Lights on the Nile

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Footsteps came running toward them. Kepi jumped up to run the other way.

  Kan caught her. “It’s Masud.”

  Kepi’s knees went weak with relief. She pressed against the wall to keep from sinking.

  Masud handed Kan a bag. Instant energy zapped through all three of them. They ran, without a word, turning this way and that. Noises of people and animals stirring came from every direction.

  Masud finally stopped. “That’s the weavers’ home. I have to get back fast. I’ll find you here tonight. I promise. Pray to the goddess Nit for help.”

  “Why Nit?” asked Kan.

  “She’s the goddess who protects weavers. Kepi’s going to be a weaver now. And you’ll hide in the weavers’ home—so you’d better pray she protects you, too.” And he left.

  “Let’s pray,” said Kepi.

  Kan shook his head. “I don’t share your gods. I’ll pray to my own.”

  Dear, dear Nit, Kepi prayed inside her heart. Remember me? You sent the click beetle that led me to Babu. I took good care of your beetle. And I took good care of Babu until he was stolen. I whispered to you from inside the basket when we docked at your favorite city, Ta-senet. Please remember me. Please take care of me. And of Kan, too. He doesn’t know our prayers—he doesn’t know our gods. But he’s a good person. Then Kepi remembered it was safest with the gods to ask for something specific, to pray that no one would get hurt. Please don’t let the authorities find us in the weavers’ home. And please let the pharaoh give a public audience soon.

  “Are you done?” asked Kan. Kepi nodded. “Come on, then.” He went right up to a window and looked inside. Then he climbed in.

  “What are you doing?” Kepi’s heart beat so fast, she panted. “You can’t just go through a window like a thief.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Kan reached out an arm. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t need help.” Kepi looked up and down the alley. She couldn’t see anyone watching. She climbed in.

  The room was empty, and Kan had already opened a door on the other side of it. Kepi ran to stand behind him.

  “Look.” Kan jerked his chin toward the room. “She’s got to be in there.”

  The room was full of sleeping girls on reed mats lined up against one wall. Kan and Kepi walked along from sleeping mat to sleeping mat with nothing more to help them than the gray light of predawn. Kan stopped, and Kepi heard him suck in his breath.

  The girl who lay before them had thick, wavy black hair that half covered her face. Kan squatted beside her head. Then he put a hand over her mouth.

  The girl’s eyes flew open, and she tried to pull his hand away.

  Kan leaned over her. “Amisi, hello,” he whispered. “It’s Kan. Can you see me?”

  She nodded.

  Kan took his hand away.

  “It’s really you.” Amisi put her hands on his cheeks, and her voice was full of joy. “Kan.”

  “I told you we’d see each other again. This is my friend Kepi. We need a place to stay for a while.”

  “Kepi?” Amisi’s head jerked toward Kepi. “Your friend?”

  “And Masud’s friend, too.”

  “Masud? The metallurgist’s son?”

  “Adopted son. I’ll tell you all about it. But you have to hide us first. Can you do that without telling anyone?”

  “Look behind you.”

  Kepi and Kan turned around. Most of the other girls in the room had silently gathered behind them. The ones still on their sleeping mats watched with big eyes.

  “We all work together here. Like sisters. You’ve found your hiding place. You’re safe.” Amisi smiled.

  And with that smile, Kepi understood how very beautiful she was. But it was Kan who liked her best, not Masud. Kepi smiled, too.

  Chapter 28

  The Weavers’ Home

  Kepi stood over the large bucket. Yesterday, when no one was looking, she’d kicked that bucket out of impatience. She hated wasting time at the weavers’ home. This was only her second day here, and already she thought she’d lose her mind if there was a third. She wanted to kick the bucket again now.

  But she happened to look down and notice that her dress hem was turned up. She smoothed it and felt the five tiny tin bells hidden silent and safe within. Those special bells were the result of working at the metallurgist’s. A feeling of calm started in her fingertips and ran through her body. Something good would come of her work at the weavers’ home, too—something important. It would happen today, if she just kept her eyes open and recognized opportunity.

