The Women and the Boatman

by Mark Gajewski

  We both lived with her son, my grandfather, Khaemtir, in our family’s ancestral wattle–and–daub house in Nekhen’s upper settlement, in the midst of the complex comprising Grandfather’s pottery works. The upper settlement sprawled across a wide terrace at the foot of the western plateau, overlooking the long slope and wadi path that gradually descended over the length of a mile to the lower settlement and the river beyond. My parents had died a dozen years ago and I’d lived with my grandfather ever since. The older of my two uncles, Sanakht, lived with us too, along with his son, my cousin Nekauba, who was my age. Sanakht’s woman was dead and so I was responsible for a small share of the cooking and baking and chores that needed doing in Grandfather’s house, primarily performed by a few daughters of his workmen, for I was one of Grandfather’s best potters and when I wasn’t assisting Great–grandmother that was my main occupation. Sanakht’s younger brother, Hemaka, lived in a house next to Grandfather’s, along with Auntie Itet and two of their three daughters. Their oldest, Peseshet, had been joined to a farmer, Yuny, three years ago, when she was barely thirteen, and lived now along the river. The huts of the men who made pottery in Grandfather’s kilns, and their families, were clustered close by ours.

  “I stumbled on a new type of clay a few months ago when I was copying images etched on rocks,” I said. “I’m sure you recognize them on these jars.”

  For years Great–grandmother and I had regularly roamed the western edge of Nekhen, exploring. We’d found hundreds of boulders and outcrops and sheer rock faces covered with images – some with outlines deeply scratched, some pecked, some so faint we could only make them out at certain times of the day when sunlight struck them just right. Few gullies and clefts were undecorated – I found new etchings almost every time I went looking. The images portrayed every type of animal imaginable, both those living on the plateau and along the river bottoms and in the water, and even boats.

  “I experimented until I found this color for the images. I like it best,” I continued. “I fire this pottery at a much higher temperature than the other types, so while the objects are thinner they’re also more durable. They easily stand up to the heat of a campfire.” I swept my eyes over them. “I didn’t want to show you until they were perfect.”

  Great–grandmother settled atop one of the smaller boulders. As usual, extensions I’d braided from my cousin Peseshet’s hair and woven into hers this morning brushed her shoulders. Her hair was dark because I’d dyed it for her with henna the week before. She was dressed as simply as always, in a skirt. Her only jewelry was a falcon–shaped talisman made of some mysterious stone–like material, dangling around her neck. I’d never once seen her without it.

  “You’re not the first woman in our family to invent a new style of pottery,” Great–grandmother said. “In fact, your ancestress Tiaa invented two styles – the second one at this very kiln.”

  Great–grandmother had told me Tiaa’s story many times. Great–grandmother sat beside the fire in front of Grandfather’s house every evening, repeating tales handed down in our family for generations. I always listened eagerly, picturing myself in those long ago times when Nekhen and the world had been so different. My cousins usually avoided us then. They took no interest in the past. They were content with their lives. I wasn’t.

  “Recite the story of Tiaa and her pottery, Child,” Great–grandmother ordered.

  Because I was the only one of her descendants who seemed to care, she’d told me many times I was going to be responsible for keeping the family stories alive and passing them on to future generations after she joined her ancestors among the stars. She often made me repeat her tales to ensure I remembered them accurately. I always recited stories about Tiaa perfectly; besides Great–grandmother, she was the ancestress I admired most. I envied the life she’d led.

  “Tiaa was born and lived the first part of her life beside a rain–fed lake, a playa, on the savannah far to the south and west of this valley,” I began. “She lived so long ago the savannah hadn’t yet turned to desert, but was alive with herds of animals and lush with plants and dotted with groves of trees. Each year there was a great festival to mark the arrival of the summer rains that replenished the playa. Tiaa’s mother made pottery then to honor the gods. But her mother died just before one of the festivals. Tiaa was charged with making the pottery in her place, beautiful polished red jars, just as her mother had taught her. Tiaa had just fired a batch and was taking them from her kiln to cool when she slipped and one jar fell rim–down in a bed of hot ashes. Its top turned black, leaving the rest of the jar red. She’d accidentally discovered a new style. She experimented and practiced after that and became a master of the double–firing technique. Her jars were highly prized.

  “One year a trader, Ankhmare, came to the playa from his home in the middle section of the river valley. Tiaa left the playa with him. After various adventures, she settled with his family at a place called Badari, far to the north of Nekhen.” There was a long story associated with that, but it didn’t concern pottery. “At Badari she learned to make their style of pottery – large, extremely thin, exquisite.”

  “That’s how different styles of pottery have spread throughout this valley,” Great–grandmother interrupted. “Women who knew how to make pottery in a certain style joined with men from different settlements and took their style with them, teaching it to the women who already lived in their new homes. Someday you or one of your daughters may do that with this new style.”

