The Women and the Boatman

by Mark Gajewski

  “Do you make pottery every day?” I asked.

  Amenia laughed ruefully. “I wish. If it were up to me I’d be at my kiln from sunup to sundown, making the cream–colored pots I’ve invented, plus the red–polished and black–topped that are the legacy of my family. But Uncle Sanakht sees no purpose in that. He considers the time I spend at my own kiln as production he’s lost on his cheaper type. The only reason there’s any decorated pottery available at all right now is because Uncle Hemaka wanted to stockpile some for future elite funerals. That’s the type they insist on taking with them to the next life. My pottery is the one thing around here Uncle Hemaka controls, so he lets me make it. Still, it’s more important even to him that I do my chores, help around the house, bake bread, spin flax into thread, make clothing, clean, feed the animals, fetch water and beer, knead clay, and shape the rough straw–tempered ware. Of course, I go with Great–grandmother whenever she’s called upon to heal or comfort the sick or dying. I enjoy healing almost as much as working on my own pottery. I only get to do that in my free time. And I have precious little free time.”

  “We use polished–red ware in the boatyard. It’s been in Dedi’s family for generations,” I said.

  “The red is the oldest style after the black–topped,” Amenia said. “It’s usually lined inside in white, with a jewel–like finish. On the outside are images in white – water, fish, men, boats, mountains, ostriches, hippos, crocodiles, plants, stalks of grain.” She pointed to where the cemetery fence lined the crest of the far side of the wadi, visible on the heights looming over the upper settlement. “They match the images painted there. The boats you see depicted on the oldest jars – that’s what boats looked like in those days. Eventually those simple images became complete scenes – river–dwelling animals below a water line, land–dwelling animals above, oared boats carrying people with desert mountains above and river plants below. And jars with hippos and crocodiles or other animals arranged in orderly rows or circles…”

  “Depict a world without chaos,” I interrupted.

  “Exactly. When someone drinks water from a jar painted with a deadly beast the liquid provides protection from it. But jars without images don’t protect from anything.”

  “On the other hand, coarse ware like your uncles’ is used in all the nearby hamlets. It’s perfect to hold beer and water and emmer and anything else that needs to be carried,” I said.

  “True.” Amenia nodded. “Each kiln can fire twenty pots at a time, so we produce one hundred at once. We fire several times a week.”

  “The boy loading the donkeys – he’s been staring at us the whole time we’ve been talking.”

  Amenia sighed. “My cousin Nekauba. Uncle Sanakht’s son. He’s extremely jealous of any boy who so much as glances at me. He’s counting on me becoming his woman.”

  I had a sinking feeling. “Are you promised to him?” Might as well find out now. Amenia was intriguing, but what was the point in getting involved with a girl I couldn’t have?

  “My grandfather arranged it when we were small children, after he discovered my skill as a potter. He didn’t want to lose my production by joining me to a man elsewhere in Nekhen. So it’s a matter of when, not if, in Nekauba’s mind.” She sighed again. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but I can’t stand him. He’ll force me to give up making pottery and healing once we’re joined. He told me so. He expects me to spend the rest of my life raising his babies and caring for his household, nothing more.” There was despair in her voice. “I’ll never travel the river, like you, Nykara. I’ll never see the world.”

  “How long until you’ll be given to Nekauba?”

  “Fortunately, it could be quite awhile. Luckily for me, both of my uncles have grand designs for themselves. Their ambitions are keeping me out of Nekauba’s hands for now. They both want to be counted among the elite.”

  “They’ll have to become wealthier than Teti to do that,” I said. “But Teti operates more than twenty kilns to their five.”

  “They know they can’t compete based on wealth. Their hope is to ally themselves with other elites. As you saw at the conclave, and when Dedi transferred rule to Aboo, Great–grandmother is a very important woman, the falcon god’s priestess. She wields influence in Nekhen. Someday she’ll have to name her successor. My uncles believe it could be one of them, one of Uncle Hemaka’s daughters, Nekauba, or even me. If it’s one of Uncle Hemaka’s daughters he hopes to join her to the son of an elite family. If it’s Nekauba, Uncle Sanakht hopes to join him with an elite daughter.”

