Lights on the Nile

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Donna Jo Napoli

  Lights on the Nile

  Dedication

  To the memory of my grandmother,

  born in Alexandria

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Click

  Chapter 2 - Baboon

  Chapter 3 - Herbs

  Chapter 4 - Figs

  Chapter 5 - Running

  Chapter 6 - Menes

  Chapter 7 - The Basket

  Chapter 8 - Poppy Seedpods

  Chapter 9 - Stuck

  Chapter 10 - Away

  Chapter 11 - The Lake

  Chapter 12 - Decision

  Chapter 13 - Three in the Basket

  Chapter 14 - Stories

  Chapter 15 - Sick

  Chapter 16 - Croc

  Chapter 17 - Hippo

  Chapter 18 - Loss

  Chapter 19 - Ditched

  Chapter 20 - Insults

  Chapter 21 - The River

  Chapter 22 - Sandstorm

  Chapter 23 - Gone

  Chapter 24 - Metallurgy

  Chapter 25 - Bells

  Chapter 26 - Masud

  Chapter 27 - Hiding Place

  Chapter 28 - The Weavers’ Home

  Chapter 29 - The Wa’eb

  Chapter 30 - The Temple

  Chapter 31 - At Last

  Chapter 32 - The Choice

  Chapter 33 - Lights and Bells

  Author’s Note

  Postscript on History

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Donna Jo Napoli

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Click

  Kepi looked down at the beetle that crawled across her knuckles. The two spots on its back seemed to glow. And its head was tiny. She was pretty sure of what it was.

  “Kepi! Again?”

  Kepi’s eyes jumped to her mother, standing at the end of the bean row, and just as thin as a bean plant herself.

  Mother glared at her. “Do I have to scold you every five minutes to keep you moving? Every job matters. The god Osiris watches as we do our fieldwork. He’s watching you. . . .”

  Mother kept talking. Blah blah blah. Everything was sacred to her. That’s all she cared about, sacred this, sacred that. Who really knew when the god Osiris was watching? Kepi bet he never watched. At least not their family. And maybe fieldwork wasn’t on Kepi’s right path, anyway.

  Besides, the afterlife was far away. But this beetle was here. And it was special—she could have bet on that. Kepi smiled.

  “I see that smile! That’s the naughty smile of someone shirking her work.”

  “I’m not shirking my work.”

  “Silly,” came Nanu’s voice. Her round face poked up over a bean plant from the next row over. “You’re goofing off, little liar.”

  “What’s that?” Mother now stood over Kepi. She leaned close and her long, thin nose almost touched Kepi’s shoulder. “A beetle! Kill it fast.”

  Kepi instantly cradled her right hand to her chest and clapped her left hand over it. “It’s sacred.”

  Mother pursed her lips.

  Ha! That stopped her.

  “Are you sure? Let’s be sure.”

  Kepi opened her hands, and the beetle crawled up her left arm. She plucked it off and set it on its back in the dirt. The beetle’s stick legs worked the air furiously.

  “See?” Kepi pointed at the shiny spot on its tummy. “It’s a click beetle.”

  Just then the beetle arched its back and click! It flipped into the air so high, it hit Kepi between the eyes. It landed on its feet and scurried in among the bean vines.

  Mother rubbed her hand over her mouth in worry. “It’s going to lay eggs.”

  “Then there will be more beetles,” said Kepi happily.

  “Idiot,” said Nanu. “Beetle larvae eat plant roots. We will have carried all those heavy water buckets for nothing.”

  “Catch it quick,” said Mother.

  “But it’s sacred, I told you. The goddess Nit protects it. Father says.”

  At the mention of Kepi’s father, Mother’s face went soft. “Then don’t kill it. Catch it and take it far before you let it go.”

  Kepi wouldn’t have killed the beetle anyway. She could never kill anything, no matter what Mother ordered. But she nodded obediently. “How far?”

