Lights on the Nile

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “I will,” said Kan.

  “Kepi?” said Masud.

  If Kepi had been able to see the chunk of limestone about to fall, she could have saved her father’s foot. If she had seen the sandstorm about to come, she could have made Menes stay in town until after it had passed. There were so many wonderful things she could do with that gift. But still. “None of you have families worrying about you, waiting for you to come home,” said Kepi. “I do, though.”

  “True,” said Amisi. “Family is the best treasure.”

  “My father, my mother, my sister.” A huge lump formed in Kepi’s throat. “I love them so much. I love how we are when we’re together.”

  “There are different kinds of families.” Masud spoke softly and gently. “Some you’re born into. Some you choose. We can be your new family, Kepi. We’re in this together.”

  We’re in this together. Words that rolled in Kepi’s heart like a prayer. That’s what she had felt last night, when her three new friends had decided to risk everything for her. What truer family could there ever be? It was like Father said—for every joy there is a price to be paid. But this joy just might break her heart. “Can we have time to think about it, great goddess Hathor?”

  “Once the others make a decision about your fate, I can’t help you any longer. And I can see their discussion is close to ended. You have to hurry. It’s now or never.”

  Kepi had just lost Babu. And now she was being asked to lose Father and Mother and Nanu. She’d never known such agony. And the pharaoh would never change. All this had been for nothing.

  Within her, a voice spoke. It wasn’t her father, and it wasn’t a god. It was just Kepi, talking to Kepi. What you do doesn’t matter so much as what you learn from doing it.

  What had Kepi learned? Maybe nothing good. Maybe all she’d learned was that you can’t make other people change. You can’t make them be good and act decent. You can only control yourself. You can only be decent yourself.

  Life was full of danger. And Egypt was riddled with injustice. The pharaoh was wrong: Kepi understood a lot about justice and injustice. These past months had taught her well. If Kepi could see the future, she could stop some of the bad things from happening. Not all bad things—she couldn’t be everywhere all the time. But maybe a lot of things. She knew that now. That was her choice—to take the responsibility or not. And if she did, she wouldn’t be alone. She’d have her new family. Forever. She’d be like air and water and earth—continuing beyond the cycle of life. It would be like becoming part of nature. Really, for a girl like Kepi, what could be better?

  Kepi closed her eyes and dared to be as true a friend as Masud and Amisi and Kan were: “I take the second choice, too.”

  “Wise children,” said Hathor. “But there’s one more thing. You must be tiny. I am the great light—not you. I am the goddess; you are just helpers. You must be small enough to stand on the tip of a man’s finger.”

  “Wait!” called Masud. “If we’re that small, we’ll get crushed by anything that walks past.”

  “Not with wings, you won’t,” said Dunawy. “Feel behind your shoulders. You’re like insects now—you have both legs and wings. Just not the usual number.”

  And they were. They were like click beetles. Ha! Kepi saw the circle closing.

  The four of them were little fluttery things. Little fluttery naked things, for their clothes had not shrunk with them and so had fallen in heaps. Kepi picked up the pen-shell cloth that had been tied around her head. It was so light that, even minuscule as she was, she could lift it. She tied it into a sheath around herself.

  Amisi did the same. And Masud and Kan made shentis of their pen-shell cloth.

  “The door’s open,” said Hathor. “You are my little beloved ones, my meri. And you are so beautiful—nefer. I want people to think of both things when you light up for them—love and beauty. So I’ll call you my feri. Make people laugh in happiness. Honor me. Go now.”

  Chapter 33

  Lights and Bells

  The four of them perched high in a sycamore right outside the temple yard walls. They had flown here in silence, and now they sat in silence.

  “Does anyone feel dizzy looking down?” asked Kan. “I used to hate heights. I remember climbing in the mountains when I was little and crying in terror. But now I feel wonderful.”

  “I can make just one wing move. Look.” Masud fluttered one wing. He almost rocked right off the branch. He caught himself and laughed.

  “You know,” said Amisi, “I was one of the best workers, but the mistress would never have let me move up from a spinner to a weaver because I’m an outcast. She’d have always treated me nasty. Now I’m one of Hathor’s helpers. What did she call us? Feri. I’m a feri. And I’m lovely. And no one will treat me nasty again.”

