by Jerry Dubs
Hetephernebti spoke of Re’s blessing, of his desire that people should enjoy their lives, that they should live fully alive and aware of everything around them. Meryt had taken Hetephernebti’s words to heart.
When the hawk-god Horus flew overhead, she not only saw him, she also heard the sound of his wings as he climbed higher in the sky. She even imagined that she felt the wind as the god felt it as she watched him dive through the air.
The water from Iteru was not just a rippling brown surface. It was something to be touched and tasted. She had slapped her hands hard and flat against its surface, feeling the unseen strength of the water, she had thrown handfuls of it into the air and felt it rain down on her in light splashes.
Even the warm fingers of Re were subject to her wondering mind. She felt the difference in heat from morning to mid-day and into the dusk. She coated herself with the river’s wet mud and allowed Re to bake it, the sun’s strength tightening the mud, turning it into crumbling dust.
Surrounded by a world that delighted and fascinated her with its sound and colors, its touch and tastes, Meryt began to understand the relationships between the heat and the wind, currents of the river and the rhythms of the land. She felt herself to be an extension of the Two Lands, as much a part of Kemet as the trees and the sand and the gods themselves.
And she began to wonder if the gods gave rise to the land or if the land and the minds of longing hearts of the people of Kemet brought the gods into existence. When she held her extended fingers to shield her eyes and looked at the sun, she saw a fiery disk, not a god. Watching the flight of a hawk, she was mesmerized by the beauty of its movement, but she saw a bird, not a god.
Hippos, crocodiles, ibises, jackals: all were gods and all, in Meryt’s eyes were deserving of her wonder, but no more than the workings of her fingers, the flights of her dreams, the scratchy bark of the date palm tree, the delicious aroma of baking bread, the juicy delight of a fig.
She lived in a land of miracles and wonders. If the hawk was a god, then so was the sparrow. If the sun was a god, then why not the stars and the moon? If King Djoser was a god, then why not Hetephernebti? Why not Tim, and why not her mother, her father, even herself?
Tim looked across the garden, his eyes unfocused, and his mind trying to lock down as he focused on his breath. He felt the moist garden air move through his nostrils, swell against the back of his throat and draw down into his lungs as he pushed his belly out lightly.
He concentrated on the temperature of the air, picturing it as a healthy blue as it entered him and a darker shade as he expelled it, taking with it his anxiety and confusion. What was left was calmness, not an answer yet, but a placidity that would allow him to slowly re-enter his consciousness through the smells, sounds and sights that surrounded him. He would allow his sensations to unfold, embracing his environment and bringing an openness that would allow him to re-center himself.
He had never taken lessons in meditation, instead teaching himself a way to settle himself as an experiment, looking for new ways to experience his sensations.
In his mind’s eye he pictured his breath, but his concentration wavered.
His awareness bounced in splintered thoughts from the living face of King Djoser, to the three syllables of the name Imhotep, to the harsh shadows that marked the angry face of Kanakht, to the strange out-of-the-body experience he had undergone in the king’s chamber. He closed his eyes to block the distraction of the colors of the garden and the lithe form of Meryt sitting by the pond. He heard the slight rustle of the leaves of the tree above him, the liquid murmur of the water where Meryt stirred the pond with her smooth, brown legs.
He wanted to fall backwards on the ground, open his arms to the sky and split open, freeing his spirit to fly across this strange land.
Re-focusing part of his mind on his breathing, he allowed his thoughts to stream undirected, overwhelming and exhausting themselves until finally his attention turned wholly back to his breathing. One…two…three breaths without thought. He felt the slow, rhythmic throb of his heartbeat. Moving outward, he sensed warmth on his left arm, unprotected from the sun by the uneven shade of the small carob tree. He opened his eyes, his mind still and clear.
Meryt’s narrow back was turned to him, her head bent slightly as she looked down at the water of the pond. The soft curve of her right breast came into view as she reached down to trail her fingers through the water.
She felt him watching and turned her head, her shoulder swiveling around toward him. The sunlight highlighted the fragile line of her collarbone and swept across the smooth skin of her chest. He saw the darker circles at the tips of her small breasts, the small points, tight and erect. Her skin was drawn tight against her ribs as she twisted in place to look at him. The tender curve of her lower stomach arced downward toward soft, dark tufts of hair, just hidden by her slender legs.
A flush of desire swept through him. Looking up at her face, he saw that she was watching his eyes, had seen where he looked. She was waiting, open, willing, and patient.
For the first time he was not embarrassed by his desire. Here, now, this time and place, it felt right and natural. He had changed from Tim, lost and wandering, to Imhotep, as much a part of this ancient land as the carob tree behind him or the warm desert air that carried the lotus blossom’s fragrance.
He stood, his eyes never leaving her face. She turned away from the pond and stood also, her arms at her side brushing against the narrow linen belt she wore around her naked waist. Slowly he stepped toward her, certain of his desire, feeling that he had been reborn when King Djoser renamed him, that he was truly a part of this ancient land now and that touching her and holding her was exactly what he was meant to do.
