Reflections in the Nile

by J. Suzanne Frank

  Dazedly she pulled herself to her feet. Cheftu slept on in the heat-saturated afternoon, his leg a bloody mess, his skin scratched, bruised, and blistered. Chloe looked out from her perch in the hills, shading her eyes to see any white rocks. After tucking both waterskins in her belt and grabbing her cloak, she crept down from their overhang, sliding the last few feet. Oh, God, she thought, help me to recognize the right white rock.

  BLESSED COOLNESS SURROUNDED HIM, enveloped him. It smelled like goat. Cheftu stirred, shivered, and relaxed as he felt long-fingered hands touching his body. They soothed, petted, relieved. The blackness around him intensified, and he collapsed into it.

  CHLOE TIGHTENED THE WET CLOAK AROUND Cheftu, though the evening wind was beginning to blow through the wadi and she needed to take it off him soon in case he became chilled. He was scorched with fever, his body heat drying the cloth within minutes. He'd flinched when she'd tried to clean the skin around his leg wound and then had fallen unconscious. The wound was rotting; something would have to be done immediately or blood poisoning would set in. She had no antiseptic, no tools, no antibiotics. The only other thing she could think of was barbaric.

  She had no choice.

  Praying for more strength, she gathered a handful of tinder, some of Cheftu's dried herbs, and one of her papyrus drawings. Hands shaking, she shredded everything into a pile and pulled out the flint. Then, with mounting impatience and a twisting stomach, she started a fire.

  She pierced the scab, pressuring it. Vile pus poured out, carrying with it the infection, she hoped. With water and his herbs she purified the gash, rinsing it again and again until the overflow ran pink. Just blood.

  With a piece of her torn cloak wrapped around its handle, Chloe held the knife into the fire, watching it turn black and then red hot. Tears streaming down her face, yet hands steady, she laid the scalding edge on the freshly cleaned wound. Cheftu screamed, sitting bolt upright, then fainted. Chloe smelled the stench of burning flesh as she moved the knife to another part of the wound, cauterizing the length of it with heat and melting the flesh in healing.

  She spent the next hour dry heaving into the sand at the bottom of their cliff. He had opened his eyes for a moment and then collapsed again as pain engulfed him. Chloe prayed she had made the right decision. She had packed some of Cheftu's healing herbs on the angry red mark. It needed to stay dry. Shouldn't be a problem— in a desert.

  He'd lost a lot of weight in the past couple of weeks, but she could still see the lines of muscle and sinew beneath his skin. Unfortunately she could also count his ribs, see his hipbones and the underlying works of his joints. She traced those lines, feeling the body she had loved so well and so often… the arms that had cradled her, provided for her, protected her, and taken her in passion again and again. Her eyes burned, desperate for tears yet not having the moisture to give. All the things they had never done, the places they'd never seen. The things they'd never talked about.

  “Oh, Cheftu,” she whispered, bathing his hot forehead in water. She sniffed, wishing for his voice, his low chuckle and raised eyebrow. “I never told you about my family,” she said. “You probably would laugh at my father. He's got dark hah and a twang. It's not bad, just different. Oh, and my Mimi. She gave me my red hair…. Oh, Cheftu, Mimi would love you.” Chloe choked on a dry sob. “Please stay with me, darling. Please don't go to Mimi before me!” Tears scalded her eyes. “I wish we could have all had Christmas together once. Christmas in Reglim. That's where she lives … lived. A big house, a wraparound porch, and a peach orchard out back.” Chloe sniffed. “At Christmas she bakes up a storm.” Her mouth moistened at the memory. “She's a southern belle and doesn't believe any meal is complete without at least five pies, three meats, and, as she would say, a whole slew of vegetables from the yard.”

  Chloe looked at the silvery expanse of Egyptian desert. It looked almost white, like snow. “I remember once when it was so cold, it snowed. Snow is so rare in East Texas. It piled up deep along the street and against the house. Icicles hung from the porch, and the swing was so cold that your fingers almost stuck to it.” She closed her eyes, telling him about the cold. The ice. The snow. She bathed his body as she sang Christmas carols. She described her attempt at sledding, in which she wound up in the hospital. She told him how she saw each snowflake and how when she was a kid she had cut up a whole box of construction paper, making snowflakes. Chloe put her head on her arms, swaying to the chords of the music, shivering in her corduroy dress. She needed gloves. Maybe she'd get some for Christmas?

