by Stephan Loy
“You rascal!” She pinched him again.
“Ouch! I surrender. No, really. Set should be a happy, smiling boy. You and Nephthys are such miraculous twins--”
“The body is not the essence, my happy, smiling boy.”
“No, the body is not the essence. Poor Nephthys. Only I share in your essence. Here. In this bed.”
“And I yours.”
He gave up. They kissed, and for hours he was lost.
Later, he tried again, this time with his eyes closed. Isis snuggled against his chest, sighing happily.
“Yesterday, as we came up from the temple, a strange thing happened: a visit from Djafa Seniram.”
“And who is Djafa Seniram? A long-lost cousin from before the fall of Nun?”
“Djafa Seniram. You know, of the Bedouins.”
“Ah.” She tapped a finger against his chest. “Yes, the Bedouins. A stiff-necked people who refuse to enter the service of the gods.”
“They’re independent, yes, but good people regardless.”
“They believe we are only shadows of greater gods to come.”
“One greater god, if I recall.”
“They refer to Ra, to grandfather. They just don’t know it.”
Osiris furrowed his brow. “Perhaps. Who knows? I think we’ve digressed. I was talking about Djafa Seniram. He showed up during the procession, blocked the whole road. He carried a gift, which he surrendered rather grudgingly.”
“Oh? Perhaps he likes you.” Her fingers made circles against his shoulder.
“The gift was for you.”
The circles stopped.
“He said his people owed you a debt.”
Isis pulled away from her husband. “Interesting. I wonder what he meant.”
Osiris opened his eyes to a squint. His wife leaned on one elbow, her rich black hair framing her face. Her beauty wrenched him once again, but this time he fought the urge for her. “You’re toying with me, aren’t you? You’ve no idea what you did? This was very important to him.”
Isis looked away into the room. Her brow furrowed. Osiris admired the long curve of her neck. He whimpered inwardly.
“These humans are easily impressed.” The goddess released a luxuriant shrug. “Perhaps it rained and they ascribed it to-- Oh, now I remember.”
Osiris awaited the explanation, taking her in through short, careful glances.
“It was months ago, just after the harvest. A woman was brought into town, to the workers’ quarter, desperately in need of a midwife. I was there to bless the harvest, just walking around and making conversation, really. The woman made such a fuss. She was having a difficult time. I knew she was not one of ours. She wore that sheep’s material, and spoke a gritty language.” Isis sat up, then drew a knee close to her bosom and hugged it. “The humans made such a terrible fuss, as if the world might end. Anyone could see her child was breech. I went to her, turned the child, and made the woman’s pain recede.” She shrugged again. “It was more to stop her shrieking than anything else.”
Osiris considered her story, then erupted in a roar of laughter. He laughed until his sides ached, and kept on laughing.
Isis addressed him with an air of icy haughtiness. “Something amusing, O god and king?”
“Oh, you could say that,” Osiris squeezed between guffaws. “You and your detached godhood, now that’s amusing!” He wrestled his humor into rough submission and risked a look at her. “Oh my,” he breathed, wiping away tears. “I’m reminded of why I love you, goddess, aside from your more obvious assets.”
She watched him, her attitude unchanged. Curled up as she was, she might have been that cat goddess, Bastet. But Bastet was attitude and not much else; she needed more meat on her bones. “You could easily have departed,” Osiris tried to explain. “You could have turned into a falcon, and simply flown away. You helped that woman because she suffered. Because you felt her pain.” He sighed. “That’s why everyone loves you, Isis.”
The goddess huffed, then slowly lowered herself to stretch along his side. “So, I’m soft,” she challenged. “I can’t stand suffering? I’ll make you suffer, my insolent slave.”
Uh-oh, Osiris thought, and felt her hands in familiar, sensitive places.
No one cared when Set took over the palace carpenter’s shop. Osiris’s man was smart enough not to complain, and worked in the yard to avoid the storm god’s business. He had few projects pending anyway, just tool repair and small furniture jobs, and they weren’t worth the ire of a moody immortal. Set had brought his own carpenter, and he, at least, was busy.
