A deeply–worn wide dusty path wound through the heart of the wadi, connecting the upper and lower settlements, spanning the empty space between. The entire wadi was colored yellow by clay and soil washed off the high desert by eons of rare but violent thunderstorms. I’d once heard Aby tell my father the channel between Nekhen and the island was narrower now than it had been in his youth because of the slow accumulation of outwash. He expected some day, given enough rainstorms, the island might actually be permanently joined to the rest of Nekhen.
A huge outcrop of rock thrust like a wide rounded chimney from the right side of the path just before it reached the upper settlement, its base a jumble of fallen boulders, its top flat and large enough to hold a dozen people at a time. It was an excellent vantage point from which to survey the entire valley, or so I supposed, for I’d never ventured there. The outcrop was visible even from the river, a sentinel guarding the upper settlement and the desert itself. The path narrowed considerably once past it to the west. To the right of the outcrop, atop the terrace on the north side of the wadi across from the upper settlement, was the magnificent and mysterious cemetery where the men who’d ruled Nekhen were buried. Some of the graves supposedly dated back to Nekhen’s very origin, when patriarchs led individual families and Nekhen had no single ruler. The edge of that terrace was marked by a tall reed fence plastered with mud, its surface brightly painted with images of boats and men and animals and lines and circles and other shapes. The painted wood structure next to the grave of Aby’s brother Depy, and others marking the graves of his earlier predecessors as ruler, dominated the skyline, looming watchfully and protectively over Nekhen and the whole valley, a constant reminder our dead rulers were still with us and we were still connected to them.
Groves of the acacia trees Harkhebi’s woodcutters harvested and supplied to the elites and craftsmen – Aby to construct parts of his boats, the potters to fire their kilns, the carpenters to create wood objects, the brewers to heat their beer vats, everyone else to cook with – dotted the unoccupied slope to either side of the wadi path. According to Aby, when he was young those groves had thickly covered the slope from the edge of the desert all the way to the river, but now, after a century in which the population of Nekhen – and the number and size of its enterprises – had grown considerably, trees were starting to become scarce and woodcutters were ranging farther afield to supply the settlement’s needs. Many families had relocated from the upper settlement to the lower as well during Aby’s lifetime, tired of their huts being washed away whenever there was a strong storm. When one occurred – usually every five years or so – the wadi path turned into a raging torrent that swept everything before it and was thereafter impassable for days. I’d personally witnessed only one such storm.
As the fire burned people continued to slip out of the ceremonial grounds, headed to their nearby homes or up the wadi path towards the upper settlement. One by one, the smoke from cookfires began spiraling into the sky, for evening was approaching. By the time the pile of wood and body parts had dwindled to ash only boatmen and donkey drovers and elites and their families remained on the ceremonial grounds, out of respect for Shery and Father. Once the ashes cooled, several men scooped them into a three–foot tall earthenware jar.
The serving girl gave Aby his plumes and crook and flail. A procession formed, Aby and Ipu at its head, bound for the river to dispose of the ashes. Mother and Rawer and Abar and Huya and I moved into line directly behind them. I carried the jar; such a task was beneath Huya and Rawer. Elites fell in behind us, then the men who’d gone to the oasis, then what remained of the crowd. Aby led us west out of the ceremonial grounds, then turned right. We passed in front of nine craftsmen’s workshops lining the grounds, all belonging to Aby. The craftsmen in those workshops turned the raw materials provided by Nekhen’s enterprises or obtained through exchange with other hamlets and settlements into finished goods to trade throughout the southern section of the valley, as well as necessities for those of us who lived in Nekhen. They produced leather goods, ivory and stone figurines and objects, cosmetic palettes, amulets, necklaces and bracelets and anklets and girdles of precious stones and gold, flint knives, arrowheads, stone vases, linen, clothing, furniture, microdrills, and wood planks for construction projects. Each of Aby’s workshops was operated by an overseer and staffed by craftsmen ranging in skill from apprentice to master. Aby supported them and their families, just as he did the men who labored in his boatyard. They too regarded him with affection.
