by Suzanne Weyn
As though suddenly aware of the electric surge of Taharaq’s loathing, the Egyptian officer’s head snapped around and he stared directly at him, his harsh expression full of warning. Taharaq lifted his chin, intending to meet this man’s challenge with proud defiance.
But the moment their eyes locked, Taharaq was once again slammed with shame. A wave of nausea hit him like a body blow and he looked down at the moving river, frothing at the side of the boat. He knew such a movement gave the appearance of subservience, and he detested himself for it.
When he looked up again, the Egyptian captain stood beside him. “You and I know each other, don’t we?” he snapped in his native Egyptian. “Where did we fight?”
Taharaq understood his words since Nubians had traded with their neighbors in Egypt for many centuries. Most Nubians were familiar with Egyptian culture, including the language.
Yes, Taharaq thought. It makes sense. He must have been the one who hurled the spear that wounded me. Why else would I detest him so?
He was sure he had seen those flinty eyes before. He remembered them clearly — they had been filled with contempt, just as they were now. He felt that the Egyptian had to be correct — they had fought each other.
And yet … it was impossible.
He was an archer but had elected not to join the other archers on the shielded roof of a high building. Instead he’d stayed on the ground, firing from behind a tree. They’d thought he was brave, taking the first line of defense. They didn’t know his terrible secret.
He was terrified of high places, always certain he would fall to his death.
It shamed him but there was no overcoming it. It was a terrible, overwhelming fear that he’d had since babyhood.
When it became clear that they were losing the battle, the other archers began to flee from the rooftop. Noticing activity on the roof, he’d looked up to see what was happening. That was when a spear had hit him at the base of his throat. When he awoke, he was in a pen with other soldiers. There was a bandage over his wound and he slowly discovered that he could no longer speak.
“Answer me!” the Egyptian barked.
Taharaq could only shake his head.
The Egyptian raised his arm angrily to strike.
“He cannot answer,” the young Nubian behind him interjected urgently in Egyptian. It was Taharaq’s brother Aken. “He was hit in the throat.”
Taharaq winced, squinting into the sun. His right temple throbbed with the sudden onset of the fierce, searing headaches he’d suffered ever since he was a child. He’d been given every sort of potion and herb, to no avail.
His mother had taken him to a priestess who pushed away the black curls at his forehead, revealing a straight, reddish-purple birthmark. “This is the cause,” she’d said, tapping her finger on the birthmark. “I know not the cure, but the gods of The Other World are telling me this is the cause of the boy’s pain.”
Tetisheri checked her image in the highly polished brass plate hanging on the wall. With the tip of her hennaed red fingernail, she smoothed a smudge in the black kohl liner rimming her brown eyes and plumped her shining black hair. She had lived through fifteen full cycles of the night sky and in the last several cycles she had learned all the beauty secrets of womanhood. She hoped they would all work in her favor in the next moments; so much depended on everything going well now.
She made eye contact with the harpist who played out in the courtyard. With a nearly imperceptible nod, the harpist indicated that Tetisheri should come forward.
Gliding gracefully out, Tetisheri struck a pose.
The rays of Amun-Ra, the sun god, shot brilliantly through her crisply pleated, white linen tunic, highlighting the transparency of the fine cloth, marking it as top quality. It wouldn’t hurt that the sun god’s fire would outline her figure to good effect as well.
The golden band wrapped around her straight, thick, black hair grew warm against her forehead.
She smiled coyly at her audience. Across from her, the nobleman Nakht, his wife, Renenutet, and their exquisitely dressed guests sat at tables by an inlaid pool with white lotus flowers floating languidly on its shimmering crystal waters. They were merchants, politicians, and dignitaries. One of the guests was an immensely fat woman who had a pet alligator on a leash. Tetisheri hoped she’d fed it well before arriving.
She waited for the harpist to hit a particular, pre-arranged note before breaking her statue-like pose and beginning her song. It was a popular tune that recounted how the goddess Isis frantically searched for her murdered husband, the god Osiris, in the afterworld, never losing faith in their love for each other, even in death.
