Exodus

by Cliff Graham

  But before I know what it is, the water turns black again, and I am passing through . . . frogs. Endless hordes of them kicking past me and scurrying to the blackness behind. Then smaller creatures, tiny insects, I cannot tell what they are, suffocating me. Then larger insects, black as the water, their buzzing dimmed and muffled by the water.

  The insects pass, and the river is filled with immense shapes swirling in the current. I hear the sounds of lowing and bleating . . . the sound of suffering. But it is too dark, I cannot see them, but they are there. Cattle? Sheep?

  Then my skin is on fire with pain, the pain of the scorpion stings, the pain of hot coals pressed into my flesh, and eruptions of disease appear everywhere on my skin and in my eyes, and when the agony cannot get worse, the water bursts around me with flame and cold.

  Flame? Underwater? But there it is, everywhere, a river of red and orange fire that is consuming all. The boils are gone, my flesh now burning from the flames. I will die soon, I know it.

  But it is relentless, this ship, taking me where it must.

  It occurs to me vaguely that I must be in the Duat, the Place of the Dead, the River of Night the Egyptians always speak of. I am on the journey of Ra, god of the Sun, crossing through the trials. But none of these trials are familiar to me.

  The flames are upon me now, burning me alive. Things strike me. Sharply. Solid objects like rocks being hurled are gashing me. I swing at the blackness wildly. Fire rages. I feel my flesh tear from the rocks, which are icy cold.

  Then the fire is gone, and more insects come, and the ship sails ever darker. Their buzzing overwhelms me, their legs crawling in my ears and mouth. Locusts? Here?

  They are everywhere, and eternal. They have no end or beginning. The locusts will devour me even before I get to Ammit, the destroyer of souls, who waits for me at the end of the Duat under the watchful eye of Osiris, god of the dead.

  But then they are gone. The locusts disappear, and the silent darkness of the flowing river returns. I sense nothing. Feel nothing but the pressing of the water against me.

  The darkness grows. Profoundly it grows, until it is everything. Too black and too dark for me to breathe. Too oppressive to be borne. The river has become night swallowing night.

  What is this part of the Duat? It is nothing like the priests have described!

  Darkness. Blackness. All is one.

  And then the worst of it comes.

  Low, in the distance, I hear the screaming. It is one voice, a woman, muffled by the water but clear enough to hear her suffering. It is not the cry of pain. It is the cry of ultimate loss. The piercing wail of the underworld, of spirit wraiths, scarcely human. Her voice is joined by others. All women. Who are they? For whom do they weep?

  Their screams well up in my ears, and the ship plunges into them with determination, the black sails rippling as we pass deeper and deeper. Suffering is all I know. Suffering is all I see. The sound of . . . mothers. Mothers weeping for their lost children. That is the only sound it can be. Nothing else is as terrible.

  Rumbling ahead. The water is shaking. I stagger for the first time, grabbing the railing of the ship to remain standing.

  The water is roaring now, sloshing me and the ship back and forth, until I feel the ship breaking apart beneath me, its black wooden planks ripping away and disappearing, and I am flailing in the deadly current, suddenly gasping for breath, not realizing until this very moment that I cannot survive under water and must breathe now, immediately.

  I thrash for the surface, but the water roars louder.

  And then it parts.

  Yes, it parts.

  As though a blade has sliced toward me and cut it in half, the water splits away and I am hanging in the nothingness of an endless night . . . and then my feet stand on solid ground.

  I gasp for breath. I am in the desert. Nothing else is around me. Cold stars twinkle overhead.

  In the distance I see a light on the horizon. It shimmers and dances, and it looks small from here, but I realize that it is larger than the sky itself, I only have to move toward it. Red flames and golden flames. It moves off, and I find myself following it into the vastness of the wilderness. . . .

  It was this dream I was having, and it was the first time I had it, when I finally roused after being attacked by the scorpions.

  The swelling around my eyes had lessened, and I could blink them open. My face still felt heavy. A dull ache throbbed everywhere in my body. Every joint felt stiff and mortared into place. My very eyes hurt to move.

  I was in a tent. Nearby sat Training Master Horem. Instantly I wanted to sit up and come to the position of respect, but my body was sluggish and I ended up only lurching onto my side.

  “Lie still,” Training Master Horem said. I obeyed.

  “What god do you worship?”

  I didn’t answer. I had no answer.

  “I asked what god you worship,” he repeated, very calmly.

  “Marduk,” I said. It was the first god name that came to mind. Training Master Horem frowned.

  “I do not know this one. Where is he?”

  “The north, Training Master Horem.”

  The scarred man studied me a while longer. “No one has ever thought to cut through the canvas. That was clever.”

  I did not know how to answer. Was this a trap?

  “You also did not die, even though you were stung over fifty times that we could count.”

  My curiosity got the better of me. “Do many men die when they do the Kiss of the Scorpion?”

  “We only do it to one recruit, because he always dies. It is supposed to strike fear into the others. We usually pick out the recruit none of the training masters like. But you lived.”

  I could not tell whether he was setting me up for something else or actually engaging me in conversation. I remained silent.

