“Tell… tale… Amenia.”
The sounds of a crowd gathering outside Uncle’s house came to me, the movements hushed, the voices muted. By now word Great–grandmother was dying had obviously spread throughout the upper settlement and everyone was coming to pay their respects. How many of those men and women and children had Great–grandmother brought into the world, or attended in time of sickness, or assisted during childbirth, or comforted after a death? Soon that was going to be my responsibility.
I swept my eyes over my uncles and cousins and aunt. Then I told them the story of Aya and the falcon god and Tiaa, just as Great–grandmother had taught it to me beside my kiln when she told me I was her heir. They all seemed shocked, whether by the revelation the talisman had come directly from the falcon god, or because I was relaying the story on Great–grandmother’s behalf, or both. It was the only tale Great–grandmother had never told around the campfire at night when she spoke about our ancestors. Neither Aboo nor Dedi appeared surprised; it had been clear to me for some time they knew most of the story, partly from tales handed down in Dedi’s family. No doubt all of Nekhen’s rulers had known, which explained why they’d allowed my ancestors to preside at celebrations and confirm their successors for more than five hundred years.
When I finished the story Great–grandmother signaled she wanted water. I raised her head, put a cup to her lips. She took a sip. I lay her back down.
“Now I… must name… heir,” Great–grandmother whispered.
I knew what was coming. As did Nykara, thanks to me. But not only had Great–grandmother never told the story of the talisman to anyone in our family but me before, she’d never revealed who would be the next to bear it. Everyone in the family expected her to pass it on and assumed the chosen one would take her place as a celebrant in Nekhen’s festivals, but until I’d told the story none of the rest had comprehended the true power that went with it. Uncle Hemaka was leaning forward slightly, brow furrowed, regarding Great–grandmother anxiously. He obviously hoped she’d choose either him or one of his three daughters. That would immediately propel him into a position of importance in Nekhen. Uncle Sanakht looked just as anxious; he of course hoped Great–grandmother would select him or Nekauba or at worst case Kapes, since she was promised to Nekauba. That would raise his status.
Great–grandmother glanced at each of us in turn with her dark eyes. There was a long pause. “Bow… head… Amenia.”
Uncle Hemaka drew in his breath loudly. Nykara’s fingers tightened on my shoulder, then fell away.
I leaned close. “Are you sure?” I whispered.
Great–grandmother tried to smile. “From before… you were… born.”
Reluctantly, I bowed my head. My hair spilled over Great–grandmother’s chest. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I’d known this day was coming, but now it was real. I recalled my terror the day I’d assisted her at the festival. From now on and for the rest of my life I’d preside at Aboo’s side, with the eyes of everyone in Nekhen on me. I’d confirm his successor. I’d be called on to heal the sick and bring children into the world. I’d speak for the falcon god. I’d petition him on behalf of the people. The weight of the responsibility was crushing.
Great–grandmother awkwardly slipped the talisman over my head.
I straightened, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. The talisman dangled against my chest, clanked against my boat amulet, heavy, unfamiliar, frightening.
Neither of my uncles was pleased. Of all who could have received the talisman, I was the one least under either of their control. My cousins scowled at me, envious and angry.
All at once, Great–grandmother relaxed. The burden she’d borne for so long was no longer hers.
Tears were streaming down my cheeks. She was sinking.
“You bear talisman…” Great–grandmother said urgently. “You shall be… healer… I have… trained you. You shall celebrate… Aboo’s side… when our people honor… falcon god. You shall confirm… Aboo’s successor.” She looked past me, at our ruler.
“As it has always been,” Aboo intoned.
Great–grandmother took my hand in hers. Her grip was feeble. “I was… one hundred eleventh… bear talisman,” she whispered. “Amenia… you are… one hundred twelfth. Someday… you will pass talisman… to son or daughter. Tell them… story.”
“I will, Great–grandmother,” I sobbed, overcome with love for her and fear of what lay ahead for me.
But Great–grandmother didn’t hear me. She’d gone to join her ancestors.
