The Shadow Lamp

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  They exchanged memories of previous visits—happier times they both remembered—and Anen asked, “Would you like to see his tomb?”

  “I would, yes,” said Xian-Li. “I would like that very much. It is one of the reasons we came.”

  “Then I will arrange it at once.” He lifted his chin and turned his head. Instantly a servant stepped forward in anticipation of a command. The two exchanged a brief word. The servant departed and the high priest said, “We can go whenever you wish, but as the City of the Dead is some distance from here and the heat of the day is soon upon us, may I suggest we embark in the morning at sunrise so that we may enjoy the journey while the cool of the night still clings to the hills?”

  Benedict cleared his throat to announce that he was being left out of the conversation.

  Xian-Li explained, “He is offering to take us to see the tomb where Arthur’s body has been laid to rest. Anen ordered a boat for us. I think the tomb is on the other side of the river.”

  “We will happily accept your wise counsel,” Xian-Li told him. “But you are the high priest and must have many claims on your time. We would not expect you to make a special journey for us.”

  “As it happens, the final decoration of my tomb is nearing completion, and I have been meaning to go inspect the work. Moreover, it would be a particular pleasure to show you my home for eternity. I myself never tire of visiting it, for there I am reminded of the many blessings I have received over the years.” He said this with the evident pride of a man who is pleased with his life and accomplishments.

  “Thank you, Anen,” replied Xian-Li. “We are grateful for your kindness.”

  Benedict added his thanks when his mother explained, whereupon Anen said, “Just now, my friends, you will allow me to offer you some refreshment. After we have dined, it would please me to show you the delights of Niwet-Amun. We have done much building work in the city since you were here. You will enjoy this very much, I think.”

  The high priest’s servants provided a fine meal of fruit, flavoured breads, and a thick milky paste made of almonds and honey. After the meal they were taken by chariot all around the city, making stops at statues and monuments and shrines and markets. At every stop people congregated—as much to see the high priest, Benedict thought, as to get a glimpse of the foreign visitors. Clearly Anen was held in great regard by the people, and as his guests Benedict and Xian-Li gained considerable status.

  They spent a pleasant evening and a restful night, rising before the sun to begin the journey across the river to the high priest’s tomb. The boat turned out to be a vessel built on the lines of a royal barge, but smaller; it was rowed and served by a complement of slaves who, as soon as they reached the opposite shore, disembarked and became chair bearers for the trip inland.

  Benedict had never ridden in a chair before—though they could still be seen on occasion in England, mostly employed by elderly grandees—and at first found the swaying, gliding sensation slightly disconcerting. He soon grew used to the motion, however, and even enjoyed it. The three chairs, each borne by four slaves, led the way; following them were four priests on foot and, behind them, six more slaves carrying baskets containing food and drink for the day.

  They travelled up from the flatland along the river and into the empty desert hills rising just a mile or so beyond the wide green strip of irrigated fields. Once into the desert they turned south, skirting the foot of a steep, craggy bluff to enter a wide wadi, or canyon. The farther they went, the narrower the gorge became—almost scraping the sides of the chairs at one point before reaching a wider place where the wadi split into two large ravines.

  Here the high priest’s entourage stopped. In the wide basin formed by the three channels stood a large tented structure and several smaller huts; other dwellings lined the wider of the two branches—all of them made of coarse cloth stretched over light wooden frames and roofed with dried palm fronds. These were the shelters for the workers, the artists and masons engaged in decorating the high priest’s tomb. The entrance to the tomb itself was a simple rectangular opening carved into the limestone wall of the gorge.

  “Kings and queens have their sacred valleys,” Anen explained cheerfully. “This one is mine.” He waved an imperious hand over the canyon. “This is where my ka will live until time ends and paradise returns to the world of men.”

  “What happens after that?” wondered Benedict when his mother had translated Anen’s thought.

  “Forgive his impertinence, but my son would like to know what happens after?” asked Xian-Li.