Once past the last workshop, at the north end of the oval, Aby turned east. The sun was lowering to our rear; the face of the rocky plateau a mile beyond the far bank of the river ahead of us was already touched with gold and shadow was creeping across the valley floor, though it had not yet reached the swiftly–flowing silver river.
We passed through a long line of empty huts. They’d be occupied by farmers during the next inundation, for their homes along the river would be swept away by the flood. They’d work on public projects specified by Aby for three full months; he’d feed them and their families the entire time. Beyond the huts was the half–mile wide cultivated strip hugging the river. We crossed it using a narrow footpath. The emmer to either side was already knee–high, green, rippling in the gentle breeze.
“What happened to my father’s body?” I asked Aby as we walked.
“We laid him in a deep cave at the base of the escarpment where we defeated the raiders. It looked ancient; there were images of aurochs and ostriches and giraffes and an elephant pecked into the rock.”
That Father would not rest at Nekhen, among members of our family, buried according to our customs, greatly saddened me. But there was nothing I could do about it.
The boatyard began at the far edge of the field. The huts where the boatmen lived was at its southern end, along with a large hut where Aby stored trade goods. Nearby were several large sunscreens beneath which women wove fiber into rope or men and boys assembled reeds into bundles. Many bundles were neatly stacked on a flat parcel of ground where a punt was being assembled for a fisherman. Aby halted next to the riverbank, north of where his reed boats were moored in a long line, their sterns swaying with the current. Everyone who had accompanied us spread out in a large semi–circle facing the far shore, with Aby and Ipu and Rawer and Abar and Huya and Mother and me in the center.
Huya and I waded side by side into the river until the water was waist–deep, me still carrying the jar. The channel was relatively narrow here, for a long low island stretched the length of Nekhen and was closer to the west bank than the east. No one lived on the island, for it was always completely submerged during the annual inundation.
Ipu raised the falcon–shaped amulet hanging around her neck in one of her mangled hands. “As the barbarians’ ashes disperse in the river, so shall their spirits be sundered forever!” she cried. “They shall not harm our people again, in this world or any other!”
I spat into the jar. Then Huya and I each took hold of a side and we slowly dumped the ashes into the water with a swishing sound. Once empty, I took the jar from Huya, raised it high over my head with both hands, then hurled it as hard as I could. It landed with a thunk and huge splash far out in the channel, drifted north with the current, bobbed for a few moments, then sank. I waded to shore and held Mother tight until the black mass of ash swirled away and dissipated and was lost to view.
The elites and workmen turned away and headed for their homes. Eventually only Aby and Mother and I remained, all of us staring at the water, its surface shimmering with the colors of the dying day.
Mother addressed Aby. “My Lord, what’s to become of Nykara and me?” she asked plaintively.
Aby put his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. “Nykara will continue to work in my boatyard. I’ll train him to be a boatman like his father and grandfather before him. You’ll both reside with me in my hut from now on. I’ve already ordered your things moved there. You’ll run my household, Tai. Neither
you nor Nykara will want for anything, ever.”
Mother dropped to her knees in the grass and took Aby’s hands in hers and kissed his fingers. Women who’d lost their men were never so fortunate. “Thank you, My Lord, thank you. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.”
Aby took hold of her arms and raised her to her feet. He shook his head. “I’m the one who’s grateful, Tai. I’m alive because of Intef’s sacrifice. I owe him a great debt. I assure you, I will pay it.”
The sun dipped below the rim of the western plateau, bathing the entire valley in shadow. By the light of the afterglow we accompanied Aby from the riverbank, through the boatyard, then along the dusty lane lined with the wattle–and–daub huts of his workers and their families. Though grief–stricken by Father’s death, the awful burden of an uncertain future no longer rested on my shoulders. That Aby had promised to take care of Mother had earned my undying respect. I doubted many elites would have done the same thing. I vowed Aby would never regret having shown us such kindness.