  But he simply stood and walked out.

  I was puzzled at his behavior. I was even more puzzled at my dream.

  8

  Khufu’s Horizon

  The tallest and grandest of the pyramids was known by the Egyptians as Khufu’s Horizon.

  Khufu was the king who had commissioned it over a thousand years before, and he had left instructions that it was to be a place where the people through the ages could ascend and worship his glory, looking out across the lush green Nile Valley and be assured that this was the center of the world, the only place that mattered. That was why it was called Khufu’s Horizon; after seeing it, you were left believing he was time’s greatest king, and this was time’s greatest kingdom.

  We were at the fortieth day of selection. To say we were tired insults the idea.

  Out of the tent came Training Master Horem, followed by several of his subordinate training masters. His pitted scar was florid with his temper.

  “On me! Now!”

  We rushed over in a mass of sweaty, sandy bodies. Dread silenced our chatter. I don’t know when the last time I slept was. My broken ribs from the first day had never really had a chance to heal, and they ached still.

  “You have made it through the first cycle. Welcome back to those who have been here before. I assure you, it gets worse from here.” He smiled at us, that smile that always left us wondering whether he was truly happy or was eager to see us die.

  Gets worse? I thought it was only the forty days, and this was the fortieth day. Another mind game?

  “How many are here now?” he asked a training master behind us.

  “Fifty, Training Master Horem.”

  “We only have room for thirty more to pass through. So the first thirty who touch the golden cap”—he pointed to the top of Khufu’s Horizon—“will be allowed to continue.” And with that, he walked away.

  We stared at each other. Was that all?

  Run. Now.

  Once more, I did not hear a voice. I only felt it. But I knew to obey it right away.

  With everyone still standing there, confused as to their instructions, I darted out of the rank
s and started running as fast as my legs could push me through the sand.

  I heard exclamations behind me as the others started giving pursuit. I lowered my head and only thought about running as hard as I could for the base of that pyramid. Training masters appeared ahead of me, and at once I saw the challenge in full.

  The army training grounds were set apart from the main complex surrounding the pyramids, which was actually a city of tombs. I told you before that the Egyptians worshiped death, and so the places of the dead were the busiest sites in the land. Hordes of people hauling, pouring, chiseling, shouting, laughing, livestock lowing—it was a teeming, bustling mass of humanity hurrying their king on his way toward death by building monuments to it.

  There was a staircase that cut up the pyramid’s center that led directly to the top, where the brilliant gold capstone, as large as a horse’s head, glinted in the sun all day long. I had seen many people going up and coming down the staircase to pay homage to the gods.

  We had to run through the crowds that worked on the burial sites, reach the staircase and climb to the top. But the staircase was emptier than normal, and this was because training masters with whips were positioned the entire way up to the golden capstone.

  I left the army complex behind, crossed a blank patch of sand and reached the tomb city, ducking and leaping around men and equipment, carts and children, needling through the bustle until I reached the base of the pyramid itself.

  A quick glance behind me told me that the others were gaining ground. I could not climb the staircase. It would be impossible with those whips lashing at me. But the white casing stones, polished and shining, were too smooth to find purchase. And as I touched them I discovered they were also terribly hot from baking in the sun all day.

  Frantic, I searched for another way up. Some of the others were taking their chances with the staircase, and I heard the crack of whips and the sound of men crying out in pain as the barbed tips bit into flesh. I panicked because I thought I had chosen poorly. Maybe the training masters were just going to whip them, and if a man was tough enough to withstand it, he could reach the top.

  But no, for even as I watched, training masters were crowding around the recruits and kicking and shoving them back, hitting them on the heads with long staffs, doing everything possible to prevent them from gaining any height on the narrow staircase. The recruits who had just arrived for this cycle were faring better because they had not been through the weeks we had just suffered, but they could not fight their way past the training masters, who seemed utterly intent on ensuring that no more joined their ranks.

  There was no other way. I had to climb.

  I closed my eyes and calmed my breathing. I was thirsty again. Eternally thirsty. I squinted away the sweat as I studied the casing stones. They were fitted together perfectly in their lines, and the polish on their surface had been done without blemish. I could not help but admire the craftsmanship.

  Forcing myself to be patient, I ran my fingers along the lines, searching for something. The pyramid was built many centuries before, and although it had been maintained with extreme care, I had to believe it would expose a fault to me—the place where the chisels had long ago been used to fit the stones together when they slid in. Perhaps they had eroded enough from the wind and pounding of sand and occasional storm.

  My finger found a notch on the upper right side of a capstone. I instantly glanced above it to the same spot on the stone above, and my trained eye caught the defect in that one. Then the one above it, and then the one above that. It was barely anything, and I could not even fit a toe into the groove, but it was all I had.

  The training masters continued to fight and berate and whip the recruits trying to climb the stairs. In sheer desperation and numbers they had managed to force their way up a few more steps. Eventually they had to make the top. I had no more time.

  Assuming that the stones closest to the ground were the most well-maintained because they were easier to reach, I aimed my fingers for a casing stone several cubits above my head. With a running leap, my bare feet managed to find purchase on the angled stones just enough to let me catch the chiseled groove I had spotted. I touched it, but my fingers did not hold and I slid back down.

