Lights on the Nile

by Donna Jo Napoli

  She put her chin to her chest and clamped her head between her knees and squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she should pray in her heart, but a roar filled her. The only thoughts she could form were help help please help.

  Gradually the roar faded. Noises from outside her filtered in now. Grunts. They were distant. Faint. Finally even that noise stopped. She dared to lift her head. The last of the baboons’ pink bottoms disappeared through an acacia thicket far off.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Whoever helped me, thank you.”

  Uābt.

  Kepi whipped her head around and touched one ear with the back of her hand, then the other. She could have sworn she heard someone call her “pure.” But there was no one around.

  She straightened upright slowly and walked to the nearest date palm, where she set the click beetle free on the bark.

  But, oh, she was wrong: The baboons weren’t entirely gone; in the date tree closest to the water was a mother with a tiny black baby clinging to the back of her head. The baby’s bright pink face peeked out above the mother’s dull one. Some of the mother’s whiskers were white against her greenish-brown fur. She must be old. She climbed down slowly and awkwardly, as though she was in pain. Her eyebrows raised, showing a white eyelid above ebony eyes that glittered angrily at Kepi. Her head bobbed.

  Kepi lowered her gaze and backed away. She mustn’t run or the baboon would chase—Father had taught her that. She searched out of the corner of her eye for something to protect herself with. That was when she saw a slight movement. It was the tip of a muddy log floating near the base of the date tree the baboon was coming down from. But no, it wasn’t a log; logs didn’t move like that. Instantly Kepi knew. She had to run! “Climb back up, baboon! Climb!” Kepi turned to run, and tripped and fell.

  The baboon jumped the final bit from the tree, and made as if to chase Kepi, when the crocodile burst forth and closed its jaws around her hindquarters.

  The baboon didn’t shriek. She just looked at the crocodile, then looked at Kepi. She ripped at her head, and a black scramble of skinny legs and arms and tail flew through the air.

  Kepi caught the baby and ran as the crocodile slipped back into the river with the silent baboon mother in its jaws.

  Chapter 3

  Herbs

  Kepi put the basket of sesame seeds on the ground beside the large wooden bowl. She carefully pried the baby’s fingers loose from her hair and lifted him down.

  The little baboon sat on the dirt and looked at her quizzically. He rode on her head constantly unless he was eating, and he’d finished his breakfast of honeyed goat milk just a little while ago, so he couldn’t expect to eat again yet, especially not outside. His face seemed to ask what was going on.

  Kepi used her most encouraging voice. “Pay attention, sweet Babu.”

  Babu stared at her, just as though he understood her words.

  At first she had called him Acenit, “follower of Nit.” She’d chosen the name because the night Kepi had carried the baby baboon home from the river, two whole months ago now, Mother wouldn’t allow her to bring him inside. But Kepi changed Mother’s mind by convincing her that the goddess Nit had given the baboon to her. After all, the click beetle had led Kepi to the baboon baby. And the beetle was sacred to the goddess Nit. It all made sense, sort of. Enough sense that Mother agreed. And naming the baboon Acenit would be a constant reminder to Mother that the baboon should stay.

  Still, the name Acenit seemed fancy for such a small baby. So Kepi searched for a better name, but always one that would remind Mother of the gods. She thought of the baboon god, Babi. He hated humans and murdered them on sight, so Kepi could never call her baby baboon that. But Babu sounded a lot like Babi, and it was fun to say. The name stuck.

  “Do what I do, Babu.” Kepi dug a hand into the bucket of seeds and threw some into the bowl. Then she looked expectantly at Babu.

  Babu’s eyes flashed with intelligence. With both hands he threw seeds into the bowl. Kepi nodded. Babu did it again and again. Kepi scooped him into her arms and danced in a circle. Her bracelets and anklets tinkled wonderfully. “You are the smartest little baboon that ever lived.”

  Thud clunk. Thud clunk. It was the sound of Father hopping up the steps from the cellar. Everyone else had woken with the sun, but now that Father slept alone, he had his own routine. He went to sleep after everyone and got up after everyone.

