by Nick Drake
11
To visit my old friend Nakht at his country house is to pass from the hot, dusty chaos of the city into a different, calmer and more rational world. He has used his great wealth to make his life as luxurious and pleasant as possible, by creating his own little kingdom of art and knowledge in his walled estate outside the city. His fame as a cultivator of flowers and bees there has earned him an unusual new title: ‘Overseer of the Gardeners of Amun.’ All the thousands of bouquets that decorate the temples at festivals, and those presented to the Gods themselves-to remind them of the afterlife-are grown under Nakht’s supervision.
I walked out of the suburbs, through the southern gateway, and continued along the path towards his house. The sun crowned the sky, and the land shimmered in the heat of midday. I had not brought a sunshade, but the palms that lined the way provided enough protection. As I walked I observed the bountiful crops in their carefully tilled rows, which spread out in every direction. Here and there the glimmer of the water canals, overflowing from the inundation, reflected in lines the clear blue-white of the sky. I passed few people, for all the labourers were taking their midday meal and beer, or sleeping in neat rows in any shade they could find, under carts, palm trees, or at the side of houses and grain barns, with their headscarves over their faces. High above us all, falcons spread their wide dark bronze wings in the thermals, drifting and wheeling as they gazed down at the world. I have often wondered what the world looks like from their high vantage that no man, condemned to walk the earth on his two legs, can ever share. I imagine the glittering serpent of the Great River, continuing from one end of the world to the other; and fanned out on either side the green and yellow patterns of the cultivation. Beyond that, the infinity of the Red Land, where the royal families build their tombs of eternal stone, and their attendant temples, on the margins of the wilderness, the desert, the place of great solitude. Perhaps they could see what we could not: what happens to the Sun when it sets beyond the unreachable horizon of the visible world. Is there truly a vast and perilous dark ocean, populated with gods and monsters, in that great beyond, where the Sun sails its nightly course on its barque, through the perils of the night? Is that what those birds of prey were telling us, with their sharp, high shrieks that sounded like cries of warning?
I entered the first courtyard of Nakht’s long, low villa. His servant Minmose came running out to greet me, and hurried me inside, holding a sunshade solicitously over my head.
‘Your brain will bake in your skull like a duck’s egg, master, in the heat of this hour of the day. I would have sent a servant with a sunshade to accompany you, if I had known you were going to grace us with a visit.’
‘This is an impromptu call,’ I said.
He bowed.
‘My master is working with his hives at the far end of the garden,’ he said.
He offered to escort me-keen, I knew, to hear any news of the city; for even at this short distance, the country feels as remote as another world. But I know this place well, for I have come here alone, or with the girls, for many years. He slipped away, quietly as always, to the kitchen to prepare refreshments, and I walked out through the second courtyard, and paused for a moment to enjoy the glorious vista before me. In the city, we are crammed together like animals. Here, with the luxury of space, and between the high walls that secure the property, all is peaceful; it is like finding oneself walking through a living papyrus scroll depicting the good life of the afterlife.
I walked along the tree-shaded length of a long, stone-lined pool; full of white and blue lotus flowers, it provides water for the flower beds and vegetable plots, as well as containing Nakht’s collection of ornamental fish. Cheerful gardeners, old and young, devotedly and calmly attended to the plants and trees, watering and weeding, trimming and pruning; obviously happy in their dedicated work. Creeping vines extended their curling shade along the pergolas. Unusual and exotic plants flourished exuberantly. Birds felt free to take advantage of everything, and they sang with pleasure. Waterfowl dipped and thrived in the cool shade of the papyrus plants that grew in the long pool. It was almost ridiculously beautiful, so distant did it seem from the city’s grandeur and grime and poverty.
I found Nakht among his hives, smoking out the bees from their clay cylinders. I kept my distance, being no devotee of bees or their stings, and sat on a stool in the shade of a tree to amuse myself at his expense; for he looked like the crazed priest of a desert cult as he moved about, dancing and wafting the smoke at the fuzzy cloud of demented insects. He carefully decanted the combs into storage pots, and soon he had many of them, laid out on a tray.
Then he stepped away, lifted his protective hood, and saw me watching him. He waved and came over, offering a pot of the honey.
‘For the children.’
We embraced.
A servant brought him a bowl and cloth, and then Minmose arrived with wine and snacks, which he set out on a low table. Nakht washed his sweaty but always elegant face. Then we sat together on stools in the shade, and he poured me some wine. I knew it would be excellent.
‘What brings you here on a working day?’ he asked.
‘I’m working.’
He eyed me carefully, then saluted the Gods and took a long draught of his wine.
‘On what? Not that incident at the festival?’
‘Partly.’
He looked intrigued.
‘I imagine the palace must be going crazier than my bees…’
‘Someone is certainly poking a stick into the royal hive…’
He nodded.
‘So what did you make of it? A court conspiracy, perhaps?’ he asked, enthusiastically.
‘Probably not. I think it’s an aberration. At worst, someone within the hierarchies has encouraged a bunch of foolish young people into an act of naively irresponsible violence.’
He looked almost disappointed.