  I ran at it again and missed it again.

  It took me three tries before my finger caught the groove, and I clung to it with all my strength. My feet slid around trying to find a place to catch.

  Frustration and hopelessness filled my heart. What was I thinking? The pyramid capstone was endlessly high above me. There was no way I would be able to repeat this three hundred or so more times.

  In desperation I pulled up on the fingers that held the groove and . . .

  A chisel.

  I let go immediately and slid to the ground.

  A crowd had stopped working and gathered to watch us, cheering us on. It was clear that this challenge was a routine entertainment for them.

  “Tools!” I called out. “Tools! Stoneworker tools!”

  A stonecutter nearby said, “What will you pay to use them?”

  “Five copper rings,” I said, glancing back at the staircase and trying not to scream Hurry up! at the man.

  “Ten.”

  “Ten. Please!”

  “Witnesses?” The stonecutter looked around, finding the necessary people who would help him hold me to the debt. Hands raised in excitement.

  He held out his bag to me, and I dove into it, grabbing two chisels with sharp heads. I called thanks to him and raced at the angled surface of the pyramid. My feet found several steps of purchase before they started to slide, but my chisels were out to catch me. I jammed them into the highest casing-stone gap I could reach, and they caught.

  The crowd burst with cheers and chants behind me, and again I felt that exhilaration that can only come when you are being watched and admired by the throngs. Oh, that temptress, she can bewitch you.

  I pulled up on the chisels, found a groove to stick my toe into, held myself against the pyramid with my legs, and found another gap to stab the chisels with, this time one that was slightly larger and easier.

  The noise of the crowd must have drawn the attention of the other recruits and the training masters, for the recruits had gathered below me and were trying to climb like I had. The training masters whipped at them and pulled them down. I saw Training Master Horem running up the stairs to my left, about fifty cubits away, shouting and gesturing at me.

  It occurred to me that this may have been another impossible challenge that was simply testing our will to continue. It was not designed for someone to succeed. If I had found the black rock and also managed to reach the capstone of Khufu’s Horizon, how much more would Training Master Horem detest me?

  “You have violated the rules!” he shouted at me.

  “You gave none!” I shouted back. “You only said to touch the capstone!”

  I saw him draw a bow that someone handed him and aim an arrow at me. I froze against the pyramid wall. This was it. My death.

  I thought about letting go of the chisels to save my life, but I was young then, braver than my own good. I would rather have died than quit in front of all those people. Yahweh have mercy, how foolish the young are!

  I flattened myself as much as possible but kept my face toward Horem. I would die like a man, staring down his arrow, hating him.

  He released, it flew toward me, and at the last moment I winced with my eyes shut, expecting the arrow to slice deep into me and cut apart my insides.

  The arrow struck me full in the side, and it felt like someone had taken a stone hammer and pounded my ribs with it. I lost my breath and tried to suck air back into my lungs. I released one of the chisels and hung by one arm, somehow keeping the presence of mind to hold on while my world ended in the pain of what had just hit me.

  Several ribs were broken. That was certain. But I saw the arrow clatter away down the side of the pyramid, one of the big, heavy longbow arrows that were sent over the hea
ds of your own ranks to reach troops attacking you. Why had it not cut through me?

  Training Master Horem was loading another arrow, knocking it into the string with a cold glare at me. I reached back over and grabbed the other chisel, my ribs piercing me with a sharp pain as I moved.

  I pulled my legs up as he let the next arrow fly. This one struck me on the shoulder, and I finally grasped that he was loosing blunt-tipped arrows at me.

  So that was it, then. He wasn’t going to kill me. If I could withstand the pain, I could make it to the top.

  Fresh resolve flooded into me. I looked below and saw that others had followed my lead and were haggling for tools. Some had acquired them and were already trying to pick their way up. Others, learning from what they saw happening to me, ran along the base of the pyramid until they were well out of bow range.

  Discouragement again. Another arrow struck me, this time on my thigh. It was immensely painful.

  It was too far. I would be struck unconscious by an arrow. I had to drop down and move farther over. I cursed my stupidity bitterly. I’d given up the advantage.

  I pulled the chisels out and let myself slide down the face until I hit the sand and then turned to run. But my world went dark as a whip cracked across my skull.

  No sound, then the roaring of the crowd came back.

  I did not see the training master who hit me. I simply stood back up and told my legs to run forward again. The crowd parted at the base of the pyramid as I stumbled forward. The whip cracked behind me, missing this time.

  I ran again, past the rest of the recruits. Every step made my ribs pinch. I couldn’t take a deep breath. And I was still so thirsty.

  The crowd followed me, cheering for me. I let that noise power my leap with the chisels. I caught a gap in the casing stones, and even though I had lost my early jump on the other recruits, I quickly saw they were not sure of what my strategy for gaining height had been. The ones who had found picks and chisels aimlessly struck at the gap between the stones. I knew exactly where to strike on each stone, the small groove where a craftsman like myself a thousand years ago had once driven his tools in to make sure the stone was a fit.