by Jerry Dubs
Now Imhotep saw no one. Not on his side of the river or across the slow moving water.
He was alone, as alone as he had been when he had been wrapped as a mummy and laid in the tomb of King Sekhemkhet. But at least now he could see the trees and the river and the desert and the endless blue sky. He could smell the green of the river reeds and the heat that filled the air like incense. He could feel the sand under his feet, the sun on his face, and when he stretched his arms he could feel the movement of the muscles and the unfolding of his elbow.
He felt that he was standing at the edge of the past and before him all the possible futures radiated into the misty, unknowable distance.
Off to his right, upriver, Meryt, his wife from ancient Egypt, was sailing southward to Waset and then on to Abu to find sanctuary in the temple of Khnum, the ram-headed god who had created this world. In the other direction, Akila, his lover from a future they had both already lived, was wandering in a strange world.
Who am I? He wondered. Tim Hope, displaced modern American or Imhotep, god-like architect and scribe of the Two Lands.
The names were anagrams, letters rearranged to give his life entirely different meanings. It was something he had pondered over the decades of his second life.
Was I Tim Hope so that I could become Imhotep, or did I become Imhotep because I was Tim Hope?
Knowing that the question had no answer, he turned away from the river, lifted his staff and resumed his unsteady walk into the only future he saw before him.
- 0 -
Weneg smelled smoke.
Slowing his jog, he passed his stabbing spear to his left hand and shook tension from his right arm. Then he took the spear back in his right hand and sprinted toward the smell. His training was to attack, always attack. Momentum, the rush of body weight, the aggressive point of a sturdy spear, this was what won fights.
To his left, a white heron that had been sleeping beneath a tree lifted its head and stalked away on its long, thin legs. Weneg saw the stuttering movement, recognized it and then turned his attention ahead where he saw a three-sided shack, the side facing the river was open.
Listless gray smoke rose from a few palm branches that had fallen from the roof and were standing upright, their green stems pointing to the sky.
Spear gripped now in both hands, Weneg stopped at the open side of the hut. No one was there. Leaning inside he saw a smoldering cook fire that told him that someone had only recently left. He stepped inside and kicked at the fallen palm fronds. There was no one hiding there, no goods left behind.
Stepping outside the hut he shouted, “Akila! Hapu!”
He walked around the hut without finding footprints, then he jogged to the river and looked into the shallows and at a thick patch of reeds. The reeds were an undisturbed forest, no one was hiding there.
“Akila! Hapu!”
He paused a moment and then, turning downstream, he resumed his easy jog.
- 0 -
As night approached, the realization that he was alone crowded Imhotep’s thoughts.
He was not a camper. Whenever he had traveled in the Two Lands it had usually been by boat and he had been accompanied, usually by members of the king’s guards and always by Bata. In his desperation to find Akila and Hapu he hadn’t thought about what he would do alone when night fell.
There were no huts nearby; he hadn’t seen any all day.
He imagined that Weneg would just throw himself on the sand and fall asleep. Imhotep looked at the sand along the side of the trail. He hated sand on his skin.
There were a few trees along the river. Maybe I can make a bed of tree branches or palm fronds, he thought. Or reeds. I could make a bed of reeds.
He searched along the water until he found a stand of reeds. The ground along the river bank was muddy and whenever he grabbed a reed and pulled on it, his bare feet started to slip.
I should have borrowed a knife from Kewab.
Unwilling to wade into the water and wrestle the reeds free, he walked up the bank to the firmer trail. He noticed that the sun was coloring the desert red. In a few minutes dusk would lay over the land.
Something scurried among the low-hanging leaves by the trail.
Just a mouse, he told himself, and then he thought of the hyenas that Threshen had loosed on him. Deciding he needed a safe place to sleep, he examined the trees. One of the sycamores had a low, heavy branch. He leaned his walking staff against the trunk and pulled himself up onto the branch.
Reaching down to retrieve his staff he almost lost his grip on the limb. Quickly grabbing the trunk of the tree he stopped his fall and then leaned against the trunk and waited for his panicked breathing to slow.
Only a small segment of the sun hesitated above the horizon and Imhotep knew that once the sun fell from sight, the light over the desert quickly blinked out.
Hugging the tree trunk, Imhotep looked up and saw a pair of branches just above him. He reached up and gripped one of them and then cautiously raised himself enough to grab the limb with his other hand.
Suddenly he felt dizzy. He started to shake his head in disgust, quickly realized that was a bad decision and, closing his eyes, he leaned against the trunk while holding onto the limbs overhead.
When the vertigo had passed, he worked himself to his feet, found that the branches that he thought where high overhead were only a few feet higher than the branch on which he stood. Leaning against the trunk, he swung a knee onto the double branch, shifted his weight and rolled onto the branches, hoping they would not break.
He wiggled into the narrow seat formed by the crook of the two limbs. The branch on his left bent to the left and then back to the right, giving him room and then curling up against him to support him.
Something above his head stirred and a pair of wings flapped heavily as an owl pushed off from the tree. He heard something splash in the river and in the distance something howled.