  “Who knows where I would have been sold next,” said Kan. “The master scorned me and so did everyone else. But now . . .” He blushed and hesitated. “Now I’m with Amisi.”

  Amisi sidled along the branch, pushing aside the shiny green leaves, and settled closer to Kan.

  “The master didn’t scorn me,” said Masud. “But he never loved me. I know what real love is. My father said the sun rose and set in me. He told me stories about the gods all the time. He wanted me to be good and happy. That’s what it means to be a parent—you’re supposed to love a child, whether or not the child is adopted. The master didn’t know anything about being a father. I would have spent my life never ever being with anyone who cared about me.”

  “I care about you,” said Kepi.

  “We all do,” said Amisi.

  “See?” Masud smiled. “Look how lucky we are.”

  Kepi’s eyes stung with gratitude. These were good friends, a new family. Like Amisi said, family was the best treasure. But now she closed her eyes. The hole in her heart was vast. “I have to go see my mother and father and sister. I have to say good-bye.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Masud.

  “We can all go together,” said Kan. “And, then, do you think . . . ?”

  “Yes,” said Kepi. “Yes, yes. We can go to your country and you can see your old family, too.”

  “But how will you say good-bye?” asked Amisi. “We’re so tiny, will they even know it’s a voice? All people hear when an insect talks is a whir or a buzz.”

  “We have the bells,” said Kan.

  “But they’re heavy,” said Amisi.

  Kepi looked down in dismay at the base of the tree. They had each carried only one bell with them when they’d left the temple chamber, and they’d set them under the tree.

  “We can hammer them flat and make lots of new, smaller bells from them,” said Kan.

  “With what?” asked Masud. “We’re too small to lift a hammer.”

  “I bet if we all work together, we can swing a hammer. And once the metal is thin enough, we can use pebbles to shape the bells. We can just fly over to the metallurgist’s and do it when the shop’s empty.”

  Amisi smiled her beautiful smile. “Just fly over there. The sound of that is so funny. Just fly on over. But it’s right. That’s what we do now; we fly.”

  So that’s what they did. From those four bells they made four hundred teeny-tiny bells, and they stashed almost all of them in niches under an eave of the metallurgist’s shop. Then they each took ten and tied them into a fold of the pen-shell cloth that covered them.

  It took them no time at all to reach Kepi’s village, for feris aren’t bound by human time.

  The others waited on the roof while Kepi flew around the outside of her home. She could hardly believe what she saw. When Father had started baking bread, they used to make one row of fires for the baking embers—and a short one, at that. But now she saw six long rows. Father must be selling bread to the entire village. Maybe word had spread to nearby villages—maybe even to the big city of Wetjeset-Hor. People must come from everywhere for Father’s bread. Ha! Herb bread must be delicious, after all. Beside the old bak
ing disks were new ones, shaped like fish and triangles and birds. Kepi imagined the village children’s delight at munching those whimsical breads.

  But she couldn’t fly around outside forever. She had to go inside. She had to face these people who she loved. Kepi flew through a window.

  Father stood by the carpet, where a loaf of bread and a jug of beer lay. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t doing anything, really, just leaning on his crutch. Grief had aged his face. His cheeks hung just a little. His eyes looked heavy.

  “I love you,” Kepi said.

  Father didn’t even move. Amisi must have been right—he couldn’t hear her.

  Kepi flew around Father’s head.

  Father blinked.

  Kepi circled him again.

  Father leaned back and swatted at the air.

  Kepi flew just out of reach and jingled her bells.

  “What’s that?” Father’s eyes followed as Kepi flitted around the room. “Are you a scarab?”

  Kepi jingled her bells. Then she landed on the carpet and climbed onto the loaf of bread.

  “Jingle. Jingle.” Father’s mouth opened in wonder. He leaned over. He shook his head slowly, side to side. “You’re a point of light. But I think I see a face behind that glow. A face I know. Could it be? Is that you? Is that my Kepi? My little jingle-jangle?”

  Kepi couldn’t have spoken now, even if Father could hear her voice. She was crying too hard. She jingled her bells.

