Written in the Ashes

by K. Hollan Van Zandt

  The angel watched as the door unhinged, and the light vanished through it to the beyond.

  Julian had never found such pleasure in a woman before. He kissed her bare shoulder, brushed his thumb along her cheek, suckled the sweet flesh beneath her ears.

  Hannah felt herself melting beneath his touch, ripples of fire beneath her skin. Kisses became caresses. Caresses became questions. They explored each other like two nomads discovering a hidden landscape, savoring every curve, every canyon, every secret cavern. Julian rested his head on her belly. He loved how different her face looked from every angle. When she was smiling, when she was not. Eyes closed, eyes open. In profile her features looked almost fierce, but then from beneath they became delicate as a child’s. He traced a finger across her full lips.

  They lay prone on the tiger skin and Julian removed Hannah’s ceremonial costume one piece at a time, encircling her navel with his tongue, drinking in the scent of her, his body quivering with desire.

  Not yet.

  He delicately kissed her eyelids, her lips, the center of her palm, her soft round breasts with their nipples stiffening under his tongue. She trembled beneath his hands like a wild forest creature.

  So alive.

  So beautiful.

  The torchlight played on the curves of their bodies.

  Their hair entangled, their legs entwined.

  Even the moon could not tell them apart.

  He raised her wrist and kissed it, and then drew her on top of him so he could see her in the torchlight.

  The two lovers drank of each other many times that night. The smoke of the torches carried their cries out into the rainstorm, offering their union to the gods. The scent of the sea filled their nostrils; luminous strands of moonlight and kelp became entangled in their bones. The surf drummed against the staves of their ribs, swirled inside their navels. Gulls circled in the bright sky of their desire. Together, they washed up on the languid shores of love, tousled by wave after wave.

  Neither slept.

  Neither wanted to.

  Dawn approached and the sky through the tower window became pale. Hannah, naked beneath the sheet, fell silent and turned on her side.

  Julian brushed her hair away and kissed the back of her neck tenderly, wishing he could remove the terrible bronze collar from her throat. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “In an hour they will come for us,” she said sadly, realizing that their precious night, which had seemed so eternal, was waning into day.

  “Hannah,” he whispered, turning her to him, taking her chin tenderly between his fingertips. “I may be Master Junkar to all the world, but I will always be Julian to you. Never forget this. Promise me.”

  Hannah smiled as two tears slid down her cheeks. “I promise,” she whispered.

  Then he kissed her again, burying his hands in her hair, his nostrils flaring as he drank in the scent of her sweet skin. He wanted to remember the feel of her, the taste of her, the thrust of how much he wanted her. He turned her towards him and they made love one final time, in the ecstasy of what was soon to end, her tears anointing his body, his hands cradling her own until her back arched in ecstasy and she held her breath, trembling above him, and he lost himself inside her. Then she collapsed on top of him, her heart pressed against his heart as he kissed her cheek, her hair, her hands.

  She pushed the thoughts of the coming day from her mind, wanting the moment between them never to end. Kairos, he whispered, the eternal. She wanted to memorize the shape of his eyes, his shoulders, his sex. She wanted her body to remember the weight of his body, her nose to remember the scent of his breath, her tongue to remember the shape of his name.

  He turned her over and took a sip of wine in his mouth and let her drink it from his parted lips.

  They had only one more hour.

  It passed as though time did not even exist.

  She got up and picked up a bowl of figs, and brought it back to him and then nestled her thighs against his. He pulled her naked body to lean on his and they enjoyed the sweet fruit.

  When the figs were gone, Julian spoke. “Hannah, there is something I must give you now, and you must accept it without question.”

  Hannah tucked her chin and kissed his fingers. “Whatever it is, I accept.”

  Julian smiled and held out his hand to reveal a gleaming emerald shard, inscribed with mysterious letters. “I had a vision while you slept. You are the one who will return the Emerald Tablet to us.” He slipped the black cord over her head, and she touched the emerald shard that hung from it between her breasts. “Is it part of the tablet? What does it say?”

  “It says ‘Soul immortal, no fire can burn thee, no fate can change thy eternal truth’. The shard will protect you as you travel to see the Pythia in Delfi.”

  “Delfi? I thought the Nuapar kept the tablet here in Pharos.”

  “No, not for centuries. But we need it now, for the tablet alone can save the pagans, especially now that Rome has fallen. But I tell you that you must make haste. Promise me, Hannah, for I must go on my quest to India.”

  “I cannot,” she said, her voice trembling. “Surely there must be some Nuapar monk who can do what you ask.”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “I am a slave in Alizar’s house. I was sent to this island to be educated as a priestess. I have no right to go on any quest. Not unless he wills it.”

  Julian thought about this. “I will speak to Alizar; he is an old friend.”

  Hannah opened her mouth, but he placed his finger gently on her lips. “Shhh,” he said. “It is done.”

  So.

  No more could the angel feel the sky. The light had dimmed inside the door. Heavy as a stone, the angel plummeted into darkness.

  When the first rays of sunlight streamed though the tiny window at the top of the temple, the sound of the stone door grated against their hearts.

  They heard voices outside, calling.