Just then, he was busy avoiding a violent death.
Set stood in the dusty shop, his carpenter cringing prostrate at his feet. The god drew his fingers across the long box laid on the bench before him, a marvelous work of smooth imported cedar with stunning ebony inlay. The craftsmanship shone in the afternoon sun that streamed through the shop’s open doorway. That light also revealed the work as unfinished. Thin bits of wood cluttered the box’s surface along with tools to work them. Intricate designs had been chiseled into the lid, looking like artful scars.
“This is good,” Set said, “but you are behind. I need this finished in two days. Will you meet your schedule?”
The carpenter trembled against the packed earth floor. “Forgive me, lord, king of the desert lands, lord of the upper regions, but I am just a man, frail, old, and unwise. I--”
“Get to the point, human. My patience has limits.”
“Forgive me, lord,” the man continued. “The trip down river from Abu Simbel. The barge was unsteady. I could not work. I have since labored greatly to catch up--”
“None of this answers my question.” Set’s menace darkened the shop. He swept tools and chips off the box. They clattered across the room.
“No, lord, forgive a poor, stupid man. You will have your work on schedule, even if I die of overwork and sleeplessness.”
Set drew himself up. “Understand, human, that you’ll suffer worse than sleeplessness if you fail in this commission. The sand under your face will strip the flesh from your bones.”
“Yes, lord, I understand fully!”
Set snorted doubt at those words. He eyed the man a moment, his face hot with disgust. Then, with no further word, he turned and stalked from the shop.
The carpenter remained prostrate a long time afterward, terrified the god might return. But, when no such misfortune came to him, he relaxed and rolled onto his back. His face and chest were coated in dust.
What was that all about? he wondered, though he wasn’t at all surprised. Set possessed an infamous temper, lavishly dispensed. The carpenter had seen it before and would see it again before he died. But that was another time; with Set, one lived in the moment.
He tried to calm his heart enough to move, to think, to get to the work on which his life depended. Bringing himself by stages to his feet, he leaned against the object of Set's annoyance. A great piece of craftsmanship, the carpenter allowed himself, and therefore not to be hurried. It was a gift, after all. Would it not be better to delay its giving? Why deliver a sloppy present? But, the carpenter knew better than to question the plans of gods aloud. So, hurry he would. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t have to. All he needed was to work, and live.
He looked around for his tools, found them scattered in the dust. He reclaimed a wood chisel, a hammer, a knife, and his bowl of glue, now spilt. Well, there was yet enough to work through the night, then he’d borrow from the local man who normally worked this space.
The carpenter picked up his chips of wood. He shouldn’t have to do this, he complained silently. If speed was so important, then why disrupt the craftsman’s work? If Set wanted the job on time, then he should encourage, not terrorize.
Coming to Abydos had delayed the work.
The god’s tantrums delayed it further.
And anyway, what did Osiris need of a coffin?
Chapter Two:
Abydos hummed with acti
vity. The barter shops did brisk business, the boats ran, and the priests performed their frequent rituals. Osiris had come to his home, so the streets were packed with gawking pilgrims. They came to the temple for the scheduled devotions. They came between chores, in the midst of chores, tools still in hand, and from the idle luxury of noble villas.
Most were strangers to Abydos the city, but Abydos the kingdom extended far up and down the Nile valley, with a population in the tens of thousands. These rural throngs gaped at the sights, especially the ornate temple. They milled before its gates hoping to glimpse their sovereign, for tradition forbade all but priests to enter the temple grounds. Of course, there was pageantry, as the religious turned out in their finest robes, beat their drums, and voiced their chants. Pennants flew over the massive mudbrick pylons flanking the temple’s gate, their presence announcing the god-king’s readiness to accept the prayers of his people. With the crowds, the color, and the theater of faith, the city seemed in the midst of a festival.
