He doesn’t look that much like us. Tall and big is all; half-giant. Djerah shook his head, trying to rid himself of thinking about his guest. Something’s not right though. How would he know to find my Savta if he never knew her as a boy? Why would she weep and call him her brother? Madness of age? Sun blindness, or something else? The women who had lived with him never said he was a son of anyone in particular – just plain Marai.
His thoughts continued swarming about the big sojourner who rested up the stairs. His eyes, though. He’s using heka for sure. They’re black like nearly everyone’s eyes but the silver light over them makes them look … No, he’s not Marai’s son… no such. He has to be the real Marai who Vanished… but that’s impossible unless I’m talking to a ghost or one who himself is malak. The stonecutter shook his head violently, not wanting any part of the foolishness. He knew the man was sending him these thoughts and he knew he had to put a stop to it.
When he scampered back up the steps and parted the drape, he saw Marai open his eyes, then take a deep breath to wake himself.
At that instant, a gentle whisper formed in Djerah’s thoughts. It was something his Savta Oora used to tell him about the dreams of the life that never came to be. She had been Marai’s wife in that fantasy, sister or not.
Twelve children…
Seven boys to grow strong and tall…
Nation builders all.
Daughters five to charm any man alive
That is another reality in a world not to be.
A lie. There was never anything between them. The legend was that Marai went mad mourning a dead woman, ran off into the wilderness and filled the bellies of wild dogs the very night my family needed him. Only my savta believed this other thing. I won’t put up with this.
Djerah held up one finger, as if he was about to scold Marai, but stopped, finger in midair, realizing he had heard spirit voices in his soul.
“Hear something?” Marai almost mocked, then sat.
“I don’t get you,” Djerah moved backward almost to the doorway. “My gut tells me this is a fine trap you’re setting for me and my family, getting my confidence and telling me stories, but you have no reason to whether you’re our blood or not. We’re too poor to be worth it for you. We have nothing. Still, you go on and on as if we were closest friends, spooking me with these funny little whisperings. They…” Djerah realized he’d said too much and grew silent.
Voices in Crystal
Children of Stone
Whispering in the Wind
The young man shivered suddenly in alarm. “I said, don’t you use your heka on me.” He glanced behind himself so that he didn’t slip on the outer landing above the brick stair.
“Djerah, I don’t have the time or the interest in any of what you’re worried about.” Marai rose to his feet and stretched, but the ceiling, as usual, was too low. He really wanted to tell the young man about the unrest brewing in his household, but decided it would be too cruel.
“Houra knew you would be able to hear wind voices. She knew you had dreams too.”
“Maybe she did,” Djerah grumbled. “Maybe I’m dreaming this whole knowing of you.” He paused realizing Marai had just mentioned something else he shouldn’t know a thing about. “I still think you’ve cast some kind of spell on me. Ever since you showed up at the Poors Market, I’ve had dreams,” his voice trailed. “I thought I was just grieving over my savta’s death. I thought her spirit might have been haunting my nights, too. I was about to gather some baskets to trade and go to the priests to get cleansed, but then the dreams stopped right after you and the women left. There was nothing. Then again, the exact night you came to the well, I dreamt about the malak all over again!” The young man continued, taking the first sorted bundles from Marai. “That’s what grandfather Tisehe and Savta Oora called them. They’re messengers. They’re said to serve He on the mountain far away, whose name it is forbidden for our people to speak.”
Marai listened more intently. A trembling sensation rushed through his chest just under the skin over his heart when Djerah said the word for messengers. Malak. Houra and most of my people might have thought that. I thought the Children of Stone were the Goddess when I first heard and saw them.
Fire and Air
In a world away
Become earth and water
Creating
Children of Stone
“Stop that!” Djerah snapped, turning again. This time Marai knew the young man was about to flee from the upper room.
“Trust me. I didn’t send that verse to you. I did hear it, though.” The sojourner knew his people often felt spirits on the heat rising from the barren earth and the whispering in the wind as they traveled. This was the way the Children of Stone, spoke the same verse to him long ago when he stood trembling and naked in their white, cloud-like room buried under the sand. The messengers… the ‘hand’ of Yaweh-Sin, he mused, could it be? If they have come into Djerah’s heart, perhaps that was why my Houra clung so desperately to her life – to hold my family in her heart until I could somehow find her; the same way I searched for the heir of Djedi and found Wserkaf. I found my Houra’s heir; Children of the ones touched by the Children? he bowed his head.
“Just sit down,” he looked at the young stonecutter. “This will be hard for you to hear. You’ll hear it once and then I’ll go. The back and forth talk stops. The whispering under the voice stops.”
The young man entered the room the rest of the way, irritated, but sat on a lump of scrap material near the big man.
Marai spoke again.
“You think Houra and her son Tisehe were just old people talking in the madness of age, but even though it scared you, you know it made you feel special… like the gods and goddesses meant for you to be so much more than the half-starved peasants your family had become.” He handed another bundle of rag to the young man and continued shredding a new batch.
