Sunspot Jungle

by Bill Campbell

  There were many more important shoulds weighing on her heart. How the members of the High House should have been celebrating the Feast of Iset, but weren’t. How Yacob-Hur should have been preparing to take his place in the Spirit House and petition Hathor to slow the sun’s journey across the sky on this, the shortest day of the year, but wasn’t. How the Nile should have flooded her banks six months ago, but hadn’t. For the third year in a row.

  All of these shoulds were more important than anything else at the moment, even incurring the Chieftain’s displeasure. She’d weathered it before.

  A little over a shade after leaving, they were close enough to see the buildings beyond the pyramids that surrounded the Great Lioness: the Library of the Horizon. Amatashteret hadn’t seen this place since she’d been sent to Canaan. It looked the same, yet different. Diminished. There were no people swarming the pyramids, their gleaming limestone facades devoid of scholars, and few people on the avenues between buildings. At least those were still intact. After the invasion many cities were attacked and nearly destroyed. Not here.

  Amatashteret turned to watch her daughters’ faces as they passed between the Pyramid of the Heart and of the Spirit. They stared with wide eyes and mouths at the artificial mountains. She asked the charioteers to slow down, so they could properly see the words written on the limestone. The dense symbol-script of the Khemetans started at the base of each side and went all the way up to the top. The knowledge of millennia preserved on the greatest engineering achievements in the world. She wanted them to see and to want to see more. She was doing this all for them. For all the daughters. For Khemet.

  When they rolled up to the Library’s administrative building, a woman stood alone on the steps. She was a full-blooded Khemetan with rich, dark brown skin and short, tight curls crowning her head. From the jewelry at her neck and the tattoos on her arms, Amatashteret could tell she was the Superior librarian. She was much younger than the woman who’d been Superior when Amatashteret studied here. She wondered if the older woman had retired or died during the war. And how many Supreme librarians under her must have died or left for a woman barely thirty inundations to rise to this position. Young or not, the expression she wore spoke of a formidable woman who took her duties seriously. Foremost, protecting the library from the invaders. From her.

  Amatashteret brushed the sand from her robes and approached the steps.

  “Superior, I am Amatashteret, daughter of Meritiset, and a Sister of Seshet.” She paused to allow the woman to take in that information. “I’m here to solicit your counsel. May my daughters and I enter?”

  The Superior’s mouth turned down, and her eyes narrowed just for a beat.

  “Why does an Amorite princess need the counsel of an Khemetan inferior?”

  “I am Khemetan.”

  The Superior nodded to the Chariots, then looked back to her. “Amorite transportation. Amorite drivers. Coming from the seat of Amorite control in this region.”

  “My mother was Khemetan, and I was educated here. These men are my father’s kin.”

  Many beats passed, and the Superior did not move or change her expression. Amatashteret took one more step forward and said, “I’m here to beg your help in restoring ma’at—balance—to Khemet. Something we both want, yes?”

  The Superior made her wait another moment before bowing her head. “I am Kemanut. It would be my honor to break my fast with you and your daughters before you continue on.”

  Not the welcome she hoped for. Still, the woman hadn’t turned them away. One step closer to the copper scarab.

  When Amatashteret had last been in the Superior’s receiving room, the cubbies that lined the walls were filled with papyrus scrolls and there were always dozens of scholars around the many low tables scattered throughout the large, open space. Now the room was nearly empty of everything familiar. The only things left were the images of Seshet, Djehuti, and Piteh looking down on them from the walls. She felt again a sense of not quite rightness—a feeling that had come upon her again and again since she returned to Khemet. A part of her wanted to come back here and find it the same as when she left. An oasis of rightness when everything else was so wrong. It made no sense to hope for that, given everything that happened. She could let it make her angry or make her despair, or she could accomplish what she came here to do.

  After they observed the formalities—food and beer offered and accepted and imbibed—Kemanut sat across from her and waited with an expectant and skeptical expression.

  Amatashteret considered how to begin.

  “First, a question. Is the copper scarab still here?”

  “The … scarab?” Kemanut’s surprise at the query was clear, as was her reluctance to admit she knew about the machine’s existence.

  “The last year I was here, the engineers were working on recreating the copper scarabs the Ancients used when they built the pyramids of the Heart, Spirit, and Word. We had the frame, and when I left they had worked out how to create the tubes that would carry the steam it ran on. Did they finish?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “After my husband, a Khemetan, went to the West, my father asked me to go to the land of his fathers to be a bridge between our cultures. I did, not realizing the true intention of his request. He knew the Amorite Patriarchs intended to take advantage of the instability of the High House. He wanted my daughters and me away from harm. When we arrived, his kin kept us in Canaan until after the fighting ended. Even after Yacob-Hur established control, my uncles wouldn’t allow me to return.”

  “Wouldn’t allow?”

  “Amorites believe women should be controlled by men. With my husband dead and no sons, I was meant to be ruled by my father’s relatives until he sent for me.” Kemanut’s face reflected the disgust she felt at the situation. “He died before that happened. But then Yacob-Hur struggled to make Khemet thrive. I, through one of my cousins also raised here, convinced the Patriarchs to send me back to give him insight into Khemet and her people. I thought I could make a difference. He won’t listen.”

