Sunrise on the Mediterranean

by Suzanne Frank

  Dagon won the body of the fair Derkato, though her soul was already dead.

  Tamera finished, the last note floating away to the stars, rising to the full moon.

  This was the legend I was named after? This doomed woman? Sixty feet, could I make it? But then what would happen? Ancient people and their farming solutions. Shit.

  I had to get across. Somehow I had to get across. If I could just tie myself … tie myself! With what? Tamera was still speaking or singing or something, as I ran quick hands over my body. There was nothing in my parcel pack. My sash was fragile fabric, my dress useless. I slipped off my sandals because they were death traps.

  What? What? I looked down at my body and saw the solution.

  Neon!

  The neon necklace was a chemical in a plastic casing— about four feet of it. It wouldn’t hold forever, but maybe it would be enough to help me regain my balance if I slipped? Could they see me? Was I breaking rules?

  Damn, who cared. With trembling fingers I unfastened the necklace, then dropped into a crouch, one foot on the rope—which was about three inches wide—the other still on the platform. I had to tie my ankle so that I had enough of a stride.

  This was harebrained, but dying as a crocodile crudité wasn’t an option. I had a promise to keep to Cheftu. My vow in our last ancient time had been the same as his: I would go anywhere, any time, just to find him. I kept my promises: I was a Kingsley.

  Tamera fell silent. Most of the torches were gone. She touched my shoulder. My cue?

  The only problem with my theory is that the plastic didn’t tie tightly. I’d wrapped it around my ankles again and again, but it didn’t hold a tight, satisfactory knot. So close. Tamera nudged me again. My thoughts were racing. What could I use? I reached up: earrings. Posts and backs!

  “Call my lover for me,” I instructed her. “Dagon needs to feel our, uh, desire and love for him.”

  “Sea-Mistress—” she started. “Do it!” I commanded. A moment later I heard her voice above me again. It was a choral piece, with the assembled Pelesti all singing along. I pulled the earrings out of my ears, then knelt, jamming the post through the plastic coil after the final knot. As a backup measure—I couldn’t have enough of them—I stripped off my sash and wrapped it around the plastic knots, reinforcing them with the fabric.

  “HaDerkato!” Tamera shouted. The last torch extinguished below me. The neon had faded again, just enough of a glow that I could see a step before me. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I whispered, almost in tears.

  They began chanting my name. I stepped out and realized my dress was going to kill me. Without thought, I stripped it off. The wind was like ice, but I had movement. One step and I felt the rope beneath my feet. When one foot felt secure, I slowly brought my other leg from the platform.

  Remember being on a balance beam, I told myself. This is just a balance beam, it’s just a balance beam. Focus on your goal, look straight ahead. I did. Into darkness. Oh God, omigod.

  Balance beam, Chloe. Think back, remember being a kid? Remember that base in southern Spain? You loved gymnastics. You took them for … I moved my first leg forward, feeling the tightening of the neon tube around my ankle. My toes touched, then gripped the rope.

  For a split second I wobbled, then felt my center of gravity settle. I was comfortable, balanced. The next few steps were easy, more a question of stride and timing than anything else. Then a gust of wind unbalanced me. I heard my catch of breath, felt the fear grabbing me again. Balance, Chloe. Slowly, move slowly.

  Before we’d left Spain, I’d gone from being five four to five eight in a matter of weeks.

  I made it a few more steps. My nipples were so cold, they felt like attachments. My legs were trembling from the effort. My hair was wet with sweat, and I still couldn’t see squat through the darkness. Keep moving forward, I told myself. Remember that summer? I’d returned to Texas, to my grandmother Mimi. She’d taken one look at me and enrolled me in other classes. Ballet. Modeling. Dancing. She’d made me walk with a book on my head, she’d watched me do endless tendus, demi-pliés, and relevés; she’d even had a barre installed on the sleeping porch.

  A few more steps; it was coming easier now. A few more. I was almost halfway! The sweeping feeling of extending my leg, then moving forward slowly, was instantly remembered. The air was still; the crowd was silent. Teeth gritted, I unclenched the sole of my foot and brought it around gently, only a little in front of me. I didn’t want to shift my weight from my hips and thighs, so no reaching. Another step, my body was hot with sweat. My arms were out to the sides, helping me balance.