But Osiris felt anything but festive. Touched by his people’s affection and by pangs of guilt over such a long absence, he attended all the temple rites. He entered through the street gates rather than from the palace, making himself visible to his subjects. He appeared at neighborhood altars, accepting in person the offerings of astounded workman-clerics. Finally, he sat upon his ebony throne in the palace audience hall, attending to his court of nobles and hearing the pleas of his less fortunate supplicants. He was everywhere for everyone, and he was exhausted.
“He’d be amusing if he weren't so weary,” Isis said. She must have felt the strain of duty, though of course it didn’t show. With Osiris so much in evidence, she had increased her liturgical appearances to ensure her own cult did not fall from distinction. Her schedule was lighter and lower key, but she had always been home for her faithful and therefore had less to prove.
And then there was Nephthys, queen of the deep desert, mistress of Abu Simbel, and wife to the storm god Set. She sat beside her sister in Isis’s main hall, a perfect twin, and nothing. Living as she did in the shadow of her husband, Nephthys attracted few followers into her minor cult. Her people -- that is, her husband’s people -- loved her, especially in comparison to her volatile, moody spouse. They ministered to her, and likely felt sorry for her, but were rarely moved to worship her. Few knew what to worship her for.
She couldn’t blame them.
Now she sat on the divan, a mirror image of Isis, her hostess. But where Isis personified confident love and life, Nephthys’s existence was a dark secret. She felt a little sad, a little removed from the world. She skinned a grape with her teeth while her mind ranged between her sister’s animated talk and her own hidden thoughts.
“He exhausted himself,” Isis was saying. “It really wasn’t necessary, but you know how driven he is. He’s laid out in bed right now, trying to rest before that feast.”
“Feast?” Nephthys was distracted. She boiled in her own purposes, for which she felt guilt, fear and excitement at once. She couldn’t tell Isis her intent, though from Isis alone she had never held secrets.
“Yes, you know, Set’s little welcome home feast in the main hall. All the nobles and all Osiris’s men are invited. It’s informal, and all male, probably an excuse for business.” Isis popped a grape into her mouth and closed her eyes to relish its taste. “Mmmm, they’re delicious, aren’t they? All the way from the delta!”
“Osiris is too tired for feasts,” Nephthys said, her tone a timid whisper. “Perhaps he’ll sleep through the night?”
“Not him. He’s too much the dedicated monarch. His retainers will rouse him just before the hour.”
Nephthys didn’t ask what hour; she already knew. Stewed as she was in her own affairs, the 'feast' for Osiris had still managed a flicker in her survivor's heart. The party held danger. The sly, serpentine humor lately affected by her husband could mean nothing else. He craved Osiris’s throne, and perhaps would move to take it.
She shivered at the thought of Set as king of Abydos. She knew his sick philosophy of rule. Just that morning, the Setim, an elite cadre of warrior-priests who accompanied Set throughout the lands, had worshipped him with incense and drums aboard his massive barge. It was moored upstream from the temple quay, well beyond sight of those in power. Nephthys hadn’t been invited, and wouldn’t have gone anyway, but had watched with morbid interest from her own boat tied up a short run away. Normally, she would have avoided the scene, for the Setim’s worship was not so much devotion as insurance against mass murder, hard for her to stomach. But Hapi had been there, his pendulous muddy breasts glistening brown in the sunlight. He had risen from his river to offer compliments to Set. Hapi was god of the Nile, long in struggle against Abu Simbel. Why would he choose to visit the god of deserts?
“You could go to him,” Nephthys said. “You could ... convince him to stay in bed.”
Isis grinned, rolling two grapes in her palm. “I have duties, Nephthys. At sunset, two humans are sequestered for birthing. I’m committed to attend.” She shrugged. “I only have an hour before I go.”
“I’m sorry,” Nephthys breathed, looking down at her lap. “I must be keeping you.” She gripped her hands against the rich pleats of her linen dress. A pretty dress, so close and so thin that it seemed painted on.
“No, not at all,” Isis said, and touched her sister’s hand.
Nephthys flinched from the gesture. She sees something, she cried inside. What have I done to betray myself? A movement? A flit of the eyes? Can she hear the secrets hidden in my voice?
“Nephthys, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” Nephthys said too quickly. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. The trip from Abu Simbel, you know.”
