Kiya and the God of Chaos

by Philippa Bower

  Chapter Eighty Five Khamet

  Shemu, the season of growth and harvest, was a busy time for farmers beside the Nile. Kiya helped her stepfather weed the crops but Teos forbade her to use the shaduf, for fear that the exertion of hauling water from the river might damage her pregnancy.

  Soon her growing belly made it difficult for Kiya to bend with the hoe and she was able to spend less time in the fields.

  “You can help me with my medicines, dear,” said Ramala, when she saw that Kiya fretted for want of occupation. So Kiya helped her mother grind and mix herbs. She made parchment envelopes, copied spells and learnt how to make neat little pills by mixing medicinal ingredients with dough or beeswax.

  “I will soon be able to run my own medicine business,” Kiya joked.

  “The knowledge I gained from my sister has changed our lives for the better,” said Ramala. “At last I can make a contribution. But I doubt if you will ever need such skills, Kiya, you are married to one of the most successful men in the kingdom.”

  “I suppose so,” said Kiya and wondered if her marriage was over before it had started. Weeks had passed and Dennu had not sent for her. Perhaps he was detained in Crete, perhaps he had run into trouble, perhaps he no longer wanted her. Such speculations were endless and had caused her many a restless night.

  Ramala, too, was beginning to worry. “I have been expecting Dennu to send for you, but perhaps he is waiting until after the birth.”

  “Probably,” said Kiya. She bent over her work and hoped that her mother was right.

  “I am making this infusion for Hernieth,” said Ramala as she added spices to a flask of beer in which leaves were soaking. “Do you remember our neighbour?”

  “Of course,” said Kiya. She knew Hernieth well. In the old days she had let Kiya play on her land. Hernieth had run a busy household then, with her husband, her son and his young family. But the years had passed and, when Kiya had last seen her, she was an old woman.

  “She has the wasting sickness,” sighed Ramala. “I have tried every combination of herbs to try to improve her appetite, but she has become emaciated. Perhaps I have failed to copy the spells correctly.”

  Kiya watched her mother reproduce a hieroglyph from the papers Laylos had given her. “It looks correct to me,” she said. “Even Aunt Laylos, could not save all her patients and she has been a medicine woman for many years.”

  There was a knock on the door. “That must be Khamet,” said Ramala. She opened the door and a young man entered the house. “How is your grandmother today, Khamet?” she asked.

  The man shook his head sadly. “She has not eaten for days. I have managed to persuade her to drink honeyed milk, but she has little appetite.”

  “I wish I could do more,” said Ramala.

  “You have done everything possible,” said Khamet. “Whatever happens, both she and I are grateful to you.”

  “Do you remember my daughter Kiya?” said Ramala.

  Khamet turned and looked at Kiya with a grin. “Are you that skinny, little creature who was so frightened of frogs?”

  Kiya recognised him now. He was Hernieth’s grandson, a teasing bully of a boy, who used to chase her with all manner of slimy creatures. “Yes,” she said, “and worms and slugs and everything else you threatened to put down my back.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, but he did not look remorseful. “I hear that congratulations are in order.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When will you be returning to your husband in Akhetaten?”

  “He is on a mission to Crete but will send for me when he gets back.”

  “You can be in no better hands than those of your mother for the birthing of your child.” He smiled politely and turned back to Ramala.

  Kiya watched as he discussed payment for the medicine. Despite his unpleasantness as a boy, Khamet had turned out well. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with an infectious grin. He had moved away with his parents many years ago and Kiya had not seen him since, but the fact he had come back to look after his grandmother showed a caring nature.

  “In return for the medicine I will do an hour’s work harvesting your cabbages,” said Khamet. “Indeed, it will be a pleasure to help Teos. I have noticed that his back is troubling him and he finds it difficult to bend low.”

  “I fear that age is creeping up on us all,” said Ramala, handing him the flask and a written spell. “Even the best medication cannot halt the passage of time. Please give my regards to your grandmother.”

  “I will do so,” he said. “Many thanks.” And, with a nod to Kiya, he left.

  “What a nice boy,” said Ramala. “He took over the farm when his grandfather died and has been caring for Hernieth ever since.”

  “He has much improved from when he was a child,” said Kiya and felt glad her parents had such a helpful neighbour.

  As the season progressed, Kiya became uncomfortably large. Teos and Khamet created a hammock for her from a sheet tied to four palm trees. There she lay in the shade and watched nature unfold around her. Never before had she spent time admiring the beauty of creation and she was filled with love for all living things.

  She loved the way papyrus reeds were tipped with tight spirals of leaves that spread out like many-fingered hands. Within every hand was a cluster of flowers, each on a tiny stem so they looked like a miniature replica of the reed that bore them. As it had been ordained, so it came to pass.

  She loved the delicate network on the wings of a fly, the sheen on a dragonfly’s body, the perfection of a bird’s feather. Every detail fulfilled the promise of each tiny egg and seed.

  She came to realise that this new appreciation of nature came from deep within, not from herself but from her baby. She was in awe of what was developing inside her. Even when first sentient, the foetus had wrought a miracle by healing her arm. She longed for it to be born so she could hold her child in her arms and be a true mother.