  She leaned over the bucket with new attention. The pen shells in it came to a point at one end and fanned out at the other. They looked utterly ordinary. No one could guess from the outside what a treasure hid within. Fishermen collected them in the sea, which wasn’t far from the delta. And they were dumped here in the bucket, in fresh river water, to die.

  Kepi put her hands in and felt around. The ones that were dead already often opened on their own. If not, she opened them with her thumbnail. And if that didn’t work, they were still alive, so she left them in the water longer. She collected more than fifty shells and brought them in a bowl to Amisi.

  Amisi knelt on one side of the bowl, and Kepi knelt on the other. They pulled out the tuft of fibers embedded in the mollusks and teased apart the filaments, which were long and fine, much finer than Kepi’s hair. They dropped the filaments into a second bowl filled with clean water and swished them about, then dropped them into a third bowl of water. Three washings were the rule.

  But Amisi frowned. “This group of shells must have had a particularly sandy one in the lot. Feel.”

  Kepi ran some strands through her fingers. They seemed the same as always.

  “See? The fibers still aren’t quite clean.” Amisi touched the bottom of her chin lightly with just the tip of her index finger. “I judge we need two more washings.”

  Amisi was too full of judgments, in Kepi’s opinion. But she got clean water from the barrel, and they gave the filaments two more washings.

  Then they held them up to the light, one by one, inspecting for color. Most strands were deep yellow, the color of the bronze cat the master metallurgist had made. Those were set aside in an additional bowl. Others were paler.

  “This one,” said Amisi, swinging a filament in front of Kepi’s eyes, then draping it over the edge of the bowl. “And this one. I judge them both to be too pale. And these. I judge them all to be too pale.” But fortunately, after that Amisi just gave quick nods at pale ones, so Kepi didn’t have to sit on her hands to keep from pinching her.

  Amisi filled yet another bowl with water and went to the jar on the dye shelf. She dropped saffron into the bowl. The water instantly became deep yellow. They put the palest filaments—the ones Amisi had passed her judgment on—into the dye.

  Kepi sat down for a quick rest while Amisi went back to the bucket of pen shells and searched for more dead ones. That was how they worked, all morning long, all day long, alternating on some parts of the job and sharing on others. That was how six other pairs of girls worked right alongside them.

  Kepi willed herself to sit still. She tried not to think of Masud walking the town, learning about the pharaoh, while she was stuck here.

  At least Kepi liked these girls. They knew how to keep a secret. Amisi introduced Kepi to the mistress as an orphan, in need of a home and food in return for work. So a reed mat had been added to the floor for Kepi to sleep on. But there was no mat for Kan, because the mistress couldn’t know about him or she’d kick him out. Boys weren’t allowed. Last night Amisi gave up her sleeping mat to Kan, and she crawled in with Kepi. It worked well enough. When it came to meals, it seemed every girl saved a little bit for Kan. And the girls had stayed absolutely silent last night when Masud snuck in to report on his progress so far. It turned out the pharaoh wouldn’t be giving a public audience for a month. Today Masud was going to try to find out where that would be. Kepi had nodded
and hung her head, but inside she wanted to scream. She’d never last a month.

  But Kepi should be grateful. These were generous girls, kind girls, secretive girls. Girls you could count on. The only thing that bothered her was that each of them had a tiny pouch tied flat against the inside of one wrist. When Kepi asked what it was, Amisi said she’d have to earn the knowledge. Secrecy could be annoying, too.

  When Amisi judged that she and Kepi had cleaned enough filaments, they shifted to the next set of jobs. They rolled out long lengths of linen on tables set up end to end in the outdoor work area. They laid the cleaned filaments in straight lines on that cloth to dry. The filaments they had steeped in the saffron dye were just as shiny gold as the ones that were of natural color. None of the mistress’s customers would ever know the difference.

  As they worked, they talked. It wasn’t like at the metallurgist’s, where the master forbade the boys to talk. Maybe the mistress knew she couldn’t stop girls from talking, so why try? Amisi wanted to hear the story of how Kepi came here. So Kepi made it brief. Then she asked, “How did you wind up at the weavers’ home?”