  “Beyond the fields. All of them.”

  Kepi bowed her head so her mother couldn’t see her smile.

  “No fair.” Nanu stood up and brushed her long pigtails back over her shoulders. “If she gets to go off on a walk, I get to rest till she comes back.”

  “Carrying this beetle away from our crops isn’t resting,” said Mother.

  “It’s a lot easier than lugging a water bucket.”

  “I’ve been cursed with two shiftless daughters.” Mother shook her head ruefully. “How can your father and I ever count on you taking care of us in our old age if you act so lazy?”

  Nanu kicked Kepi. Kepi leaped to her feet beside her older sister. Together they said, “You’re not old yet.” It was a practiced chorus. They’d said it dozens of times in the past two months. Since their father had come home injured, it seemed all Mother thought about was her old age.

  Mother looked off, her lips pursed again. Then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, all right. Nanu, help me in the house till Kepi returns. Go now, Kepi. Catch that beetle. Remember, be careful not to hurt it. We mustn’t incur the wrath of the goddess. We have enough trouble. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your eyes lowered and move fast.” She walked back down the bean row.

  Kepi looked around. “Little beetle, little beetle, where did you go?”

  “You actually like that bug,” said Nanu in Kepi’s ear. “That makes you creepy.”

  “If you don’t like bugs, why do you wear that bone amulet? It’s shaped like a scarab.”

  “Scarabs are pretty. Click beetles are gross.” Nanu looked Kepi in the eye now, serious. “And you better really catch it and not just lie and say you did. We’re poor now that Father can’t plow the fields anymore. We need all our crops to pay the men who plowed for us. If we lose our land, it’ll be your fault.” She turned and followed Mother. Her copper bracelets clinked against one another as she walked. She stopped a moment, and without looking back, she shimmied both hands so that her bracelets sent up the most beautiful tinkling noise.

  Kepi touched her own bare wrists, bare neck. She looked down at her bare ankles. Everyone else her age and even much younger wore jewelry constantly, no matter whether they were poor or rich. Father said that was one of the wonderful things about people in Egypt. But Kepi had the awful habit of losing things, so Mother had decided she should go without jewelry when she worked in the fields. It was unfair. Kepi didn’t try to lose things—it just happened.

  And it was specially unfair because Kepi was the one who loved to make that tinkling noise, not Nanu. When Mother first said Kepi couldn’t wear jewelry in the fields, Kepi waited for moonlight, then prayed with all her heart to the goddess Hathor. She’d prayed, Please, great goddess Hathor, please make my mother change her mind and let me wear jewelry into the fields. Father said Hathor wore a wonderful necklace, a menat, that made the best noise when she danced—everyone loved that noise. Kepi wanted to sound like that; she wanted everyone to love the noise she made.

  But the goddess Hathor was just like all the other gods; she didn’t listen to Kepi’s prayers. And Father never won against her mother. So Mother’s decree held: no jewelry in the fields for Kepi. She sighed.

  Well, at least she had hair. Most gir
ls her age had a shaved head. But when Nanu had become old enough to grow her hair, Kepi had begged Mother to let her, too. And after months of begging, she’d won.

  And at least she didn’t go naked anymore. Her dress was a simple sheath that covered her from armpits to knees, with wide straps over the shoulders. She loved it.

  Kepi fell to her knees, searching among the bean vines, lifting leaves gingerly. The new vines could snap if she was rough. She peeked at the underside of every leaf. How much damage could a single beetle do? Would her family really lose their land? No farmers in their village were rich, but at least they always had food. How would Kepi’s family feed themselves if they lost their land?

  Kepi chewed on the tip of a lock of hair. She blew through her lips in worry, making a blubbery sound.

  An idea came. Kepi made her lips firm and blew through them hard, right up at the bean vines. Then she sat back on her heels to listen. And—click! Yes, the noise came from a little to her right. Thank you, goddess Nit, prayed Kepi. Thank you for letting me find your beetle.