We passed boatmen’s women bending over campfires in front of their huts, preparing meals, watched by lounging men, their faces and huts colored by the flames. Our friends, they gazed at us sympathetically, called out condolences. We passed our hut, now empty, the hearth dark and cold. I remembered the last time I’d seen Father standing beside it, bidding us goodbye, and quickly turned away. Aby’s hut was perhaps fifty yards farther on, on a slight rise overlooking the river and boatyard. It was three times as large as ours, though considerably smaller than the houses of the other elites. Aby was a simple man, despite his status. He had no permanent servants; boatmen’s daughters did his cooking and cleaning and hauled his water and wood. A large open area in front of his hut, shaded by palm trees, with a blazing fire in its center, was where Aby performed his ruler’s duties – rendering justice, meeting with the elites and such. Several leather–bottomed chairs rested beneath the trees. A large water jar stood at one side of the hut’s entrance, opposite a large ovoid stone for grinding grain. A pile of firewood was close beside it.
The reed mat that covered the entrance to Aby’s hut at night was currently rolled up and tied over the lintel, letting in air. We entered. A slight breeze was sweeping through a small window overlooking the river, causing flames to flicker in a number of bowls of oil scattered around the hut to light the interior. Just inside the entrance was a fairly large area containing a couple of leather–bottomed chairs and wood chests that likely held clothing. A few reed mats were arranged on the hard–packed dirt floor. Another portion of the hut was crammed with earthenware jars and reed baskets, no doubt full of beer and foodstuffs. At the very back of the hut several young girls were bustling about preparing the evening meal. Smoke was curling through an opening in the roof.
Mother’s and my pallets had already been laid out beside a wall amidst the supplies, along with reed baskets containing our personal items. Aby lay his crook and flail atop a chest, removed his plumes and placed them there as well, pointed to a pallet next to the opposite wall. “That’s where Rawer sleeps,” he said. “I prefer the deck of one of my boats. It’s much cooler most nights. You’re welcome to sleep there or here, both of you.”
The girls hurried past, burdened with platters and jars and bowls brimming with fruit and meat and fish and bread. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten all day. The girls went outside and arranged everything in a circle on the ground beside the campfire.
“Go on ahead,” Aby said. “I’ll join you in a moment.” He indicated his bloody clothing. “I need to wash up.”
We went outside and sat cross–legged beside the victuals.
Rawer was already waiting there. He completely ignored me and Mother. He was Shery’s son, and though he was only eleven he’d been Aby’s designated successor ever since his father’s death. I encountered him daily in Aby’s boatyard, though we never spoke, not only because Rawer was an elite and I was a common laborer, but because he thoroughly despised me. I always beat him in the athletic contests held during the settlement’s frequent festivals, ranging from wrestling to running to swimming, for I was already taller and stronger and faster than every other boy my age or a few years older. Rawer was particularly enraged every time he finished second to me in an archery competition; he took great pride in his marksmanship. In addition, every common boy looked up to and followed me unquestioningly; all but a handful of elite sons ignored Rawer. Worst of all – from Rawer’s perspective – Ameny, the overseer of Aby’s fleet, cited my work ethic as an example every time he chastised Rawer for being lazy and undependable – which was practically daily. To say Rawer hated me was an understatement. I sensed living in the same hut with him was not going to be pleasant.
Before long Aby joined us, dressed now in a clean kilt. The girls poured each of us a cup of beer, then stepped back into the shadows. Aby picked up a date and bit into it. That was the sign Mother and I could eat, and I virtually attacked the closest platter, piled high with fresh bread. I’d never seen so much food, or such a variety, at one time, except during the feasts that were part of Nekhen’s festivals. I wondered if Aby ate like this every day, or if this was a special occasion. I hoped it was the former. I was growing fast and I was always hungry.
I made the food disappear as if by magic. I looked up once; Aby was staring at me, bemused, smiling slightly. I supposed he’d never seen a boy eat so much at once, but I couldn’t help myself. After we finished the girls cleared away the empty jars and platters and bowls. Rawer abruptly moved to the far end of the clearing. Aby rose and seated himself on a leather–bottomed chair close by the fire.
