The Field of Reeds (Imhotep Book 4)

by Jerry Dubs

  “Help me to the pond,” she said, her heart taking flight.

  ***

  A discordant din of distant singing and shouting greeted Neferhotep and Menwi as they entered the inner sanctuary.

  He held her arm, steadying her as they turned down a dark corridor away from the courtyard noise and followed it to the sacred pond. She leaned toward him, her shoulder touching his as she walked, the contact warm with comfort, fiery with possibilities.

  Shu’s cool, night breath welcomed them as they entered the garden, leaving behind the dark confines of the temple. The emerald green of the trees, so vivid under Re’s gaze, were clothed in shadows now. The blue of the sacred pond had been replaced by a silky blackness, ink not yet given to papyrus, its possibilities unrevealed.

  Menwi paused before the lake. Nut’s star-filled belly was reflected there, as were the shadow twins of the trees that overhung the water. Kneeling, she placed a hand above the still water and watched the ka of her own hand appear.

  This is the world hidden by moonlight, she thought.

  She felt Neferhotep’s warmth as he knelt beside her.

  “We are outside of time,” she said.

  “We are in the sacred garden of Ptah,” he said, his voice soft.

  “But these are days upon the year,” she answered, her hand moving closer to its watery reflection. She waited for his reply, but heard only the sighing of the trees.

  Her eyes on the sacred pond, she saw the reflection of his hand join hers. And then she felt his touch as light as the illusory reflection in the water where his fingers were now tracing the lines of her hand.

  “We are outside of time,” he whispered in agreement.

  “And the gods allow?” she said softly, turning her head, bringing her face to his.

  “No,” he said, leaning closer. “But the gods do not see us now.”

  His lips touched her cheek and she raised her hand to touch his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. His lips caressed her, moving from her cheek toward her mouth.

  She sighed, her ka releasing itself from the restraint of ma’at.

  Her lips found his.

  Time no longer bound them, ma’at released her grip and their kas expanded, growing like the dawn on the eastern mountains.

  Kneeling, they held each other. Standing, they shed their clothes. Walking hand in hand, they entered the sacred waters of the pond of Ptah.

  Deeper and deeper, farther into the world hidden by moonlight, Neferhotep and Menwi wandered from the Two Lands. Moving to a rhythm of their own, their kas danced and laughed as fire surged through them and songs filled them.

  Across the water and past the trees, Useramen patrolled the temple hallways. First Priest Puimre was safely asleep. Queen Merti was curled into a restful ball. Entering Menwi’s room, he found her bed deserted.

  Drawn to the window, he saw the light puddles of fallen linen by the pond, and in the water the joyous, frenzied coupling of Pharaoh Thutmose’s wife and the commander of the young heroes.

  Parted

  “Menwi?” a soft voice said.

  Menwi opened her eyes, a satisfied smile on her face. Expecting to see the face that she was caressing in her dreams, she gasped when Merti’s worried eyes greeted her instead of Neferhotep’s. Sitting up, Menwi saw the familiar, painted walls of her bed chamber instead of the sentinel palms and the distant stars that had watched over her and Neferhotep.

  Did I dream of loving Neferhotep?

  Quickly she got to her feet, ran to the window, and looked out into the garden.

  A light breeze fluttered through the palm tree fronds and sent slow ripples across the pond. She saw that the water was surrounded now by tall, brown trees, not the silent, sheltering sentinels of last night. Bright green under Re’s bright gaze, the fronds were simply leaves hanging in the sunshine, no longer shadowy canopies. Blue sky was reflected in the water, not the infinite comfort of Nut’s shielding arc. The ground itself, Geb’s broad back, was a brown, sandy expanse, not a welcoming bed.

  Magic had fled the garden of Ptah.

  “Menwi?” Merti came up to her sister. “What are you looking for?”

  Pulling back from the window, Menwi felt a rush of desire and of shame.

  Love had transported her and Neferhotep beyond the Two Lands, beyond Duat, beyond the Field of Reeds. The thrill of his touch, the merging of their bodies, the pounding rush of delight ... she had never known such joy could exist.