  I nodded. “Eventually Tiaa fled Badari in company with Ankhmare, and they settled in Nekhen.” Another long story. “She found this very chimney in this very gully and established this kiln. When she lived at Badari she’d fallen in love with a man, Qen, whose band roamed the eastern wadis. His skill was etching images of animals on rock faces every time the men of his band went on a hunt, to ensure their success. Though Tiaa and Qen loved each other their patriarchs wouldn’t let them join. When Tiaa settled at Nekhen she wanted to let Qen know where she was, since she’d fled south while he was somewhere in the East. So she experimented with different types of clay and invented polished–red ware. She decorated it with images in white – the same ones she’d seen Qen etch on rock walls. Ankhmare traded Tiaa’s pottery, and over time some objects were re–traded and gradually moved ever farther north. Qen encountered one of her jars years later, tracked it back to its source, and was reunited with Tiaa. They lived long and happy lives together, with many children.”

  “Tiaa was a genius,” Great–grandmother averred. “She was the first woman to illustrate our world in pictures on pottery.”

  “And now I do the same – try to tell stories on the objects I create.”

  Great–grandmother indicated the boat on the rock above our heads. “The first thing Tiaa did when she settled at Nekhen was etch that boat. The four people on its deck are the four people she loved most in the world. The boat is heading for the never–setting stars. By making the image, Tiaa ensured they’d reach those stars and live forever. That makes this gully not just a kiln but a shrine, a sacred place. It will always be such for our family.”

  “Did you like making pottery… before your accident?” I asked.

  “I did. My grandmother told me I was the best potter she’d ever seen,” Great–grandmother said proudly. “But you surpassed me long ago.”

  I thrilled to her praise. “I just wish Grandfather agreed,” I said somewhat dejectedly. “I practically have to sneak away to make the black–topped and polished–red and now this cream–colored. He wants me to make rough red ware in his pottery works all day instead. I hate it! It’s so cheap that if it breaks no one cares. They just throw it away.” I swept my arm across my pottery. “We’d mend any of this if it broke.”

  “Your grandfather has to produce the rough style to keep from falling even farther behind Teti, down in the lower settlement,” Great–grandmother said. “Teti supplies all the jars for Pipi, Nekhen’s largest brewer, and Salitis, who
se herds provide blood and milk. His wealth has made him one of Nekhen’s elites. Your grandfather only makes jars enough for the smaller brewery here in the upper settlement. It rankles him Teti’s works has grown so large, and he’s grown so influential. Our family was here many generations before Teti’s.”

  “How did his works become so large, then?” I asked.

  “Teti’s grandfather relocated down to the lower settlement many years ago, when I was a girl. He had many sons. He joined them to the daughters of men who operated smaller potteries. In time, those sons inherited the works of their women’s fathers and combined them with Teti’s. Now he operates five times as many kilns as your grandfather.”

  “If alliances with other families are good, why has Grandfather promised me to Nekauba?” I asked. “He’s my cousin. Our joining won’t tie our family to a different one.”

  “No. But it will keep you in our family. You’re the most productive of Khaemtir’s potters, Amenia. He doesn’t want to lose you to someone like Teti. Teti has an unjoined son, Weni, after all.”

  I suppressed a snicker. Teti was one of Nekhen’s elites and Grandfather wasn’t, so Teti would never join Weni to me for that reason alone. Plus, elite boys had their pick of girls and I was the last one they’d chase after. I was as plain as could be, as my much prettier cousins never tired of reminding me, especially when we were bathing in the river at night and gossiping with the other girls gathered there about boys. Boys never noticed me a first time, much less looked at me twice. Though there was one in particular I wished would – Nykara. He was one of Dedi’s boatmen as well as his stepson, and was a favorite topic of conversation whenever we girls were together. I’d actually sat next to him for an hour a couple of months ago at a gathering in Dedi’s hut. I’d been thrilled when my knee momentarily grazed his. He’d even leaned close and whispered to me. He was all I remembered from that event – I’d been terrified in the presence of Dedi and the others and they’d discussed things I hadn’t at all understood. I’d been drawn to Nykara for years before that gathering. During the athletic events that were part of Nekhen’s festivals I’d always cheered for him. As had my cousins and my friends. He was a magnificent athlete, taller than anyone our age, muscular, good looking. He was also outgoing and friendly and a natural leader – all the boys gravitated to him, and girls. We girls in the upper settlement had been warned away from him years ago by the boatmen’s daughters, who’d staked their claim immediately after Abar, our ruler’s daughter and the most beautiful girl in the valley, inexplicably turned on him. The boatmen’s daughters bragged about getting to sit beside him in the evenings beside Dedi’s campfire. What I wouldn’t give to spend an evening alone with Nykara now, even though he’d barely noticed me the day we’d met. I sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to spend the rest of my life in Grandfather’s pottery works. I absolutely hate making the rough–style pottery. I want to make the decorated.”

  “You’ll never have to give that up entirely,” Great–grandmother assured me, “thanks to our location next to the ruler’s cemetery. Rulers, and the elites, will always want your pottery to be buried with them. It’s unique. Your pottery earns your grandfather extra food and fine objects in exchange. He won’t give that up.”

  “Yes, but the elites hardly ever die,” I grumbled. “I don’t hope they will,” I added hastily. “I just wish the living wanted my jars too.”

  “Take comfort you can work at a kiln at all,” Great–grandmother said sadly, holding up her twisted hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her guiltily. “I’m so insensitive sometimes. You miss being a potter, don’t you.”

