24 Bones

by Stewart, Michael F.

  It wasn’t until Faris was fifteen that he heard again of the similar group called the Shemsu Hor, the Companions of Horus. He also learned of the Sisters of Isis, who had eventually acquired the golden tablet and, with it, a store of texts. Faris had immediately taken the steps required to become a companion, but with one great failure. Faris could not reach the Fullness, and worse, he could control the Void.

  He was never fully trusted, part man and part companion, relegated to the rank of watcher. In his dreams, however, he gave himself a different name: the dark companion. His left eye twitched, a symptom of his black anger.

  “Faris.” Askari’s call drew him from the past, and he tore his gaze from the ankh’s eyelet and the sun’s glare. Askari, shabby in oil-stained brown robes, looked concerned. He clasped Faris’s shoulder. Faris’s attempt to smile failed.

  “Don’t expect to ever feel the same, Faris, though it is good for you to have seen.”

  Faris struck the arm away and clenched his jaw. “Good?”

  The companion’s expression hardened. “In war, it is important to know the reason for the fight. It is why the Sisters of Isis speak of balance and the Shemsu Seth talk of evil and chaos. These symbols are different for everyone, but to everyone important. The Shemsu Seth murdered your great-grandfather and your grandfather’s brother, and they killed your companions. You understand that they shall keep on killing until the world contains the chaos they seek. You can build your fire of rage on more kindling than most.”

  Faris’s fists balled at his sides. He stared at Askari, hating him for connecting his unspoken thoughts, yet wanting to embrace him for his implicit acceptance of him as a companion, not merely a flawed watcher.

  “Come,” Askari motioned toward the temple, “it is time for the deir to meet. What is left of us.”

  The last of the living had entered the temple ahead of them, leaving only the sweet stink of death. Faris followed Askari, who strode toward the temple steps. As they pushed through the doors, shouts and screams issued from the holy core.

  In the first chamber of the temple, the Hall of Offerings, beer, bread, and water were sacrificed to Re on a small altar. On the wall, sunbeams streaming through ceiling-vents traced bas-reliefs of Re’s journey. Beyond an arch, corridors led to the left and to the right; along this passage were nine chapels, each consecrated to a god of the Egyptian Ennead. The Hall of the Ennead framed the inner sanctum. Here, men argued.

  The breach of silence in the chamber of Re somehow defeated Faris, and tears flowed down his cheeks. He ran a sleeve across his face. On the inner sanctum’s altar was a broken vessel; the sacred boat upon which Re journeyed lay in fragments. Planks were scattered over the floor, discarded oars and a gilded prow amongst them. Replacing the Boat of a Million Years was a dead falcon lying above four simple circles carven into the sides of the tapered altar.

  “Are the other birds dead?” Askari asked.

  “Most,” an older man named Shen replied. “Those who were at work during the culling are safe.” Shen’s face was plump, but grooved with wrinkles that radiated from a bulbous nose and grim lips.

  Askari hugged Shen. His eyes, normally kind, were red and puffy. Shen stroked the dead falcon’s tail feathers with a leather falconer’s gauntlet. The falcons were both symbols of Horus’s power and an important part of the deir’s communication network, many of the monasteries being desert based and without basic telephone service.

  Askari addressed the dozen men. “We will begin immediately to rebuild the flock and request help from other deirs in doing so.”

  Faris hung back at the outer arch of the sanctum, standing at its threshold. It was the first time he had set foot on its raised floor. The story of Horus, Osiris, Isis, and Seth played out upon its walls.

  “The other deirs journey here for the Akhet holiday,” Askari continued. “We wait for the high priests to meet and guide us.” Their deir’s high priest lay headless in the courtyard. If Re so chose, high priest was a position both Askari and Haidar would be honored to fill.

  As Faris studied those around the altar, he suddenly recognized a pattern to the murders.

  “You’re all old.” His hand clapped over his mouth. All eyes turned. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “No,” Askari said, nodding. “You’re right. Who here is the youngest companion?”

  Habib stepped forward, the youngest at forty-nine.