‘Maybe so, but still it’s had a surprisingly powerful effect. Everyone is talking about it. It seems to have catalysed the dissent that’s been bubbling under the surface of everything for years now. People are even whispering about a possible coup…’
‘And who would command such a thing?’ I countered.
‘There is only one man. General Horemheb,’ he said with some satisfaction.
I sighed.
‘That would be no improvement on the present regime,’ I said.
‘It would definitely be much worse, for Horemheb’s vision of the world is governed by his life in the army. He has no humanity at all,’ he replied. ‘But in any case, we are in trouble, for this has made the King look vulnerable. And what king can afford to look vulnerable? He has never been one of the warrior kings. It’s as if the dynasty has grown weaker and stranger with every generation. And now he is powerless…’
‘And more and more vulnerable to other influences,’ I said.
Nakht nodded. ‘He’s never really been able to assert any of his own authority, partly because after Akhenaten no one would countenance it, and partly because he’s grown up under the dire shadow of Ay. And what a tyrant he turned out to be. No wonder the boy can’t exercise his own power.’
We enjoyed sharing our private, but profound loathing of the Regent.
‘I went to see Ay this morning,’ I said, watching Nakht’s face.
He looked amazed.
‘Why on earth would you do such a thing?’
‘Not because he asked for me, but because I had to.’
‘How curious,’ said my friend, leaning forward and pouring me more of the excellent wine.
‘I met Ankhesenamun last night,’ I said, after a suitably dramatic pause.
‘Ah…’
He nodded slowly, beginning to piece together the evidence I was carefully feeding him.
‘She sent one of her people to fetch me.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Khay. Chief Scribe,’ I said.
‘Yes, I know him; walks around as if he has a gold cane up
his arse. And what did she say to you?’
‘She had something to show me. A stone. From Akhetaten. A carving of the Aten.’
‘Interesting. But not remarkable.’
‘Not until you saw someone had completely chipped out the Aten disc, the hands holding the ankhs, both the royal and holy names, and the eyes and the noses of the royal figures,’ I said.
Nakht looked off into his garden’s idyllic picture of colour and shade.
‘A little bit of iconoclasm goes a long way, I imagine, especially in that palace.’
‘Exactly. They are all terrified because they don’t know what it means.’
‘And what do you think?’ he enquired.
‘Well, it could mean nothing more than someone with an old gripe has wasted their time working out how to send the royal family a nasty insult.’
‘But the coincidence…’ he pressed me.
‘I know. We don’t believe in coincidences, do we? We believe in connections. The dead boy with the broken bones; the elite amulet; and now also a dead girl with a gold mask hiding her missing face.’
Nakht looked aghast.
‘How awful! Such barbarity. The times are definitely getting worse.’
I nodded.
‘There’s something about the sophistication of all of these things, and the consistency of the style, that makes me think the object left in the palace could be connected; I was wondering if the obliteration of the sun disc could also mean something specific…’
‘Such as?’ he asked, doubtfully.
‘An eclipse,’ I ventured.
‘Well now, that is a very interesting idea,’ he said, absorbed by the ramifications. ‘The Sun in battle destroyed by the force of darkness, and then restored and reborn again…the symbolism is potent. And very much to the point at the moment…’
‘Something like that,’ I replied. ‘So I thought I would consult the man who knows more about the stars than anyone else I know.’
‘Well, it’s an allegory,’ he smiled, quickly warming to his subject.
I had no idea what he meant.
‘Tell me more.’
‘Let’s walk.’
So we strolled up one of the paths, between the flowerbeds, and he began to explain. As always, with Nakht, I listened without understanding everything, for I know that to interrupt him with questions will only lead to another, equally wonderful, but endlessly perplexing digression.
‘Think about how we understand the mysteries of the world around us. Ra, the God of the Sun, sails across the blue ocean of the day in the Golden Ship of Day. But at sunset the God crosses to the Ship of Night and disappears into the Otherworld. The black ocean of the night is revealed, with its bright stars-the Sharp One, the brightest, and the five stars of Horus and the stars of Osiris, the Pathway of the Further Stars in the height of the sky, and the travelling star of the dawn-all sailing the dark waters, following the Sun whose night journey, with its perils and tests, we can never see but only imagine. We liken this in the Book of the Dead to the journey of the soul after death. Are you following me so far?’
I nodded.
‘Just about…’
‘Now, it gets subtler. Listen and concentrate. The most significant, and indeed mysterious, of those perils is the union of the Sun with the body of Osiris at the darkest point of the night. “The Sun at rest in Osiris, Osiris at rest in the Sun” as the saying goes. This is the most secret moment when the Sun descends back into the original waters and their powers of chaos. But it is precisely at this dark moment when he receives new powers of life, and Osiris is reborn. Again we the living can never witness such an event, for it is hidden from human sight in the remotest part of the Unknown. But once again we can imagine it, although with great mental effort. Then, at dawn, the Sun returns, apparent and reborn, for Ra is the self-creator and the creator of everything that exists. And we call that returning form of the God the Scarab, khepri, the evolving one, pushing himself into being from non-being. And so begins the new day! And so all things follow ever onwards, day by day, year by year, life by life, death by death, rebirth by rebirth, perpetually and eternally.’