  The high priest laughed at the question. “What happens? We will live in paradise!” Indicating the doorway to the tomb, he said, “Would you like to see it?”

  CHAPTER 18

  In Which Temptation Is Removed

  Anen, high priest of Amun, stood shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed beyond the gleaming cliff tops at a vulture circling high overhead. The shadow rippled as it passed over the wadi wall below. “This,” he declared, “will be sealed until the end of time. Then I shall emerge to take my place among the company of the immortal.”

  Xian-Li translated for her son, who nodded and asked, “Are we allowed to go in?”

  “It is the sole purpose of our visit!” replied Anen with a laugh. He signalled one of the servants to bring lamps and rushlights, and sent them ahead to light the way. Then, stepping carefully over the raised threshold, he led his guests through the doorway and down a steep flight of steps to a lower level and a small, closet-like vestibule leading onto what was either a short tunnel or a very wide threshold that opened onto a large rectangular room with a high, flat ceiling. The entire room had been carved out of the soft limestone; its walls had been smoothed and plastered, and the hard white surface decorated with colourful scenes of life on the riverbank: boys fishing, a man washing a big-horned buffalo, girls herding geese, women making bread and beer, slaves harvesting and threshing grain, and more. Everywhere they looked were pictures. Any surface not covered with images was painted with hieroglyphs or words.

  “It is wonderful!” gasped Xian-Li, then said the same in Kemet for Anen’s benefit.

  “It has taken a very long time,” said the priest, “and the expense has been great. But I feel very fortunate to think my ka shall spend its days among such pleasant and industrious people.”

  A second doorway opened off this room into another. Pointing to it, Benedict asked, “What is in there?”

  Xian-Li translated the question and Anen said, “Ah! This is my special place. Come, I will show you.”

  They moved from the main chamber into a much smaller one, also filled with paintings. Unlike the others, however, these were contained in room-sized murals, some of which were finished, but others still in progress: four painters were at work under the supervision of a master artist who moved from one to another correcting the odd wayward line—the shape of a calf here, the curve of a horse’s neck there—using a piece of charcoal in one hand and a lamp in the other. The artists worked by the light of small oil lamps and larger rushlights; other workers smoothed plaster onto the walls, mixed paint, or prepared brushes. The close, unmoving air smelled of palm oil and the metallic tang of lime plaster and cut stone.

  A simple sarcophagus sat off to one side; unadorned, hewn not of granite but of white limestone, it seemed almost inconspicuous amongst the busyness of the painters and their creations.

  At the sudden appearance of the high priest, the master artist barked a command and all the workers put down their tools and, to a man, turned and knelt before their exalted patron. Anen raised both palms shoulder high and spoke a few words; the artists and their master got up, bowed, and resumed their work. And what work it was!

  The room’s ceiling had been stained a deep blue and dotted with six-pointed stars; the walls were divided into sections, each section containing a large rendering of a scene from Anen’s life. One depicted the high priest as a young man with a slender waist and wide shoulders, standi
ng in a boat—fishing for yellow-bellied perch with a barbed spear while lazy green crocodiles and blue-grey hippos looked on from a nearby sandbar. Another showed him standing in the temple before Amun, who was handing him an ankh of immortality.

  As stunning as these pictures were, it was the third panel that arrested Benedict’s attention. This one featured Anen and another man, the second one pale-skinned and dressed in boots, trousers, and even a jacket—rendered in a curiously stylised form by artists who had never seen such dress. Even so, the light-skinned man bore more than a passing resemblance to his father.

  Benedict nudged his mother and pointed to the image. As she turned, his eyes fell on the next mural in line and his heart leapt to his throat. It depicted the high priest holding an irregular, oblong-shaped object something like a papyrus sheet or sheepskin, the surface of which was covered with the distinctive blue symbols of Arthur’s devising: the indigo tattoos he had worn in life to guide his explorations and journeys. In the painting, Anen held the irregular, oblong-shaped parchment with one hand pointed to a bright star rising in the eastern sky.