  By the time I’d left Texas to return to my family, who had since moved to Turkey, I had control of my limbs. I’d grown another inch or so, but I knew how to move. When Mimi took me to the airport, to fly to Rome for my connecting flight, she’d hugged me. I thanked her. In the middle of my gratitude speech—

  The rope wobbled. The people screamed. I fell. Because of the way I was tied, my feet were still on the rope; also, I’d caught myself with my hands. But my body was hanging down. Crocodiles were snapping beneath me. There was no thought; I pulled myself onto the top side of the rope, my hands stinging, one shoulder either dislocated or close to it.

  The rope was between my shaking thighs. The neon cording was twisted so that I was now in the position to walk backward. The people were hissing.

  Words that would have caused Mimi to roll in her grave shot out of my mouth. Lying there, fighting tears, I wondered how to get up. Shit! Shit! Could I hand-over-hand it all the way to the end? The people below me were not sounding sympathetic. Shit! After a time-out that lasted until the sweat on my hands dried and I got my ankle ropes un-tangled, I rose.

  Careful not to jar my center of balance, I got out of a fetal position and into a crouch. This was water-skiing all over again. Rise up slowly, slowly. My legs were shaking again, but I was standing.

  Below me they broke into cheers.

  I looked ahead; still darkness, but only half as much. After two more falls, I felt the edge of rock. My shoulder was completely dislocated. I collapsed on the solid stone, tearing at the neon cording with my good hand. I needed to get rid of it, because I didn’t think they would allow cheating like that.

  Hands touched me, wine wet my lips, and for moments I heard nothing except the adrenaline rush of having made it. Oh God, I survived! Thank you, petrochemical companies! Thank you, God! My hands were shaking too badly to wipe my own face. My shoulder was becoming unbearable.

  I hoped I wouldn’t have to walk down the rock. I didn’t think I could even stand.

  “HaDerkato?” Tamera said. Someone pulled at my wrenched arm; I heard my scream as the world turned black.

  ONLY BECAUSE RAEM SPOKE OF Chloe’s world was she bearable. She told Cheftu of Chloe’s sister, the Egyptologist Camille; about Chloe’s clothing, which was mostly black and bias cut; and Chloe’s boyfriends, who were stolen only from his beloved’s distant memories but still rankled; and Chloe’s occupation as an artist. RaEm considered art to be a task for slaves and servants and thus far beneath her.

  From what Cheftu gathered, after spending a few months protesting her experience, RaEm had decided to play along at being Chloe. He mused that each of them, he, RaEm, and Chloe, had pretended when they’d first arrived. Was that due to a fear of discovery? Or just the realization that if one didn’t go along, one would be profoundly alone in a new world?

  However, RaEm’s facade was foiled almost from the start, for she had no talent. She hadn’t touched any of Chloe’s artists’ tools, a choice that had apparently raised many an eyebrow in modern times. However, to say or do anything else would be to place herself outside of physical comfort and companionship. RaEm would never do that.

  But it had irked her that she was unimportant in Chloe’s day and time; he knew this now. Of course, he knew everything now. He knew how she loved neon and “Day-Glo” and things that were visible in the dark. He knew who shot J.R. He knew
every menu the Cairo Hilton served.

  The knowledge would have been good, entertaining even, if it weren’t sprinkled with the other stuff. The complaining, the sniping, her way of viewing the world. Six days on this rock with this woman—his sins had been expiated through this sentence!

  Dehydration had set in, and they both had splitting headaches. Inhaling salt water only burned their nostrils, and the little bit of water they could lick made them ill. The situation was growing desperate.

  He still had the oracular stones, the Urim and Thummim that he and Chloe had rescued from Aztlan, but he didn’t want to let RaEm know he had them. Since the islet was slightly wider than he was long, he hadn’t had any privacy whatever. If she knew he had the capacity to tell the future, or at least converse with the One God, she would probably kill him.

  The thought of RaEm being able to see the future was terrifying. How would she manipulate that knowledge for herself? … It was a thought he daren’t contemplate.

  He rolled onto his side. It was nearly dusk of the sixth day. The fishing had worked for three days, but these past three there had been nothing. Nothing, save RaEm’s derisive nagging and distorted perspective.