The song challenged her vocal ability with its ever-mounting intensity, requiring her to strain to the top of her range, but it would show off her voice well. It was important that Nakht be made proud in front of his guests, so it would be clear he could afford to employ a top-quality singer and dancer in his household. Her job depended on it.
Living in her small room in Nakht’s lavish estate with its murals, golden mosaics, and imported glass windows was so much more than she could have hoped for as a wife down in the village. Up until this chance arose, being a wife had been the only future she could look forward to, and it had always struck her as a living death of dullness. But since the day Renenutet had heard her singing in her father’s shop and asked to hire her as the household entertainer, her life had changed dramatically. This life was more than she had ever dreamed of.
A sidelong glance revealed that her audience was watching with rapt interest. Good. This evening was crucial. If the guests responded well to her, Nakht and Renenutet would give her a permanent position in the household.
She continued with the song of Isis and Osiris, reaching out dramatically, warbling with the anguish she imagined Isis must have felt when she was told that the god Set had murdered Osiris.
Pulling back her shoulders, her arms raised, Tetisheri strained for the song’s often elusive high note. Her voice quivered, cracking slightly. She pushed harder for the note. The shakiness left her. She hadn’t failed entirely. As she majestically lowered her arms, she thought she saw appreciative nods.
Tetisheri began swaying her hips. The miniature bells on her ankle bracelets jingled when she kicked her right foot forward and hopped backward onto her left. Raising her arms into the air again, she hoped the thick golden cobra bracelet wrapped around her upper arm would flash with dramatic effect.
As she turned in a circle, re-enacting Isis becoming a falcon in order to better search for her beloved, she felt the animal-sense tingle of a gaze upon her. Cutting her eyes to the doorway, she glanced toward the young man standing there.
His striped headpiece with its highly polished golden cobra shaded his face but she recognized him just the same. She had grown up with Ramose in the town, but she hadn’t seen him for some time. He had grown strikingly handsome since the last time they had spoken, and she’d heard he’d been made a Captain of the Guard in the army. The golden fly that hung from his neck was a mark of valor in battle.
Nakht stood and raised his hand to the harpist to stop playing. Tetisheri stopped as well, stepping back beside the harpist, her head bowed.
Nakht beckoned for Ramose to approach, and he stepped forward. “Ramses the Second thanks Nakht for supporting his successful campaign to suppress the Nubian rebellion and for raising funds for the building of the great temple at Abu Simpel,” Ramose said in a formal, official tone. “In gratitude, he sends you this Nubian slave captured in recent battle.”
Another Egyptian soldier dragged out a man with skin the color of blackest ebony. A wide, blood-spattered, white bandage crossed his throat. His hands were bound with cord and his legs were shackled, but still his eyes blazed defiantly.
Tetisheri stared at the man, horrified — and began to shriek, screaming in blind terror.
He had come to kill her.
She was sure of it.
Trembling, she clutched the harp, topp
ling it, as she crashed to the courtyard floor.
Nerfi, the household servant assigned to tend to Tetisheri, mopped the singer’s sweaty brow as she lay on her sleeping pallet, unconscious but breathing heavily.
She’d be all right. Nerfi crossed the room and studied herself in the polished metal plate on the wall. With a quick tug, she adjusted the straight, bright red wig she wore over her shaved head. It was cooler and more attractive than her own hair, which she’d have liked to be black and straight but was, instead, a dull red with curls that bent at odd angles. The wig was highly preferable. She liked the bright redness, anyway. It made her stand out.
Above them was a mural of Isis protecting her baby son Horus from the rival god Set by hiding him in the reeds of the Nile. Nerfi’s eyes wandered up to the mural and she sighed. No wonder people were treacherous and untrustworthy. Even the gods quarreled, murdered one another, and plotted revenge. How could people be any different?