  CHEFTU SHIVERED. An icy wind cut through his clothes, and he heard the faintest whispering of “Adeste Fideles” around him. It had been a long time since he'd been sung to, tucked before a roaring fire against the cold, wintry outdoors. He opened his eyes suddenly … to night. Across the sky, from horizon to horizon, stretched stars: welcome light instead of the sun. He knew he was burning with fever, but his head had cleared some with the coolness darkness brought. He twisted and saw Chloe, knees pulled up to her chest with her head resting on them, swaying to and fro as she sang fragments of Christmas songs.

  He felt the cold around him, the comfort of blankets and cider. He saw her world with peach orchards and icicles. She'd entranced him, the litany of her words pulling his mind from his pain-ravaged body into her world. Now he wanted water. “Chloe?”

  Her head jerked up, her eyes as wide and black as the sky. “You must rest.” She spoke automatically, and Cheftu realized with a pang that she was a walking corpse herself. Searing pain gripped his leg. Chloe dribbled water—fresh, cool water— into his mouth, and Cheftu swallowed convulsively … then unconsciousness claimed him.

  CHLOE CREPT DOWN THE CLIFF, her legs shaking, her mind foggy. She must find some food. Cheftu needed food. A plaintive call stopped her in her tracks, clearing her head for a moment. Wild animals! How could she defend against them?

  The sound came again.

  She didn't have the strength left to run, yet if something happened to her, Cheftu would surely die. She felt eyes on her back and looked behind her into the darkness. She saw nothing.

  Then she heard another different sound—stealthy slithering. The stars lit the night brilliantly, and Chloe felt the hair on her neck stand up. Slowly she turned and saw it: a snake, slithering along on the warm sand, easily within striking distance. She couldn't think what kind it was or what it could do. The black eyes held her as it rose in the air, weaving back and forth, casting a spell of death. Chloe could hear nothing; her blood pounded in her ears, every cell in her body begging for a few more nights, a few more days, to live, even like this. Her eyes were half-closed when a flurry of fur jumped through the night, muffled growls and yowls echoing through the canyon. Chloe scrambled halfway up the cliff; the night was suddenly alive and dangerous. They didn't even need soldiers. Another predator would be more than willing to kill them.

  Padded paws crossed the rocky sand to her, and Thief threw down the body of the snake, looking up at her for approval.

  He got it. Chloe crouched before him, her back muscles protesting against picking up the growing ball of fangs and fur. He began to purr, rumbling in the darkness. Like them, he didn't look so good. His fur was matted, and he seemed to be favoring his right rear paw. He followed her up to Cheftu and licked his face with a sandpaper tongue as he inquired with growls what was wrong.

  Chloe sat down by the smoldering remains of the fire and took Thief's paw in her hand. She found the cut, filled with sand. With a little water, both on his paw and in his tummy, Thief settled down for the night, protectively curling around her and Cheftu, facing the dark night. She lay back beside Cheftu, tangling her fingers in Thief's fur, and thanked God for surviving another day.

  The creeping patterns of sun brought Chloe around. She lay in the overhang, looking out across the wadi. In the morning cleanness she was surprised at how pretty these cliffs and stones were. Each was striated with myriad colors, some bright and some pale, but giving a life
to the dismal deadliness around them. Then she noticed the plants, little flowers and weeds, growing up high, anywhere she supposed there was a dribble of water. She heard scrabbling and saw Thief returning from his hunting, a small furry creature in his mouth. Chloe looked at Cheftu.

  He needed more medical attention. She had to get him out of this canyon. His breathing was shallow, rough, and way too rapid. She rose and crawled up from their overhang, clinging to the cliff's face and scarcely wincing as she felt stones cut through her sandals.

  Breathing heavily, she finally hauled herself up onto the pinnacle. The Sinai desert, or at least part of it, spread before her. She drank deeply of the water, soaked her torn cloak, and then tied it around her head. Just a few cliffs beyond, sand stretched for miles. There, at the very edge of the horizon, was a smudge of green. The oasis? She drank again and headed back down the mountain. She had no choice but to try.

