by Scott Peters
It seemed like only minutes before the chatter of bleating goats announced the start of a new day. Early light stabbed the cell door’s rotted gaps. Shaking off his black mood, he yanked the door open on its rotting hinges and stepped into the courtyard.
On the far side, Sobek unlashed two enormous water jars from a sledge. His neck shone with sweat as he lifted them single-handed to the ground. Seeing Ramses, the farm manager’s grey eyes sparkled. He tossed Ramses a small loaf of bread studded with dates and almonds and said, "Follow me."
Ramses swallowed the loaf in three bites, only tasting its sweet, nutty flavor after it was gone.
"What’s up?" he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth.
"Not here." Sobek strode deep into the barn’s shadowed interior. He stopped and said in a low voice, "I’m giving you the morning off."
Ramses couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. "Are you crazy?"
"Probably. But you need to work on your design."
"I have no papyrus."
"For now, practice in the sand, like always. Decide what you're going to draw. It's important to plan carefully. No doubt, there will be hundreds of submissions. Your drawing must stand out from the crowd. Drawing well is one thing, but winning will be more than that. You have to do something memorable. Something that makes them know you're the one. Something they can't deny."
Ramses hadn't thought of that. Sobek's words were wise. And daunting.
"As for the papyrus," Sobek said, "It will come."
Now Ramses was itching to go. Sobek was right, he needed to get to work. Still, he said, "But I can’t just leave! The harvest—"
"The harvest is doing fine. Actually," Sobek added, studying Ramses with a look of suspicion, "Somehow, we’re ahead of schedule."
"Really?" Ramses kept his face blank, but inside he was thrilled, glad his secret night forays were paying off. "Huh. That’s great."
"Yes. But we have a new problem. Nothing to do with your drawings, or the harvest."
"I don’t like that look."
"Come in here," Sobek said. He walked deep into the barn, back to where no one went except to toss a broken tool on the pile Ramses’ father had been planning to repair. He stopped and spoke in a low mutter. "I haven’t said anything because I was hoping I was wrong—"
"About what?"
"It’s not good. Hay’s been bribing people . . ."
"Uncle Hay?"
Sobek glanced toward the door. "He’s been paying off government officials. His visits to Thebes weren’t to improve our irrigation rights. He wants to make sure you have no legal claim to your parents' estate."
"But that’s . . . that’s impossible, he defended me. He wouldn’t . . ."
"He would. He has."
Light filtered through the roof where it had begun to cave in overhead. Flies buzzed in and out of the shadows, nesting in a rotting pillar.
"He had your birth wiped off the records." Sobek said.
The air suddenly felt thick, hard to breathe. Ramses reached for the pillar; splinters jabbed his palm. "So if I’m not my parents’ son, then who am I?"
"Right now, you’re a worker of unknown origin."
Unknown origin?
In one stroke, Uncle Hay had made him no one. Not only in the eyes of humans, but worse, in the eyes of the gods. Without a birth record, when he died he'd be lost to wander in darkness forever. Unable to rest. Stuck in limbo. The ultimate horror.
He’d believed Uncle Hay cared about him, that they were on the same side. Ramses’ cheeks burned. Of course they weren’t. But beyond his fear, what hurt most was that his parents’ long years of work—all their sweat and love—had been used to pay for Uncle Hay’s bribes.
Blackness crept into his stomach.
"We could try to put your case before a judge," Sobek said. "But it doesn’t look good."
All Ramses could do was nod mutely at his friend.
"That’s why we have to act." Sobek pulled up the cellar door.
Ramses followed him down into the cool darkness to where they stored the vegetables from the back garden. The farm manager hefted a sack of garlic onto his left shoulder, a smaller one of dried chickpeas onto his right, and hurried back upstairs.
"This is our chance. Right now."
"So what are we doing?" Ramses asked.
Sobek glanced outside. "There’s your uncle. No time for questions. Play along."
"But—"
Sobek shoved Ramses so hard he flew from the barn. The farm manager emerged a second later, his face livid, his back to Uncle Hay.
"I’m warning you," Sobek growled.