When she was within reach, he lifted a hand to her face and brushed his thumb tenderly across her cheek. Her eyes were bright with happiness, a smile played on her lips. He put his hands on her shoulders, slid his fingers down her arms and took her hands, interlocking his fingers with hers.
Bending his head down to hers, he lightly kissed her forehead and her temples. She turned her face up to his and their mouths met. As they kissed, he felt her press closer to him, her bare skin touching him softly, then pressing harder, generating heat, making him feel reborn and alive.
She broke away from their kiss and holding his hand, led him through the garden; down the hallway of the palace to the room they shared. At the entrance, they hesitated as they heard a sound within.
Hetephernebti was standing inside. On the bed lay new linen kilts.
“Good afternoon, dear Meryt, Lord Imhotep,” she said, her voice and ever-present smile not betraying her happiness at seeing them flushed with desire for each other. She had noticed the attraction they held for each other when she first saw them together. Through the weeks she had avoided asking Meryt about it, but it had been obvious to her that the fondness the two felt for each other had been growing.
She felt guilty that she was interrupting them now, but there was nothing she could do.
“King Djoser has sent you new clothing and has invited you to accompany him on his trip to Abu to survey the island and banks of the river for an appropriate gift for the Temple of Khnum.”
“Thank you High Priestess,” Tim answered, aware that his voice was husky with desire. “When will we be leaving?”
Hetephernebti frowned a little as she looked to Meryt.
“I am sorry, little sister,” she began, then seeing Meryt’s stunned face, she added quickly, “no, no, you are going also. I am sorry for the timing.” She turned back to Tim. “When my brother is seized with an idea, he acts. I am to bring you to King Djoser now. His barge is waiting. I am sorry, but you must leave now.”
Ambush in Tahta
Brian saw the two men waiting to ambush them.
He was walking between the two donkeys, holding the short ropes that looped around their necks. Tama rode on the donkey to his right, her body rocking lightly with the donkey’s plodding gait.
The donkey to Brian’s left carried their supplies: flat round loaves of bread, skins filled with water, a fresh robe and ostrich feather for Tama to wear once they reached Waset, and trade goods: rolls of linen, small ceramic bottles, some filled with cooking oils others with massage oils, cones of salt and a few pieces of jewelry.
The road they were walking was winding south, an hour’s walk below the town of Tahta on the west bank of the river. They had crossed the River Iteru as soon as they left Khmunu, boarding their skittish donkeys onto a wooden raft that was poled across the slow moving river. The ferryman, recognizing Tama, refused her offering of a small bottle of perfumed oil until she explained it was for his wife and daughters to enjoy.
The two men were hiding behind a cluster of three palm trees up along the sandy road. The tall date palms, shorter carob trees and thorny acacia trees grew beside the road; greener sycamore trees grew closer to the riverbank. All of the trees were dusty, their leaves curled up as evening fell.
Brian had watched the men move from tree to tree, trying to find a hiding place closer to the road. One of them carried a short, thick club, the other might have had a knife, Brian wasn’t sure; unpolished stone didn’t glitter like a metal knife would.
“I see them, Brian.”
Tama’s voice was calm and even.
It was always calm and even, he’d learned.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” he said, trying to match her calm voice.
“I know,” she answered.
They had been traveling for five days, following the river upstream; slowly heading south to Waset where Tama planned to meet Hetephernebti, and where Brian hoped to find Tim.
Their destination lay another nine days ahead.
Travel was at a slow walking pace. Although Tama sometimes rode one of the donkeys, Brian always walked, happy for the exercise. They rested when they were hungry, tired or sleepy. They stopped and talked at each small village, some as small as three or four mud huts grouped around a stone circle that marked a common cooking fire.
There was no wealth here.
The men and children wore no clothing, some of the women wore a short kilt, others just a rough linen belt. Their hands were callused and dirty; their skin was weathered by the sun and the sand.
Their expressions when they saw Brian and Tama approaching were eager with anticipation of news.
By the second encounter, Brian began to understand: He was traveling among the people of a stone-age culture. Although the great river united them, making long-distance travel feasible, most of the population worked, loved, gave birth to their children and died within sight of the mud hut in which they were born.
Brian soon realized that Tama saw the world differently than he did. Although they shared the same sense of observation and evaluation that he used when he played baseball, she extended it to everything and she didn’t draw the conclusions he naturally made.
In high school Brian had been stronger, faster and simply more athletic than most of the other players. As the competition evened out in college, he had learned that he couldn’t just hope that he could throw faster than a batter could swing. He had learned that on some days his fast ball wasn’t fast enough so he had to depend more on a curve ball or placement of a change-up, tantalizingly just out of reach. If he saw that the outfielders were shading to left field, he couldn’t hope that he could pull the ball past them, he had to shorten his swing and punch the ball the other way.
He had learned to observe himself and other athletes honestly and to use his knowledge to give him an edge, or in those rare cases where the others were simply better than he was, he learned to play his hardest and to graciously acknowledge defeat.
There was always tomorrow and another game, another chance.
Tama had the same honest way of viewing everything, but she didn’t filter the world through her expectations.
