Hatshepsut: Daughter of Amun

by Moyra Caldecott

  Hatshepsut sat up and held them in her hand, looking at them, puzzled. Three ordinary stones of the earth: one white, one black and one grey—the grey made up of the crystals of the other two. They were river-worn to egg shape.

  Anhai offered no explanation but said that Hatshepsut should keep them.

  * * * *

  After the dream, the two women walked in the garden. From time to time Hatshepsut caught sight of other figures flitting about the corridors and chambers of the sanctuary, but it was Anhai herself who attended to every aspect of her healing.

  The sun had risen but the air was not yet too hot to bear. Anhai encouraged Hatshepsut to tell her about her dream as they walked, and drew detail after detail out of her. Hatshepsut found herself talking to Anhai as she had not talked to anyone in her life before. Anhai listened and said nothing.

  She heard about Hatshepsut's love for Senmut and how she could not have endured those early years of struggle to establish herself without his encouragement and help. But Anhai noticed that when Hatshepsut spoke of more recent times her feelings for Senmut were ambiguous. She still loved him, but there were signs that she had begun to resent his influence on her, and the fact that he knew so many of her innermost thoughts and fears.

  Anhai could see that there were many things Hatshepsut was not prepared to tell her, but, warned by the fate of Senmut, she was careful not to probe too deeply. If she needed to know about something that Hatshepsut wanted to keep secret, she would have to find out by means other than direct confrontation. She suspected it was a sense of guilt that was festering in the Pharaoh's heart and drawing the colour from her cheeks and the flesh from her bones. It was a sense of guilt that had held her back from calling on the gods for help in her dream—and that made her later prefer to doubt their existence rather than to accept their criticism.

  * * * *

  The next part of the treatment took place in the crystal room. Imhotep and Djehuti presided over the whole sanctuary, but Hathor, the goddess of crystals and minerals, “Our Lady of Turquoise", presided over the crystal room.

  The Great King laid herself down on the couch without demur while Anhai carefully selected the appropriate stones from the tables around the room. She explained as she was doing so that she could not say one particular crystal would always cure one particular malady, and another would always cure a second. Their effect was more subtle than that, and each had to be chosen intuitively by the healer to suit the person seeking healing.

  The next step was to hold a slender amethyst crystal suspended on a silver chain above the Pharaoh and quietly, contemplatively, move it from toe to crown of head and back again, watching intently as the pendulum swung, apparently of its own volition, either sunwise or anti-sunwise, each movement registering some significant imbalance or unusual eddy in the life flow of the woman lying beneath it.

  Anhai knew nothing of the abortion Hatshepsut had had, but when she held the pendulum over the region of her womb the swing against the sun was so violent it almost left her hand. Quietly she moved on and made no comment, but for a moment she caught Hatshepsut's eyes and knew that she had seen the violence of the swing and knew what it signified.

  Anhai put the amethyst pendulum aside, and began to place a wall of quartz crystals around the figure on the couch. As she laid each one down she asked a particular spirit-god for protection. She knew the crystals in themselves could not protect from malevolent influences, but by their shimmering beauty each would be a reminder of the ancient, marvellous splendour of the natural universe, complex and subtle, physical and yet numinous. That, with the help of the gods, would provide the courage and strength to ward off any baleful effects from the dark forces.

  Anhai believed that if visualising something terrifying could result in an actual physical effect—for example, sweat and nausea—visualising something harmonious and beautiful could also result in a physical effect—such as calm and wellbeing, conditions necessary for self-healing. She knew that very few cases of disease were due to baleful influences from without—most were brought about by fear and guilt and anger from within. The word, after all, indicated a “lack of ease". All these emotions could trigger harmful secretions in the body. Her task was to stop this process and reverse itby encouraging the natural healthy energies of the body to flow uninterrupted.

  After the protective prayers and their accompanying crystals were in place, Anhai put the symbols of the great spirits upon Hatshepsut's body, each carefully chosen and precisely placed.

  On her forehead she placed a triangle: Atum at the apex, the great He-She who produced the first impulse towards existence. Below that, Ptah and Sekhmet, who had “thought” the world and could as easily destroy it. These were carved out of amethyst, the crystal for deep and mystical understanding. On each cheek, beneath the eyes, she placed the Eyes of Horus made of lapis lazuli, white calcite and jet—the all-seeing eyes of the Falcon. On either side of the mouth she placed Djehuti and Seshat in turquoise, to ensure that the words she spoke would be wise ones. On her heart rested Ra in the form of Kheper, the scarab, the transformer, in green nephrite. On her breasts were Hathor and Isis, the mothers, in warm rose quartz. On either side of her body, level with her heart, Anhai placed Amun and Mut in red jasper to keep the life's blood flowing through her veins. She had already laid small images of Geb, the earth god, along the couch to coincide with her backbone, and the Djed column of Osiris.

  On her womb, Heket, the frog-headed goddess of birth and rebirth kept guard, in bloodstone. And between her legs, protecting the southern entrance to her body, Bes in flint and Tawaret in chert.

