Lights on the Nile

by Donna Jo Napoli

  The wa’eb, meanwhile, had left the temple. But he came back now, lugging an enormous basket of food. He brushed off a reed mat and spread a linen cloth on it. Then he set out a roasted duck and a leg of lamb and boiled greens. He put a jar on each corner of the mat. And he made a pile of dried fruits—figs and dates and raisins—in the very center.

  All four priests stepped back and waited. Kepi knew about this part. The goddess was eating her fill. Then the priests would take the remains away to be distributed at the shrines of other gods and goddesses around the city. And whatever remained at the end would go to the priests and their families. The smell of the food was heavenly. Kepi’s mouth watered. She’d had nothing to eat since the morning before.

  But now another man appeared at the temple door. From his dress, Kepi knew he was a wa’eb. And he carried a bamboo cage.

  It was Babu! The baboon had grown, but she recognized him instantly.

  Kepi almost cried out. But a hand on her arm gripped her tight. She pressed her lips together and watched.

  The wa’eb brought the cage to the Sem priest. He got down on one knee and opened it. Babu came flying out and landed on the priest’s head, where he chattered happily and picked a few fleas from the man’s hair. Then he leaped from there down to the reed mat. He grabbed a date and chomped on it. All the priests left, closing the door to the temple behind them.

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Kepi jumped up. “Babu,” she cried. “Oh, Babu!”

  The little baboon leaped onto the head of the statue of Sekhmet and screamed in alarm.

  “Babu, it’s me. Don’t you know me? Don’t you remember?”

  Babu stared at her.

  The others came forward now.

  “Can we eat?” asked Kan.

  “No,” said Kepi. “You mustn’t. This is food for the goddess.”

  “She’s a statue.”

  “But the statue is alive. That’s what the Sem priest’s prayers did. They called back the goddess to her statue.”

  “I don’t see her eating anything.”

  “Maybe she hasn’t arrived yet,” said Kepi.

  “The baboon’s eating a date,” said Kan. “I’m eating one, too. Oh, it’s wonderful.”

  “Stop!” Kepi looked back at Babu. “I came to take you home, my dear Babu.” She reached out.

  Babu grimaced, showing his teeth. And they had grown big. Big as a dog’s. He didn’t have fangs yet, but it was clear his jaw was strong. His head was larger now, too, and it had developed a droop.

  “He looks like he’ll bite,” said Masud.

  “Babu.” Kepi shook her head slowly. “Babu, my baby.” She stretched her hands out toward him again. “Come to me.”

  Babu barked.

  “He doesn’t remember you, Kepi,” said Masud. “I guess a couple of months is a long time in a little baboon’s life.”

  “But be glad,” said Kan. “He’s happy here.”

  “How happy could he be, locked in a cage?”

  “That’s probably only where he sleeps,” said Amisi. “You saw how he jumped to the Sem priest’s head. He likes him. And you see the food they give him. He’s got a good life, Kepi.” She looked at the food. “Is it really good, Kan?”

  Kan handed her a piece of meat. “We’re hungry. And who knows when we’ll have food again? If the gods care at all about us, they’ll want us to eat.”

  Masud took a piece, too. The three of them ate.

  But Kepi couldn’t. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I love you, Babu.” And then she remembered. She curled up the edge of her dress and felt inside the hem and pulled out the ostrich feather. “Here, dear Babu. They say that you’ll help in the Opening of the Mouth and Eyes ritual. And you’ll use an ostrich feather. Use this one. Please.” She held it out toward Babu.

  The little monkey watched her.

  Kepi sang. She sang a fieldworkers’ song. “Do you remember that one, Babu?” She sang another. “Do you remember that one? You used to dance with me to them.” She poured all her love into the songs. And all the while she held the ostrich feather out to him.

  When she stopped singing, Babu leaped to Kepi’s head, snatched the feather from her hand, and leaped back onto the statue’s head.

  “They’re coming back!” said Masud. “I hear them outside.”

  They ran to the walls and hid in the shadows again.