***
I wove extensions into Great–grandmother’s hair one last time, constantly wiping away tears that simply wouldn’t stop. Peseshet and Auntie and Kapes and Nebet and I had spent most of the morning preparing her body for burial. We’d bathed her and dressed her in her finest linen skirt. I’d colored her hair with henna. Now, her hair done, I removed my most prized possession from around my neck, the copper amulet in the shape of a boat Heth had made and Nykara had given me soon after his return from Maadi. I fastened it around Great–grandmother’s neck, for I loved her more than anyone in the world and I truly believed my boat would carry her soul to rest among the stars, just like the one etched on the rock wall beside my kiln. I promised myself I’d etch another boat with her figure aboard the very next day, beside the original. Nykara, I was certain, would understand why I’d given away his gift.
Auntie approached and lay thick linen pads sticky and redolent with resin on the floor beside the body. Tenderly, Peseshet and I used them to encase Great–grandmother’s hands and lower arms, and then her jaw and neck and the base of her skull. That would preserve the parts of her body that would allow her to receive nourishment in the next life. When that was done Auntie and my cousins began wrapping Great–grandmother’s entire body with lengths of linen, the finest close to her body, the coarser weaves outside those.
While they did I went into the main room of the house and looked over the grave goods Uncle Hemaka had been assembling all day. One of Nekhen’s common laborers might be buried with a couple of beads or shells or a basket of food, but Great–grandmother had been no mere laborer and, for all his faults, Uncle Hemaka had truly loved his grandmother. Her goods occupied an entire corner of the room. There were pots and reed baskets filled with rounded loaves of bread and emmer porridge and melons and dates and bulbs of garlic. There were jars of beer, and some of my decorated bowls and black–topped jars. There was even the bottle I’d made for her decorated with a line of animals – a giraffe, an ostrich, and an oryx. Scattered next to the pottery were Great–grandmother’s ostrich comb, her basalt and calcite ointment vessels, a flint knife, many pottery scrapers, a green slate grinding palette, shell ornaments, stone beads, a baked red clay figurine of a mourning woman I’d made – her body peg–shaped, arms raised in the air – and some amulets and a carved ivory plaque. There were even two jars of wine Nykara had brought back from Maadi. I fell to my knees and carefully placed the loose items into several woven reed baskets, along with malachite and hematite pigment stones, stone pendants – including one carved with the face of a bearded man – and two polished grinding stones. Great–grandmother always said the bearded man pendant reminded her of my great–grandfather.
Great–grandmother had been a wise woman, a healer – a magician some said – and I put the leather bag full of her special chunks of resin and small mud cones and dill and tiger nuts and nut grass and plum and mint and chips of imported cedar and juniper into a reed basket I’d made. Then I rolled up the fragile burial mats I’d hurriedly woven before we started preparing Great–grandmother’s body; Peseshet had brought fresh rushes from the river on her way to the upper settlement for that purpose.
And then it was time. Someone brought an acacia board into the house, maybe four feet long and three feet wide, perfectly shaped. I assumed Nykara had sent it from the boatyard. My uncles lifted Great–grandmother off her pallet and arranged her on the plank, on her side, her swaddled h
ands over her face, her knees flexed. My uncles and Nekauba and Yuny lifted the board onto their shoulders and carried it from the house into the midst of the waiting crowd. Everyone fell to their knees, honoring Great–grandmother in death with the same reverence they’d given her in life. Then began the long sad trek through the upper settlement and down the wadi path towards the workers’ cemetery on the southeastern edge of the lower settlement, where Great–grandmother’s ancestors – and mine – as well as those of her descendants who had already died, lay.
Auntie and my cousins and I followed behind Great–grandmother, crying, keening, bending time after time to throw dirt on our heads. My cheeks were soon streaked with mud. Every time I bent the talisman swung away from my chest. I wasn’t used to its weight or presence. Others of our neighbors carried the containers of grave goods. Great–grandmother had been well–respected and her funeral procession was a long one, winding a considerable distance along the path behind me.