Closing his eyes he thought of the evenings he had spent in Akila’s apartment, falling asleep on the cushions while watching old movies.
- 0 -
“You can have her,” the man told Weneg, tilting his head at his daughter. “Just come with us. Travel with us to Waset. Protect us. You can have her every night.”
Weneg looked disgustedly at the man and then at the man’s wife. Her head was down, unable to meet his eyes. The girl, her eyes also downcast, leaned against her mother.
She is no more than seven years old, Weneg thought sadly.
He had come upon the family in Badari, a tiny collection of huts less than a day’s walk from Khmunu. He had seen them hurry off the road and hide in bushes along the water. When he had confronted them, the father had said they were trying to get to Waset. They had been with a larger group of refugees, but his wife had been sick and they became separated from the group.
Weneg guessed that the man had chosen to lag behind so he could scavenge whatever other families had left behind.
“I can’t protect them. I’m a merchant, not a fighter. But you, you are strong and have a spear. And there’s a knife in your loincloth. Isn’t my daughter pretty? Her name is Khenut.”
“My sister’s name is Khenut,” Weneg said, then regretted the lie. The family was frightened and the man was doing what he thought he needed to protect them.
“You can call her another name. She won’t mind.”
Weneg shook his head, his pity starting to give way to anger.
“I have just walked the road from Waset,” he said, thinking of the woman and her daughter. “It is clear. You won’t be in any danger.” He took the man’s shoulders and saw alarm spread over the man’s face.
“Have you seen two women, one with long hair?”
Relieved that Weneg wasn’t going to beat him, the man shook his head. “No, no, we haven’t seen anyone.”
Weneg looked at the wife. She had raised her head, but her face was filled with a combination of shame and relief. She shook her head also. “No one,” she sai
d quietly.
Weneg tilted his head toward the road. “Go. You will be safe, the road truly is clear.” Then leaning forward he whispered to the man, “I am one of the king’s guard. When I return to Waset I will find you. If you have offered your little girl to another, I will cut out your eyes.”
The man nodded furiously and backed away from Weneg.
He watched the family walk away. As they neared a turn that would take them out of sight the woman paused and looked back up the road. Weneg nodded and waved, hoping that they would be safe.
- 0 -
A line of ants was marching across Imhotep’s legs when he woke in the tree. He felt the tickling movement, looked down at the insects and frantically began brushing them off his leg.
Then he remembered where he was and quickly stopped himself before his flailing rolled him from the tree limbs.
Trying to ignore the ants, he took his bearings. It was morning. He was in a tree and he didn’t see or hear any other people. Satisfied that this was all that he could hope for, he slid off the double branch to the lower one. Then he sat on the thicker branch, rolled onto his stomach and awkwardly fell to the ground.
Using the tree trunk for support he got to his feet, leaned down and briskly rubbed the ants off his legs. Then he picked up his staff, the thick, solid feel of the wood giving him comfort, and stretched his back.
He went to the river where he washed his face and relieved himself. Then he turned back to the trail to search for Akila and Hapu.
Kewab had told Imhotep that he should reach Khmunu in two days. Weneg, moving faster but expecting to have to search small settlements along the way, would arrive on the eastern shore the same day, Kewab said.
After searching the city and the two temples on the eastern shore, Weneg would find a boat and then cross the river to Imhotep. There was a small wharf on the western bank, used primarily by priests of the Temple of Thoth to bring bodies and supplies across the water to the mortuary temple.
It was Imhotep’s hope that at dawn tomorrow he would be standing on that wooden platform and would wave to Weneg who would be standing across the river with Akila and Hapu by his side.
Reaching the trail, Imhotep took a moment to stretch and twist his back, working out the tightness that had gripped it during the night in the tree. Satisfied that he was as limber as he would get, he started walking northward.
- 0 -
Late that afternoon Imhotep heard men approaching.
Even as he thought of how he would approach them and ask if they had seen Akila and Hapu he found his feet taking him into the shade of the larger trees by the river. As the men drew closer, Imhotep found himself quietly shrinking deeper into the undergrowth, his body seeking safety even as his mind scolded him for being a coward.
Gripping his walking staff tightly, he leaned his back against the wide trunk of a sycamore.
There is nothing to fear, they are just men, he told himself.
A drop of sweat rolled down his back. Another fell from his forehead into his eye. He brushed more drops from his eyes and realized that he was gasping for air.
I’m having a panic attack.
He heard their voices, one a constant chatter, the other an occasional low rumble. The eager speaker was describing a snake, as thick as his arm, no, he corrected himself, as thick as his leg. The deep voice snorted. The snake had been curled around a tree branch, its slowly moving body thicker than the tree branch, the man claimed. Another snort. It was big enough to eat an entire goat. Never, the deep voice answered.
Imhotep looked at the branches above him.
The men were directly behind him now and he was sure that they would smell his fear or hear his ragged breathing. But they kept their steady pace and steady chatter and, as Imhotep leaned against the tree, humiliated and angry at himself, the men walked on.