  “And if it’s you?” I asked.

  “Uncle Hemaka will try to join me to an elite son. I’ve heard him tell Auntie if he can join either me or one of his daughters to an elite he’ll divide the pottery works with Uncle Sanakht and go his own way, for then he’ll be the more influential brother. I expect quite a fight if I’m the one. In that case Uncle Sanakht will try to force Uncle Hemaka to honor Grandfather’s promise and join me to Nekauba, so that Uncle Sanakht can control me through Nekauba and wield my influence himself.”

  “So your fate and your cousins’ depends on how long Ipu lives?”

  “Yes. As you can imagine, I pray to the falcon god every day to give Great–grandmother a very long life.”

  “Why do your uncles care so much about being elite? You seem fairly well off,” I observed. “I never expected to find such a fine house in the upper settlement.”

  “Believe me, I don’t feel very well off when I’m doing my chores. Uncle Hemaka doesn’t have servants around his house, like the elites do. He doesn’t want to feed and clothe anyone he doesn’t absolutely have to. And he’s pretty stingy with those he does have to. Including his own daughters and me.”

  Amenia was no common laborer. She was a talented craftswoman. I was very attracted to her, even though I’d just met her. She was a breath of fresh air compared to other girls. But what of it? Even if she wasn’t promised to Nekauba I’d probably never see her again after today. I wasn’t the type of person her uncle would consider suitable if he was trying to increase his status by linking his family to one of the elites. Hemaka was just like Pipi and the elites who were trying to join their sons to Abar and her younger sisters. Was no man in Nekhen content with the wealth and status and influence he already had?

  Amenia stood. “Would you like to see how I make my pottery?”

  “I would.” I actually was interested, and escaping Nekauba’s relentless gaze would be a bonus. I rose. The top of Amenia’s head reached just a few inches above my shoulder.

  “How tall are you?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “A little over six feet. No one in Nekhen is taller.”

  “No wonder you make big boats,” she giggled.

  I followed Amenia from the shade across the dusty sandy terrace towards the very base of the plateau some fifty yards to the west. She moved lightly, quickly, almost exuberantly, her feet barely skimming the ground. It was hard to keep up with her despite my much longer strides. The sun suffused her bare back with a golden glow and her hair blew about in the wind, which was very strong so high up the unprotected slope. We followed a well–worn path hugging the base of the plateau, continued north, crossed the head of the wadi slicing east to the river, eventually halted at the west end of the ruler’s cemetery. Directly west loomed a high rough rock face scarred with indentations and chimneys of broken stone and deeply cut by gullies, their depths shadowed. We scrambled a short distance up one of the small gullies; it was partly overhung by a rock shelf. Several large boulders lined one side. There was a level area beside a natural chimney at its end. Wood and sheep dung were piled there. Along one side of the gully was a tidy row of several dozen jars and pots of various sizes and shapes, some cream–colored, some polished–red with black tops, some polished–red with white images painted on them. All had been recently fired. High above them, shaded by the rock shelf, a sickle–shaped boat was etched, four people on its deck, a star shining above its prow.<
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  Amenia saw me staring at the boat. “Great–grandmother says this gully was once a shrine, a sacred place, where my ancestors came to worship the falcon god and remember our family’s dead long before the oval court was created, perhaps even before Nekhen’s cemeteries existed. She says the boat was etched by Tiaa when she first settled here, that the bodies on the boat were members of her family. If that’s true, the etching is more than five hundred years old.”

  “What does the image mean, do you suppose?” I asked, surveying it intently.

  “Great–grandmother says the boat is carrying the spirits of the dead to the Afterlife, to the never–setting stars.”