  She could almost hear Mimi's sweet southern voice: “Kingsleys do not give up.”

  Hours later Chloe surveyed her handiwork. Cheftu looked bloody uncomfortable, that was for sure, but she couldn't carry him. She couldn't saddle him on Thief. So this was the compromise.

  He was stretched out on his cloak, which managed to protect most of his body, tightly wrapped inside it. His arms were stretched above him, his wrists tied firmly to a thong that led up to and around Thief. Chloe carried their scanty supplies, her own tattered cloak wrapped around her head, the water-skins crossing her chest like bandoliers. She would carry Cheftu's ankles.

  As the crow flew she imagined they had eight or so miles to travel. As the wadi curved, it could be more than that. She doubted it would be less. Everyone was filled with water, and Thief had eaten. Now there was nothing but to do it. Praying God would keep them safe, she reached down, pulled Cheftu's legs to her waist, and called for Thief to go.

  Chloe stumbled in the darkness. Although they had traveled only for several hours, it felt like eternity. Thief had fiercely objected to being used as a donkey, but after a few aborted attempts to chase after the small wildlife, he plodded faithfully ahead. Chloe's back was wrenched. You wouldn't think a bag of bones like Cheftu could weigh so much. His fever was worse, and Chloe felt reality fading in and out. She ate some of the grass they found in crevices in the rock, then heaved it up again. They were still doing okay on the water supply— she'd found more limestone.

  Falling to her knees, she released Cheftu's legs and collapsed close to him. Thief snuffled around her face, mewling and crying, but Chloe didn't care. Sleep. Blessed sleep and to feel nothing. Sleep …

  By the third day Chloe was dragging Cheftu. He hadn't awakened once. He was either dead or comatose, and she was too scared to check which. Chloe had freed Thief, and she alone pulled Cheftu, his wrists tied around her waist, cutting the spare flesh above her hipbones. She'd broken a finger getting more water from another rock and had been momentarily terrified when her deeply burned skin tore off at her wrist as she brushed against the wadi wall.

  This time when she fell, it was for good.

  CHAPTER 17

  The wizened old man tapped on one of his litter bearer's shoulders. His gaze was fixed, not on the approaching mountainous cliffs, but on the bowl of entrails he was holding. Waving a fan in front of his face, he commanded them to stop.

  Stepping down from the litter, he was surrounded by his guard, their sun-browned bodies strong and wiry, a contrast to his stooped and slow one. However, they kept his pace as he walked into the mouth of the wadi, his still-keen eyes searching for the vision he had seen the night before, the vision he'd been awaiting. The entrails were his map, and he moved to the left, as they indicated he should. According to the stars, and the histories, this was the right day.

  Then he saw them. A lion cub got to his feet, the fur on his ruff rising. The old man spoke a few words, and the cub sat down and proceeded to wash his paw but kept a watchful gaze on the party.

  “They are alive, but barely, my liege.”

  “Bring them.”

  He looked in amazement at the tangle of dirty, blackened limbs, the skeletons that were just barely covered in flesh. They hardly looked important enough to bury, much less rescue. Summons from the unknown God were so rare, however, that when they came, they were never denied. The man turned and made his way back to his litter.

  CHLOE COULDN'T SAY WHEN the pain ebbed and she became aware of life around her. It was several more days after that that she even remembered Cheftu and Thief. Even then the strength to open her eyes and discover their welfare eluded her. Through the gentle ministrations of an anonymous and silent helper, she felt nourishment flood her body and rich oils soak through her skin.

  She opened her eyes to a white room and closed them again.

  They were back in Egypt—ancient Egypt with all of its foreign gods and garish colors. Egypt, where if Cheftu were not already dead, he would be.

  Cheftu!

  Chloe lurched to her feet, drawing the linen shift more closely around her. Maybe they could escape? If it wasn't already too late? She slipped from her couch and caught herself on the edge of it as a debilitating wave of dizziness engulfed her. It passed, and she crept toward the curtained door. She looked out. No one was around. Stepping gingerly, she walked into the corridor.

  “Child, do you seek the Egyptian?”