  Amisi blinked. “My parents were embalmers. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  Amisi gave a quick nod. “Scorpions were common in the embalming room. My father would throw the brains of some rich man in a corner, and a scorpion would run to eat them. If one ever ran toward my father, my mother would crush it. Usually there was only one scorpion. They seem to be solitary.” Amisi’s words matched the pace of her working hands. “One night when a scorpion ran at my father, my mother crushed it, but after she’d turned her back, another came and stung my father, and a third came and stung my mother. It isn’t true that women can’t be killed by scorpions. Everyone says it, but it isn’t true. Especially when she already has the breathing sickness.” She stopped talking.

  All these orphans. All these slaves. “I’m sorry, Amisi.”

  Amisi patted the last filament flat and looked up. “We can take a break now, while they dry.” She went back toward the sleeping room.

  So Kepi went inside the shop where the weavers worked. The weavers took the yarn that Kepi and Amisi and the other girls made and wove it into the finest gold cloth. They were just girls, too, and all the girls slept in the same room. But there was a sense that they were of higher status. Weaving was the premium job.

  Kepi watched the weavers closely, looking for anything that might be an opportunity. Something was going to happen today. It had to. A weaver put out her hand for a yarn spindle that was just out of reach, and Kepi leaped to her rescue. As she gave the spindle to the weaver with one hand, she brushed her other hand against the cloth on the loom. There was that magnificent texture again! It felt almost wooly, but much finer. It was like the shadow of wool, the breath of it, the idea of it. It was translucent and nearly transparent and softer than the softest thing in the world. It seemed like it was from beyond the human world. Something worthy of a goddess.

  The beauty of the cloth reminded Kepi of those mornings with Menes when she’d awakened beside the water to a world all misty green. She’d thought of that mist as the gown of a goddess. But pen-shell cloth was even better. It seemed to move on its own, like a goddess dancing. This must be what the goddess Hathor’s gown was made of. Kepi longed for a chance to hold the filmy substance to her cheek.

  Amisi came up beside her and brushed her arm. Kepi looked at her as though woken from a trance. Amisi said, “We have to go back to work,” and her tone was all business. Kepi was disappointed. The pity of such gloriously fine filaments was that it took only a moment in the open air for them to dry. Plus she’d thought that after Amisi had told her about her parents dying, they’d now act more like real friends. But Kepi obediently followed Amisi back to the tables.

  They combed the filaments straight. Then each took a tapered stick—a spindle—and began spinning. The filaments got twisted together at the ends and spun into one long yarn thread.

  This was the worst part of the job, for Kepi knew Amisi would pick on her. She twisted two filaments just like Amisi said, and tapped the little spindle just like Amisi said. And the spindle rotated, but not just like Amisi said.

  Sure enough, Amisi soon stopped her own work, poised her fingertip on her chin, and said, “I judge that to be too slow, Kepi. Go faster.” So Kepi tried. Several minutes later, Amisi said the same thing. And Kepi tried harder. But several minutes after that, Amisi said the same thing. She’d probably say it twenty times before they finished.

  Kepi spun that spindle as fast as she could. But Amisi stopped again and put her finger to her chin, and Kepi burst out, “You silly jackass. That’s as fast as I can go.”

  “You’re an idiot. First of all, jackasses are male. You can’t call a girl that. Second, if you don’t learn to spin right, you’ll make inferior yarn and the mistress will beat you. And speed is necessary to pull the fibers hard enough and twist them tight enough to withstand anything.”

  “What a stupid thing to say—withstand anything.”

  “Pen-shell cloth is the strongest cloth in the world.”

  “Are you crazy? That cloth? It’s soft. It’s soft like . . . I don’t know what it’s like . . . it’s deliciously soft. It must rip easily.”

  “Is that so?” Amisi took the end of the yarn she’d been spinning and handed it to Kepi. She walked back a distance, unwinding as she went. She stopped and said, “Go ahead, rip it.”

  Kepi grabbed the yarn and pulled. She glared at Amisi and yanked harder.

  “Don’t stop with mere pulling. Try to rip it. Use anything you’ve got.”