I’d attended many funerals in the workers’ cemetery. Thankfully, Great–grandmother’s was going to be routine. Some weren’t. Just a month ago a man and his woman, among the oldest residents of the upper settlement, had suddenly died, their bodies ravaged by a mysterious disease that left them raving. Great–grandmother hadn’t been able to heal them. To neutralize their power after death and keep them from harming those of us who still lived, Aboo had ordered they both be decapitated. They’d been buried together afterwards, their bodies entwined in a circular grave. Their heads had been placed on their chests and the man’s nostrils filled with sherds of pottery. The measures had worked; their disease had visited no one else.
Hundreds of men and women from the lower settlement were waiting for us when we reached the cemetery, out of respect, for, as priestess of Nekhen’s primary god, Great–grandmother had been important to everyone. Even Teti and his potters were in attendance, their rivalry with my uncles set aside for the day. Nykara was standing next to Dedi, and beside him Aboo and Abar and Rawer. It was a singular honor for Aboo to attend a non–elite funeral. He was dressed in his full ruler’s regalia, obviously to honor Great–grandmother. Many in the procession were pointing at him and whispering. Those carrying her body set her down beside her grave opposite the pile of sand excavated from it.
I went to welcome and thank Aboo and Dedi and Abar.
Dedi embraced me. “I never thought, when Ipu and I were children, we’d be the last left who grew up together,” he said sadly.
In their sixties, Dedi and Great–grandmother were the oldest people I’d ever known. Half of all children in the settlement died before they were three, and most men and women before they were thirty–five. Those who lived into their fifties and beyond, like the two of them, were rare indeed.
Dedi released me and Nykara put his arm around my shoulder and told me how sorry he was and I pressed my face against his chest and started to sob. I hadn’t really cried yet. He wrapped both arms around me and held me close for a long time. It meant everything that he was here to share my sorrow, for he and Great–grandmother were the two people I loved most. Eventually I collected myself enough to turn and face the mourners.
I took a step towards Great–grandmother’s grave with tear–wet cheeks. Nekauba was staring at me from its far side, his fists clenched, furious as usual whenever he saw Nykara and me together. He’d lived in denial this past year; he refused to accept Uncle Hemaka and his father had changed their arrangement and I’d slipped from his grasp. He was my enemy now, though he didn’t have the power to carry out any of the countless threats he made against me. But today I didn’t care about him or what he might try to do to me someday. I was lost in my sorrow.
The graves in this cemetery – the rulers lay together on the upper terrace, and the elites and overseers on the opposite side of Nekhen – were arranged by family in large circles, the oldest generations closest to the center, the more recent farther out. At the center of each circle stood a simple pavilion of palm fronds laid over a wood frame held up by wood posts. The structure was used for funeral feasts and whenever anyone brought offerings for the dead. Amulets and small jars and animals carved of bone and flint were piled at the base of every post, reminders of past funerals and visits. There were many such circles in the cemetery. It contained hundreds of graves, some marked by stones, others by a low mound of sand – or at least the most recent were. The wind had long ago swept away the sand mounded over the oldest.
“I used to come here with Great–grandmother and the rest of my family several times a year to clear away brush and tidy our family circle,” I told Nykara. “Great–grandmother always strolled with me among the graves, telling me stories about our ancestors handed down to her by her grandmother and to her grandmother by her grandmother before her. ‘Stories keep the dead alive in our hearts,’ she said without fail. ‘This cemetery connects us all, the living and the dead, and the stories give us a common history.’”
“Now it’s up to you to remember her stories, and pass them on to your children, as she said when she lay dying,” Nykara said.
“Our children,” I said softly.
He pulled me closer.
Men had dug Great–grandmother’s grave in the midst of those containing family members who had died young, so her magic would protect them in the next life, about four feet down into loose sand. They’d stabilized its walls with a mixture of wet sand and household ash. A number of coarse mats already lined its bottom. It was much larger than any grave I’d ever seen, for it would need to hold many grave goods.