  “This is where my casket will rest,” the high priest was saying. He glanced at his guests and regarded their alarm. “In these you see the chief events of my life—those high moments I wish to be remembered. Meeting my dear friend Arthur—this is one that is precious to me.”

  “And this one?” asked Xian-Li, pointing to the third panel.

  “Oh, sister,” he said reverently, “this one is to remind me of the way to the world to come—the world as it was once, long ago, and will be again. A world where all evil is banished, and where there will be no more time, no more age or infirmity.”

  Anen’s voice grew husky; his eyes gleamed with tears. “My friends, there will be no more hardship or disease. Death will no longer haunt our dreams and drain the happiness from our best days. There will be an overflowing abundance of health and life and joy made perfect . . . forever.”

  “Heaven,” murmured Xian-Li quietly. To Anen she said, “The paradise you describe, we call it heaven.”

  Anen considered this. “It is a good name. For the Children of Isis and Osiris it is called Aaru.” He sighed then and said, “Alas, not many believe in paradise anymore. As high priest I have done my best to teach them, to tell the people what I know to be true. How do I know this to be true?” His smile grew wide. “I know because I have seen it. Arthur showed it to me.”

  Turning once more to the painting, he pointed to the star portrayed as a disc with spikes of light radiating from it. “Aaru is there—in the realm of the Dog Star. The paradise I spoke of—that is where I have seen it. I have been there—did you know that? I have been there and seen it with my own eyes.” His gaze grew intense. “My sister, I think you have seen it too.”

  Xian-Li confessed that this was so. “Arthur called it the Well of Souls,” she told him.

  Benedict, feeling left out of this exchange, interrupted. Pointing to the plain white sarcophagus, he said, “Mother, ask him if that is where father’s remains are kept.”

  “You are right,” confirmed Anen when asked. “I am honoured to have a friend rest beside me.”

  Benedict moved to the large, chest-like object and gestured to the top where a series of hieroglyphs had been carved. “What are these?” he asked. “What do they say?”

  “It is Arthur’s tomb name,” Anen explained and then said a word that to Benedict sounded like Say-Neti-Up-Uatu.

  “The Man Who Is Map,” Xian-Li translated. She smiled sadly. “Arthur would have liked that.” She traced the carved glyphs with her fingertips, then let her hand rest on the sarcophagus. To Benedict, she said, “It is time, son.”

  Taking the leather strap from around his neck, Benedict opened the bag’s flap and drew out the slender parcel, still wrapped in its linen covering and tied with the scarlet thread.

  “What have you there?” inquired Anen. “Is it a grave offering?”

  “Yes,” Xian-Li told him. “We wish to place it in the tomb with Arthur.” She traced her fingertips across the stone lid. “May we?”

  “Let it be as you say.” He turned and gestured to the master artist and spoke a command. Instantly the workmen downed tools and came scurrying to the sarcophagus. They lined up two on each side and two at the head of the stone casket, and with brute strength raised the heavy lid an inch or two and slid it down and away to reveal the linen-bound mummy of Arthur Flinders-Petrie.

  A fine trace of the narcotic, dulling cloy of myrrh lifted from the linen-bound corpse and caught in the back of the throat. Xian-Li coughed and put the back of her hand against her mouth, but then lowered the other hand, hesitantly, to rest upon the rounded chest of her husband’s body.

  Benedict had expected to feel some surge of emotion at the sight; yet he gazed at the elegant wheat-coloured wrappings and the pristine, body-shaped form, and so far removed were they from anything he had known of his father in life, he felt nothing. Even so, he stood holding the flat parcel between his hands, unwilling to commit it to the tomb.

  Xian-Li placed a firm hand on his. “It is time, Benedict. Remember your vow, son.”

  Still he hesitated.

  “Benedict, listen to me. If we are ever to know peace, this temptation must be removed.”