I knew he loved talking like this. My problem was it sounded too much like a good story. And like all the stories that we tell ourselves, and our children, about how things happen, and why things are as they are, it could never be proved.
‘But what has all that to do with my question?’ I asked.
‘Because there is one time when we the living can witness this divine union.’
‘During an eclipse?’
‘Precisely. Of course, there are different explanations of such an event, depending upon which authority you consult or accept. One is that the Goddess Hathor of the West covers the God with her body. A divine union of light and dark, as it were. Another, opposite one is that some dark power whose name we do not know, and therefore cannot speak, conquers-but light recovers and triumphs in the sky’s divine battle.’
‘Luckily for us.’
‘Indeed. For without light, there can be no life. The Kingdom of Darkness is the land of shadows and death. But there are things, even now, we do not understand. However, I truly believe our knowledge will some day be able to explain all things that exist.’
He stopped at a pomegranate bush, and fiddled with its pink flowers-the latest fashion-and plucked a few fading blooms as if to demonstrate his own godlike powers over his creation.
‘Like a Book of Everything…’ I suggested.
‘Exactly. But words are imperfect, and our system of writing, for all its great glories, has its limitations in terms of its ability to describe creation in all its manifest and hidden glories…So we would have to invent another way of describing things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Ah well, that is the question, but perhaps the answer lies not in words, but in signs; in fact, in numbers…’
At this point my thoughts began to collapse, as they often do when I talk with Nakht. He has an appetite for speculation that sometimes makes me want to do something meaninglessly practical, like sweep the yard.
He smiled as he saw the baffled expression on my face.
I steered the conversation back to my subject.
‘Speaking of which, using the star calendars, I know you can predict the arrival of the inundation, and the beginning of the festivals. But do eclipses appear in the charts?’
He considered the question before replying.
‘I believe not. I have been compiling my own calendars from observation, but I have not yet been lucky enough to witness an eclipse of the Sun, for they are rare events indeed. However, from my roof terrace I have observed an eclipse of the moon. I am intrigued and puzzled by the consistent element of circularity, both in the returning nature of the cosmic events, and also in the implication of the curves of the shadows as they are cast against the face of the moon, for they imply a whole circle-such as we see of the moon and the sun, and such as we might witness in a total eclipse. It suggests the circle is the perfect shape of the heavens, both as idea-for the circle implies infinite return-and in actual fact.’
Grateful for a pause in this torrent of rapid speculation, I asked quickly:
‘But how could we find out more? Could you take me to the astronomical archives?’
‘In the Karnak Temple precinct? To which I have access?’ he smiled.
‘How fortunate I am to count as a close friend a man of such elevated status.’
‘Your sarcasm is so…middle class,’ he replied, cheerfully.
12
Thoth and I followed Nakht as he passed imperiously, and at his usual elegant speed, through the security-guard posts at the main pylon of the Karnak Temple. I looked up at the great mud-brick walls that soared high above us. And then we were plunged into the shadows of the ‘Most Select of Places’ a forbidden, secret world within the world, for no one who is not of the elite priest class may enter this vast and ancient stone puzzle of columned halls and gloomy temples
, covered in an infinity of inscrutable carvings, surrounding a labyrinth of sunless sanctuaries where, at the very heart of the dark silence, the statues of the Gods are cared for, woken, worshipped, clothed, fed, returned to sleep and guarded through the night.
We came out into an open area. All around me, men of the aristocracy, dressed in purest white linen, went about their esoteric business in a leisurely fashion. This priestly work did not seem very onerous. At set times of the year, and in return for a share of the vast income of the temple, they enter the precincts for periods of service, respecting the ancient rules of ritual purity-bathing in the sacred lake at dawn, shaving their bodies, wearing white linen robes-and observing precisely and without variation the functions and rites of worship according to the Instructions.
But all temples, from the smallest shrine in a parched trading-post town on the southern borders, to the most ancient and divine places in the Two Lands, are vulnerable to the usual range of human activities: corruption, bribery, theft, embezzlement, and everything else, from scandals of shortened services and stolen sacred food and relics, to outright violence and murder. The bigger the temple, the more wealth it controls. Wealth is power. And Karnak is the greatest of the temples. Its wealth and power have long rivalled, and have now succeeded, that of the royal family.
The great space inside the enclosure walls contained what seemed, to my eye, a chaos of ancient and modern: pylons, obelisks, avenues, statues, chapels, and inaccessible temple structures with vast papyrus columns and shadowy halls. Some of it was newly built, some of it under construction, some of it dismantled, and some even in ruins. There were also magazines, offices and housing for the officers and the priests. It was in effect a small city, grand and yet jumbled up. Priests teemed in and out of the portals and pylons, attended by even greater numbers of servants and assistants. Ahead of us was another pylon leading to further pylons, leading ultimately to the ancient sanctuaries at the heart of the temple.
‘Beyond those courtyards lies the sacred lake,’ said Nakht, pointing to the right. ‘Twice a day and twice a night, the priests have to sprinkle themselves with water, and wash their mouths out with a little natron.’