Isis couldn’t have been convinced, but then, the mistress of the deep desert was not an easy goddess to read, thank goodness. Nephthys knew how they saw her. Odd behavior for anyone else was as normal in her as breath. She couldn't help her readiness to cringe, to recoil from abuse. Her husband had trained her well.
“Nephthys, what has he done now?”
“What? No, not Set. Not really. We hardly spend a day together.” Her hands gestured of their own accord, small, constrained movements that whispered her fear of being noticed. She looked about the hall for help. She found none, just the floral décor on the walls, the cold brazier, two wood and rushes chairs, and the table with the bow on it. She gathered herself, and turned back to her sister. “It isn’t Set. Not this time. This time, Isis, it’s me.”
Isis waited, fiddling with a grape.
“It’s me,” Nephthys repeated, her voice collapsing in on itself. For a moment, the house stood silent. Isis moved to prompt her sister, but Nephthys spoke first. “Isis, am I a good sister?”
“What? What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one, I think. Am I a good sister? Am I trusted? Am I welcome in your life?”
“Of course you are,” Isis said, then suppressed a nervous laugh.
“Would you miss me?” Nephthys whispered. “Would you miss me if I were gone?”
Isis made silence her answer. She drew her lips to a thin line and held her sister’s eyes. Oh, even petulance was music upon her face!
“I’m sorry.” Nephthys dropped her gaze to her lap. Her fists bunched there. “I’m sorry, this isn’t something you want to hear. You’re a powerful goddess, worshipped across the land. You never have thoughts of fading...”
“Fading? Nephthys, don’t be ridiculous!”
Nephthys looked up. She glared with a spark of certitude. “But, I am ridiculous! I have no identity. I hardly have worshippers! My following is a laughable cult! What is a goddess without her believers? I am nothing, hardly even a concept or the seed of an idea. I fear I soon must fade from this world...”
Isis frowned. She put out a comforting hand, but retrieved it when Nephthys drew away. “That monster has done this,” she said. “You are not ridiculous. I love you and I do not love ridicu
lous things. Osiris loves you and wishes you away from that desert trap. You are loved and honored more than you know.”
“Why?”
The question stymied Isis. “Why?”
“Why, sister? I’m not a goddess of life and fertility. I’m no god of agriculture, no bringer of civilization. I am not the Nile, like Hapi, nor even a queen debaucher of love, like Hathor. I’m nothing. An immortal without purpose. I’m a dream incomplete.”
“You are my sister. Is that so insignificant?”
Nephthys furrowed her brow. “Forgive me, I love you. But I can’t face eternity as only the sister of Isis.”
Speech failed between the goddesses. Nephthys was right; she knew it. She had dwelled on the subject for years, had cultivated the festering boil of her life as humans slit their wrists, or practice self-flagellation with whips of knotted cord.
When Isis spoke again, her voice quaked with emotion. “Then don’t. Make yourself, sister. Form yourself as you see fit. Don’t allow Set to force you to fade. You embody some power, that’s without doubt. You would not exist otherwise. You just need to discover your nature, coax your power to manifest. It’s tangled thread, but I’m sure you can set it straight. Nephthys, complete your dream.”
“I intend to,” Nephthys said, trembling. “There are ways, and I intend to.”
Isis misread her intent, and smiled.
In all her eons, Nephthys couldn’t recall the last time she had smiled. She sat in the dark of her palace guest apartments long after Isis departed for her chores. Her only companions were desperation, self-disgust, and cowardice, all tearing at her like starved and greedy animals. She thought she might die before her hour came, die of a heart withered from lack of choices.
But the time did come, and she mustered her nerve. She departed her quarters and crossed the moonlit palace gardens, looking away from the unlit shadow of Isis’s house. She wore a heavy cloak with a hood that shadowed her melancholy face. Beneath it she wore her pretty dress, its stays loosened, its pleats billowing. When she came to the king’s apartments, his retainers admitted her without a word; they were not in the business of questioning the gods, and they thought she was someone else. She therefore arrived unannounced.