"But Sobek—"
The slap of Uncle Hay’s sandals came to a stop. He leered at Ramses, clearly thrilled at stumbling on a juicy fight.
Chapter Twelve
"I’m the manager," Sobek shouted, his back to Uncle Hay. He thrust the bag of garlic at Ramses so hard it sent him sprawling on the dirt. "You’ll do what I tell you!"
The sack split open. Garlic rolled everywhere. Ramses scrambled around, gathering it up.
"Think I like taking up your slack?" Sobek said.
He swallowed. "I work hard."
Sobek’s shoulders swelled, panther-like, ready to strike. "Don’t talk back!"
"What’s all this, then?" Uncle Hay said.
Sobek spun around in apparent surprise.
As if pleased to have snuck up on them, Uncle Hay grinned. His eyes looked like two eggs being squeezed from their sockets. "That’s my nephew you’re talking to."
After a moment, Sobek said, "I was out of line."
Hay glanced at Ramses. "You’re becoming a real pest."
Ramses scowled.
"What did the runt do now?" Hay asked Sobek.
"It’s not worth your time."
"Let me be the judge of that," Uncle Hay said, voice curious. "I’d like to know."
"It’s nothing. It’s about the sacks we need for the harvested grain."
"And?" Uncle Hay rested one chubby hand on the hip of his pleated kilt. His belly bulged from under his tunic like a sackful of water.
"And nothing. I’m manager here, not some fool delivery boy. It’s not my job to stand in line for three stinking hours, broiling like a slave behind a herdsman with goats that smell of rotting fish. But your nephew says deliveries aren’t his job."
"Oho, he does?"
Sobek’s ruse seemed to work. Maybe too well.
Ramses ducked as his uncle aimed a smack at his head.
"It’s late," Sobek said. "Someone has to go. The line’ll be a mile long."
"You heard him, you grubby little rat, get a move on. We need those sacks."
"These will cover the barter." Sobek heaved the bags of chickpeas and garlic onto the sledge. "So don’t let them tell you otherwise."
"Yes, sir," Ramses muttered.
"And stop scowling. It’ll serve you right if you have to wait all day," Sobek said.
All day? Ramses coughed to hide his grin. He knew the errand would be quick, and Sobek had just bought him precious time. He started to leave, but Uncle Hay caught him by the wrist.
"You’re not going like that." Uncle Hay wrinkled his nose. "Not in those rags. And wash your face. People will see you. You’ll give my house a bad name."
And so, shortly after, Ramses stood scrubbed and dressed in one of Sepi’s finest tunics. The day was growing hot and Uncle Hay was sweating. He grimaced at Ramses with satisfaction, his kohl-lined eyes dripping onto his bloated cheeks.
"Now. There we are," he said. "Off you go. And no meddling about. Hear?"
Ramses nodded.
Yes, he heard. But he’d promised nothing.
It was exhilarating to escape, even for a few hours. First, he’d do the errand. Then, with the sacks safely stowed away, he’d stop to draw.
The sledge bumped along behind him. How funny he must look, hurrying down-river in a gold embroidered tunic as if dressed for a royal Theban festival.
Lush palms arc
hed overhead. The scent of date blossoms filled the air. Red earth sloped gently upward from each bank. In the river, a crocodile swam in lazy arcs, snapped at a passing bird and sank beneath the surface.
As he walked, he mulled over Sobek's words—that a simple drawing wouldn't do. He'd have to draw something that would stand out. But what?
A particularly smooth patch of ground came into view and he slowed. What was the rush? The boat wouldn’t leave until noon. And noon was hours away. The air by the water still felt cool; he could fetch the sacks later.
There was plenty of time.
He parked the sledge.
After finding a stick, he knelt down and grew completely lost in his work.
It seemed like only moments had passed when Ramses realized he was no longer casting a shadow. Hot sunlight radiated up from the sand. He squinted in the glare, studying the ground that was busy with images. Then he glanced up at the sun.
It climbed high in the sky.
Flea-dung! It was getting late.