  The procession of priests entered, but it was different now; a new man led them. His white robe was so transparent, Kepi could see the muscles of his arms and chest and legs. Around his waist wrapped a skirt with many tiny pleats and a bull tail hanging down so low in the back that it swung between his calves. In his right hand was a palm frond that he pressed to his chest. But what made her gasp was his headdress. It was tall and of white linen, and mounted at the front of it, above the strip of leather around his forehead, was the uraeus—the royal cobra. Everybody knew that only one person wore such a headdress. This was the nemes of the pharaoh.

  Masud’s fingers closed around Kepi’s arm so tight, she almost yelped. “We’re in the sacred temple. If you reveal us, we’ll be punished. Severely. You know of his cruelty.”

  That was true. But this was Kepi’s chance, at last. “Stay hidden,” said Kepi. “I mean it. If any of you come out, I’ll hate you forever.” And she burst from the shadows, running straight for the pharaoh.

  The priests turned from gaping at the half-eaten food offering to gaping at this little girl. Kepi streaked through the beam of sunlight.

  “Pharaoh Khufu, your majesty,” said Kepi. She could hardly catch her breath. “I must speak with you.”

  “A child in the temple!” Pharaoh Khufu’s voiced boomed. His face wrinkled in anger. White hairs here and there on his head looked like the hottest flames. He turned to the Sem priest. “How did you let her get in here?”

  “The gods let me,” said Kepi. It had to be true. How else could it be that they’d found Babu in this huge city? How else could it be that Kepi was actually in front of the pharaoh, when she was nothing more than a village girl? “I have to talk to you about justice. You’ve done bad things.”

  “She’s eaten the goddess’s food. This is a grave crime. Take her away. I’ll decide later whether she’s to be drowned or beheaded.”

  The wa’eb grabbed Kepi from behind.

  “No! I didn’t eat anything! Not a single bite!”

  Babu barked and jumped onto Kepi’s head. He waved the ostrich feather in the wa’eb’s face and bared his teeth. The wa’eb let out a little shriek and stepped back.

  “You see?” said Kepi. “The sacred baboon wants me to speak. That means the goddess Sekhmet wants me to speak.”

  Pharaoh Khufu jerked his head toward the Sem priest.

  The Sem priest shrugged. “This baboon has already proven himself an obedient servant, your majesty. He’s smarter than the others. And that feather . . . I don’t know where he got it. But it’s a sacred ostrich feather, I’m sure. Maybe the goddess Sekhmet gave it to him.”

  “Smell her breath,” ordered Pharaoh Khufu.

  The Sem priest put his face to Kepi’s mouth. She opened it wide and breathed hot on him. “I can’t smell meat or greens or fruits. I don’t believe she’s eaten in a while.”

  “Speak!” ordered Pharaoh Khufu.

  “You treat your pyramid workers badly.”

  Pharaoh Khufu’s kohl-ringed eyes were large and penetrating. “That’s false! I clothe them. I feed them. I’ve paid them radishes and onions and leeks and bread worth hundreds of talents of silver already.”

  “But when a worker gets injured . . .”

  “My surgeons take care of any injured worker!” boomed Pharaoh Khufu.

  “Then you send him home with nothing. He can’t go back to his old work. He’s ruined. His family is ruined. And sometimes workers die, and their families get nothing. Orphans wind up living like slaves. And slaves—you don’t treat slaves right in this city. All this is unfair.”

  “
You understand nothing about justice and injustice. I’m the one who judges what is just or unjust.”

  “Not in the afterlife. Everyone is judged in the afterlife. Even the pharaoh. You will be judged poorly.” Kepi didn’t know what happened to you if you were judged poorly in the afterlife. Neither Father nor Mother had ever told her. The judgment alone had been threat enough for her and Nanu to behave well. But she went on boldly. “You must give every injured worker money. Enough for the rest of his life. You must do the same for the families of workers who die. Whether they are free or slaves. And you have to take care of orphans.”