  His resistance melted, and the young man gently lowered the parcel onto the mummy’s rounded chest. The bulge created by hands bound over the chest caused the wrapped parchment to slide off to one side and down. After he tried a second time to balance it, Anen said, “Will you allow me?”

  Xian-Li nodded, and Benedict delivered the parcel into the priest’s outstretched hand. Anen spoke a word, and two of the workmen reached in and lifted the mummy slightly, allowing the priest to slide the thin package under its head as a small, flat pillow. He looked to the young man and his mother for approval.

  Benedict offered a grunt of satisfaction; Xian-Li closed her eyes and bowed her head in silent prayer. After a moment she opened her eyes and raised her head once more, took a last look at the mummy, then turned and made her way from the tomb. Benedict followed. Anen gave the command for the sarcophagus to be closed once more and then, filling his gaze with the wonderful paintings being lavished on his final resting place, commended the master to his craft, and work resumed.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Xian-Li said to the high priest when he rejoined them outside. “Your indulgence is greatly appreciated. You have been most kind.”

  “Yet I would do more,” said Anen thoughtfully. He brightened as an idea came to him. “Will you allow me to take you to meet Pharaoh? It is only two days to Thebes by boat and a most enjoyable journey, and the king’s new summer palace is a splendour to behold.”

  He watched Benedict’s stricken expression as his mother translated the invitation. “No! No! Do not misunderstand,” he said quickly, and explained. “There is a new pharaoh now—Tut-Ankh-Amun. The old one, the one you remember—Akhenaten, who caused such trouble—is gone many years now—he and his queen and children and the troublesome Habiru with them. Do not worry, there will be no riots this time, I promise.”

  “If it would upset my son, I think—” Xian-Li began.

  Benedict was quickly reassured that the troubles were indeed long past. “We should go, Mother. This is the last journey of this kind that either of us will ever make, and I would like a better memory to place alongside the last one if that is possible.”

  His mother smiled her acceptance and replied, “Your offer is kind and generous. We would be happy to accompany you to the royal palace.”

  “So shall it be done.” Anen led them back to where the slaves and chairs were waiting in the shade of a canopy. “We will return to the boat, and I will send word to Pharaoh’s court that we will come to him at his summer palace in three days’ time.” He raised his hands palms outward in the gesture of official pronouncements. “My friends, it will be a journey you will never forget.”

  CHAPTER 19

  In Which the O
bserver Effect Is Expanded

  Expansion of the universe—” Tony Clarke regarded his host with a mystified expression, his glass halfway to his mouth. “What an odd thing to ask.”

  In the pleasant surroundings of a tranquil walled garden shaded by fig trees and potted palms, with a fountain playing gently in the background, sitting beneath a blue umbrella, sipping good single malt Scotch in the Old Quarter of a version of Damascus in the 1930s . . . the question seemed especially incongruous. It took Tony a moment to change gears mentally.

  “A little odd, perhaps,” allowed Brendan lightly. “But it is something the Zetetics have been watching with keen interest for some time, and it has some bearing on our discussion.”

  Tony took a sip. “Well, then you will probably be aware that many, if not most, astronomers and cosmologists where I come from accept that the universe is indeed expanding—and at an absolutely enormous rate.”

  Brendan was nodding. “And by some calculations that expansion may even approach the speed of light itself.” He smiled. “I seem to recall that you wrote something on the subject, Dr. Clarke.”

  “You sly dog,” Tony laughed. “You knew all along that this is one of my special interests. Yes, I’ve written a few papers on the subject of cosmological expansion. But you will also be aware, of course, that this remains an area of considerable debate, since there are so many variable and competing models. It largely depends on which horse you back in the race to reality, but at present no one has the slightest idea what is causing this expansion—that is, the force driving it, powering it.”

  “Dark energy is your best guess, if I recall correctly,” suggested Brendan, swirling the Scotch in his glass.

  “You are well informed. I take it you study . . . shall we say—widely?”

  “Oh, I pick up bits here and there. What else can you tell me?”