“So, you went into the kings’ army and worked the construction crews, looking for a way to be that much more didn’t you? Fortune was always just one step away, wasn’t it?” Marai knew why Djerah avoided his eyes. The stonecutter was seeing the image of his destiny reflected in them. His stone had emerged a little, but this time he didn’t care if the young man saw it.
“You know what I offer you. I’ll only waste more time in talking.”
A distant but gentle hum, like a thousand distant wings, softer and more of a whisper than the whine of a plague of locusts had begun to move through both of the men.
Djerah rubbed the back of his neck and squeezed his eyes shut, then rose and strode to the back of the room past Marai, who smiled because he knew exactly what the young man was feeling. The young stonecutter found a large basket of clothing which had been washed and dug a veiled cap out of it before returning to the door. Squashing it down on his head, he looked as if he was trying to ignore the sensation.
Although no words came to him, Marai knew the young man suddenly felt the mad desire to go, unquestioningly, with him all the way to Ta-Seti no matter how insane or foolish it seemed. It was the same feeling he, himself had felt on a starry night long ago.
There is something here...
Marai heard Houra’s voice but knew it was speaking in Djerah’s thoughts. It sounded younger and gentler than the young man remembered it, even as a baby.
Be well my young heart…
Be strong where I could not.
You will become as the eagle
You will command the sun on silver wings.
This is but the first step into the light
Djerah went back to the door and saw his family moving up the slight rise from the distant waterfront. They were hauling a big sack of grain they had taken in trade while they had watched some of the procession. After a pause, he trotted down the steps and greeted his wife with baby Sheb strapped to her breast. He nuzzled her, but noticed her tired look.
“Raawa?” he questioned, puzzled by her fatigue. “You ill?”
&nb
sp; “Why didn’t you come down? We waited for you and then there was this man with grain at the water’s edge. Nan ran to get a basket so we could get it. We had no flour left.”
Djerah stepped back. He saw his wife’s two sisters getting the grindstones out of the lower dwelling to begin making some meal. He followed her and pulled her arm a little.
“Sweet Melon…” he called affectionately. “It was the big fellow who’s been upstairs. We were talking. I forgot.”
“We had no grain. It’s not too bad. Nan got a basket, I said. When you work over there all the time, it’s easy to forget what we need.”
His shoulders slumped.
“You could come live there with me over there; your sisters too. They could find new husbands. I told you.”
She silently shook her head. Djerah knew he’d made her sad. It was noisy there. The housing was small and made of thrown together brick. Everything tasted like lime dust from the building. The grit wore teeth away until one got a fever from rot that came into them. Her sisters liked it in Little Kina-Ahna. That was the other thing.
“The man Marai is leaving tonight. When he’s gone and the baby sleeps, I wish to meet you upstairs. I have to go back to work in the morning.” He nuzzled again and stared into her quiet black eyes. The corner of her downturned mouth twitched a little.
“Sure,” her voice answered. “When he goes and baby sleeps.”
CHAPTER 8: THE BASKET
Marai crept out of what had once been his old apartment in Little Kina-Ahna as soon as he noticed Djerah’s relatives had gone inside for the evening. The sojourner decided to go up to the roof to meditate and to focus on his next steps, so he wouldn’t feel as scattered and upset about the coming journey. The nights were getting chilly enough for people to sleep inside again. There was even a chance he’d be alone.
He bundled his shabby brown travel cloak around himself and made his way to the roof the instant the sun dipped beneath the horizon. The last person milling below had just gone inside. No one else came up, so he went to the far side and lay down under his cloak.
Don’t see me, he whispered into the air. He wanted to go to his wives one more time, but the moment he lay down he slept solidly again. Sometime later he woke with a disappointed grunt. The slightly wider sliver of the moon had risen.
Marai leapt up, gathered his belongings and started for the edge of the still-empty roof. The slot where the ladder rested was blocked by a bundle of something. When inspected it, he discovered flatbread stuffed with pitted olives and pulled roast duck. With the bread was a small jar of sweet beer.
Wserkaf. Here? While I slept?
Marai peered over the side as he sat and quickly ate. It was late enough for him to start out on his journey, but something in his heart still wanted him to pass close enough to the lower apartment for Djerah to notice he was going and perhaps come out with a changed heart. He didn’t want to say goodbye because he knew he’d be tempted to send a last thought to the young man.
He’s confused enough, and he’s a grown man. It’s his wife and family. Then, he laughed a little. Sweet goddess in my arms! I’ve become Sheb and Houra of years ago trying to tease me out of my cave to come to Kemet. I’m teasing their great-grandson out of a promising career as well as a dubious marriage… Marai thought to himself, shaking his silvery head.
He planned to walk slowly past the apartment, then send a thought to him as a final request. After that, he would move on, semi-hidden, toward the area of the Poors Market. He would be cloaked in secrecy and shadow to keep from being seen and possibly challenged. Dotting his lips and smoothing the moisture on his chin into his beard, he bagged the beer jar and descended the steps.