  Kepi missed her father at night. When Father had come home from the north without his foot, it was the end of the hottest time of year, the time when the family slept on the roof, where they could catch whatever breeze might come. But hopping on steps made Father’s leg throb hideously. And since there were more steps up to the roof than down to the cool of the shallow storage cellar, he had taken to sleeping alone down there.

  Now the sun no longer blistered, and they could sleep inside. But Father had kept his habit of sleeping in the cellar. Kepi couldn’t imagine falling asleep without seeing the twinkling of the stars. Even in her and Nanu’s room, she saw those twinkles because the windows were so high. A part of each of her ancestors, of each of everyone’s ancestors, the akhu, lived on as a radiant, shining dot that ascended to the heavens and whirled among the gods. When the lights in the sky twinkled at her, Kepi felt safe.

  And the lights of the night sky were beautiful, too. Kepi wished her eyes twinkled like that. But they were plain. Everything about her was plain.

  “Good morning, Father,” Kepi called. She waved to him, setting her bracelets tinkling. “Mother left bread and beer for you on the table inside.”

  Father rested on the top step, leaning on his crutch. He looked small. He hunched over these days, and each shoulder was topped by a bony knob, as though his body hung from those two pegs. But it was more than just his thinness and posture; he seemed to have shrunk. “Working already, my little jingle-jangle?”

  Kepi smiled and shook her bracelets at him. “I’m doing everything you told me to last night.”

  “Sweet obedience from my younger daughter? No doubt that’s the influence of dipping your hand in the honey jar and suckling that baboon right from your fingers. We should start calling you Kebi—honey—instead of Kepi.”

  Kepi had always wanted to change her name. Other girls had descriptive names, like Layla, “born at night,” or hopeful names, like Nanu, “beautiful.” And it had worked on Nanu; everyone looked twice at her. But why would anyone name a child “tempest”?

  “Babu made this morning’s task fun.”

  “And how did he do that?”

  “Watch.” Kepi peeled Babu off her chest and set him on the ground by the basket of sesame seeds again. She gave him a quick nod.

  Babu tossed seeds from the basket into the bowl.

  “No! Stop!” Father pounded his crutch on the ground as furiously as he pounded the grain every day.

  Kepi gasped and snatched at Babu, but the little baboon jumped to her head on his own. He clung so tight, she had to hold in a yelp. “Baboons are sacred to the god Tehuti. You always say that.”

  Father’s face softened. “Sacred but still filthy. Roll the wheat barrel over here.”

  Kepi hugged the heavy barrel with her chest as she rolled it along the bottom rim to her father.

  Father took off the lid. “Show me your hands.”

  Kepi rubbed them on the hem of her dress and held them out for inspection.

  “Put one in.”

  Kepi swished one hand inside the barrel.

  “What do you feel?”

  “Grains.”

  “You don’t feel chaff or straw or weeds?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You don’t feel stones from the hooves of the cattle that crushed these grains on the threshing floor? Not even tiny stones the size of sand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All evening I picked through these grains with wooden forks. Half the night I strained them through a sieve. These grains hold not a speck of grit.”

  “
Yes, Father. You cleaned them far better than Mother and Nanu used to.”

  “And this morning I’m going to oil my pestle before I grind so no stone chips off. I’ve been thinking about it. This way I can grind grain into flour as smooth as clean water, and make bread that doesn’t wear away teeth till they rot and fall out.”

  Kepi thought of the toothless adults she knew. “You are wise, Father.”

  He nodded. “People who eat my tender bread will be able to smile forever. So we can’t have hair and grit from baboon hands in our sesame seeds.”

  Kepi’s eyes widened. “You’re going to mix sesame in your breads?”

  “Not inside, outside. I’ll roll the dough in seeds to form a crust. It’ll look special. And I have a special job for you now. Something you two can do together, to help me with my new plan for special bread.”

  “Babu and me?” Kepi smiled; Father had forgiven them.

  “Set up the firewood. Then I’ll explain.”