  Between her feet she set the shen, the symbol of completeness, the knotted rope that would hold all together. And beneath the soles of her feet there were two coiled cobras of black obsidian with eyes of topaz, fiercely preventing any malevolent influences entering her from the earth.

  Finally, above the centre of her skull, Anhai placed a perfect rock crystal sphere. “That which is beyond all forms of the gods is formless,” she said. “The nearest we can get to imagining it is as the all-embracing sphere."

  A shaft of sunlight came through the high window slit at that moment and illuminated the crystal sphere with brilliant and blinding light. Anhai stepped back, startled. But as suddenly as it had come, it was gone.

  She put both her hands on either side of Hatshepsut's head, at the temples, and smiled.

  “You have been favoured,” she said softly. “The gods are with you."

  As she said it she knew it was true. She could feel them all around her, as though their passive and invisible presence had been given life and animation by the rays of light that had shot out from the crystal sphere.

  Hatshepsut was aware of it, too. At last she had the feeling that the gods were real, that she was not alone. She shuddered to remember how hopeless and despairing she had been lately. She had forgotten the universe with its swirling stars, its vortices of energy, its vast and purposeful millions of living beings. She had forgotten that, in spite of that vastness, each minute individual had somehow, paradoxically, the same significance as the Whole, and that each was as much responsible for the cosmic order as any god.

  She could feel Anhai's warm hands becoming even warmer on her temples. She could feel energy pouring into her. She felt renewed, revitalised, as strong and determined as she used to be. She had done wrong on three counts, and each deed had passed into the Whole and altered it—had become part of it.

  For the first time she told Anhai about the abortion of Senmut's son and how he had been haunting her.

  Anhai listened quietly. So that was it. She had felt the shadow, but had not properly understood its cause.

  She asked Hatshepsut if she would like to speak with her son.

  Hatshepsut looked up at the young woman in surprise—and some alarm.

  “Here,” Anhai said, “with all this protection around you, he cannot harm you."

  “You'll not leave me?"

  “
No. I'll not leave you."

  “It won't do any good. He's determined to hate me."

  “You were responsible for the beginning of his hate. You could be responsible for its ending. Did you not say you cursed him?"

  Hatshepsut was silent. She had cursed him, and she had cursed his father. Was there nothing that could stay hidden?

  “I will try,” she said reluctantly.

  Anhai opened a little box of yew wood and took out her mother's very special crystal. She held it just above Hatshepsut's forehead and prayed for help in this matter.

  The room became very silent.

  Suddenly Anhai noticed Hatshepsut trembling and, as every moment passed, the trembling became more violent.

  Quietly and competently Anhai adjusted the crystals surrounding her patient and replaced those that were being displaced. She could see that Hatshepsut was having an encounter with someone she herself could not see.

  Courageously she went into the Silence and joined her.

  Now she could see the phantom that had been haunting the Pharaoh, and she knew at once what had happened. Hatshepsut's physical body still lay on the couch protected by the crystals, but her astral body was crouched and cowering in the corner of the room in dread of the figure that loomed over her.

  Anhai stepped between the two astral figures. “Come,” she said, reaching out her hands to the woman. “You must stand up. You must face him. He is your son. He needs your help. Give him love, commend him to the gods. He was left vulnerable and naked. A dark force looking for a vehicle to use against you found him and is using him. He needs you to set him free. Come—be strong."

  Hatshepsut was sobbing, drawing back.

  “I cannot—cannot look at him!"

  She had not been able to look at Senmut either as the sentence of death was passed. She who had always been so strong and just was bowed to the ground with shame.

  “Come,” Anhai insisted. “Come. Look up. Ask for his forgiveness. Give him love. Commend him to the gods."

  “I cannot,” sobbed Hatshepsut. But Anhai put a firm hand under her chin and forced her head up.

  “Pray for him. Give him strength. Give him dignity. Give him life."

  Hatshepsut's eyes met the eyes of her son and she too could see that he was struggling against a dark force that was determined to possess him.

  She reached out her hands. She named him with a blessing, and cried to all the gods she knew to take his soul into their care. She fought for his release as a lioness fights for her cub.

  The young man screamed and writhed, while darkness burned around him like fire.

  Suddenly it was over.

  With tears running down her cheeks, Hatshepsut watched her son stand up tall and straight. His eyes were clear and calm, looking into hers with sorrow, not resentment.

  With wings of golden light Horus enfolded him and lifted him away from them.

  The room was empty once more, apart from themselves. They were both exhausted and for a long while too shaken to move. Then Hatshepsut without warning began to rise from the couch. Anhai rushed forward to remove the crystals and the images before they were sent flying on to the floor.

  “Wait,” she cried. “Majesty, please wait. It is bad to come back too suddenly without the proper ritual.” She started putting the crystals into a silver bowl of clear water for cleansing.

  But Hatshepsut would not listen. She was already up, impatiently handing Anhai the pieces that had not yet fallen.

  “You know what I think?” Hatshepsut said fiercely, her eyes sparking. “I think I know who was responsible for using that poor child to destroy me!"

  Without a backward glance, as though Anhai and Sehel Island were already forgotten, she strode out of the room.