Everyone had gathered around the grave in a large circle, many rows deep, those in back peering over the shoulders of those in front. Auntie and my cousins were clinging to each other, their faces streaked with tears. The board with Great–grandmother’s body lay on the ground beside the grave. Aboo stepped to the head of the board and beckoned me to stand beside him.
Aboo scanned the mourners. “Ipu was the representative of the falcon god for all of us who live in Nekhen, his priestess,” he cried in a loud voice. “She was a healer. Her magic was strong. Her faith was strong. Because of Ipu, the falcon god looked with favor on Nekhen for many decades.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Before she died, in my presence, Ipu passed her talisman, the sign of authority given her family by the falcon god himself, to Amenia, her great–granddaughter.”
Wondering looks and murmurs passed through the crowd. Many people smiled at me – I’d been helping Great–grandmother heal the sick for more than fifteen years and so I was somewhat acquainted with almost all Nekhenians, many of whom were in my debt. My cousins, on the other hand, were making no effort to hide their envy and jealousy. They clearly resented Great–grandmother choosing me over them. It was likely going to be awkward living in the same house with them from now on. Well, I hadn’t sought to succeed her. I wouldn’t have, if I’d been given a choice. But I hadn’t. So they were going to have to get used to it.
“From this day, Amenia will represent the falcon god in our gatherings,” Aboo continued. “She will heal the sick. She will comfort the dying. She will worship the god at my side. She will confirm my successor.”
I happened at that moment to catch sight of Rawer. His face instantly registered equal parts disbelief and dismay and shock. And why not? He’d just learned the woman who loved his rival – a rival he’d browbeaten and disparaged and threatened and treated like dirt for years – now held his fate as Nekhen’s ruler in her hands. His sudden uncertainty was a measure of payback for how he’d treated Nykara. I noted Pipi staring at me as well. Nykara had told me about the deal Pipi was trying to arrange with Aboo to make Wehemka our next ruler. Until this moment, he’d obviously forgotten the falcon god’s priestess would have a say in who it was. I had a feeling he was going to have to alter his plan now. As were the rest of the elites who were trying to position themselves to join with Abar or her sisters. She’d told me about them too.
Aboo addressed me. “As your first act as priestess, Ame
nia, you must give Ipu the final blessing of our god.”
I knelt beside her, removed the talisman from my neck, held it in my hand. “I call the blessing of the falcon god down upon you in your next life, Great–grandmother,” I said, fighting off tears. Then, instinctively, wanting to do more, I touched the talisman to her swaddled eyes. “I open your eyes, so you can see.” I touched it to the approximate location of her nose under her wrappings. “I open your nose, so you can breathe.” I touched it to the side of her head. “I open your ears, so you can hear.” I moved it downward. “I open your mouth, so you can eat.” Finally, I rested it on her linen–covered hands. “I touch your hands, so you can feed yourself.” Then I bent and kissed the top of her head one last time.
A hand reached down. Nykara’s. I took it and he helped me to my feet. Then he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. I put the talisman back around my neck.
My uncles dropped down into the grave. Carefully, they lifted Great–grandmother from the board and laid her atop the mats at the bottom, facing her towards the west. Auntie handed Uncle Hemaka a greywacke grinding palette shaped like an arrowhead topped with two bird’s heads, an heirloom of his family, and he placed it between Great–grandmother’s elbows and knees. He helped me down into the grave and I laid a red clay figurine of a woman with her arms raised gracefully above her head at Great–grandmother’s feet, for she’d danced in processions and at festivals in her youth before her accident. My cousins handed me one at a time the mats I’d made that morning, and I layered them over Great–grandmother’s body, placing each at a right angle to the one below it. They were so flimsy they immediately molded themselves to her shape. That done, I climbed out. Then neighbors began handing my uncles the grave goods they’d carried to the cemetery and they arranged them around her – the jars of food and beer, the containers I’d prepared. Even Aboo and Dedi contributed items – theirs far finer than anyone else’s. Nykara provided a necklace made of rows of copper beads, the product of his smithy. Uncle Sanakht gave it a covetous glance as he draped it over Great–grandmother’s wrapped neck, atop the mats.
The Women and the Boatman Page 35