Oh well, he sent a final thought. Would have been good to have a traveling companion from the old land, but you never lived there, anyway. You know the path the army takes, but you don’t track. You march where you’re told to march. You don’t think quickly; you follow orders out of fear.
Marai knew he needed to move on. As he stood near the well he stared across the great river. He contemplated the journey that lay ahead for him, but noticed torches had been lit so that every single pathway and building blazed forth with lamplight.
It was just as the departed king would have wished. Great fixtures that supported and mirrored light like beacons had been erected around the gold capped tops of each of the three kings Eternal Houses. Up and down the river, other king’s monuments and eternal houses blazed forth into the night sky.
You were a great king, Menkaure, Marai smiled wistfully, but in the end you were not above the despair of a broken heart or a child’s terror of the dark. Those things became your own personal darkness and paved the way for your doom. I wish we had met. Now I will know your soul only in the way sweet Naibe and Ariennu touched it and gave it some rest. I will see them soon. Perhaps in another time and world…
Men with torches were landing in small reed boats.
Peacekeepers, damn! Marai crouched quickly behind a closed market booth, listening to what they said. If they mention my name, this is going to be a long night.
As he listened, he didn’t hear his name. Instead, men went building to building, rapping on door frames. When someone opened a door, one of the men began to recite an announcement:
“In accordance with His sacred wishes; every lamp shall be lit at night and burn until the light of day, so that his ka will know he is so beloved and his passing into glory, a joy, yet still filled with our tears. Hail his bright spirit. We weep as his lost children. He is our father.”
The heralds bowed to each household. Once they had made certain the family had enough oil, they would move to the next building.
Gradually, the lamps in all of the dwellings were lit. Unable to resist, Marai went back to the apartment steps, thinking it would indeed be a glorious sight if he went up to the roof again to see all of the lights; to see Ineb Hedj greeting Kemet’s beloved king like the “so below” of all of the stars in the night sky. He wanted to sing again, the way he had always sung to his goddess in his cave at home in the distant foothills of the Mountain of Sin.
He sang on that very roof sometimes, before he went to the priests, but he knew that even if he sang a song praising Menkaure tonight, it would put everyone in this part of the village who had sworn they hadn’t seen him in danger. He needed to be silent and make his departure in the opposite direction. As he quickened his step and passed the door of the lower apartment he noticed Djerah’s door was open.
Raawa stood in it examining a large lidded basket. She looked up and noticed Marai, then gasped. “You still here? Djee said you were gone,” her face became anxious.
Djerah emerged and noticed Marai.
“So, did you see her?” The young man asked him. “We told her you had gone, but she said she thought you might be near, maybe walking around. I see now…” he started but the sojourner frowned.
“Who?” Marai came closer, but glanced backward over his shoulder searching the plaza area. Her? he asked himself.
“An old woman came with this… said it was for one calling himself Marai.” Nan came forward with the baby, who had begun to fuss.
Raawa took the child and lobbed one of her swollen breasts into his mouth.
“I told her we knew no one by this name, like Djee told us to do, but she said she understood why we would say it and asked we give it to you when we saw you.” Djerah’s wife began to lift the lid with her free hand, but he stayed the woman’s hand, suspecting possible treachery. “She left it anyway…” Raawa continued, frowning at her young husband, her voice sounding tired and nasal.
“How long ago did this happen?” Marai asked, wondering why Wserkaf would have hired a woman to lug such a basket up the rise and post it in the doorway.
“She was here a moment ago. We thought you had left and my husband and I were seeing to the upper storeroom. Nan saw her come.”
Marai felt the flash of male sexual pride cross Djerah’s face and stared
out of the corner of one eye at the young couple. The woman’s cryptic half-smile confirmed his imagined thought. Congratulations and good health, then, he sent back the thought, but covered the one that followed: Enjoy it while it lasts.
Djerah beckoned Marai to come in for a moment. While the big man ducked under the lintel, the stonecutter lifted the basket, with a surprised grunt. It was tall enough to stand halfway his thigh with the lid on and it was heavy. He brought it indoors and Tissa, the younger widowed sister kicked the woven rush door closed so no passers-by could see what had been left for them.
Raawa put a lamp in the lower window, to respect the deceased king as the messengers had ordered, and returned to the basket at hand. The other children edged closer to see as Djerah lifted the lid.
Inside the basket was a large supply of traveling gear: folded wool and linen clothing, a large Sanghir style fringed cloak, some gold pieces to trade, as well as some good quality glass and ceramic beads and even some semi-precious stones in little leather bags. Djerah’s relatives pulled out wrought bronze jewelry, large leather sandals with many thongs that went over the foot and tied at the side of the ankle in a style common to sojourners from the east. Four small tied rolls of papyrus with the shorthand version of Kemet writing and some kind of encrypted scribble that were rolled up under the clothing emerged as Raawa pawed deeper into the basket.
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