  Ua. The noise wavered, like a voice under water. Kepi touched her ears and looked around, but she saw no one. That was strange. She had heard a noise for sure; she hadn’t just imagined it.

  Mother had taught Kepi and Nanu to thank the gods for anything good that happened. She said the gods would do horrible things if you didn’t. Kepi didn’t like that idea. If you prayed to the gods, they might very well ignore you—she knew that too well. But if you didn’t thank the gods, they would punish you. What was fair about that? Still, Kepi gave thanks, even though she figured no one was listening.

  But now she’d heard something. A word.

  Or maybe it was nothing. A wind noise. Kepi shook her head and leaned over the beetle.

  Chapter 2

  Baboon

  Carefully Kepi cupped the beetle in her hands and walked along the canal that was connected to the river.

  The soft ground got even softer as she left the bean field and approached the Nile. All the land that the Nile flooded was black earth, rich with river silt. But the land closest to the banks was the richest. Slender flax plants were set close together here to make them grow tall. Anyone could harvest flax; all you had to do was pull it up by the roots. It wasn’t like wheat or barley; those had to be cut with heavy sickles, so only men could do it. After the next full moon Kepi would join Nanu and Mother in harvesting the first flax, it grew so fast. And she’d pull even more flax after the second planting, for flax was a winter plant. When the flax was finished, Mother would be sure to find Kepi something else to do; their family always planted three times before the floods came again.

  She gave another sigh. Life had turned into so much work. It had been more fun being a little kid. But Mother needed all the help she could get, and Kepi was ten now.

  She went along the riverbank, going the opposite way of the current, until all the fields were behind her. Then she kept walking. Click beetles didn’t travel far; they didn’t fly except at night, and then only within their territory. Kepi knew this because her father had taught her. During the three to four months every year when the Nile would flood and farmers had no work, Father took her exploring in the countryside. They’d be gone for weeks at a time, sleeping in huts they made from palm fronds. Nanu never liked exploring, but Kepi loved it, so it was just Father and Kepi. Kepi knew lots about the animals and plants of the floodplain and the desert. And at night, under the palm fronds, Father would tell Kepi stories of the gods. Mother might be the one who taught Nanu and Kepi what would happen to them if they didn’t obey the gods, but Father was the one who knew all the tales about them.

  Best of all, for the last few years Kepi had managed to tame a wild animal on each adventure. Not fully tame—not turn them into pets. But rather, Kepi would make friends with a creature just enough that she could feed it from her hand. Usually birds—a cute hoopoe with a little striped tuft on its head, a kestrel with glorious red and blue feathers, even a Nile goose, despite their usual bad temper. Once she found a mongoose, sleek and long with that elegant tapered snout. Kepi remembered every detail about every one of them.

  Whenever Mother complained that Father and Kepi had wasted time out in the wild, Father said, “If you’re searching for a neter, a god—observe nature.” That always made Mother hush. Nothing was better than those days and nights with Father.

  But all that was over, for Father would never take Kepi exploring again. She swallowed a lump in her throat at the painful thought. Pharaoh Khufu was building another pyramid, even taller than the three his father, Pharaoh Sneferu, had built. Five months ago, when the Nile waters rose, her father had been offered a tax waiver if he would work on a barge carrying the huge granite blocks from Upper Egypt, where they were quarried, all the way north to the delta of the Nile for the inner chamber of the new grand pyramid. This was the same offer Father had gotten every year. Usually Father said no and, instead, paid his taxes in extra grain. This year, though, he’d accepted the offer. He had wanted to keep all his harvest so that he could trade other farmers for additional land. Nanu was twelve now, and it was time to marry her off—and a woman should have land of her own as security when she entered a marriage.