  “I wonder if my family had a shrine like this?” I asked.

  “Probably. Great–grandmother and I used to go on long walks around the plateaus, up until a few years ago. She showed me hundreds of etchings she’d discovered when she was a girl, usually beneath overhanging rocks or in sheltered places – a tiny elephant, a man carrying a yoke on his shoulders, an ibex, cows, birds, many boats, a number of abstract symbols – parallel lines, rows of notches in concentric ovals. Over there, in a shelter on the north face of the plateau, we found four giraffes with ropes tied around their necks, keeping them under control for all time. Those particular images are so faint they’re only visible for an hour or two each day when the sun strikes the rock face just right. She also showed me a circle of upstanding sandstone slabs perched on a small hill. She said there was an arrangement like it at the playa where my ancestress Tiaa was born. For all she knows, Tiaa set this one up. Anyway, at its base is a small highly detailed hippopotamus with a crosshatched body, with a harpoon attached to a rope coming from it. I’ve seen similar images painted on old pottery jars. Far to the northwest we discovered an ostrich and a hunting bow.”

  “I spent all my time along the river when I was growing up,” I said. “Now I wish I’d explored the plateaus. I had no idea there were such shrines and etchings.”

  “Maybe I’ll show them to you someday,” Amenia said, then colored slightly.

  I hoped she would. The thought of wandering the plateaus with Amenia was exciting. I scanned the gully once more. A considerable number of sherds littered the ground – cracked, bloated, warped, burned, vitrified – so many it was impossible to take a step without crunching one underfoot.

  “These are wasters,” Amenia explained, kicking at the sherds with her bare toes. “Sometimes the jars and pots explode or crack during firing. The elegant thin–walled jars I make require much skill to form, dry and fire.”

  “Tell me how you make them.”

  She swept her hand around the gully. “As you can see, I make pottery in three different styles – two to preserve our ancient traditions, and one I invented after much trial and error. The clay for both the polished–red and black–topped pottery comes from the riverbank. That for the cream–colored comes from a spot only I know of here on the plateau. It’s very fine and dense, quite unlike that used for Uncle’s mass–produced pottery or the other types. Whatever the source, I break the clay down in water, pick out small pebbles and other impurities, dry it, temper it, wedge it to get it to the proper consistency. Then I roll the clay into long thin coils and use them to build a jar or pot or bowl from the bottom up. After that, using broken sherds of pottery, I smooth the object both inside and out until it’s perfectly shaped.” She picked up a large jar. Her fingers were long and thin and strong. She showed me the jar’s contents. There were dozens of sherds inside, some small, some large, some straight–edged, some curved. All showed signs of heavy use. “These are my tools. Each serves a specific purpose.”

  “What if the jar isn’t perfect after you’ve shaped it?”

  “I mash the clay into a lump and start again. But mine almost always turn out perfectly,” she said matter–of–factly. “That’s why my jars and decorated pots are always included in elite burials.”

  “That’s very impressive,” I said. “You must be proud, knowing they’ll serve the dead for eternity.”

  “I am. After my jars are shaped I set them aside to dry. I check on them several times a day. If they dry too fast they’ll warp or crack and be ruined. Once they’ve dried to the consistency of hard leather, I coat the polished–red and black–topped with red ochre. Then I polish them with a smooth pebble to create a fine sheen.”

  “How long does that take?” I asked.

  “Each jar requires hours to coat and polish, much less shape initially. So you understand why I produce so few, with everything else I have to do.”

  “Then you fire them in your kiln?”

  “Not right away. First I heat them in a low intensity bonfire. That drives the remaining water from the clay. Too much water and the jar explodes, you see.” She swept her hand around the ground. “Hence the wasters.”

  “You fire over there?” I asked, pointing to the end of the gully.