  Now it had vanished.

  The gods had returned and now Ma’at demanded balance.

  “Have you seen Neferhotep?” Menwi asked.

  When Merti shook her head, Menwi turned from the window and ran across the room toward her doorway.

  She skidded to an ungraceful stop as Useramen entered the room.

  “Queen Menwi,” he said, bowing his head, but standing his ground. He smiled and looked past her to her sister. “Queen Merti,” he said pleasantly. “I apologize for the unexpected visit.” He shuffled into the room and, although he widened his smile, it no longer spoke of joy.

  “Neferhotep, your guardian, asked me to send you his greetings,” he began.

  “Is he well? Has something happened?” Menwi asked quickly.

  “He is well and, yes, something has happened,” Useramen said, tilting his head curiously at her concern. He held up a placating hand and his smile turned reassuring now. “A messenger arrived early this morning that Commander Neferhotep’s mother has rested from life, Queen Menwi. That is all. It was news that Neferhotep expected, but did not welcome. He has departed to be with his father while his mother is prepared for her next life.”

  “Oh,” Menwi said in relief, and then melancholy gripped her. There would be no secret recounting of their night, no longing glances into each other’s eyes. The joy she felt upon waking a few minutes ago could only be shared with Neferhotep. And now he was gone.

  Feeling tears come to her eyes, she turned from Useramen and walked to the window, wiping her eyes with a hand while keeping her face turned from her sister.

  Our love was a seedling planted on a magical night, she thought. A seedling that will never take root and grow. It will stay hidden, never to have life.

  As she thought, her hand slid from her face to her stomach and a new thought came to life. Standing with her hand on her stomach, she imagined a different seed taking root.

  “Menwi?” her sister said, touching her arm. “Are you ill?”

  Menwi shook her head, uncertain if her thoughts should be happy or not, unsure if she should feel anticipation and joy, or dread and fear.

  Emmer shoots

  His mother safely reborn in the Field of Reeds, Neferhotep stood by the bow of the boat taking him back to Men-Nefer.

  Twice, Khonsu had grown full and twice the god had disappeared since Neferhotep had last seen Menwi. Each guise of the god’s silvery sphere spoke to Neferhotep.

  Under the god’s full light, Neferhotep felt the weight of duty fall upon him and he had told himself that he was pharaoh’s true servant, a faithful guardian of the Two Lands.

  But as the god waned, Neferhotep’s thoughts lost clarity. Pondering Seth’s dark presence he wondered about chaos; was it only another aspect of ma’at?

  When Khonsu had left Nut’s belly to the million stars, Neferhotep tossed in his sleep, dreaming of the night he and Menwi had shared in the dark, sacred garden of Ptah.

  Then as Khonsu began his slow return to full light Neferhotep imagined that his destiny was within his grasp and he could choose his own future.

  As his ka worried over his duty to Pharaoh Thutmose and the grasp of his own desires, it also mourned the passing of his mother. She had been a constant presence in his life. Always confident, she walked in ma’at, easy and unafraid.

  What would my mother think of my actions?

  Neferhotep saw that his father had aged greatly in the few months Maya had been ill. Pentu’s skull, although still closely shaved, glistened gray inste
ad of black. Half circles of exhaustion hung beneath his eyes and the skin on his arms seemed to drape over the bones, barely enlivened by his ka.

  Old age comes too quickly. Will I wake one morning with regrets?

  Even his ageless grandfather seemed more brittle.

  Imhotep leaned more heavily on his walking staff and his shoulders were more rounded, as if he was withdrawing into himself. Yet he was still Imhotep. His voice might sound like stones falling on themselves, but there was no hesitancy in his thoughts. His movements had slowed, but remained unerring. And if his eyes sought the distance more often — whether they saw the past, the future or another world, Neferhotep didn’t know — when they turned on him, Neferhotep could feel them examining his ka.

  Neferhotep had once welcomed that feeling, but now he felt his heart try to draw a curtain across its thoughts.