  So Kepi tore at the yarn with her nails. She bit it. She grabbed a pottery shard and sawed at it. The shining golden line that stretched from her to Amisi stayed intact. “It’s strong as crocodile skin.”

  “Stronger.” Amisi lifted her chin as she walked back toward Kepi, winding up the yarn again. When she was face-to-face with Kepi, she said haughtily, “Turn that spindle faster.” Then her eyes softened. “I was bad at first, too. You’ll get better.”

  Kepi licked her lips. Please, great goddess Nit, great god Set, great goddess Nekhbet, and especially especially great goddess Hathor, please, please, don’t let me be here long enough to learn how to spin properly. Please let whatever is supposed to happen here happen fast.

  Chapter 29

  The Wa’eb

  They spun as the sun made its way into the western sky. When they finished, the spindles were fat and full. They carried them inside to a shelf.

  Amisi tapped Kepi’s hand. “Come on,” she whispered. She gave a quick nod and walked to the far corner and squatted there.

  Kepi’s frustration had reached the breaking point. The workday was going on just like yesterday—nothing new had happened. She had to get out of here—do something active, not just wait for Masud. The last thing she wanted to do was sit in the corner of the shop. But she looked out through the window just then and saw a shining arc in the sky. It was the crescent moon. You could see that arc in daylight whenever the god Tehuti took baboon form and held up the moon. Kepi was transfixed for a moment. The god Tehuti was telling her something. She turned back and went directly to Amisi and squatted beside her and looked around.

  A tailor had come in. Amisi had explained that most tailors worked only with linen, because most people couldn’t afford anything better. So the few tailors who worked with pen-shell cloth bought it for celebration dresses for the rich.

  This tailor was accompanied by a man covered in white. He had a linen cloth wound around him, like any man. But instead of the cloth stretching just from his waist to his knees, it started under his armpits. Across the back of his shoulders was an extra swathe of material that came down on both sides and wound around his arms, all the way to his wrists. He wore white papyrus sandals instead of going barefoot. “Is that a holy man with the tailor?” Kepi whispered to Amisi.

  “He’s a wa’eb. He helps the hem-netjer, the priest, ta
ke care of the temple. And he runs errands. He comes here a few times a year to select cloth for the sacred robes worn in the temple. You’re lucky to see him.”

  That man worked in a temple, and temples bought baboons! Kepi stared at him.

  The tailor talked first to the mistress of the weavers. She nodded, but then she turned and boldly answered directly to the wa’eb. The tailor made no objection. He stepped back, allowing the wa’eb and the mistress to come closer together.

  The wa’eb used his hands as he talked. He seemed to be describing the size of something. Maybe something the size of a young baboon. Maybe the size Babu would be by now.

  Kepi’s pulse thumped in her ears. She had to know what they were talking about. She got to her feet and ran along the wall hunched over, trying to be inconspicuous. When she was immediately across from the wa’eb, she stopped and squatted again.

  “He’s little, yes, you’re right. But he’s growing bigger every day.” The wa’eb put a hand on the small of his back as though it ached. “So I want it big enough for when he’s an adult.”

  “Ah. Trying to be economical, I see.” The mistress tilted her head to one side and looked off in the distance, as though lost in thought. “Hmmm. I fear that you’re making a false economy. You’ll wind up spending even more this way.”

  The wa’eb looked annoyed. “I know what I want.”

  “Yes, you do. But what you want isn’t everything, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If the Sem priest has taken such a fancy to this baby, he’ll want a small cloak that fastens at the neck and falls only to the bottom of the little creature’s elbows. That way the animal can look trim and neat.” The mistress shook her head, making her earrings fly. “No, I fear that if you buy only enough for a large cloak, the Sem priest will send you right back here to buy cloth for a small one.”

  The wa’eb frowned. “Well, if he does, I’ll come back.”

  The mistress smiled with long yellow teeth. “By that time, the animal will undoubtedly have ruined the big cloak. Babies will be babies, even if they are sacred. Why, the creature will have dragged it on the ground and dirtied it beyond repair. And it must be spotless.”