  “Nonsense! Stop talking!” Pharaoh Khufu looked at the goddess’s altar. He beat the palm frond against his chest. “We must offer our thanks. Like always.”

  They all said a prayer of thanks.

  Pharaoh Khufu looked at the wa’eb. “What are you waiting for? Clean up.”

  The wa’eb quickly gathered the remains of the meal into the enormous basket. Then the priests sprinkled water over the statue and the sanctuary. They set something on the floor and lit incense. The Sem priest closed and resealed the sanctuary door. He looked at Pharaoh Khufu. “What do you want us to do with the child?”

  “I haven’t decided. Put her in the downstairs chamber for now.”

  The Sem priest tapped the top of his head. Babu quickly jumped to him.

  Pharaoh Khufu and the three higher priests left, taking Babu with them.

  The wa’eb pulled Kepi roughly by the arm to the very door she’d come out of that morning. He opened it and flung her down the stairs. He shut the door. A moment later she heard the temple doors close. And a moment after that, the chamber door reopened, and Masud, Kan, and Amisi rushed down the stairs to Kepi.

  Chapter 32

  The Choice

  “We have to get out of here,” said Kepi.

  “We can’t,” said Kan. “There are still priests in the temple yard. I peeked out the door at the top of the entrance steps.”

  Kepi bit the side of her fist in desperation. “Go back upstairs and hide in the shadows of the temple. You three can wait till they’ve taken me away, and then you can sneak out safely.”

  “We won’t leave you, Kepi,” said Masud. “We heard what you said to the pharaoh. You spoke for all of us. We’re united.”

  “Don’t be crazy. I’m in trouble. But you’re not. No one knows you three are here.”

  “Did you actually say no one knows the three of them are here?” came a voice reverberating through the black air inside the underground chamber. “We’re divinity. Are you adding insult to injury?”

  Kepi and Masud and Kan and Amisi immediately huddled together, trembling.

  “Don’t be harsh with them,” came another voice. “They made a mistake.”

  “Stay out of this, Hathor. They ate my food.”

  “They’re children and they were hungry. Besides, you never eat it.”

  “That’s no excuse. They shouldn’t even have been in my temple.”

  “They were here for an important reason, Sekhmet. They’re good children, pure at heart,” said the goddess Hathor. “The boys are metalworkers, so your husband, Seker, cares about them. And one of the girls is special to me. She prays to me all the time. You could simply—”

  “It’s my temple! I decide what happens to them.”

  “Goddesses,” Kepi dared to say, “please . . .”

  “Hush!” shouted Sekhmet. “You’re the child who talks too much! You went on and on with the pharaoh. But his meting out of punishment will be nothing compared to mine.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” said Hathor. “We have to see what the other four gods have to say. The girl invoked them, after all.”

  “Never! Anytime Horus gets involved in things, he bosses everyone, plus you have sway over him. And Set can’t be trusted to be impartial, not with this girl. And who cares what Tehuti and Dunawy think, anyway?”

  “The child invoked them! You can’t ignore that.”

  “And we’re already here,” came a chorus of deep voices.

  “No!” shrieked Sekhmet.

  “Look,” came the reasonable voice of Hathor, “why don’t those of you who want to argue go upstairs to the temple? I’ll stay with the children down here.”

  “They can’t just go back to the life they had,” spluttered Sekhmet. “At least the three of them who ate my food. No matter what, that cannot be.”

  “I’m sure everyone agrees about that,” said Hathor. “Go upstairs. Go on. Go confer and figure out what to do.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Is there any other god left here?” came Hathor’s voice, seeming much smaller now in the heavy dark.

  “I am.”

  “Ah, Dunawy. I’m glad it’s you. You’re the god of boatmen, and this girl child was on boats for months.”

  “Hathor,” said Kepi quietly, “this is my fault. Please let the others go.”

  “Of course it’s your fault. We had a different plan for you, Nit and Set and I, but then you got those other children involved.”

  So it was true. The goddess Hathor had been with her all along. “I didn’t mean to mess up your plan. I didn’t even understand you had a plan, really.”