  He tried once to speak with Imhotep about what had happened at Men-Nefer, but when his grandfather had turned that penetrating gaze on him, Neferhotep’s courage had fled.

  How can I speak to a god about violating ma’at?

  He had thought to talk with Akila. Never judgmental, she seemed to vibrate with the heartbeat of the Two Lands. But Neferhotep saw that her eyes were always on Imhotep, watching him as a mother watches her child, as a hopeful lover watches his heart’s desire.

  And so his secret lay heavily hidden.

  He told himself that Khonsu had created the days upon the year to allow Geb and Nut to lie together. How could the gods look askance on his love for Menwi?

  Now, as his boat approached Men-Nefer, he found that the yoke of his duties, his submission to ma’at, even his fear of the gods began to fade. His ka swelled at the thought of seeing Menwi again, of finding a secret moment to touch her face, to take her hand, to lose himself within her.

  ***

  It took all of Neferhotep’s discipline to present himself to First Priest Puimre instead of running to Menwi’s chambers.

  Pausing outside the priest’s audience hall, he straightened his shoulders and inhaled deeply. It was midmorning, yet the hallway was already heavy with the fragrance of myrrh. The aroma filled him, bringing with it a calmness that he realized he needed.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the sacred scent to enter him.

  “Commander Neferhotep.”

  Startled, Neferhotep opened his eyes and turned to find that Useramen had materialized from the temple air.

  “Welcome back to Hut-ka-Ptah,” Useramen said, bowing slightly.

  “Thank you, Useramen. It is comforting to return to Father Ptah.”

  Useramen smiled agreement. “Your mother?” he asked.

  Neferhotep nodded. “She has made the journey.”

  Useramen crossed his arms, raising each hand to the opposite shoulder and then bowed. “I am sure that Osiris has welcomed her,” he said. He cocked his head. “We trust in the gods to follow ma’at, even as we do.”

  Neferhotep felt a sudden chill.

  “Yes, of course, Useramen.”

  “Well,” Useramen said, walking past Neferhotep to enter the audience hall, “First Priest Puimre will be happy to see that Pharaoh Thutmose’s commander has returned to safeguard the treasures of his harem. Although ... ” he began, and then pressed his lips together and turned away.

  “What is it Useramen?”

  “I am sure that First Priest Puimre will tell you everything. But your grandfather and his powerful heka would be most useful.”

  Neferhotep grabbed Useramen’s shoulders. As Useramen slowly looked at the hands that gripped him, Neferhotep clenched his jaw and forced himself to not shake the man. Relaxing his grip, he tried to calm his voice. “What has happened? Is someone ill?”

  “We were told that the wasting illness had been banished,” Useramen said, twisting away from Neferhotep’s hands.

  “What has happened? Who has taken ill?”

  “Queen Menwi,” Useramen said, his eyes carefully watching Neferhotep. “She is being attended, Neferhotep. Although Imhotep is not here, we do have physicians and magicians. This is not the wilderness.”

  As Neferhotep turned away, Useramen said, “I will tell First Priest Puimre that you were called away on pharaoh’s business.”

  ***

  Merti sat on her sister’s bed, leaning over her with a damp cloth.

  Entering the bedchamber, Neferhotep turned to a servant. “Bring me a roll of linen.”

  “What color, commander?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Neferhotep said. Then he grabbed the servant and closed his eyes, trying to picture the mask that Pentu had worn while he tended Maya. “White,” he told the servant and released her.

  He thought briefly of the pictures that had been drawn on the linen, and the spells that Akila and Imhotep must have cast to transfer their magic to the cloth.

  I must send for Imhotep.

  He approached the bed, worried at what he would find, unconcerned about his own safety.

  Merti’s eyes were red rimmed when she turned to him. Menwi was asleep.

  “Hello, Commander Neferhotep,” Merti said, her voice achingly young.

  Neferhotep knelt beside her. “Queen Merti, long life!” he said. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he knew it would be improper. Instead he reached slowly to her hand and took the cloth from her.

  “Where are the physicians and magicians? Who is saying prayers and casting spells?” he asked.