  Hannah dressed into her costume quickly and Julian threw his robe over her shoulders. Beyond the white square of daylight behind the door, Mother Hathora was there waiting. Master Savitur stood beside her. Hannah could see their sandaled feet inside the patch of light.

  The sacred union was complete.

  Hannah looked back at Julian one final time, the last time she would ever look on him. He was reclining on the bed, the rumpled sheet around his legs, propped up on his elbows. The smooth skin of his chest shone in the diffuse light and a strand of black hair was caught in the corner of his mouth. His eyes glinted, the same luminous green as the emerald shard around her neck. As she watched him, he sat up and leaned forward to catch her hand, pressing her fingertips to his lips. “I will never forget you, Hannah of Sinai,” he whispered in a voice only she could hear. “Know this.”

  She pressed a smile to her lips. Then she brought his hand to her mouth, kissed each of his fingers, and slowly released it. There were words of love locked in her throat, but she dared not speak them; the look they shared said everything that words could not.

  She had to go.

  Hannah took a deep breath and somehow forced herself to crouch beneath the door, crawl through the threshold, and face the blinding light of day that lay beyond. From the top of the lighthouse, she could see the entire city, the harbor where Alizar’s ship rested, Lake Mareotis and the desert far beyond. And in the north, the Mediterranean Sea, stretching into a blue sky. Somewhere far beyond the horizon lay Greece.

  Julian collapsed back on the bed, feeling the destiny that he had prayed for sweeping down on him like a swift blade.

  He buried his face into the warm sheet where Hannah had been only a moment before, where he could still drink in the scent of her. As he stroked the empty bed, his hand came to rest on something sharp and cold.

  He drew the strange object up into the light and found that he was
holding the beautiful silver hairpin that had been nestled in her hair.

  Her hair.

  He pressed the sleeping swan to his lips and dressed quickly, dropping the treasure into his pocket. She would have his name, and he would have this.

  The new Kolossofia Master took a deep breath to center himself.

  Julian was dead.

  21

  Hannah returned to the Temple of Isis in a daze, exhausted and unkempt, every last drop of energy sapped from her bones. Mother Hathora knowingly took Hannah to the moon hollow and told her to rest until she felt recovered.

  The storm had passed and the sun returned, but the thin winter light held little warmth.

  Hannah fell into a river of sadness. She yearned for Julian’s touch, the sound of his voice, the way they had spoken so intimately. Her heart called out to him though she knew she should not let it.

  Returning to temple life proved to be a blessed distraction. There were chores to be done, lessons to learn, and meals to be prepared. Hannah worked with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, soothing her sadness with the cadence of repetitious tasks. If only everything could have returned to the way it was.

  Hannah had assumed that the other priestesses would be interested in hearing about what had happened in the lighthouse. But this was not to be.

  Her first encounter came during her morning chores with Ursula, the red-haired beauty. Ursula, who was usually quite garrulous, had nothing to say to Hannah and answered her questions with shrugs and bit answers. After several attempts to make conversation, Hannah fell silent and worked alongside the other priestess without so much as a word.

  The dance lesson that morning only brought more of the same. Hannah was ignored by the others, save Hepsut, who had a lovely smile for her and praise for her improvement. During the steps, the priestesses would not meet her eyes; some even bumped into her purposely. Hannah was deeply hurt, though she veiled her feelings well.

  The midday meal brought a slight change as an enthusiastic mob of younger priestesses thronged around her for anything she would share about the sacred rite in the tower. This brought a smile to Hannah’s heart, though it dimmed quickly with a cold stare from Mira, who picked up her plate and departed in silence.

  A little later, Iris came to Hannah’s table and pulled her aside. “I am so proud of you,” she said, her lovely eyes shining. “I just wanted to tell you that I knew he would choose you. I just knew. How do you feel, are you well?”

  Hannah shrugged. “This is not what I expected.”

  Iris sighed. “I thought this could happen.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Wait a little while. Unfortunately, everyone knows about your position in the Great Library with Hypatia as well. It is a lot for them to swallow at once.”

  “But I am a slave! You at least are free to be a priestess, or anything else you like.”

  “It will matter less in time, Hannah.”

  Hannah’s eyes darkened with disappointment.

  So.

  Several weeks later, a bitterly cold winter evening brought more of the same. In the temple during a recital ceremony, the priestesses were each selected to recall passages from the Great Book. They all but flayed her.

  “Begin with the Hymn of Apollo, please.” Celesta’s sibilant tone had acquired a few icicles since the autumn.

  Hannah stood at the dais before the other priestesses, a sea of faces looking up at her. She found her throat was dry. She tried to swallow. “I am sorry, I…I am not familiar with the Hymn of Apollo.”

  “Fine,” Celesta said. “Then recite for us the Song of Abraham.”

  There was a long silence during which Hannah could hear the slight settling of the stone walls.

  “The Song of Abraham,” Hannah began hesitantly, “I do not know it in its entirety, but—”

  “Sit down then, Hannah,” Celesta interrupted. “I am sure that Ursula can recite them for us.” There were snickers from the front row.