He blew out a breath. All these drawings, and none were right. Out of nowhere, an image flashed into his mind. A statue of Ptah. He tried to bring the mental picture into focus. Had he seen that statue somewhere before?
Excitement flowed through him, like currents in a stream. Ptah was patron god of craftsmen. What better way to appeal to the examiners than to draw their own guardian?
Still, did he dare draw another god? Sweat dampened his palms.
He struggled with his thoughts. He only wanted to do what was right. Why was life so difficult? Nervously, he pulled a handful of long, dry reeds and swept the ground clean. He dropped the reeds and wiped his hands on his tunic.
A lizard scurried across the sand.
The lizard reminded Ramses of the crocodile-like monster that waited with Osiris at the gates to the Underworld. The monster that consumed the souls of sinners.
The lizard loped across his clearing. It made dry, rustling noise as it slid into the tall reeds.
Suddenly angry, Ramses kicked sand over the reptilian claw marks. He'd had enough of death. He was here, and he was alive. And he would draw his image of Ptah. Right here, right now. And Ptah would be a drawing, nothing less, and nothing more.
It wouldn't come to life.
Ramses had no magic.
He refused to believe he did. Whatever he thought he'd seen before, he'd been wrong. He was an artist. He needed to get into the Place of Truth. And if he was afraid to draw, he might as well give up now. Because to continue would be pointless.
Carefully, he set to work. First, he drew the god's feet, and then his legs. His kilt and broad chest. Arms and hands. A noble face, with keen eyes and brows. Then Ramses gave Ptah his magical staff, with three powerful symbols: the Was Scepter—symbol of power, the Ankh—symbol of life, and the Djed Pillar, symbol of stability.
They were the three creative symbols that allowed Ptah to perform his miracles.
"Are you what they want?" Ramses whispered.
He stared down at Ptah's face.
A rustling noise sounded up the riverbank. Ramses jerked upright.
What time was it? The rustling sounded again. Someone was headed this way. Was it Aunt Zalika? Had she come after him? If she found him drawing, she’d kill him.
Carefully, staying low, he went to the edge of his clearing and peered through the tall grass, back the way he'd come. There was no one there.
The strange impression that someone, or something, was staring at his back made him turn. His gaze flicked to his drawing of Ptah. It was happening again. His stomach clenched. This was not his imagination. The god's eyes had shifted, so that the pupils no longer faced straight ahead. They were looking at Ramses.
Even more frightening, the eyes seemed alive. Intelligent. There was life behind them. An entity looked through them just as surely as Ramses looked back from his own.
Why was this happening? He didn't want Ptah to come to life!
His breath came faster. He wanted to run, or to wipe the drawing out.
The priest’s warning came to him: What the boy does is unholy! No god meant him to have that power.
No. Calm down. He was seeing things.
He blinked hard, hoping the illusion would disappear, hoping he could force that steady, godlike gaze to turn to sand once more. This couldn't be happening, couldn't be real. Those lines were sand! He’d drawn them himself. He was a nobody! Why would the great god Ptah come to threaten him? What had he done so wrong?
Trembling, Ramses stepped away further, tripped and fell on his back.
On the sand, the bearded god’s chest began to rise and fall.
Ramses’ heart stuttered.
Ptah—the god who’d dreamed this very world into existence—grinned at him. Yet, Ramses hadn’t drawn a grin.
He scuttled backwards on all fours. That's when he heard the rustling footsteps coming closer. He'd forgotten about the approaching person.
Trembling at the fear of turning his back on Ptah, he forced himself to turn away. He crouched in the tall grass and searched for the source of the sound.
A reed of a girl with shoulder-length hair and a fringe of black bangs marched along, a woven basket over one arm. She wore a short white dress, made of the finest linen. Her arms and legs had a catlike grace that held him mesmerized.
In his surprise at seeing a girl walking alone in the middle of nowhere, he forgot all about Ptah and simply stared.
The girl's gaze was focused on the ground, so he kept watching.
There was something almost regal about her. Closer now, he saw a carved turquoise amulet hanging from her slender neck. Judging by its quality and craftsmanship, it must have cost a small fortune.