  A tear rolled down Father’s cheek. “We’ve missed you so much.”

  Kepi jingled her bells.

  “I’ve never seen anything like you before. You’re a star that’s come to earth. A tiny, wonderful, singing star. The very sight of you makes me happy.” And then he straightened up. “Oh. I have to tell your mother and your sister. Right away. They have to see you. Come. Come, Kepi, my love, my jingle-jangle.”

  So Kepi sat on Father’s shoulder as he slowly hopped his way with a cane toward the river, where Mother and Nanu were scrubbing laundry.

  “Look,” called Father. “Look look!”

  Mother and Nanu jumped to their feet in alarm. They came running. “Is something wrong, Father?” asked Mother. She, too, looked so old, so thin, so fragile.

  And Nanu’s eyes behind her were liquid with a sadness far beyond her years.

  “Our daughter’s come back.”

  “What? Kepi? Where?” Mother grabbed Father’s arms and clung there. “Where is she?”

  “Here, on my shoulder.”

  Mother stared. Nanu came up behind her and stared.

  Kepi jingled her bells.

  Mother’s mouth fell open, but she didn’t speak.

  “That’s Kepi?” said Nanu. She came closer and blinked. “Yes. Yes, I can see her funny face. I can see the face of my sister. Oh, Kepi. Kepi, you came back.”

  Kepi jingled her bells.

  “She’s a spark of light,” said Mother slowly.

  “What silly thing did you do to turn yourself into light?” asked Nanu.

  Kepi jingled her bells.

  “You won’t believe what’s happened while you’ve been gone. Everyone trades for Father’s bread rather than making their own. Some leave us fish or pots or cloth. Others work Father’s fields in exchange for bread. Mother and I don’t have to do fieldwork anymore. And . . .” Nanu twirled around. “I’m getting married in a month.”

  Kepi jingled and jingled her bells.

  “I love that sound,” said Mother. “It’s so high and tinkly. I want it every day. Do you hear me, Kepi? I want to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.”

  “Me, too,” said Nanu.

  Kepi untied the knot in the tip of her pen-shell shift. She flew round and round Mother, till Mother opened her hands in confusion. Then Kepi dropped two bells in her palm.

  “What’s this?” Mother raised her hand to her eyes. “Two minuscule metal bowls.”

  “I want them,” said Nanu.

  Mother held her hand over Nanu’s and dropped in the bells, which clinked against each other as they fell. “Ah, that’s the sound.”

  Kepi dropped two more bells into Mother’s now-empty palm.

  Father held out his palm. Kepi dropped bells into it.

  “So this is your voice, Kepi.” Mother’s tears fell on the bells and made them shine. “Every morning and every night when I say I love you, I’ll flick these little bowls together so I can hear you saying you love me, too.”

  Kepi flew right at Mother’s face. She couldn’t stop herself. But Mother seemed to understand. She closed her eyes. Kepi kissed her wet lashes.

  Then she kissed Nanu and Father.

  “Thank you for coming back, Kepi.” Nanu kissed her fingertips and blew the kiss to Kepi. “You made us happy.”

  There was nothing left to do. Kepi flew in a circle above them, wanting so much to stay—but she was a feri. She didn’t belong here anymore. She jingled and jingled and jingled her bells.

  Nanu shook her head. Then she sighed. “You’re leaving?”

  “She has to,” said Father. “I don’t know what’s next for Kepi, but I know it’s important. And we have to be happy for her.”

  “Oh, Kepi,” called Mother. “Visit us now and then, sweet daughter.”

  And she would. They had human lives to lead. It would be wonderful to see what they did over the years.

  But Kepi had a different life. And suddenly she realized where it should be: back in the north, at the site of the great pyramid. She could watch over the workers there. She could see an accident before it happened and make everyone get to safety. She could protect the pharaoh’s people even if he didn’t. Ha! Everything was working out—not the way she had hoped, but better, really. She could do good things forever and ever and ever.

  She flew back to the roof of her human family’s home, where her new family waited for her.

  Author’s Note

  Where did fairies come from?

  Pan claimed fairies were born from the first baby’s first laugh. But, in Tinker Bell’s infamous words, Peter was a “silly ass.”