  Finally Cheftu had snapped at her. She had screamed obscenities at him, then sat facing the water for the rest of the day. Actually it had been quite pleasant, drifting in and out of sleep in silence.

  Had that been yesterday or the day before? He couldn’t recall, couldn’t fathom any time other than the one they were in. He had stared at the horizon for so long that his eyeballs were imprinted with the image; morning, noon, or dusk, it didn’t matter. Once again he was staring across the water, but wait! Was that a shadow? Slowly he sat up and watched the shadow gain substance. It was getting darker, but he was certain it was a ship! How could they get its attention?

  What was it doing here?

  All night long Cheftu watched that spot, praying that he hadn’t hallucinated, praying it would be there with the dawn. When light fell across his face he woke with a jolt, staring out across the waters. No ship. The disappointment was so sharp he could taste it. They would die soon of thirst while surrounded by water. Maybe he should use the stones; what would it matter now? He looked over his shoulder, just in case he’d gotten confused about the direction.

  The ship was bearing down on them! They were rescued. It was a miracle! “RaEm, look! Look!”

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Do they see us?”

  “They must,” Cheftu said. “They are coming our direction.” He looked at the vessel, trying to place when they were. The sail was not Egyptian style, yet it displayed an Egyptian design on the topsail. “What is that symbol?” he asked.

  “The disk with the hands?” RaEm said, squinting up at the cloth swollen tight with wind. “Is it a hieroglyph?”

  “Nay, I think not.”

  The ship was still heading straight for them, but it was not losing speed. In fact, it was gaining momentum, using both sails and oars. “Are you sure they see us?” RaEm asked. They were both standing, hope having given them strength.

  It was going to crash on the islet! “They don’t,” Cheftu realized. “They don’t see us! Scream, shout, warn them.”

  Suddenly the ship veered, heading away from them, from the islet. “What in the name of Horus are they doing?” RaEm shouted, her hands on her hips. At the angle the ship was moving, it would completely bypass them.

  Bypass them and leave them. Cheftu cupped his mouth, shouting across the water. Would they hear him over the beat of the timekeeper’s drum? Again the oarsmen halted, the sails wilted. The ship stopped.

  RaEm and Cheftu stood, watching as the sun rose. They heard the sound of conversation, but nothing distinctive. “What are they doing?” RaEm asked, her voice hoarse from shouting.

  “I cannot fathom,” Cheftu said, squinting at the ship. Suddenly the oars started again, almost backing the ship up.

  “They are going to miss us!” RaEm shouted, leaping into the water and swimming toward the ship, which was now sailing away from them.

  Cheftu watched in horror. This was a farce! This could not be happening! Slipping his fingers into his mouth, he blew over them, a shrieking whistle that should be heard in Crete.

  The ship stopped. “Man overboard!” someone shouted. Cheftu sagged in relief when he saw a skiff lowered over the side, heading toward RaEm.

  Grâce á Dieu! What kind of idiot had been navigating? He saw the skiff approach the islet, amazed that RaEm remembered him. As the boat grew larger Cheftu saw that it held three men. Two were rowing and one was hanging his head over the side. What caliber of sailor was that?

  The vessel touched the edge of the islet. The two sailors ignored RaEm and helped the third man, a small, spindly Egyptian, onto land. With precise, extravagant gestures the man mopped his face and turned to Cheftu.

  “Aii, you fool! What in the name of the great god Aten were you doing, standing in the middle of the sea? Speak!”

  Cheftu stared into the man’s face, utterly taken aback by his vehemence.

  “Speak! Or are you some unwashed foreigner who doesn’t even know a civilized language?”

  “He is often mute in the presence of such an esteemed traveler,” RaEm said in a tone of voice that managed to be both sultry and respectful. The man dismissed her with a glance, and Cheftu saw RaEm’s nostrils flare in anger.

  “Is that your slave?” the man asked Cheftu, jabbing a thumb toward RaEm. “If so, you need to make more gold, buy a healthier one. He looks about to die.”

  “He?” RaEm repeated, outraged. “He?”

  The man ignored her, speaking to Cheftu. “Are you a farmer? An artisan?” He looked over their shoulders. “Don’t even have a roof for your heads! What gods have cast you into a place as dismal as this?”