  The island was galvanised into action. Her servants and attendants, who had been having a pleasant lazy time, were suddenly running hither and thither to gather her things and themselves together.

  Anhai stood on the terrace of her sanctuary and watched her go.

  As though only remembering her when she was on the water, Hatshepsut turned and raised an imperious hand in farewell to Anhai.

  She was Pharaoh again, in full vigour.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  As soon as she returned to Waset, Hatshepsut was overwhelmed by pharaonic duties. Nehsi, Thutiy, Hapuseneb and the others had held the fort well in her absence, but they could only do so much. There was a murmuring, a restlessness, under the surface, in their own hearts and around them in the court, the town and the country—a feeling that Pharaoh's eye was sleeping, that her attention was wandering. Her closest associates had been deeply shaken by the death of Senmut. It marked for them the end of the golden age. They withdrew their trust from Hapuseneb, who had been closely involved with them in all their previous councils. No longer did they feel they could freely exchange ideas, discuss projects, advise, comment. He was no longer one of them. They were sure he had engineered the fall of Senmut in some way, for his own purposes. Very little was private in the Pharaoh's life, and it was now common knowledge that Hapuseneb had taken Senmut's place in her bed.

  They had all noticed the change in her. At first they had put it down to the sadness caused by Neferure's death—but it seemed more than that. For the first time, they, her closest friends and advisers, who had brought her through so many difficult and dangerous times, felt excluded, afraid. If she could turn her back on Senmut and allow Hapuseneb to sentence him to death, she was not the same woman they had known and loved. Who would be next? They became cautious and circumspect to such an extent that they were no use as advisers and counsellors any more. They told her what she wanted to hear and not what she needed to hear.

  But on her return from Sehel Island she made a point of being seen to take control again. She knew that her withdrawal from public life had made her people anxious and strengthened Men-kheper-Ra's hand. She made decisions, pronounced decrees, answered petitions with all her old fire. But in her eyes there was an expression of cold wariness that had not been there before. Someone was using black magic against her, and she knew it had to be someone of formidable skill.

  Hapuseneb no longer shared her bed. There were no angry words between them—just a silent understanding that what had once been to their mutual advantage was no longer so.

  Men-kheper-Ra was in the east at Kepel at this time. She believed that whatever was being done was being done in his name, but did not suspect him personally. This was not his style. It was more likely to be his mother, though she was probably not capable of such an impressive degree of skill. Hatshepsut decided to ask Djehuti and Seshat which of the smiling, bowing priests around her was capable of magic on this scale.

  She made a private visit to one of the small chapels in the garden of her palace at Waset, telling the priest that she wanted to be alone with the god and goddess. He was an old man who had been close to her father and had always had great affection for her.

  She asked him for the silver bowl that was used for divination, and he placed it between the statues of Djehuti and Seshat, filled it with clear water, and bowed himself out. He understood she was not to be disturbed, no matter what occurred or who ordered it.

  The polished bowl was wide and shallow, and the still, clear water in it almost invisible.

  She opened the small ebony box she had brought with her and from it drew a number of persea leaves, which had been inscribed with individual hieroglyphs. Carefully she placed the leaves on the water, the glyphs showing. They floated on the surface and she waited patiently until the ripples had passed and the leaves lay absolutely still.

  She then composed herself, calming her mind carefully and patiently. When her own thoughts were as still as the leaves on the water, she bowed down before the statues of Djehuti and Seshat and spoke the words of the divination prayer-spell and the question she wanted answered. Her voice, enunciating each word distinctly, sounded very loud in the chamber, though she did not think that she was speaking a
bove a whisper. It seemed to her she was in a vast hollow space and her words were echoing around her, circling like birds.

  She had her eyes shut and her head bowed, but she felt a breath of air moving in the room as though a door had been opened or the gods had breathed out. She longed to look up, but dared not. She wanted to do nothing that would break the enchanted moment.

  She knew she was not alone. But she knew also that no one of flesh and blood was there, apart from herself.

  She was grateful to Anhai, for Anhai had given her back the capacity to communicate with the gods.

  She waited until she could no longer feel the stirring of the air, no longer feel the presences, and then—cautiously and humbly—she rose to her feet.

  She looked into the silver bowl. The leaves had moved from their original positions. Most were clustered round the edges; only a few were left in the centre—and they spelled out “Mut-awa". It was the name of one of the women who had attended her during the abortion.

  She was shocked. She would never have suspected her of disloyalty, nor of having the skill to perform such sophisticated magic.

  She stood staring at the name for a long time and then decided that Mut-awa alone could not be responsible for what had happened. She had been used by someone else, and Mut-awa's only part in it was that she could not keep a secret. She wondered if she had been threatened or bribed.

  She decided to ask Djehuti and Seshat once more. Last time her question had been loosely worded. This time she would be precise. She wanted the name of the actual magician-priest who had used her son so cruelly and so effectively against her.

  She stirred the leaves around so that they no longer spelled anything, and then, as patiently as before, waited for the water to be completely still.

  She bowed down and said her incantation and asked her question, and then remained, head down, in attitude of humble prayer. This time the god's breath seemed a long time coming.