  “What reason could they have to kill the youth and leave the wise?” Haidar asked.

  “Age is not necessarily an indicator of wisdom,” Askari cautioned. Faris cringed. Haidar was five years older than Askari. “They know something that we do not, or else they would kill us all.”

  “The balance. Even the Shemsu Seth understand the need for balance.” Mohammed spoke, the man Faris had seen shuffle inside the temple before him. Mohammed’s back bent so steeply he perpetually contemplated the floor.

  Haidar pumped a fist. “And to maintain that balance we need to strike.” Several companions nodded, as did Faris.

  “Brothers,” Askari calmed, “let us first gather our strength, assemble the Spine of Osiris, and discover what it is we fight back against.”

  “Why?” demanded Haidar. “We know their lair. Let us kill their youth. Let Shen kill Seth’s puppies. And let us place their sacred crocodile, Sobek, on their altar.” Spittle flew from his lips. He focused his stare on Askari. “And I will kill the pharaoh.”

  “Bravely said, Haidar, and so we shall punish them for their act, but in acting swiftly we do not know what they may have accomplished which we do not see.”

  Haidar snorted. “You speak in a riddle.”

  “They have killed each of the youths of our deir as well as our high priest. Perhaps they were searching for someone, but with limited information.”

  “As I suspect too, Askari, but there is more.” The companions turned to the strong voice that carried through the Hall of Offerings. A white-bearded man entered. “They want the Spine of Osiris.” He wore brown robes with the gold embroidery of a falcon upon his hood. Faris knew him to be Michael of Deir Abd-al-Rahman. Each deir represented one of the original Companions of Horus, and each protected a portion of Osiris’s middle spine, the twelve thoracic vertebrae. Michael climbed the steps into the sanctum and clasped his hands to form the sun symbol of Re. Shutting his eyes, he basked in its light.

  “I am sorry to bring no better word. We lost a third of our companions last night, as well as the keeper and our portion of the Osiris.” Michael stared at Askari who paled. Grim understanding burned in Faris’s stomach. In a single night, the Shemsu Hor were gutted.

  Two new companions approached. “We have lost our high priest, but bring our portion of the spine.”

  The deirs’ high priests had been elected the descendents of the original companions and had oral knowledge of the prophecy and locations of Osiris’s thoracic vertebrae.

  Askari opened his mouth to speak, but Haidar interrupted.

  “I expect we will hear similar sad news from the others. Let us tend to the dead and eat. The bread bakes, and we must be strong if we are to fight.” Haidar’s voice rumbled in the sanctuary, and he led them out. Askari’s jaw snapped shut and he followed.

  Faris waited, gaze lingering over a depiction of the zodiac on the chamber’s roof. Horus stood on top of the water sign, Osiris’s head above him. Scanning the circle, Faris halted at Seth’s image. Seth too had been given a piece of Osiris, the lower spine. Above Seth, a man wrestled a serpent whose mouth clutched Seth’s phallus.

  “It is the youth who ask questions, Faris. I hope you stay young after today,” Shen said from the altar where he cradled his falcon.

  “Why is it called a zodiac?” Faris asked.

  “The word zodiac is not Egyptian, but Greek, and it means circle of animals. It is
so because life is a circle, which is why I like to say that you should never be afraid to take a fork.”

  Faris smiled for the first time that morning.

  “Is Syf okay?” Shen asked. Faris’s falcon had been a gift from Shen when Faris entered the monastery as a designated watcher. He nodded. A smile briefly played at Shen’s lips, joy a bird temporarily lost in the sun. In some ways, Shen was like him; Shen couldn’t reach the Fullness either, and it gave them a special bond. There was one important difference, however. Shen couldn’t control the Void.

  “Shen, does it upset you that you did not pass the initiation and so became a watcher?” Faris asked tentatively. Shen, as keeper of the falcons, was an honorary companion, but without the ability to reach the Fullness, he could never be initiated even though he bore the compass-shaped baptismal scar on his shoulder.

  A flash of annoyance crossed Shen’s face before he hid it in an indulgent smile.