  Kepi happily stacked the wood in a short row, exactly the way Father had taught her. She lined up the heavy bread molds, shaking her wrists as she worked for the delight of the music her bracelets made. Father would fill the molds with dough, then set them directly on the embers.

  “Good. Now, you know that old basket in the main room?”

  “The one with the hole?”

  “Not any longer. I repaired it. It’s for you and Babu to fill each day. Today you’re to collect wild coriander.”

  “For your bread? Coriander bread?” Kepi wrinkled her nose. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “Rich city folk.” Father raised and lowered his eyebrows and made a thin-lipped smile, as though he knew the secrets of the world. “I saw people buy such things when I was up north. You two will collect herbs. One herb each day. After coriander, you’ll bring me caraway, fennel, juniper, mint, onion, poppy, and saffron. And soon, as the weather changes, you’ll be able to find garlic.” Father rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Think how fragrant fennel bread will be—and onion bread, ah! Wouldn’t you eat them?”

  Kepi imagined those smells. They were good in greens and fish. But in bread? She tried to put on a positive face, though. “I would always eat your bread, Father.” That was the truth at least; if she didn’t eat Father’s bread, she wouldn’t have bread. “And so will Babu, when he’s big enough.”

  “Silly Kepi. I wouldn’t waste bread on a baboon. He already costs us too much to feed. That’s why I want him helping you gather herbs. If he’s going to live with us, even briefly, he has to do his share.”

  Even briefly? What did that mean? Kepi brought a lock of her hair to her mouth and sucked on the tips.

  “He can climb to places you can’t reach and pick any plants you point out to him. We’ll make bread as fancy as the pharaoh’s. Fancier!”

  Kepi looked down.

  “Don’t let your mother see you doing that.” Father brushed the lock of hair from Kepi’s mouth. “I can hear your thoughts, you know.”

  Kepi jerked her head up in surprise. “I thought only the gods could hear thoughts.”

  “It’s a trick of fathers with their youngest daughters. Don’t act stubborn, Kepi. Go collect herbs. No one will be able to resist my breads. When old Ashai heard my plans, he made me promise him ten loaves a day for the rest of his life.”

  “Ten a day for all his life! That’s so many.”

  “Don’t be silly, Kepi. His hair is changing color. He must be forty already. He won’t last much longer. That’s what makes it good business. Listen to this: He said if he likes the bread, really likes it, in exchange he’ll give us his wheat field closest to ours.”

  “Really?”

  “Three days ago I hired men to plow it with wooden axes. They’re sowing today. We’ll have more wheat than ever, for more bread than ever. Bread is as good as pharaohs’ gold, my daughter. We’ll be rich, even with this lame foot. And I’ll get rid of our outdoor latrine.”

  Kepi gaped. “Don’t rich people have needs like ordinary people?”

  Father laughed. “Of course they do. But rich people have rooms inside their homes for that. I saw them up north. Copper tubes under the ground carry everything to the river. Go now, Kepi. Don’t come home till the basket brims with coriander.”

  Kepi ran inside for the basket, jangling all the way. Mother and Nanu sat on a small carpet side by side stitching, caressed by sweet coils of fragrance from the incense stick. It had been months since anyone had taken the time to repair clothes, much less make new ones. But that cloth certainly looked like something new. “Is that a dress for you?” Kepi peeked around her sister’s side. “The shoulder straps are thin. You’ll look all grown up.”

  Nanu tossed her hair. “I am all grown up.”

  “Ah. Well then, I suppose you wouldn’t care where I’m going. You used to think it was fun. A few months ago. When you weren’t all grown up. But now, well, now you wouldn’t care.”

  “No.” Nanu wiggled on her stool. “Probably not.”

  “I didn’t think so. Babu and I will have fun. Without you.”

  Nanu wiggled more. Finally she turned her head to Kepi. “You little tease. Where are you going?”

  “They’re sowing the new wheat field today,” Kepi crowed triumphantly.

  “We have a new wheat field?” Nanu looked at Mother. “Please can I go?”