  “They attend in the morning, at noon and again in the evening,” Merti said. “They left their incense burning,” she said, waving her hand at smoldering bowls that surrounded Menwi’s bed.

  Neferhotep licked his lips, trying to think of what his father would do.

  Finally, he smiled up at Merti. She was exhausted and he knew how to help her.

  “You need to take care of yourself,” he said. When she shook her head, he added, “You are devoted, Queen Merti. As devoted as Isis herself. But you cannot care for your sister if you are ill.”

  Merti stood, but hesitated to leave.

  “She cannot keep food in her belly. And her sleep is not restful,” she said. “Will she die?”

  “I will send for Imhotep. He has great heka, Queen Merti.”

  She nodded. As she turned, Neferhotep had a thought. “Does she cough? Does blood come from her mouth?” he asked.

  “No,” Merti said. “But no food stays with her. Perhaps she is too weak to cough.”

  “I will tend her, Queen Merti. You should go rest and eat. Then, when you return, I will teach you how we can help Menwi until Imhotep arrives.

  “All will be well,” he assured her, hoping his words had more strength than his ka felt.

  ***

  Huy waved her hand in front of her face, chasing away the heavy aroma of myrrh. Blinking through the smoke she entered Menwi’s room to find a soldier seated on her bed. She pursed her lips a moment and then coughed lightly.

  When the man turned she saw that it was the charioteer. Useramen had told her about him. She sniffed. Useramen had told her all about him. That was how she knew what caused Menwi’s weakness.

  Neferhotep nodded, acknowledging her presence. She stood a long moment, looking about the room. She was happy to see that the priests and magicians had finally left the poor girl alone.

  Men do like to believe they can influence the gods, she thought. If they only spent as much energy trying to control their own actions.

  “You are Neferhotep?” she asked. It was less a question than a statement.

  “I am the guardian of the queen,” Neferhotep answered.

  “Yes, I have been told,” she said. She turned to a side table and bent to examine a low wooden box filled with dirt. One end of the box was smooth, the dark earth damp and even. The other was mottled with thin green shoots.

  Nodding to herself, Huy lifted a basket that contained a torn loaf of bread and turned back to Queen Menwi’s bed.

  “Perhaps you can do something about the prie
sts,” she said.

  Neferhotep cocked his head at her comment and studied her. She was old, although not as old as Imhotep. Her forehead sloped straight from her bare, shaved head to a strong, straight nose, reminding Neferhotep of the bills of water birds that stalked the river banks. Her eyes, set close to the narrow nose, reminded him of Akila’s eyes, somehow composed and restful, while active and moving.

  She wore a long robe, once white, but now mottled with rust-colored shadows. Her arms were free of jewelry although a small turquoise statue of Bes hung from a twisted cord around her neck.

  “I am Huy, the midwife,” she said as she approached him.

  “A midwife? Why?”

  She nodded at Queen Menwi. “I have used her water on emmer and barley seeds,” she said, tilting her head toward the side table. “The barley has sprouted. She is carrying a boy child.”

  “No,” Neferhotep said. “She has the wasting sickness.”

  Huy arched thin eyebrows. “Perhaps that would be better for her. The wasting sickness can be explained.”

  “Her sister told me that she cannot eat. That she gets no rest.”

  Huy nodded again. “Exactly!”

  “No,” Neferhotep said. “No,” he repeated, although he knew that her diagnosis explained the lack of coughing and bleeding.

  Huy looked at the floor and shrugged.

  “I have laid the birthing wand on a thousand bellies, Commander Neferhotep. I have knelt by a thousand squatting mothers. Bes and I are old friends.” She sighed.

  “The queen’s illness is caused by the child’s ka taking root in her womb.” She closed the fingers of her right hand and twisted her wrist. “The action upsets the stomach. The ba is distressed. But,” she placed her hand on Neferhotep’s arm, “once the ka has settled, Queen Menwi will be able to eat.” She smiled. “Oh, she will eat.”

  “Who knows this?” Neferhotep asked quietly, sure now that she was correct.