Winged Pharaoh

by Joan Grant

  I asked Neyah what he most wanted to do when he grew up, and he said, “Oh, I want to be able to govern people and have wise laws, and lead armies with the wisdom of a serpent and the courage of a lion.”

  And I said, “I want to do lots of strange things…things that I don’t quite understand myself yet. Sometimes everyday things seem very important, and Kam seems a large country beyond whose boundaries few would ever wish to travel. And then sometimes, in my bed at night I look out of my window at the stars and think what a little place earth is, and that our country is like a grain of sand, and that I am so small that if an ant walked over me, it would not even think its path was rough. Knowing this littleness, I long to see beyond.…It’s like your wild-cat looking through its bars and hearing the jackals barking at night, knowing that they are seeing things it can only guess about.…”

  “Don’t move, Sekeeta! There’s a gazelle coming down to drink, you can just see it in the deep shadow.” It sent ripples across the water as it drank. Then it lifted its head and listened as though startled, and sprang away through the reeds.

  It was getting dark, and Neyah said we must go home. On the way we heard a ploughman singing as he led his oxen back to their pasture. It was a ploughing song that I was very fond of:

  Pull on your yokes, my oxen, pull on your yokes.

  Run straightly, O plough! so that my field is furrowed smooth as a comb divides a woman’s hair.

  Earth, open your womb to my scattered corn, shelter it in your warmth and bring it forth under the sun.

  Listen, O seed! to the singing-birds, and spring upwards to hear them more clearly.

  Water, run quickly through the channels, and pour sap into my plants.

  Warm them, O sun! warm them with your life-giving rays.

  Be gentle, wind, to my ripening corn, so that the heavy ear does not bear down its slender stalk.

  Cut through the stalks, my sickle, cut through the stalks as the young moon cleaves the darkness, so that my threshing-floor is deep with gold.

  Pound in the mortar, pestle, and grind my flour, so that my house lacks not the dust of life.

  Burn strongly, fire, let the oven be hot and my bread be well baked, so that I may eat of it and be strong

  To yoke my oxen.

  His voice faded into the dusk as we drove slowly homeward, and before we reached the palace the road was deep in the silver water of the moon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Spirit

  One morning before sunrise, Neyah and I went with Father to the little pavilion beside the marsh, to watch the morning flight of birds.

  Neyah had brought some tablets of baked clay, and with a reed and black ink he had drawn a flying swan in a few strokes. When I tried to draw birds they looked dead, and quite often they didn’t look like birds at all. As I watched him, I wondered why this was. We had the same parents; we were very alike; I was always with him; and the same drawing-scribe had given us lessons. And I wondered, also, why it was that, when I got angry, I wanted to throw things at people and say all that was in my mind; but when Neyah was angry, he seemed to go away inside himself, and sometimes his eyes would say all the things that his lips held back, and sometimes they would be like curtained windows.

  Father asked me my thoughts, and I told them to him. And while we were eating our breakfast of fruit, he said, “Before I can answer the questions in your thoughts, I must tell you of your spirit.

  “As I have already taught you, we are made of body, soul, and spirit. The body is the khat, the ka-ibis, and the ka. This is the outer covering of our soul and spirit, through which we gain experience on Earth, and when the body dies, the ka and the ka-ibis die also. Our soul is the ba and the nam, and these we have need of as long as our spirit must be re-born upon Earth, and that is until we have learnt to master our emotions, our thoughts, and our will. And that leaves spirit, which is the only part of ourselves that endures for ever.

  “While we are on Earth we can think of much that is permanent, and we do this every time we think of those things which the nam does not embrace.”

  I asked, “How can I be sure that something I think about belongs to the nam part of myself?”

  And he said, “All things that can be apprehended by the five senses of the body are things of form, and therefore of the nam. But you cannot see, or taste, or touch, qualities. You cannot smell courage, or hear patience, for they are beyond the limitations of form as we know it. When you think of qualities, you think of them with a part of your spirit called the za. You know the divisions of the body and of the soul, and how they are written. The za, with which we think of things that are permanent, is written as a circle with grid lines inside it, like a sieve. For just as a sieve can sift stones from dust, so does the za sift the dust of Earth, which is blown upon the wind and is no more seen, from the rocks of Truth, which endure through time.”

  And I asked Father why he didn’t write his name as a sieve; and he said it could be written so, although usually in his seal he put the reed bundle, or the snake and the arm, which were the sound signs for his name. The great Meniss had called him Za, saying that it was a good name for a ruler who could sift truth from falsehood, and so give justice.

  “The za is the first part of your spirit. The second part of your spirit is that wherein is stored the memory of every experience that you have undergone since that moment when, having gained all experience possible in the realm of animals, you are first born a human being and could say, ‘I am I’. And it is the voice of this, your own individual experience, that says to you, ‘To do this is wise; here is safety, there lies danger.”’

  I said, “Yes, Father, but I have never been bitten by a snake, and yet I fear them; and Neyah has never fallen from a height, yet he fears them.”