  “Yes. I put down a layer of kindling, then firewood, then a layer of sherds to protect the jars from direct contact with the fire, then the jars. I surround the jars with more firewood and straw, then cover everything with a layer of sticky mud. I fire the jars for hours. A little before they’re done I start another fire with sheep dung and a layer of firewood. I take the undecorated polished–red jars out of the kiln and place them top down in the ashes of the second fire. That’s what creates the black top. The decorated don’t get the second firing.”

  “I always wondered about that.” I looked around. “There aren’t any black sherds on the ground that I can see,” I said.

  Amenia nodded. “The jars that survive the first firing always survive the second.”

  “What about the polished–red?”

  “I paint in white images of the river or desert and the wildlife that lives there. Sometimes I paint boats or hunters. My images are like those on ancient bone and ivory hairpins and combs handed down in my family for generations.”

  “What makes the cream–colored pottery so different?”

  “I fire my special clay at a higher temperature, making my pottery very strong and durable. It’s thinner and lighter and larger as well. When my jars are filled with water they sweat so the liquid cools through evaporation. The pigments I use to paint my images are insoluble and impervious to wear. Unlike the other styles, I occasionally give the cream–colored handles, or attach protective strips of clay to serve as grips.”

  “The decorations?”

  “Boats, single and in procession. Cliffs. The river. Palm trees. Plants. Dancing women. Long–legged birds. Oryx. Addax. Gazelles. Dogs. Crocodiles. Scorpions. Serpents. Giraffes. Vultures. Triangles, chevrons, spirals, checked patterns, wavy lines, dots – whatever moves me at the time. Sometimes I simply dip three fingers into my pigment pot and make small curved strokes. I do that when I’m pressed for time. As I said, Uncle allows me very little.”

  “How is your uncles’ pottery different?”

  “They make only rough cooking pots and medium sized jars to hold food and beer, and large and small bowls. They’re not intended to be durable. They fire their pots in large platform kilns, as you’ve seen.”

  “New technology in the boatyard lets us create better boats,” I said. “But new technology in the pottery works results in poorer pottery.”

  “What good is technology if quality suffers?” Amenia asked.

  She led me over to the finished pottery and began showing me the cream–colored, one after another. “These came out of my kiln last week. I haven’t had time to move them to Uncle’s yard yet. Here’s a hippo hunt. I’ve painted plants inside this bowl, with all their stems pointed towards the center.”

  “Keeping them ordered?”

  “Yes.” She pointed to a tall jar with a bulging middle and flaring lip. “The outside is decorated with stalks of emmer. This one,” she picked it up, slowly turned it in her hands, “has three crocodiles stacked from top to bottom on this side and four hippos on the other side, the beasts separated from each other by
river plants.”

  I pointed to a wide polished–red bowl with three hippos nose to tail circling a crosshatched design in its bottom, with a wavy design above their heads, no doubt representing the river. “We have a bowl like this on the island.”

  “Here’s one with a hunting scene,” Amenia said.

  The oval dish was decorated on the inside with crocodiles and a hippo, and a hunter standing on a reed skiff. Beside it was a tall jar incised with a bull with wide–spreading horns, painted light red instead of white. Next to the bull was another tall jar with many sheep facing in both directions, with mountains above and below them.

  “Do you ever combine river and desert scenes on the same object?” I asked.

  “Never. That would break with tradition.”

  “What’s this?” I bent down, picked up a clay figurine of a woman’s torso from the waist up, with rounded breasts and graceful arms and elegant neck.

  “I make them for rituals and burials,” Amenia said. “Mostly, they’re figures of dancers.”

  I turned it over. A fan–shaped symbol was etched on its back. “Your mark?” I guessed.

  She nodded.

  I set it back in place. “You’re amazing,” I told Amenia. “All this is amazing.”

  She beamed at my compliment.

  “Your Great–grandmother taught you to make these designs?”

  “They’re the same ones that have been etched on the rocks around here for hundreds or thousands of years,” Amenia said. “I rarely change the images – only how I combine them on specific pieces of pottery.”