Mother and I remained where we were, unsure what to do.
Aby sensed our discomfort. He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs. “I realize your new life is going to take some getting used to,” he told Mother, “but I want you to consider my hut your home from now on. Run it as if it’s your own household, Tai – you’re not my servant. Go to my storage hut tomorrow – take whatever you want to decorate or make your life easier.”
“I couldn’t, My Lord,” Mother protested.
“You can and you will,” Aby ordered. “I won’t have you looking like a common servant either, when I’m meeting here with the elites or listening to overseers or rendering justice. I’ll send my granddaughter Abar with you. She’ll pick out appropriate clothing and jewels. And whenever you need help with cooking or cleaning or anything else, call on any of the boatmen’s girls. You command them now.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” Mother said, bowing her head. A tear trickled down her cheek. “You’re being extraordinarily generous.”
“These next months will be especially hard for you, Tai, and you too, Nykara,” Aby said sympathetically. “I know far too well what it’s like to lose someone you love deeply.” He sighed. “That’s the price of living as long as I have. I’ve encountered death so many times – my parents, my brother, my woman, two daughters, Shery. It never gets easier.”
“I’m sorry for your losses, My Lord,” Mother said.
“No more formality,” Aby chided. “Call me ‘Aby’ in public, Tai. But when we’re alone at this fire, or in my hut, call me Dedi. That’s my birth name.”
“Thank you… Dedi,” Mother said.
He invited her to sit in the chair next to his. After briefly hesitating, she did. They began conversing in low voices.
Three girls about my age suddenly burst into the clearing, spotted Rawer, greeted him loudly, settled themselves around him, started chattering animatedly. I recognized them, for Aby’s fire was clearly visible from my old hut and they usually visited Rawer the evenings he wasn’t roaming the valley and making mischief with elite sons. I’d never been this close to them before, of course, for all three were elite – Neith, daughter of Salitis, who owned Nekhen’s herds; Herneith, daughter of Teti, the leading potter; and Semat, daughter of Hori, who delivered water to the upper and lower settlements. All were, naturally, exceptionally pretty; if t
here’s one thing Rawer liked it was a beautiful girl. He didn’t discriminate; he was as happy in the company of commoners as elites if they were attractive enough. That was actually the root of Rawer’s hatred for me – common girls flocked to me and went out of their way to avoid him. Except for those who expected future favors from our future ruler in return for favors of their own.
Five minutes of their ringing laughter and mindless cheerful banter set me on edge. What could be less appropriate on this of all nights, with Father’s death so fresh? I was about to go to the riverbank to mourn him in private when I felt someone standing beside me and looked up. Abar had stepped into the ring of firelight. She was staring at Rawer and the girls, her body tense, fists clenched, hurt evident on her face.
There wasn’t a boy my age or older in Nekhen and the surrounding valley – commoner or elite – who wasn’t obsessed with Abar. Though a year away from becoming a woman she was absolutely stunning – petite, features delicate, skin light brown and smooth, hair jet–black and short and wavy, eyes black and piercing, fingers slim, legs long. A necklace of alternating carnelian and gold beads graced her neck, a girdle of carnelian beads circled her waist. A fragrant lily was tucked behind her right ear. I’d never seen a girl as beautiful, not even those who were far older. Abar’s father had been joined to Iaret, Aby’s youngest daughter, who’d died in childbirth. Abar had been born into a life of luxury and her bearing reflected it. She had a presence that drew boys to her; at every festival she was surrounded by elite sons clamoring for her attention, even though they all knew she’d been promised to her cousin Rawer at birth. She treated them with disdain. And, of course, she completely ignored commoners like me. We didn’t exist in her world. I’d never been this close to her before, except during today’s executions. I hurriedly got to my feet, bowed respectfully. She was my better. “I’m sorry,” I said after a moment.
The Women and the Boatman Page 2