  Neyah started to protest, but I said, “It’s no good your trying to pretend, Neyah, I know quite well.” And he wriggled his toes, as he always did when he had to admit something, and said reluctantly, “Heights do give me rather a horrid feeling, but you needn’t have said so.”

  Father smiled and went on, “Through your many lives the two of you have undergone different experiences, and these experiences will have brought their several results. Those that were happy you will wish to repeat, and those that brought pain or sorrow you will avoid. But until you have both reached the end of the journey, there must always be those things Neyah has learnt, which you lack, and other things you have learnt, which he lacks.

  “The actions or the fears of another are easy to understand when they are the same as your own. But when one sees another do something that makes the inward voice of memory say, ‘That is wrong,’ an ignorant man would say, ‘He has sinned as I would never sin; he is beneath me and unworthy of my compassion’. But they who say this are foolish, for they have forgotten truth, even as they have forgotten themselves: for that inward voice is born of their own suffering as a result of that same fault, which they now condemn. If they listened wisely to that voice, not only would they know that their feet had once been in the same mire, but also they would remember the path that had led them back to firm ground. And in remembering the path, they would be able to point the way to the one whom they, in their foolishness, had called a sinner, but whom a wise man would have known as a fellow-traveller who, for a little time, had lost his way on the great journey. And in that knowledge is compassion; and compassion is the fruit of experience.”

  And Neyah said, “But, Father, if I see a man doing something that I know is wrong, surely I should try to stop him and not just feel compassion for him?”

  “I said compassion, not pity. By pity I mean he who goes to a sorrowing one and sits beside him, weeping; or he who, seeing a gaping wound, says, ‘Oh! the blood, the pain, I cannot bear to see such suffering’, and sits lamenting beside the wounded one; and lamenting so loudly that the sufferer’s groans are drowned in the cries of pity, which is often just self-pity that he should be brought so near to another’s pain and sorrow. But pity
is the first step to the gaining of compassion.

  “Now a man who has true compassion, if he finds one bowed down with sorrow, knows what has caused those tears to flow, and, knowing it, knows how to stem them. For he realises, and he may even remember, that he, too, has shed many tears, and in his time has thought that night was eternal and knew no dawn. He will show him that all sorrow must one day turn to joy, and when the weeping one would wipe away his tears, he will find that they have already dried upon his cheeks. And the wise man does not increase the burdens of others by the noise of lamentation, but tries to heal their wounds, or, if they are too deep for earthly help, he comforts the spirit as it leaves its tired body.

  “And so, Neyah and Sekeeta, listen to the voice of your memory. If you wish your journey to be swift, let your actions be such that in future the voice cries out, ‘This is right, this is the way’, rather than ‘Go not there, for that is wrong’. But few there are on the long journey who do not often leave the right path; for strange it is, that though a man finds his way beset with thorns, he often struggles there, because his pride will not let him admit that he has lost his way; although, if he would but listen, there are those who call to him to turn back and follow in the foot-prints they have left.

  “My children, the day may come when you will rule. Always remember that all in your country, and all people of the many races and colours that dwell on Earth, be they friend or enemy, equals or slaves, all are fellow-travellers on the same long journey, and one day they shall be with you in that great brotherhood to which all must attain.”

  Father was sitting very still, with his hands clasped round his knees, looking far away to the horizon. I think he spoke to us not as children, but as our true selves. Then he moved and said that we have been having far too solemn a conversation. And he would have talked of other things, but Neyah wouldn’t let him, and asked how the memory part of the spirit was written.

  Father took the reed from Neyah’s hand and drew a jar.… “For a jar holds fluids, which of all earthly substances are nearest to that which has not earthly form. When a man is born for the first time, his jar of memory is empty; gradually through his many lives it is filled. At first, much of that which fills it belongs to Earth, and the water in the jar is muddy. Later those things that are not part of the perfect whole still cloud the now clearer water of the jar. But when the spirit is cleansed of Earth, and has gained all experience, the muddy water will be clear, and it will be as if the jar were filled with liquid light.

  “And it is called the maat, ‘truth’: for truth is those burnished qualities that remain after the spirit has freed itself from Earth and can take passage in the Boat of Time.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My Mother’s Anniversary

  Very early on the morning of my mother’s anniversary I went into Neyah’s room and woke him up, so that we could both have another look at our present before we took it to her room.

  It was a lovely bracelet of golden moon-daisies joined together with amethyst and turquoise beads; and Nusetees the goldsmith had said it was the finest work he had ever done. Neyah had painted a little wooden box to hold it, which he had made himself. It had a border of green and scarlet stripes, and a picture of the fish-pool with lotuses and some very alive fishes.

  The mist was still rising from the swimming-pool outside her window. I had made a special poem for her, and I kept on saying it over in my head so I shouldn’t forget it:

  The garden through the cold night

  Longs for the warmth of the sun.

  The fish on the river bank

  Longs to be back in the water.

  A pigeon with a broken wing

  Longs to fly from a high branch.

  The traveller on a dark night

  Longs for the light of the moon.

  But Earth longed a thousand times more

  For you to be born on it again.

  I wished I could have found better words to tell her how much I loved her.