  Laughter is important, no doubt about it. But fairies are linked to many things beyond happiness—scary things, wicked things, sad things, mysterious things.

  Some believe they are the spirits of nature, embodied in hills, lakes, the sun, a flower’s delicate perfume—that is, the basic elements of earth, water, fire, and air. Some say they were spawned on magical islands under the oceans, on the high seas, even in the skies.

  They are legendary creatures, often linked to religious beliefs. So the question of where they come from is one to take seriously.

  Fairies first appear in recorded history in ancient Egypt. That’s why I chose to set my story there. The English word fairy, however, has its origin in the Latin word fata, which is the name of a goddess of fate (the Latin word for fate is fatum). That original sense of what the word meant led me to create a story in which Kepi’s experiences and her relationships to the various gods inexorably lead her to her final choice of becoming a fairy; this choice is truly her fate. It is a nice coincidence, however, that two ancient Egyptian words—nefer, “beauty,” and meri, “beloved”—can be blended to form feri, which sounds the same as fairy.

  Postscript on History

  This story takes place during the Fourth Dynasty of the Old Kingdom of ancient Egypt, approximately in the year 2530 BCE. Egypt had a developed civilization as early as 3000 BCE, and it continued for millennia. Much of what you might read about ancient Egypt is true of a particular time period only, not of the entire history. I have tried hard to stay true to the Egypt of the time of this story.

  The sayings of Kepi’s father come from inscriptions on ancient temple walls.

  The gods and goddesses of Egypt are known to many people today by the Greek versions of their names. Likewise, ancient cities are known by their Greek or Arabic names. But the Greek influence on Egypt arrived much later than this story, and the Arabic influence was even later. For
that reason, I have returned to the ancient Egyptian names when I could find them, and to Coptic (a later stage of Egyptian) names when I couldn’t find earlier ones. The reader can use the glossary that follows to check on the identities of gods, goddesses, and place names.

  I haven’t been entirely consistent in this language choice, however. The ancients called their country Kimi, not Egypt. And they called their ruler nesw-bit, not pharaoh. I used the familiar names, however, in the hope that this would help readers keep in mind whatever they might already know about the country and use that to envision the story.

  Gods and goddesses appear in Kepi’s adventure repeatedly. They whisper to her, they reveal themselves to her in animal form, they protect her—sometimes with destructive results—and, ultimately, they insist that her life cannot continue on its original path, since she offended them by entering the temple and by eating the food set out for the goddess Sekhmet. When we finally see gods and goddesses interacting with each other in the dark cellar below the temple floor, they squabble. In her anger, the goddess Sekhmet talks badly about other gods, calling the god Horus bossy and the god Set untrustworthy—claims we can easily believe, given what we’ve seen of the gods in Kepi’s story. The god Sobek, in the form of a crocodile, and the god Set, in the form of a hippo, killed men of the crew rather than merely frightening them into changing their behavior. These acts would make one think the gods had little regard for human life. Only Hathor seems just and loving in her interactions with humans. The array of gods and goddesses presented in this story, then, does little to inspire confidence. Yet the ancient Egyptians believed in such gods.

  While the general role of the gods and goddesses changed over the long period of ancient Egypt’s history, and while the individual personalities attributed to particular gods and goddesses varied over this period, there’s no doubt that the ancients developed and observed a wide range of strict rituals in their daily lives because of the hope and, indeed, the fear that deities could be watching them at any moment. Ancient life must have felt chaotic and unreliable. One moment parents were able to work hard and provide for their family, the next day one or both sustained such a disabling injury that their lives and the lives of their loved ones were no longer secure. One moment a person was paddling in ease down the river, and the next a sandstorm came and tossed him away, ultimately drowning him. The roars of lions, whoops of hyenas, and howls of jackals sounded in the night. Yet dawn was often a mystical misty green, day saw skies teeming with happy pelicans and rivers crowded with many kinds of fish, and at sunset the sand and limestone cliffs sometimes dazzled red and white. All these goods and evils, all these gifts and miseries, all of them came from the gods and goddesses. So of course the deities themselves had to be imperfect; their imperfections helped to account for an otherwise bewildering world.