  Amatashteret took a deep breath to calm herself. Flashes of the last conversation she had with the chieftain threatened to bring her back to the rage and frustration she’d felt at his words.

  You weren’t sent here to advise me, woman. You were sent to tell me something useful. As it is, all you’re good for is showing them a Khemetan face looking down from the High House.

  “I tried to explain that, in order to rule, he must bring balance. To be a leader in Khemet, he must adopt Khemetan ways. And that means reinstating the kinswomen.”

  “Which he will never do,” Kemanut said. “If the Amorites cannot let their women control their own lives, how would they let them administer all of Khemet, as is our way?”

  “You understand my dilemma.”

  “Why do you want the copper scarab? To use as a weapon against him?”

  “Not in the way you mean. Yacob-Hur, like most brute force warriors, only understands power and strength. I’ve shown him text after text detailing how each aspect of administration is meant to work. He doesn’t care. Walk that machine down the capital’s avenues and let him see the reaction of the people. That, he’ll understand.”

  For several beats Kemanut kept their gazes locked as if she was searching for something in Amatashteret’s eyes. “No. It won’t work. All it will do is hand him one more piece of Khemet to destroy or exploit. And I cannot—”

  “You think that you can wait them out.” Amatashteret had been studying her as well. “You think that as long as Khemetans continue to resist and chaos reigns without being checked by balance, that eventually he will abandon the land.”

  The Superior said nothing. Her silence was answer enough.

  “You don’t understand them. Yacob-Hur doesn’t need the rich soil or good harvests to make the Patriarchs happy. There are enough precious metals and jewels in this valley to satisfy them for generations. Only once Khemet has been stripped of anyth
ing of value—including the limestone off the pyramids—will they leave. You—Khemet will not outlast them. Let me help you save her.”

  Again, eyes locked, the two women considered and challenged each other’s convictions. A long time passed before Kemanut stood and gestured toward an inner door.

  “It’s not finished, still. But I’ll take you to it.”

  The machine was further along than when she’d last seen it. Even incomplete, it was impressive beyond Amatashteret’s recollection and now more resembled the insect it was based on. The copper scarab was wider than two wide elephants, filling the subterranean workshop where the Sisters stored it. As she walked around the machine, she could see all the tubes running through it, just like the plans she remembered. The head and thorax, which housed the control mechanisms, were done and covered, but the rest of the carapace and wings weren’t on yet. Though it had been many years, the copper was still the yellow-red of the sunset sky, which told her someone had been watching over it all this time. Meaning the Sisterhood of Engineers must still exist in some form. Good. She would need them.

  “Mama,” her oldest whispered as they circled around to the back, “what does it do?”

  “Many things, according to the ancient writings. The Khemetans of the Time Before used them to move stone from quarries far up and down the Nile here to build the pyramids. The texts say they lifted the blocks into the air once they were shaped and placed them just so.

  “How?”

  “That’s what we had hoped to find out once we were done.”

  The scarab’s six legs were complete yet unattached. She wondered how they would move through the sand.

  “The outer wings are designed to capture the heat and light of the sun, channeling it here where there’s a reservoir of water.” Amatashteret smiled at the light in her daughter’s eyes as she explored the inner workings. “Heat and pressure builds until it becomes steam, which travels through the tubes to the legs and other parts. That’s how it moves.”

  “Can you make it work?”

  She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “With help.”

  She turned to Kemanut, who had been observing and quiet since they came in. “We had enough copper stored to make two of these. Is the rest also here?”

  “The Superior Engineer hid it inside a chamber below the Lioness of the Horizon when the attacks started.”

  Nodding, Amatashteret could imagine how it happened. This workshop was well concealed within the labyrinth of underground tunnels that ran throughout the plateau. Still, this space might have been found by a determined looter. But the path into the giant stone Lion was only known by the Supremes and Superiors of the Library and far more difficult to locate. Those rooms held more than copper. “We’ll need it all. Kemanut, if we can complete the work, get this running, we have a hope of forcing Yacob-Hur’s hand. I can’t do this alone. I know many of the engineers and metalsmiths and masons are gone. I saw the empty streets. But they aren’t dead, just hiding—am I right?”

  The distrust still lingered in Kemanut’s eyes. “You want them to come back here. You’d have them risk their lives for this.”

  “I don’t—”

  “He came here, your chieftain, after he’d already secured his victory, still intent on razing every city within his reach to the ground. The only reason we escaped that fate is because we did not fight. That and one of his generals convinced him that the Library was more valuable intact. So the buildings still stand. The people …”

  The pain of it, the anger, the fear, held tight inside but as clear on her face as it was fresh in her heart. Her voice getting tighter and higher and more raw as she continued.

  “Soldiers came for the scholars, the Sisters, the Brothers. First, just a few individuals, then whole groups who never returned. Everyone else escaped, hid. The rest of us are all that’s left, as far as Yacob-Hur knows.”

