Egypt to the people of this emirate. And, as the head curator of the flagship museum, it is my duty to take custody of that item. I am in charge of its care. You cannot possibly have any business with him—” he checks himself again “—I mean, with it.”
“I beg to differ.” A new voice hovers over the compound. Ruth turns to see Mourad strolling across the gravel.
“Who are you?” asks Ingle.
Mourad doesn’t bother answering. He keeps Ingle waiting until he has reached the security perimeter, and then answers a different question.
“You were wrong, Mister Ingle, to say that this ‘artifact,’ as you call it, is a gift to the people.”
Ruth cringes at the use of the word mister, and she can see that Ingle is irritated too.
“In fact,” says Mourad, “the little trinket in that truck was a gift to the emir. The emir, Mister Ingle. Not the people.”
“Don’t give me all that about the emir, Mister . . . Mister, whoever you are. Look at my badge here.” Ingle fumbles about in his pocket, and produces a plastic identity card. Ruth peeks at it over Botha’s shoulder. She can make out some kind of seal on it, the symbol of the royal family.
“My institution, the Royal National Museum of Antiquities, was est
ablished by charter with the explicit patronage of the emir. Not this emir, mind you. His grandfather. But that doesn’t matter.” Ruth can see Ingle’s eyes dart between Mourad and Botha. He is not sure which man to address with the final flourish of his argument.
“My point,” says Ingle, “is that my museum is the rightful, lawful custodian of such gifts as are presented to the emir.”
“I see your point, Mister Ingle,” says Mourad. “I’m afraid I do not have a smart ID card like you, sir. But look!” He extends his wrist to reveal a watch. The strap is thick and gold. “Do you see this watch?” With a deft flick he unclips it, and dangles it in front of the fence.
“My watch has the same emblem as your little piece of plastic. The flag of the emir’s house. This watch was given to me by my cousin . . . who happens to be Emir Sharif Ibn Ali Al-Maud. A lovely man. Very kind. Very generous.”
Mourad steps right up to the fence, so his nose is almost poking through the wire. “And the instruction to divert the truck to this institution was given to me personally, by the emir himself. My cousin.” Ingle says nothing. “We will take custody of this exhibit, Mister Ingle. And we will perform some minor scientific tests upon it. And when we are finished, I promise that it will be delivered to your museum. I shall deliver it personally.”
Mourad turns his back on the Englishman, and starts walking back into the facility. “In other words,” adds Botha, “fuck off.”
The men and women of the court seep slowly into the large reception hall outside the private chambers. They see a towering gold door, twice as high as a man, with carvings of Osiris and Horus set into the panels.
The assembled dignitaries cannot see the mighty Mentuhotep, so they are free to imagine him slowly ascending toward the other Gods. Or perhaps he is becoming luminescent like a torch, his skin whitening and glowing until he becomes a flash of light, one with the sun. Perhaps he is growing wings and flying through a window into the afterlife. Maybe he is simply walking through another door into a different world.
They are free to imagine whatever they please, whatever gives them comfort in this uncertain time. But they must not imagine crusted blood on the king’s nose, or the hint of urine that now suggests itself to those who step into the final sanctum.