  “Few can reach the Fullness. It is not a defeat, Faris. I am glad to be a watcher and the keeper of falcons.”

  “Can everyone reach the Void?”

  Shen’s smile broadened. “Good, you are young still!” He chuckled. “In some ways, it is true that anyone can reach the Void. Anyone who has lost himself or herself in rage will have touched the Void. It has always been easier to do what is evil versus what is good.” Faris gritted his teeth at this slight. “Few, however, can control the Void. What strength rage gives is lost in a lack of self-restraint. Very few can harness rage and the primal energy of nature in a useful manner. It is a great power even if the companions do not recognize it as such.”

  Faris’s jaw relaxed. He had always been able to see rage, as if it were a malleable object. He could allow his body to act while his mind remained controlled, free of pain and exploiting the adrenaline and power that rage instilled. Filled with Void he could run like the desert sands could blow.

  “If both the Fullness and the Void are psychic powers and both allow us to move objects and communicate, then what is the difference?”

  “Concience, my friend, to use the Void requires no conscience.”

  Faris wasn’t sure he understood but his stomach rumbled, echoing in the chamber.

  “I’ll take that fork now.”

  They laughed and, in the shadows of the walls and before they stepped into the sight of carrion, the laughter healed.

  Faris sat cross-legged in the courtyard’s dust, eating a thick round of bread. He was surrounded by as many living companions as dead. Chewing allowed the angry spasms of his jaw to go unnoticed. The three remaining high priests—Michael, Jamal, and Rushdy—clustered near the altar. The stone surface was now clear of eyes, but stank.

  “We must wait to assemble the backbone,” Jamal advised.

  Haidar stood three paces from Faris and did not attempt to hide his ire.

  What remained of the Shemsu Hor was encamped inside the Deir Abd-al-Aziz’s walls. At the last Akhet, their canvas tents had formed a mobile village that stretched the mile to the monastery’s hermetic caves. Many had not attended this year; instead they tended to the funeral rituals.

  If the attack was meant to disrupt the Shemsu Hor, it had been successful. One-half to two-thirds of the companions lay dead. Only one youth survived, Katle, a twenty-something from Deir Abd-al-Malik. Today was to be his ordination and branding. His father had been a companion, one of the slaughtered. Katle knelt at the front of the audience, gray bags beneath his eyes, hair a tangled mass of curls. He had forsaken ritual by neglecting to spend the forty days required to mourn and mummify his father.

  “How do we rebuild the backbone when already four pieces of twelve are confirmed missing?” Haidar demanded.

  In the past hour, more envoys had arrived and each delivered sad news: Two detailed the loss of their deir’s vertebra; the others delivered their piece; all told a story of mass murder. Askari took up the vertebrae, being the keeper of Deir Abd-al-Aziz’s relic.

  “Respectfully,” Askari began and ignored a glare from Haidar; “Haidar is correct, we need to respond. Even notify the police.”

  “Police? The police?” High Priest Jamal’s voice cracked. “Tell them who we are? Where the riches of Osiris remain? Egypt’s new government will not stand for the resurrection of our religion, nor accept our claim to our antiquities. If you tell one secret, the rest cascades. No, we cannot involve the police, Askari.”

  “Then—” Askari started, but Michael, another high priest, raised his hand. Askari fell silent.

  “We have suffered a terrible affront,” Michael said, addressing them all, “but we have also suffered a terrible loss. Let us give our fallen companions their due so that they may pass under and be reborn to us. Askari and Haidar, prepare for battle, but the battle will wait until all accessible pieces of the spine have been reclaimed. Our priority is to fulfill the prophecy.”

  “Michael,” Askari replied, “we must discover their purpose. The Shemsu Seth are not willingly going to return the stolen vertebrae, nor will they give up their own. For all we know their purpose was to ensure the prophecy would not be fulfilled. I suggest we send scouts to the Temple of Seth.”

  Michael shook his head, but before he could speak, a burly high priest stood. He had been silent until now, merely nodding with each comment; now he spoke: “By order of the high priests, no companion will leave this place.” He was Askari’s long-time teacher, Rushdy.