  Then she called us into her room. After we had kissed her, we gave her our bracelet. She said it was the most beautiful bracelet she had ever seen, and she would wear it always. Then I told her my poem. And she said it was a more lovely poem than any she had heard—even the best ones of Then-apt, the song-maker.

  She was so beautiful. Her hair was black and soft; she didn’t wear it in plaits when she slept, as most people did; sometimes she let me comb it for her with her ivory comb.

  Then Father came in and sat on the edge of her bed, and Mother told me to say my poem again for him. So I did; and he said he could add another two lines to it, for he had been a thousand times more joyful than Earth when she was born—although when he was awake he didn’t know it: for when he first saw her he was almost grown up, being six years old, and she was the very young baby of his favourite aunt, and was being carried by her nurse in the sycamore grove of the old palace.

  Then Mother said, “We can have the whole day to ourselves until the audience in the evening. What shall we all do?” And we all thought; and while we were deciding to go out in Father’s sailing-boat on the lake, I heard Natee grumbling outside the door, and I let him in. Mother told me I could bring him too, if I liked. And Neyah said, “Lions aren’t a good idea in boats.”

  And I said, “Lions are a good idea anywhere. In fact, they’re the best idea Ptah ever had.”

  Then Mother sent Neyah and me to the kitchens to choose whatever food we wanted taken down to the boat. We chose a cold goose and lots of radishes and figs; a jar of grape juice, some honey-cakes, and pomegranates, which are dull-tasting, but good if you are thirsty; and Neyah added twelve hard-boiled ducks’ eggs and some small buttered loaves. It looked an awful lot; but I said it was a good idea to have plenty of food in boats, in case a storm should arise and blow us to a far distant land. And Neyah said, “However big the storm, it wouldn’t be a very far distant land, because you can sail right across the lake in two hours with a fair wind.”

  I told him to stop being grand and trying to make exciting things ordinary.

  It was lovely on the lake, the wind was just right for sailing. We saw a hippopotamus in the distance. I’ve always hated them for killing our great-great uncle. I suppose he was really too old to have been hunting them when he was eighty-seven. He was the greatest king that ever lived, and the wisest man, and the greatest warrior.

  We saw a cloud of birds travelling north, and Father told us how in summer they went to a country such a long way away that we would never go there when we were awake. He had only been there in a dream himself. In the winter it’s all white with coldness; and there are days and days together when Ra doesn’t drive away the clouds. I hoped we should never be born in a country like that.

  Neyah and I had swimming races; he went faster, but I made much less splash. Natee was so good; he curled up in the bottom of the boat and was no trouble at all, except once he got rather excited, and then the boat wobbled about as if there really was a storm coming.

  When the sun was high, we landed on a little island and had our food under some trees. Natee was very useful; he ate up all the things we would have had to take back again.

  On the way home the wind dropped, and Father and Neyah rowed, while Mother sang a rower’s song to them, so that they kept in time.

  It was such a lovely day! I did so wish I could always be nine.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ney-sey-ra

  When Natee was three years old he ran away. For many days no one could find him, and I thought I should never see him again. But on the twelfth day he came back, followed by a young wild lioness. He led her straight to the lion court, and although she was shy of people, she followed him to his stall; and he growled and roared at any lion that tried to come near him. At first Zeb was the only person whom she would allow to approach her, but even when she got used to people she was never allowed to roam about alone.

  The royal lions were usually descended from generatio
ns that had been the companions of human beings, and it was very seldom that a wild lion was tamed, unless it was brought in as a tiny cub.

  I called Natee’s mate ‘Simma’. Just before she was expecting cubs, she disappeared. Natee was very unhappy without her. He refused to eat, and he moaned and whimpered to himself all night. Zeb told me that he thought Natee might find Simma, for he would pick up her scent, on which he dared not put the hound-dogs lest they frightened her.

  So Zeb went out at night, when a lion can follow a scent easier than in the hot sun. He would take no one with him; for he said that Simma would know his voice and follow it, while from anyone else she would run further.

  I got up very early the next morning and went down to the lion court to see if Zeb had returned. But he was still away. I walked northwards to where, beyond the cultivation, there were hills of sand by the edge of the marsh. I had been walking for about half an hour along the path where I had often taken Natee for his walk, when suddenly I saw him galloping towards me.

  He took my kilt in his teeth and pulled it as though he wanted me to follow him. Round his neck there was a strip of linen, and I saw it was marked with red. I untied it and spread it on the ground. At first I thought the mark was just a wavy line made by a finger dipped in blood. But then I saw it was the drawing of a snake, and on its head were two strokes, which meant it was a horned viper; and I knew that Zeb had been bitten by a snake and had sent Natee to bring help.

  I was nearer to the temple than the palace, so I ran there very fast, and Natee followed me. I found Zertar just leaving the courtyard. He sent at once for three litters, each with two swift runners. He said that would be the quickest way to reach Zeb, because he could not be far away, as some of the blood on the strip of linen had not yet dried hard. Zertar took with him a box of salves and a smaoo, a little animal that is quicker than a snake and plays with them just as a cat plays with a mouse—which is why they call it a snake-cat.