But what had this Nubian slave ever done to Tetisheri to warrant such a reaction? How was it possible that she even knew him? Nerfi had been pouring beer from a large jug when the commotion began. She hadn’t even noticed the Nubian until Tetisheri screamed.
Now the young woman stirred and then bolted up to a sitting position, searching the room wildly. “Where is he? Is he gone?”
“They took him away,” Nerfi assured her. “Why are you so scared? Haven’t you ever seen a Nubian before? There are a lot of them in the police force these days. They come north for a better life up here in Luxor.”
“It’s not that he’s Nubian. It’s him, himself.” Closing her eyes, Tetisheri shuddered. “He terrifies me.”
Renenutet entered the room and stared sternly at Tetisheri. “Good. You’re awake. My husband is displeased with that display. You have upset him greatly. He wants you to leave at once.”
“She thought that slave was a spirit, come up from the world of dead beings, sent by Anubis the dog-headed god himself,” Nerfi rushed to her defense, improvising the best story she could think of. “Anyone would be frightened.”
Tetisheri opened her mouth to protest but Nerfi pinched her hand and she shut it again, taking the hint.
“This is no reason to be troubled,” Renenutet told Tetisheri, obviously believing Nerfi’s excuse. “The Book of the Dead clearly tells us that the underworld is a place where our lives are judged and evaluated so that we may begin again in another life. That is why our tombs are so well prepared, so that we can have the things we need for the perilous journey to our next life. Tetisheri, you need not fear the underworld.”
“But it’s still frightening. It’s a life in another world, isn’t it?” Nerfi insisted.
“If you are found worthy you will go directly to the next world. If not, you may have to return to this one to acquire further enlightenment.”
“You come back from the dead?” Nerfi inquired, puzzled by this.
“You are born again as a baby into a new body. Most of the time you are born into the body of a family member. That is why babies sometimes look like a grandmother or grandfather or a deceased uncle or aunt,” Renenutet explained confidently.
“I’d better get enlightened here and now because I don’t want to be some messy baby again. I’m done with that!” Nerfi laughed.
A servant came into the room and spoke to Renenutet in low tones. At his words, the woman gasped, tears springing to her eyes. Quickly, she dashed from the room along with the servant.
“I’d better go find out what’s happened,” Nerfi said, hurrying behind them.
When she was alone, Tetisheri sat on the bed looking up at the mural of Isis and her son, the falcon god Horus. Of all the gods and goddesses, Tetisheri had always loved Isis the most. Even as a child she’d loved to gaze at pictures of her on walls and pillars, sure that the beautiful goddess cared about her, that she had a special place in her great heart for Tetisheri. Somehow she was sure Isis would understand how she felt. She was a mother, after all. She would take pity on Tetisheri.
Closing her eyes, she spoke quietly. “Mother Isis, help me, for I am so scared. I am sure the Nubian slave means me harm.” These words made her voice catch. “He will kill me. I know he will.”
It made no sense, yet she knew — was absolutely certain — that he would take her life. And she didn’t care what Renenutet thought or what anyone else thought — she did not want to go to another world or another life. She wanted this life and no other. “Does that make me evil, Isis? Is it wrong to love the life you have — to cling to it?”
Stretching out on her pallet, she shut her eyes. Although she had not intended to sleep, she drifted into a dream. The Nubian slave was with her on a ledge, high up. His hand clutched her roughly behind her neck. Suddenly a green sphere appeared in a black sky, spinning between them. He abruptly let go of her, reaching out for the sphere. She reached, too.
They both wanted the green sphere so badly. They stretched until they could go no farther, and then went farther.
She slipped from the cliff. He grabbed her arm. Together they tumbled down into a tunnel — a bottomless, never-ending tunnel….
She was shaken awake by Nerfi. “Hurry! Nakht demands to speak to you right away.”
Taharaq sat huddled in the small room into which they’d thrown him. He was humiliated by the way that singer had become convulsed in terror at the mere sight of him. Was his black skin so horrifying to her? Egypt was full of Nubians. Was this young woman from some country outland so far to the north that she’d never seen one of his people?