When he had stopped quivering he pushed his way through the underbrush to the pathway. Cautiously he watched the men until they were out of sight.
If they had met Akila and Hapu they would be walking with them, he told himself.
I won’t hide the next time, he promised himself.
Finding that he was staring at the two men, Imhotep looked away, hoping that they hadn’t sensed his attention. Then he sidled toward the edge of the path where the underbrush hid him from their view.
What is wrong with me?
When I was held in the mortuary temple, wrapped as a mummy and laid in a subterranean tomb, I had felt anger and resignation. When I stood beside King Djoser in the Temple of Sobek surrounded by unknown assassins, I felt excitement and confidence.
I never felt this kind of fear.
Is it because they were different? People were doing things to me, it was a danger I could see and understand. This fear is different. I am afraid of this world now, that I no longer belong here. This fear isn’t coming from without. It comes from within.
- 0 -
Weneg wasn’t surprised to find Nimaasted dead.
The dead priest was sitting in the sand, slumped against the wall beside the entrance to the Temple of Thoth. There were no wounds or blood. It looked to Weneg as if the old man had simply sat down, leaned back and released his ka.
Nimaasted’s eyes were open and his mouth was tight with apprehension. In his left hand was a poorly carved shabti. A small flint knife was on the ground by his right hand.
Weneg picked up the wooden figure, meant to answer the gods’ call to work if Nimaasted was needed. Tucking the shabti into the waist of his loincloth, Weneg picked up the small, light body of the priest of Thoth and carried him to the temple courtyard.
He laid the body in the shade by a half-built pillar and, sitting beside it, he tried to think.
He had seen a few refugees heading south. None of them had seen two women, one with long black hair. He had heard rumors of advance guards of the rebel army. If the rumors were true, the rebel soldiers had been seen in the desert, in boats and marching along the river. They had raped women and girls, they had enslaved men, they had eaten babies and stolen gold. They had pissed in wells and desecrated temples.
Weneg doubted if any of it was true. But the fear was real. Somewhere, a rebellious army was on the move.
He looked at Nimaasted’s body. He would put it in a room and roll segments of stone pillars to block the doorway. Then he would search the rest of the temple for the women. Then he would look for a boat.
Hopefully Imhotep would be across the river by tomorrow. With or without the women they would leave in the morning, heading south to the safety of the king’s army.
Crossroads
Imhotep stood at the crossroads and leaned on his staff.
Angrily he glared westward where Re had changed to a red ball of fire as he neared the horizon. Night would fall soon and Imhotep hadn’t found a place to sleep.
He had pushed hard, walking as quickly as he could, boldly stopping a family he had passed and asking if they had seen Hapu and Akila. He had searched for the women in each broken hut and each shady copse of trees.
And all day long he had battled to ignore a growing feeling of unease.
The heat and the quiet of the ancient world, the smell of the river, the gentle swaying of the broad leaves of the palms, even the sand – the gritty, irritating sand – all had defined his home for twenty years. He had become Imhotep. He had built the Step Pyramid. He had married Meryt and they had raised a family. He and Bata had drunk beer and shared stories on the roof of his home. He and Paneb had taught each other painting.
Now he felt alienated and disenchanted.
He suspected that it was self-pity: After surviving entombment and searching for five years to find a way back here, he deserved a hero’s homecoming. Instead Meryt had been attacked and he had killed Merneith. Now the entire country was falling apart and he was in the middle of the chaos trying to find the woman he had tricked into coming to the ancient world.
Holding the walking staff with both hands he raised it and
pounded it against the dirt path. It didn’t begin to release his frustration.
He turned to the closest hut. Standing by the doorway he raised his staff overhead. Swinging hard, he brought it down on the palm fronds that formed the roof. They broke and fell to the floor, but they did it too easily.
Throwing his staff on the ground by the mud brick wall of the house, Imhotep stood beside the hut and slammed his fists against the dust covered bricks. He felt a shock travel up his arms, but the wall stood. He pounded against it again, screaming as he did. He called on Horus and Anubis, on Sobek and Sekhmet, and on Re and Osiris and Ptah. He called on Jehova and Allah and Jesus.
“Goddamn it!, Somebody, anybody!” he shouted as he slammed his fists against the unyielding brick wall. “Why am I here? What is the point if I can’t help the people I love?”
His forearms bleeding, his hands bruised and covered with dust, Imhotep sank to his knees. Leaning forward with his head butting against the hut, he cried.
- 0 -
Khonsu revealed a world of black and white when Imhotep rose from the ground.
His hands hurt, his forearms were covered in dried blood and his right leg buckled when he tried to stand. Losing his balance, he fell against the wall of the hut, felt it tremble and, regaining his balance, slammed a hand against it.
The wall withstood his attack once more and, sighing, Imhotep bent to retrieve his walking stick.
He hobbled to the river and, limping along the wooden wharf, he stared across the water toward Khmunu hoping to see Weneg, Akila and Hapu sitting around a camp fire. Lowering himself to the wharf he measured the depth of the water with his staff. Seeing that it would only come to his waist, Imhotep stripped off his kilt and eased himself into the water.