  “The one god,” RaEm said. “Your pardon,” Cheftu said in his most diplomatic tone, “but who are you?”

  “Wenamun—aii, nay, I’m Wenaten. Lord Wenaten. Ambassador Wenaten.”

  Cheftu and RaEm exchanged glances. He didn’t know his own name?

  “I’ve been Wenamun for about twenty-five Inundations, then that fop snatched the throne, outlawed Amun-Ra, and we’ve all had to change our names,” he groused.

  “Outlawed the king of the gods?” RaEm said, her voice rising in horror.

  “Silence, man!” he barked. “It’s a crime even to mention his name.”

  “I’m a woman,” RaEm hissed. “Can’t you tell?” Wenaten glanced at her breasts, her skirt. “Aii, I guess you are.” He turned back to Cheftu. “The Aten has confused us all—men, women, everyone looks alike these days.”

  “Who, or what, is the Aten?” Cheftu asked.

  Wenaten turned around and pointed at the sail, hanging lax from the mast. “See that disk with the hands?” Both Cheftu and RaEm nodded. “That’s the Aten. Those little hands are sun rays he puts out, touches us on our heads.” He lowered his voice again. “Has downright touched Pharaoh in the head, if you catch my meaning.”

  Again Cheftu and RaEm exchanged glances. “What are you doing here, my lord?” Cheftu asked.

  “Coming home from Tsor. That useless son of a goat trader, Zakar Ba’al, made me wait for two seasons before he fulfilled Pharaoh’s wishes to export some wood.”

  “Wood?” Cheftu felt like a parrot, repeating every other word, but it was so much to take in, to absorb. He was light-headed, thirsty; that must be part of it.

  “Aye. Pharaoh, His High Foppishness, is building yet another addition to that cookpot he calls a palace in Akhetaten.”

  “Why not mud brick?”

  “Well, this Aten”—Wenaten glanced toward the sun and made the motion against the Evil Eye—“he is pretty cursed hot in Akhetaten. The mud brick is far too hot to walk on, so we need wood for the floors in the palace and temple.”

  “Why would the floor of the temple get hot?”

  “Because the sun beats down, fool!” Wenaten shouted. “Are you a peasant? Do you
not understand how the sun’s heat falls to the earth?”

  “The temple has a roof to protect its patrons from the heat,” Cheftu said slowly, keeping a rein on his temper.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay?” Now RaEm was repeating, her eyes so wide that Cheftu could see the whites on all sides.

  “Nay,” Wenaten said. “It has no roof.”

  “What idiot built that?” RaEm asked. For once Cheftu agreed with her.

  Wenaten shook his head. “I know not, but Pharaoh designed it. Amun-Ra, who doesn’t want his priests to bake what little of the brains they have, his temple had a roof. It’s even cool inside, if you have ever been inside.” He looked at Cheftu, at his long, curling hair.

  “You obviously haven’t,” Wenaten said to him. “Anyhow, the Aten wants to rain his light down on us. All day. Every day. From dawn to dusk. Hot, blistering heat.” Wenaten touched his forehead. “Being at sea has healed my sunburns, but you should have seen them! Peeling skin like an Ashqeloni onion! A great tribute to the Aten.”

  “That’s disgusting,” RaEm said haughtily.

  “It is a part of the new court attire. A sunburn. Burns testify that one is a good Egyptian and devout in his worship of the Aten.” Wenaten hesitated a moment, seeming less ridiculous and more meditative. “The envoys from other lands are convinced Pharaoh is mad,” he said ruefully. “Most of Egypt’s nobility has already disavowed him.”

  RaEm was watching the little man, openmouthed. She’d probably never heard of discontent with the ruling class, certainly not in Egypt. Cheftu smothered a smile. What would she think if he told her that his countrymen had not only overridden their monarch, Louis, but chopped off his head also?

  Rebellion was not an ancient Egyptian concept, for Pharaoh was god incarnate. At least, rebellion hadn’t been an Egyptian concept. “Who is Pharaoh?” Cheftu asked carefully.

  The small man drew to his full height and extended his hand upward, palm flat. “Pharaoh, living in Aten forever! is Akhenaten.”

  Ak-nah-ten, Cheftu repeated mentally. He lives in Akhet-ah-ten, obviously named after himself.