What could she be doing here—completely unprotected? How in the name of the gods had she wandered out, alone? Did she not know there were hyenas and snakes, and men who might attack her here on the edge of the desert?
He suddenly realized if he didn’t stand or say something quick, she’d think he was stalking her.
"Hey!" he cried.
The girl glanced up. And then, with a tiny gasp, she disappeared.
Chapter Thirteen
Baffled, Ramses stared at the grassy bank where the girl had stood just seconds before. He recalled stories of unhappy spirits, wandering the earth for all eternity. Is that what he’d just seen?
A muffled shout of fiery curses changed his mind. The girl was human. Very human. He ran to where he’d seen her last and stopped short. An open pit gaped at his feet. He’d barely missed falling into the hunter’s trap.
Reeds that once camouflaged the hole had caved in on all sides. He leaned over the edge, careful not to slip. She crouched at the bottom in a fighting stance.
"How dare you?" she shouted.
"Are you okay?"
"Stay away from me, jackal-breath!"
"Let me help you."
"I’m not falling for that. Get away!"
He groaned. "Don’t be silly. It’s an animal trap, not a girl trap."
"Yes, and that’s why you startled me. So I’d fall in?" She scrabbled at the sides.
"No. I was trying to not surprise you."
"To not surprise me?" She rolled her eyes, dug in her fingers and inched upward. He couldn’t help being impressed. Even when she scowled up at him.
"It’d be a lot quicker if you just let me help. Come on, do I look like a criminal?"
Every one of her muscles was tensed, and she was breathing hard. "How do I know what a criminal looks like?" As she spoke, her hold came loose. She hit bottom with a growl.
"You’re being ridiculous," he said.
"Ridiculous?" The beautiful girl glared at him.
Wrong word, he decided—really wrong word—as she tried the other side. She managed to scale partway up before that section of wall caved in. She slid to the bottom and landed on her back with a thud. A layer of sand showered her arms and legs.
Water began to trickle from the cave-in, seeping t
hrough from the river. Her eyes flicked up to Ramses.
"The wall's going to give!" he said. "Just take my hand, will you?"
Frowning, she stumbled upright and attacked the wall. Again, she started to climb. Again, the dirt slid from under her hands and feet. This time, the whole section bulged inward and collapsed. She gasped as liquid mud trapped her to her knees.
He lay on his belly and reached down toward her. "Grab on!"
"I can’t reach!"
He glanced around for a stick long enough. Nothing, only thin reeds.
"Hurry!" she shouted.
Water gurgled around her now, up to her waist. Ramses did the only thing he could think of. He stripped off Sepi’s grand tunic. Lying as close to the edge as he could, he held it down to her like a rope.
"Grab on!"
She caught hold. "Pull," she gasped, water rising to her armpits. "Quick!"
"I’m trying, but you’re really heavy!"
She glared at him as she thrashed around at the end of the line.
"Try wiggling your legs!" he said.
"What do you think I’m doing?"
The water surged higher. It rushed over her face. He saw her black hair disappear. By the gods, this couldn’t be happening! He pulled harder, praying she still held on. The tunic suddenly felt lighter. She’d let go!
Choking with horror, he kept pulling. Faster and faster.
The end of the tunic emerged from the swirling mud.
And her pale fingers still gripped a small piece. He shouted with joy and yanked harder. She broke the surface, her face alive with terror.
"Don’t let me—"
"I’ve got you. I’ve got you!" He fastened on to her hands, and then her arms. She flailed, desperately grabbing him. Reaching for her waist, he lifted her from the swirling deluge with a strength he didn’t know he had.
They both fell backward, collapsing on solid ground. A moment later, she rolled on her side and coughed up water, her fingers still gripping the tunic. Her coughing subsided and she rolled onto her back.
Except for the slowly calming pool, and the sound of their breathing, the bank was silent. A breeze brought Ramses to life. He clutched the reeds around him, pulling them over himself. He tried to tug his tunic from her clenched fist. She still clutched it in a death grip. He pulled more reeds over his middle, and tugged again. The girl rolled over and blinked a few times as if clearing her head.