  “Every day.”

  “How did it happen? Your hands?” I asked. She’d never told me the tale.

  “I suppose you’re old enough to know,” Great–grandmother said. “When I was a few years older than you a man became obsessed with me. He wanted to join with me. He followed me everywhere.”

  Sounded exactly like my cousin Nekauba. I was promised to him but I couldn’t stand him. He was surly, abusive, constantly trying to get me alone and kiss me and do other things I abhorred. He had no imagination at all. His only goal in life was to someday operate Grandfather’s pottery works. He’d told me many times that after we were joined he wasn’t going to let me produce pottery anymore. I’d make and raise his babies and look after him instead. Nothing more. I shivered, thinking how empty my future life was going to be.

  “One day I was atop the outcrop of rock beside the wadi path, looking over the valley. He crept up behind me. One thing led to another. I resisted. In the struggle I fell over the side. Or he pushed me. I don’t really remember. I landed on one of the boulders at the foot of the outcrop.”

  “And your forearms didn’t heal correctly.”

  “Our ruler executed him for what he’d done to me at the edge of the commoners’ cemetery, in front of my family and friends and my father’s workers. Then he cut off his head so his spirit would wander forever and never harm anyone again.”

  “Though he’s continued to harm you all your life, because he disabled you.”

  Great–grandmother smiled wanly. “At least he didn’t take from me what I value most – the ability to heal others.”

  “After all the years I’ve spent helping you, I know how to use all your herbs and potions and charms just as well as I know your stories,” I said with pride. “It’s what I like best, except for making pottery, of course – healing.”

  “Your knowledge is exceptional, Amenia. It pains me none of your cousins has cared to learn the things I’ve taught you. But knowledge is only a small part of restoring health. True healing is a gift, granted by the falcon god. You have that gift, Amenia. You use your knowledge of herbs and potions with compassion and caring. You know how to restore not only the body, but the spirit inside.” She placed a hand on my forearm. “I believe your ability to heal is a sign the falcon god wants you to be my heir.”

  “Heir?”

  Great–grandmother fingered the object at her throat. “Someday, when I’m with my ancestors among the stars, you’ll bear this sacred talisman in my place.”

  I was taken aback. “You mean I’ll celebrate beside Aboo at festivals?” Great–grandmother might be used to acting as the falcon god’s priestess after so many years, but for me it was an utterly terrifying prospect – to be the center of attention of thousands of people on the ceremonial grounds, to be in the presence of our ruler, to address the falcon god on everyone’s behalf. I’d seen the fear and reverence in people’s eyes when Great–grandmother walked past, the respect they accorded her, the desperation with which they begged her to heal them when they fell ill. I was just a potter, and young, barely a woman. Who’d take me seriously?

  “That, Child, and so much more,” she replied.

  “More?” I felt sick. “Why me?” I asked plaintively. “Why not one of my cousins? Or even one of my uncles? They’d love to share the sunscreen with Aboo. They’d love to have power and influence.”

  “Which is exactly why they’re not fit,” Great–grandmother replied. She indicated the boulder beside her.

  I sat.

  “The duty of whoever represents the falcon god is to serve his people and honor him. Your uncles would instead try to turn that position of service into a position of power. They’d be more concerned about gaining influence and wealth for themselves than honoring the god. Both of them lack the humility and kindness and selflessness that’s part of your nature, Amenia. They only give lip–service to the god, while you truly honor him by the way you live your life. And neither of them has the gift of healing. Everyone who’s ever borne the talisman has had that.”

  “How can you be sure I’m the right person? How do you know I won’t turn out to be like my uncles when I’m older?” I asked.

  Great–grandmother put an arm around my shoulders. “The falcon god sends dreams to those who bear the talisman, Amenia. They always come true. He sent me one before you were even b
orn. He showed me a young girl, carrying my pouch of herbs and potions and plants and minerals, helping me attend to a woman in childbirth. Do you remember the first time you lugged my pouch to the lower settlement?”

  I bowed my head. I’d never forgotten that day, though there had since been many like it.

  “That very day, walking down the wadi path with you skipping joyfully at my side, I knew,” Great–grandmother said gently.

  How could I doubt Great–grandmother? If she said I’d been chosen by the falcon god, then I’d been chosen, even though it was incomprehensible he’d selected someone as commonplace as me to represent him. I threw back my shoulders, took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes. “I promise I won’t let you down. Or the falcon god,” I pledged. “No matter how hard it is.”

  Great–grandmother smiled and leaned over and kissed my brow. She straightened. “I’m going to tell you a story now, the most ancient story in our family, one I’ve never told anyone before. My father told me, and his father told him, and so on back as far as memory goes. You must remember this story in every detail, Amenia. Every detail. Someday, when the time is right, you must pass it on to your own son or daughter. You must also promise to keep it secret until I tell you otherwise. Can you do that?”

  “I promise, Great–grandmother,” I said solemnly. I wondered why a story had to be kept secret.

  She fingered the object at her throat. “This talisman was given to our ancestress, Aya, by the falcon god himself, more than a hundred generations ago.”