When Brian saw a man running or throwing he evaluated the man’s speed and strength and compared it to his, determining whether he could beat him. Tama made no comparisons, instead accepting each man’s speed or strength as an expression of the man. For Tama, faster or stronger didn’t mean ‘better.’ It just meant faster or stronger. She didn’t hope that on another day he would be faster or slower, she accepted what he was when she saw him and refused to extend the observation to ‘what might be’ or ‘what could be.’
While one sunset could be redder than another, or filtered through a distant haze of clouds, it didn’t make it more ‘beautiful’ to Tama.
An ox was different from a donkey, not better. It might be stronger for plowing but it wasn’t as suited for riding. How could one call one better than the other? A hawk had more speed and was more deadly than a goose, but a goose could feed a hungry family. Which was better?
When Brian had come to understand her views, his first thought was that she wouldn’t be much fun at a sports bar arguing whether Willie Mays was better than Joe DiMaggio, or settling the dispute over whether Mohammad Ali was truly ‘The Greatest.’
He tried to see what the world would look like through her eyes. But he had spent too many years watching television advertisements, answering which was his favorite color, his favorite zodiac sign or baseball player or ice cream flavor or hair color. Was he a leg man or an ass man? Blondes or brunettes? Yankees or Red Sox?
As they learned each other’s languages better, Brian found that Tama’s way of viewing the world went far beyond her reluctance to draw conclusions or comparisons. Counting, organizing and grouping were concepts she disliked. He sometimes caught a glimpse of the depth of her views, but never fully understood them.
“Tree,” she repeated in English one day as they rested in the shade of a grove of date palm trees.
Brian nodded. “Tree,” he said, touching the trunk. Then he repeated the word in Egyptian.
“Yes,” Tama said. “But this,” she knocked her fist against the trunk of the tree, “this is not a tree. ‘Tree’ is the word we use, but this,” she knocked on it again, “this is real, Brian, not just the wind and the sounds we use to name it, not just the picture we have in our heads. Do you see there is a difference between our name for something and the thing.”
Brian nodded, although he wasn’t sure why this was important.
“The words, Brian, they separate us from the world. When we name something we think we understand it. But the words divide us from what is real. ‘Tree’ is not real. This,” she touched the tree again, “this is real.”
The sun was down and only a leftover reddish glow seeped out of the western sky.
As Tama and Brian neared the palm grove two men separated themselves from the trees and blocked the narrow dusty trail.
“What’s in the packs,” asked the taller man, who was holding the club. Brian saw that the ‘knife’ in the other man’s hand was just a short, pointed stick, sharp enough to stab with, but not edged for slicing.
“Greetings,” Tama said, ignoring the question. She slid from the donkey on Brian’s side. “Don’t hurt them,” she whispered from behind him.
She opened the sack on the near side of the donkey. “I’ll show you,” she said louder to the two men.
Brian felt her push some linen into the waist of his kilt at the small of his back. “Keep your front to them,” she whispered.
She slid between Brian and the pack donkey, taking the lead rope from Brian. She walked up the path where the two men waited, pulling the donkey behind her.
Brian tensed as he saw shadows move ahead of them in the grove; there were more than just the two men in front of him. He knew he could rush the two men on the road and knock them down before they could do any harm. The taller man barely came up to Brian’s shoulder and they both looked weak and undernourished. But he didn’t know how many more were lurking in the shadows.
He looked from the grove to Tama who had stopped just in front of the men.
“Here,” she said. “There is some bread and some salt cones, some linen, which yo
ur wife might like, and some oils. The plain bottles are cooking oils, the others are oils for your skin. In the small roll of linen there are a few pieces of silver jewelry.”
Brian couldn’t believe that she was telling them about the jewelry, but he trusted her. She had much more knowledge of the people.
As the taller man approached the donkey, Tama dropped the rope and stepped back to give him room. He dug into the pack, lifting a roll of linen out into the fading light. He pushed it back into the bag and dug around for a moment before bringing out a ceramic oil bottle. He pulled out the stopper and sniffed at it.
He returned the bottle to the sack and bent over to pick up the rope, his back to Brian and Tama. As if she knew what Brian was thinking, Tama held her right hand behind her back, motioning for Brian to stay where he was.
“We’ll be taking this and the donkeys, too,” the man said.
Tama nodded as if he had made a reasonable request.
“I understand,” she said. “Will you leave us a skin of water? The road is long and dry.”
The man started to walk away with the donkey. “The river is right over there. There’s plenty of water there,” he said without turning back to look at Tama and Brian. “Go get the other donkey,” he said to his partner.
The small man walked cautiously toward Brian, he fist tight around the short wooden knife. Brian let go of the rope as the man got nearer, careful to keep his back turned away from him.
When he got closer, Brian could see that he was young, no more than fifteen, possibly the taller man’s son. He looked frightened, but whether it was of Brian or the taller bandit, Brian couldn’t tell.
When the boy hesitated to lean down to pick up the rope, Brian thought of what Tama had said. He smiled at the boy and said, “I won’t hurt you.”
Brian saw that the boy was shaking as he picked up the rope and turned to leave. The donkey balked at moving, so Brian reached out and swatted it lightly. It lurched forward.