  Hannah paused, unsure of what was happening. As she looked around the temple, the priestesses refused to meet her eyes. She looked to Mira and Ursula, their heads bowed together, and then Hannah knew. They had intended to stultify her. They wanted to punish and her for being chosen by Julian.

  Hannah stepped down from the dais, humiliated. She walked slowly, purposefully, up the aisle of priestesses, looking into the eyes of the women to see who would look back. Renenet looked up. Ahmat smiled weakly. All the others looked away.

  Hannah kept walking.

  She went to her room and pulled out the jar of ashes her father had given her. She turned it over in her hands, hugged it to her chest. It was all she had of him.

  Then there was a light rapping on the door.

  Hannah quickly stuffed the bundle behind her bed. “Come in.”

  “Hannah,” said a little voice. It was Suhaila, the child. “Mother Hathora would like to see you.”

  That night after supper, Hannah climbed the steps to Mother Hathora’s study. Amber light spilled out into the night from beneath the door. Hannah peeked in to see the High Priestess seated upon her meditation cushion in the center of the room, facing the altar with its many lit candles. The Great Book was open on her lap.

  “Hannah. Come in.” Mother Hathora closed the book and turned to face the door. “We have some matters to discuss.”

  Hannah sighed, her pain all but crushing her. It was enough to endure the separation from Julian without the hatred from the other women. Hannah pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and sat down.

  “I see you have worked through your anger,” said Mother Hathora.

  Hannah looked up, confused.

  “The feelings you have now will pass, but the deep anger would have stayed with you and eroded your spirit like salt on metal. I am pleased to see you have overcome it.”

  Hannah could not deceive the High Priestess, whose eyes could see straight through her. “Not all of it,” she said.

  Mother Hathora smiled gently. “Of course. It takes time.”

  Hannah shifted her position on the cushion, clearly uncomfortable. “I have felt guilty. I love my father with all my heart. How can I be angry with him for dying?”

  “Do not try to reconcile the two feelings. You love him and you are angry with him. It is understandable.”

  “It is?” Hannah looked up.

  Mother Hathora nodded. “Certainly.”

  Hannah sighed. “It makes me feel a little better to hear you say it, but there is something else.” Hannah looked up, searching for the Greek words until she found them. “The resentment from the other priestesses is difficult for me, Mother.”

  “Yes, yes. I know how it is.” The candlelight danced in shadow over Mother Hathora’s pale blue robes as she spoke. “I once chose Master Savitur in the sacred rite. Our names are here. Come and see,” she opened the book and pointed to a timeworn page.

  Hannah crept forward and peered over the High Priestess’ shoulder. There in red ink was the swirl of her signature.

  Mother Hathora smiled, remembering. “In this book, your spirit and his are eternally wed to one another. Nothing can change that. As first man and first woman, you complete one another. Like Isis and Osiris. You cannot lose him, you will see. His spirit is in everything.”

  So.

  That evening, as she crawled into bed and blew out the candle, Hannah curled in a ball beneath the sheets, needled by the pain inside her. Mira lay with her back to the room, silent as a corpse. Neither priestess said a word. Finally, Hannah spoke. “Mira, I am sorry for what happened,” she said. “I had no intention of things turning out this way.”

  Silence.

  “Mira?”

  A twisted voice responded in the darkness. “You had no intention? How could you even hope to understand what you stole fro
m me, Hannah? I should never have trusted a mere slave.”

  Hannah cringed to hear her own name spoken so hatefully. “If you think it was so grand, and you wish you could have given your heart to a dead man, then you do not know the agony you wish for.”

  Silence.

  Hannah sighed in defeat. She had never been capable of striking clever blows in an argument, and besides, she did not even wish it. “Mira,” she paused. “You have been my most beloved friend.” Hannah waited in the darkness for Mira to say something. When no words came and Mira’s breath took on the slow cadence of sleep, Hannah turned on her back and lay awake with her hands folded over her chest. She had never lost a friend before. It was the most empty feeling in the world.

  The next evening at supper, Hannah sat alone at the far end of one of the tables. Since it was not her turn in the kitchens, she waited patiently to be served. Suhaila came over and sat in her lap. Hannah kissed the little girl’s head and hummed softly.

  A moment later, Ursula appeared with two steaming bowls in her hands. She began to set them before each of the priestesses. Hannah smiled. A lamb stew. This would be nourishing. They seldom had lamb. The scent reminded Hannah of her father. “Suhaila, you should go and sit at your own table now,” whispered Hannah. The younger priestesses were not allowed to eat beside the initiated.

  Ursula set a bowl before Hannah, and Hannah waited for everyone to be served so that they could say a prayer and begin the meal. Once they each had a bowl, Hannah closed her eyes and brought her hands before her heart. They whispered the ancient Egyptian prayer of abundance. When Hannah opened her eyes, her stew was gone.

  She sat up and looked around. Then there was a giggle from beneath the table. Suhaila had taken the bowl, and was dipping her bread into the stew and eating ravenously, laughing playfully.

  “Suhaila!” Hannah slid out from the bench and bent down to reach the little girl, but Suhaila pulled away from her farther under the table and continued to eat her portion.

  “Fine then,” said Hannah playfully. “I will go and get another.”