  Askari drew up in outrage. “This is the first battle of our generation of Shemsu Hor. Our predecessors were not merely monks, but warriors. Our fore-brothers would not hesitate to take up arms and defend Re.” He invoked the name of their god with a shout.

  “And that bothers you, Askari,” Rushdy accused, rounding on his mentee. “A leader must consider his desires last in the consideration of the deir. A good leader must also listen. I repeat, no companion shall leave.”

  Askari looked struck. It was the first clear indication that he might not be selected as the next High Priest of Deir Abd-al-Aziz.

  Askari knelt.

  Faris puzzled over Rushdy’s castigation of Askari, and then he blinked. Heat flushed through him. Rushdy was burying an option for Askari. Faris rocked on his thighs, and his tongue flicked over his lower lip. Rushdy, Jamal, and Michael discussed mummification arrangements and the amounts of natron salts, instruments, and resins required. When they sought volunteers, Faris kept his eyes averted.

  After Askari broke away from the high priests, Faris approached. Askari’s frustration twisted his mouth. “May I speak with you a moment?” Askari grunted. “Rushdy said no companion could leave the deir.” He blanched at Askari’s scowl, but continued. “Someone here is not a companion.”

  It was as if Re had broken from the clouds; Askari grinned. “Of course, Faris.” He clasped Faris’s shoulders and shook him. “Katle is not yet a companion. He may go.” Askari’s irritation leapt from his face to Faris’s. It was true. Katle was not yet a full companion. He lay outside of the high priests’ ultimatum.

  Rushdy had probably meant him anyway, not a Void-touching watcher.

  “Come, let’s talk to him.” Askari pulled Faris behind. Katle was not in the deir, however, but up at the caves. “It’s good. The less the high priests hear of this, the better. Frankly, his not being initiated yet is semantics.” Askari strode out into the desert, and Faris trailed.

  The intense sun wicked moisture from Faris’s throat. Despite being the deir’s best runner, a crust formed at the corners of his mouth; he too had fasted. The caves were a mile walk and in the sun it felt farther.

  “Katle,” Askari called. Only a hundred yards away, the caves were still not discernible. “Katle!” The cry echoed from the cliff. Askari shrugged.

  “Let’s fetch some water, Askari,” Faris suggested.

  Askari nodded, and they began
the walk over the uneven debris at the cliff base. As they reached the rim marking Askari’s home, Katle slipped around the mud-brick façade.

  “Askari.” Katle stumbled and clutched his robes.

  An inverse pyramid of sweat darkened Katle’s collar. Its stitch was finer than the coarse linen worn by Faris. Katle was attractive, dark-skinned, and well muscled, but he looked lost, confused. Katle’s arms crossed his chest. The desert heat approached a hundred degrees.

  “I am sorry.” His eyes darted to Faris. “I needed some time to think … so went to the caves, but with the sun so hot …” He pointed back into Askari’s home and shade.

  “It’s okay, Katle. With the death of your father, you deserve time to meditate,” Askari soothed. Katle’s eyes widened and an insipid smile flashed. “We were looking for you. I have a task you might perform.” Katle’s eyes searched the base of the cliff. “Come, join us for a drink of water.”

  Faris searched the quick movements of Katle’s eyes.

  “In my thirst, I regret that I drank your water, Askari. I thought I would have time to replenish it. Please let me draw more from the deir and return.”

  Faris jerked back. Water in the desert was carefully managed, and drinking it was akin to stealing a starving man’s food.

  “That would be a good idea, Katle,” Askari stated. Anger edged his tone.

  “What is the task?” Katle asked, hunching.

  “I have reconsidered. Bring me my water.”

  Katle lowered his head further and started down the scree slope at a jerky run.

  “Faris, I need someone I can trust to discover why it is the Shemsu Seth attacked, and why now.” Faris looked up at Askari. “That one is not ready to be a companion,” Askari said and his gaze followed Katle’s dash across the sand. Faris nodded agreement. Askari turned and entered his cave. When Faris moved to follow, Askari bowled him backward. Faris cried out, stumbling near the cliff edge.