  But the very first week their father had arrived up north, a chunk of limestone fell on him and crushed one leg from the knee down. The pharaoh’s surgeon had straightened Father’s lower leg bones and made him a cast from cow milk and ground barley glued together with tree gum. But Father’s foot was the problem. The open wound wouldn’t heal, no matter how much cow dung the surgeon put on it. It festered until the surgeon had to cut it off and finally sent him back.

  Father still suffered pain. He worked only at home now, seated in front of the large stone mortar. He grasped the pestle in both hands and pounded grain for hours as if in a fury until it formed the finest powder. It was grain from last year—so it was old and musty. Nevertheless, neighbors who tasted bread made from it said it was the best ever.

  So Kepi’s father was always busy and never lonely. But he was also always at home. Stuck.

  At least he could make a little bit of money for the family as a baker, so long as they had their own grain from their own land. It was a good thing Kepi had spotted this click beetle. If she saw others, she had to carry them far away, too. Beetles mustn’t ruin their crops. It was important that her father never have to sell their land.

  But it was clear Father would never make enough money to buy extra land for Nanu now. She could get married with or without owning her own property, of course. But if the marriage didn’t work out, Nanu might want to leave her husband. If she had her own land, she could farm it or sell it. Either way, she could take care of herself. But without her own land, what would happen to her?

  All this worry. Their family never used to worry.

  It was all Pharaoh Khufu’s fault. Now Father had to pay others to plow his land and help in the harvest, and he still had to pay his taxes every year. It was too unfair. Pharaoh Khufu shouldn’t ask Father for taxes anymore. He should give Father money—not the other way around. Pharaoh Khufu should take better care of his people.

  Kepi hated Pharaoh Khufu. It was wrong to hate the pharaoh. Dangerous, even. He was a god in his own way, after all. But Kepi couldn’t help it. If she ever got the chance, she’d tell him off, all right. Someone had to take care of her family. The pharaoh wasn’t doing it, and the gods sure weren’t either.

  Father wasn’t happy anymore. Mother wasn’t happy anymore. Nanu wasn’t happy anymore. How could Kepi be happy? A feeling like tiny cold feet raced across her shoulders.

  Kepi raised her cupped hands to her eyes and peeked through her fingers at the treasure within. “How did you ever get to our field, little click beetle? Were you exploring? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to go that far alone?”

  She stepped up her pace now. Kepi herself had never strayed this far alone before. It had taken so long to get here that it would be dark by the time she made it b
ack home. That meant they wouldn’t be able to work anymore today. And that meant she had gone far enough. Kepi wasn’t really trying to shirk work, just to put it off a little while. It was a pity that broad beans were so thirsty all the time. They were as bad as chicory and lettuce. In fact, most crops demanded watering all the time. Only the grapes and grains weren’t greedy.

  Kepi blinked at her own thoughts. When she said things like this aloud, Mother would answer that the god Set was watching her. Mother said that the god Set often watched her. Set was the god of storms, and Kepi’s name meant “tempest”—so, according to Mother, Set’s eye was on her. Lettuce was Set’s favorite food. It was not a good idea to say bad things about lettuce, even inside your own head. Set could be vengeful. Mother had a list of vengeful gods, and Set was among the worst.

  There was a stand of date palms ahead. The click beetle would be happy among the trees. Kepi ran.

  Within moments she heard grunts. She was amazed, for she recognized those rhythmic noises. Most people from Egypt wouldn’t. But Kepi had traveled south with Father into Nubian lands, so she knew animals her neighbors had never seen. She stopped dead and squatted, curling her shoulders forward as tight as possible.

  It wasn’t just the one grunter—no, no, a whole troop of baboons came dropping out of the date palms and went romping away on all fours. The bigger one had a silver mane, crimped perfectly. There was a dent in the middle of his head, as though someone had bashed him with a thick pole. He was double the size of the others but still shorter than Kepi, even stretched to his tallest. But size wasn’t everything; Kepi had seen baboon fangs tear an antelope apart. They could easily tear a child apart.