He pressed his clenched fist against the throbbing spot on his forehead. The shards of intense light breaking in through the slatted window splintered before his eyes. The only thing that would make this curse abate was sleep. He knew it from the countless times before, so he leaned his head against the cool clay wall and let dream-filled slumber carry away his pain.
He was outside. The palm trees were gone. Strange plants he had never seen before whispered below him. From the cliff he could see their tops swaying. It was a world of tremendous green everywhere.
His hand clutched something coarse and thick. He was trying to steady himself but his bare foot continued to slide beneath him.
There was a girl with him. Her coarse hair was what he held. It was Nakht’s singer, though her sleek hair was now unruly and knotted. Her eyes were wide in terror.
She was screaming.
He wanted to comfort her. “I won’t hurt you.” But he did not have the words.
He did not have the words!
So he clutched her more tightly.
Suddenly a green sphere appeared in a black sky, spinning between them. The sphere would save them!
Its magic was the answer.
He reached for it, not meaning to let her go. But he stretched too far.
She slipped from his grasp, tumbling away.
It took a moment to realize that he, too, was falling, hurtling down a tunnel that seemed to have no end….
He awoke with a start. The singer sat across the room, staring at him intensely.
Why had he dreamed of her?
Why was she in front of him now?
“Ramose is on guard outside,” she warned, standing. “If I scream, he will kill you. He has promised me that.”
The slave scowled at Tetisheri but said nothing. “Could you speak before you were injured?” she asked.
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
They gazed at each other, expressionless. He was oddly familiar to her — but that was, no doubt, because he had been in her strange dream.
Her reaction to him was still powerful, but she forced herself not to let it overwhelm her. There was too much at stake for her now. She would be brave, like Isis.
“Nakht has told me he is displeased with my reaction to you,” she told him. “I do not want to be sent home. I have prayed to Isis and she has taken the terror from my heart. I hope you will not hold it against me in the future.”
He d
id not nod or consent. Did he even speak Egyptian? Many Nubians did, but she could not be sure. It seemed, though, that his expression softened a bit. He had stopped glowering at her, at least.
“This day, the mistress of the house has learned that her father has died,” she went on. “They are already preparing his mummy. My father is a pottery maker in the next town over. Nakht is sending Nerfi with me to buy four canopic jars from him. You are to go with us to carry our supplies. Ramose will accompany us. I have been told that since he is from my village, he is being sent along as a reward for his service. But, I suspect, he has been sent to report back to Nakht on whether you and I can get along.”
Tetisheri heard coldness in her voice that she had not intended. Rather than have her voice shake and betray her fear, she held it steady through great effort. Nonetheless, she could tell that the resulting tone was not warm.
He continued to stare at her steadily, his face revealing no emotion.
“We will keep our cordial distance from each other and make the journey together. All will be well in that case,” she concluded, heading for the door.
As he had promised, Ramose stood guard outside. “All went well?” he checked.
“He just sat there,” she confirmed.
“Do not fear him,” Ramose assured her. “He is afraid of me. I will be there to protect you.”
“I dreamed of him,” she confided. “He knocked me off a high place.”
“Dreams are but phantasms of the mind,” Ramose said. “You were frightened by him and your mind concocted a fearsome tale. That is all.”
“I have heard our spirits travel in our dreams,” she said.
He grunted dismissively. “It will be good to go home. They are right to buy their canopic jars from your father. His workmanship is the finest.”
Tetisheri had always loved the jars when she was young. Four jars each with a different lid, representing the four sons of Horus: Hapy the baboon, Qebehsenuef the falcon god, Duamutef the jackal, and Imsety the human. Then she had discovered their purpose. Each held a different organ taken from a mummified body — the lungs, the intestines, the stomach, and the liver. They were entombed along with the owner’s mummy. From then on she could never separate the jars from their function, and lost her love of their fanciful lids.