  She whirled around at the sound of the voice, her position immediately defensive. A wizened old man stood before her, torchlight playing across his painted face. Chloe gasped. True, she'd seen old, but this guy was really old. Antique. Ancient. Decrepit.

  His head was shaved, tattooed with symbols she couldn't identify. A priest? Huge gold earrings hung from his lengthened lobes, and the harsh black kohl lines around his eyes and brows only emphasized the network of wrinkles on his face. He was the color and texture of fine paneling, and he wore the elaborate kilt of the previous dynasty. He smiled broadly, straining the muscles in his wrinkled neck and around his mouth. He had amazingly strong, white teeth and healthy pink gums. Big teeth.

  She met his gaze and was startled to see it full of laughter. “I see you are surprised to meet one of the golden god's own in this land bereft of lotus?” He smiled again, sticking his head forward, his teeth in her face. “Has Bastet got your tongue, my child?” His frail limbs moved with a grace that belied the age around his eyes.

  Chloe pulled back, confused.

  “Please, have a seat with me.” He turned and walked into another room.

  Chloe followed, her instincts telling her he was to be trusted. A gilded chair stood to one side of a huge brass brazier. The walls were lined with white painted linen, portraying the weighing of the heart by Ma'at. In the corner stood a wooden couch, and blood surged through Chloe's veins when she recognized the pain-racked body on it. Cheftu!

  She ran to him, kneeling between the carved leopards that decorated each corner of the couch. He was flushed, his skin on fire, but he'd been bathed and his bandage changed. She looked over her shoulder. The man was seated on the chair, facing away as he fanned himself in the afternoon heat. Chloe placed a kiss on Cheftu's brow and walked back to their host.

  Her voice trembled with tears. “I thank you, priest, for all you have done for him. Is he going to recover fully?”

  The old man turned his wily gaze on her. “Aye, priestess. Your care of him was quite skilled. A simple scar that should heal quickly, if there is no fever or rot. Now, go and clean up, then we shall eat. You must heal and return to Egypt. You have destinies to fulfill.”

  Chloe froze in her tracks. “We're not in Egypt?”

  “Nay, child. This is the Mirna Oasis in the Sinai. You are safe. Go.” He smiled again. Really big teeth.

  A black slave touched her elbow and led her beyond another curtain into a bathing room. Already the low bath was filled, and Chloe saw a tray with wine, bread, and fruit. The slave indicated some towels and a trunk of linens and bowed himself out. Enthusiastically Chloe threw aside her rags and stepped int
o the bath, reveling in the scented sand bar provided and opening the various fragrance bottles that lined the adjoining table. She sank into the water, wedging her body, breasts to knees, in the tub. It was glorious to wash the dirt and sand and grime from her body and to smell clean again.

  She shaved, plucked, and oiled her scrawny body, feeling vaguely human again. Rising, she dried off and then rummaged through the trunk for clothing. Seated on the edge of the bath, she saw another room, dark but full of scrolls and equipment. She stepped toward it and then admonished herself for intruding on her host's hospitality.

  A short while later she emerged from the bath, groomed enough for an Egyptian dinner party. Her dress was beautiful, if outdated. Her hair floated free, clean and oiled as it hung from the crown of her head to her neck. She wore an ornamental silver lotus to hold it back from her face and had lined her eyes and extended her eyebrows with the kohl provided. None of the sandals had fit, and she had dared not loofah the protective calluses off her feet, but she had put on faience anklets. She felt, for the first time in weeks, as though she might survive.

  The old priest was still seated in his chair, but Chloe noticed with a smile that his eyes were closed and the tent was filled with his sonorous snoring. She walked to Cheftu. He had stopped thrashing around and seemed to be a little cooler. Thank God!

  It was a seamless night. Her startled awakening gasp was rewarded with a chuckle. “You slept like the dead, my child.” Chloe recognized the voice of the old priest. “Would you care to eat this night with me?”

  Chloe got off the couch and stumbled toward the voice. A curtain had been drawn between the main room and the sleeping chamber.

  “How is my patient?” the old man asked.

  “Still feverish,” Chloe said, “but sleeping well.”

  “That is good. The night is a healer of many illnesses. Please,” he said, indicating another chair, “be seated. Would you care for wine?”