  “We don’t have a new wheat field.” Mother gathered the dress into her lap and folded it. “Your father has ideas. Grandiose plans.” She sounded scornful. “If they work out, our fortunes will change. If they don’t, he will have spent a lot of money on someone else’s field. Money we can’t afford to lose. We’ll be ruined even faster. Those plants had better grow in record time.” She put her palm over her mouth for a moment. “Go if you want. Be part of your father’s dream. But don’t let Kepi’s silliness keep you long. We have work to do.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Kepi, leave me your jewelry.”

  “But I’m not going out to work in the fields, I’m just . . .”

  “Careless. You lose everything.”

  “I used to be that way. But I’m not anymore.”

  “Since when?” said Nanu. “Yesterday?”

  Kepi made a monster face at Nanu.

  “Let’s be cautious and save ourselves trouble,” said Mother.

  Kepi put her bracelets and anklets and neck amulet in Mother’s hands. She grabbed the basket with one hand and Nanu with the other. The girls ran out the door toward the new wheat field. Nanu’s bracelets tinkled the whole way. But that was all right. Kepi would do her task and be home by midday and put on all her jewelry again and dance around the house tinkling. Father would be happy soon. Everything would be all right.

  Chapter 4

  Figs

  When Kepi and Nanu got to the field, they watched men in loincloths scatter seeds from cloth bags strung around their necks. The men sang as they worked. Kepi sang, too. She loved the fieldworkers’ songs. Babu wiggled around on her head happily. He always did a wiggle dance when Kepi made music, no matter what kind.

  The workers must have started at dawn, because they were almost at the end of the field already. They finished and waved to a group of small boys waiting by the side. The boys ran off.

  “Are you watching, little Babu?” Kepi reached up and played with the fingers of the baboon on her head.

  Nanu gave a playful yank to Babu’s foot, and her bracelets jangled sharply. “The best part is about to start.”

  Minutes later the boys returned, driving a herd of goats. The goats butted and chased one another all over the field, trampling the seeds down into the dirt through their play. The boys had to swat any that tried to eat the seeds. But that didn’t seem to dismay them. They frolicked. They were so funny, Kepi found herself dancing. “The birds won’t get a quick meal off this field. Father’s plan will work.”

  “You know about his plans?” Nanu’s beautiful pink mouth hung open. “How come everyone knows but me? What’s goi
ng on?”

  “Father’s going to have the best bakery ever. He’ll get famous. And we’ll get rich.”

  Nanu bit her bottom lip and smiled. “And I . . . ?”

  “Can get married.”

  “So how will he make his bakery the best?”

  “This basket is part of it all. Babu and I are going to gather coriander to flavor the bread.”

  “Coriander? That would make awful bread.”

  “That’s what rich folk up north eat.”

  Nanu frowned. “No one here will want it.”

  “Yes, they will. And, anyway, he won’t make only coriander. He’ll make poppy and caraway and . . .”

  Suddenly Nanu laughed. “I get it! You’re making that up, aren’t you? Little liar. That’s the worst idea I ever heard.”

  “It’s the truth. Babu and I are going to fill this basket.”

  “Pah! Well, whatever you’re really planning on doing, hurry and do it. I’m going home to finish my dress.” She gave a sly smile. “Someone might want to see me in it.”

  Did Nanu have her eye on a boy already? But Nanu would never tell her. So Kepi decided not to give her sister the satisfaction of asking.

  “Coriander . . .” Nanu shook her head and gave a little wave. “Bye, silly.”

  Kepi watched Nanu walk away. That was the third time this morning that Kepi had been called silly. Twice by Father, and now Nanu. They always called her that. But right now it shook her, because it wasn’t Kepi’s idea that Nanu found silly. It was Father’s. And everything depended on it. Like Mother said, if it didn’t work, they’d be ruined.

  All those herbs Father had named . . . none sounded good. Maybe herb bread was a bad idea. Maybe Father’s liver was sick and he couldn’t think right. Maybe everyone would react like Nanu. And of course they would. Kepi had.

  This was terrible. Kepi had to think of a way to fix things. Father wanted to make special bread so he could get more and more customers. What would make bread special? What did Kepi most love to eat?