  “It’s not your job to understand the gods.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Kepi’s voice broke. “The others didn’t do anything wrong. Please let them go.”

  “Stop fretting, Kepi. I have to think. And fast, before the other gods make a decision. I can’t go against them once they announce a decree.”

  Amisi whimpered. Kan groaned. Masud swallowed loudly.

  “I’m sorry,” Kepi said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I think the dark is getting everyone way too sad,” said Hathor. “Let me fix that.” Instantly the room glowed with moonlight, though it was full morning outside.

  The first thing Kepi saw seemed to be a shadow of a bird. It had to be Dunawy. His nose was beaklike. His wings were folded. His arms ended in bird talons. He fastened one eye directly on the four children.

  Kepi turned her head away, and there was Hathor behind them. She too was like a shadow, but a glorious one. She was more beautiful than the most beautiful woman Kepi could ever imagine. She looked as though she was made of milk, all soft and white and rich. Her myrrh perfume filled Kepi’s lungs and made her feel as though she’d float away.

  Amisi suddenly stood. She untied the small pouch from her wrist and took another one from inside her shift. “Here, everyone. This may be our last chance. So do what I do. Stand up, Kepi.” Kepi stood up. Amisi handed her the other pouch. “I was sure you’d earn it, so I prepared one for you. It’s just luck I brought it along.”

  Kepi watched as Amisi pulled out two little squares from her pouch. She handed one square to Kan. Then she unfolded the other one. She unfolded and unfolded and unfolded. The little square turned out to be a swathe of cloth. She wrapped it once around her head. Then she twirled and sparkled gold in the silvery moonlight. It was pen-shell cloth! The cloth was so fine, it could be wrapped up to almost no size at all! Why, it could fit in a dried scarab shell.

  Kepi opened her pouch and handed a square to Masud. Then the three of them unfolded their squares and tied the cloth around their heads. And they twirled, too. It was like diving into the cleanest water. Kepi could feel it, but it gave way to her, almost as though she was moving through it. It was heavenly. She felt she had become her own akhu—her own radiant, shining dot to whirl among the gods.

  The four of them were dancing lights. It was as though sparks of energy flew around the room, igniting new ones.

  “Thank you, Amisi,” breathed Kepi. “This is marvelous.”

  “Marvelous,” said Kan. “That’s what you said when you first heard my tin bells clink together.” He opened his pouch and threw tiny bells into the air.

  The children caught them and set them clinking. The whole room resounded with tinkling bells.

  If only this could last fore
ver, this feeling of lightness and beauty.

  “That’s it,” sang out Hathor. “Exactly! All right, children. Your intentions were good. I know because I listened to your thoughts all along. I can handle Sekhmet’s wrath. So you have a choice. First, I could let you out through the side door into the yard and make sure no one sees you. You could go on with your lives. Not back to your old lives, Amisi and Kan and Masud, because Sekhmet has already forbidden that. And your old lives are a shambles now, anyway. But back to Kepi’s village, however you manage to do it, to whatever new life you can form there.”

  “That sounds great,” said Kan. “I’ll work for Masud, like we planned.”

  “But what’s the other choice?” asked Kepi.

  “You can be mine.”

  Kepi walked toward the goddess. Prickles ran up her neck and cheeks. She remembered mornings on the river, wishing she could belong to Hathor. “What does that mean?”

  “I am the goddess of the night sky. I am the goddess of music. You will be my little shining musical helpers on earth, forever and ever. When people pray to me from their sleeping mats, you can ring those little things—those bells—till they fall asleep. They’ll love me even more! And the four of you have a strong sense of right and wrong, so you can help in other ways, too. I’ll give you a special gift: You’ll be able to see the future. That way, if you don’t like what’s about to happen, you can warn people, so they change what they’re doing.”

  “If I had been able to see the future, everything would have been different,” said Amisi. Her voice sounded strange, stronger. “I take the second choice. If Kan will, too.”