  “I know. I heard that story. The general you mentioned? He was my father.” A shard of the wall separating them broke off when Kemanut heard those words. “I was told he was less than diligent about keeping track of who left. Yacob-Hur called it carelessness. I suspect it was a deliberate choice.”

  “It was.” The Superior touched her for the first time, stepping forward to take her hand and squeeze it. “We keep his name in a small shrine in the tunnels under the western Spirit House. I’ll take you there tonight.”

  “Thank you.” Amatashteret hadn’t expected to find a fresh flower of grief growing within her, and yet here it was. Just as she had many times in the past nine years, she pushed it behind her to focus on the present. “If you know where the engineers, smiths, and masons who escaped all are, please ask them to return. Have them arrive in secret, in small groups. Enter the tunnels on the far western side so no one connects them to what we’re doing here. When they arrive, I’ll tell them what I’m telling you. I will not have my daughters living in a world ruled by chaos and ignorance anymore. More than anyone, I’m doing this for them.”

  “It will take time.”

  “We have time.”

  “How much? Won’t he come for you?”

  Amatashteret nodded. “If he does, I know what to do.”

  Men came from the capital three days later. Amatashteret watched chariots emerge from a cloud of sand. When their riders arrived at the administration building with questions and demands, she stood in the shadow of the doorway dressed as a laborer and listened as her cousin played his part.

  “Where are Amatashteret and her daughters?”

  “We brought her here. She stayed one day, then the chariots went on to the harbor.”

  “Why aren’t you with her?”

  “I didn’t want to go back to Canaan.”

  Much cursing followed. She smiled, seeing the men leave in the direction of the river. Let them chase the rumor of her all the way back to the Jordan. It would give her the time she needed.

  The engineers were the first to return. They came in groups of two or three, arriving in the tunnels under the plateau without ever being seen in town. The sisters that remembered her vouched for her to the ones who didn’t. They, in turn, vouched for her to the metalsmiths, who came skeptical but eager to work with copper once more. The smiths vouched for her to the masons, who came once the work was underway and the scarab’s carapace started to take shape. They lent their skills to lifting the large panels and wings into place, the last pieces needed to make the scarab look complete. Over the weeks of work, the tunnels transformed into a small village, everyone sharing knowledge and stories and their hopes for change. It almost approached what Amatashteret remembered.

  She tried to only focus on the tasks immediately before them and not on the final goal. At first this helped her not to panic about finding the last component they needed to make the machine move: a ba-spirit.

  All the material for building and operating the copper scarabs showed that a ba—the spirit that remained behind when life left the body—was necessary to operating the controls. She remembered helping to assemble the pomegranate-sized nest of minute levers and carnelian buttons where it would sit. She didn’t know how they would go about placing a ba there or teaching it how the mechanism worked. With the project moving closer to completion, she could no longer put off solving this last problem.

  The day after the left wing had been fitted into place, Kemanut came to the curl of tunnel Amatashteret used as a makeshift office. She brought a small jug of beer with her. Without speaking, she poured some into a pair of mugs, and they each drank a while in silence.

  “This past week you’ve been tense,” Kemanut said. When she got no more than an unvoiced agreement, she continued, “Do you intend to share the reason with any of us?”

  “It’s just a problem I need to solve and haven’t yet.”

  Over the weeks the two of them had built a mutual respect, though Amatashteret wouldn’t call their relationship a trusting one. She didn’t want to give her any reason to doubt the outcome of their work. As muc
h as the others respected her, they would follow the Superior’s word over hers without hesitating.

  “I see what’s in your heart better than you think I do.” Kemanut waited for her to meet her eyes. “I watch you with the Sisters and the smiths, careful to guide them without seeming to lead. You say you want to achieve ma’at, to bring back the kinswomen, to restore some of what was. Do you think any of us doubt that means you intend to take the role of Great Mother and Queen?”

  Amatashteret had to stop herself from looking away. “I don’t want anyone to think I take it for granted that I will.”

  “You have a strong claim to it. Your mother’s mother was a kinswoman.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Her heart thudded hard against her chest. Was Kemanut going to speak against her if she tried?

  “If this is what you want, you need to show you’re worthy of it. You need to start acting like a Great Mother.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “No one woman can be every aspect of the netjeret all the time. Hathor depends on Sekhmet who depends on Iset who depends on Nebthet. A queen needs all her kinswomen.”

  Ever since she lost control of her life, Amatashteret had kept so much inside of her heart, only allowing the smallest pebbles of her thoughts and plans to drop into the world. To protect herself. And her daughters.

  “I’ve spent so much time working on how to outmaneuver Amorites I’m starting to think like them.

  “Thank you,” she said after a long pause. And then she went to gather the others.

  The closest place all of them could fit at one time was a chamber underneath the Spirit House of Djehuti where many of the papyrus scrolls the librarians hid from Yacob-Hur were stored. Once she could see that all the smiths, engineers, and masons were assembled, she held up one of the scrolls.