by Scott Peters
The door shut behind her. He stood there, alone, unable to remember how this house had ever felt like home.
Leaving the bread untouched on the table, he headed for the west field.
The farm workers moved in the steady rhythm that came from generations of training. For them, it was just another year in a long line of years. Nothing had changed and nothing ever would. The harvest would end. A new season would begin.
Not for Ramses. That comfortable world no longer held a place for him. No matter how hard he wished, he couldn’t find a way back in.
Sobek greeted him with a broad smile. "Don’t tell the men—but we’re making good headway. We’ve cut a lot."
"We’re going to be able to make your share?"
"Long as we keep going like this, we’re safe," Sobek replied.
Ramses nodded. They just had to keep up, and Aunt Zalika wouldn't kick Sobek and Hebony out. "Thank the gods."
Ramses headed for the section indicated by the farm manager and began to work at a steady pace. Despite staying awake all night, he felt wound up. The morning sun seared his back. It promised to be a scorcher.
"Sobek!" Uncle Hay called from the house. "Come here. Bring Ramses. Now."
Uh oh. Fear prickled over Ramses. Hay must have seen the shed.
A short distance away, Sobek shot Ramses a puzzled look.
Ramses swallowed, but said nothing.
Sobek headed over. "I wonder what your uncle wants?" Cupping his hands, he shouted to the other workers. "Keep moving. We clear this section by midday."
All the exhaustion of the sleepless night dropped on Ramses like a weight.
Uncle Hay tapped his sandaled foot as he and Sobek approached. He didn't look angry. Instead, he looked triumphant.
"Sobek, you’re in the kitchen today," Uncle Hay said, fists resting on his bulging hips.
Sobek bristled. "You want me to cook?"
Everyone knew about Sobek's skills in the kitchen. His father had been a cook in a wealthy household. Sobek had learned to bake light, airy cakes and rich fig puddings. He could roast a duck to perfection, with crisp golden skin and tender meat that made your stomach rumble.
"Zalika’s orders." Hay smiled, as if he'd won some longed for prize. "She's paying Sepi’s new tutor to teach, not to die from Hebony’s cooking."
Sobek winced.
Hebony tried hard, Ramses thought, glaring at Hay. Maybe she wasn't the greatest cook, but she kept the farm prosperous through her skilled account keeping.
Sobek said, "Do you want to lose the harvest? I’m not your personal chef."
"Oho! Getting a bit big for your tunic there, aren’t you? I don’t think my workmen out there will notice one less person."
Sobek wasn't 'one person', he was the farm manager. Ramses’ mouth gaped. Was Uncle Hay a complete idiot? He wasn’t just the manager, either; Sobek was built like an ox. Everyone knew he cut more wheat in an hour than the rest cut in a day. And what about Sobek's share, and Zalika's threat? How could he meet her demands unless he worked in the field?
"Your workers are good men," Sobek told Hay. "But with no master and what little you pay them, they’ll be snoring in the shade by noon."
"Your self-importance is getting on my nerves," Hay said.
"The harvest needs all hands. Walk the fields yourself and see."
"And I say it doesn't. Looks to me like the men are doing fine."
"Right now. Yes. But when they're finished that section, then what?"
"Anyone with eyes knows what to do."
"It's not that simple!" Sobek said.
"I know what you're thinking, you don't want to come inside and do real work. Where you have to answer for your time. Well you can't pull that on me."
Clearly there was no way to make Uncle Hay understand.
Sobek's hands tightened, and his rough cheeks colored. He looked ready to explode. The two men faced each other. Ramses could almost hear the scarab beetle scuttling across the earth at his feet.
If Uncle Hay was unaware of the power behind Sobek’s fists, he was dangerously close to finding out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A hot breeze stirred. Ramses watched Uncle Hay and Sobek face off.
Finally, Sobek let out a disgusted snort.
Without a word, he turned and strode for the kitchen.
Uncle Hay grinned. "As for you, scrunge-brains, your aunt wants you to clean the tutor’s bedroom."
"It was cleaned this morning!"
"She found dust on the windowsill."
Then tell her to dust it off! Ramses wanted to shout.
But like Sobek, he could say nothing; only do as he was told.
The morning wore on. The sound of scrubbing and the smell of Sobek’s cooking made a mockery of the farm. It hadn't been enough to wipe the non-existent dust off the sill. Aunt Zalika had ordered the walls washed. She'd come to oversee Ramses’ work, and now stood at the window.
"It’s about time he brought that bed," she said.
Bed? What bed? What was she talking about?
Ramses craned to glance past her narrow shoulders. Outside on the drive came a ragged boy dragging a carved-frame bed on a sledge. As if sensing them watching, the boy glanced up. To Ramses’ surprise, the delivery boy’s eyes were wild with excitement.
Aunt Zalika shouted, "You’re late. I paid for morning delivery."
The boy ignored her scolding. He dropped the sledge and waved his arms. "Lady! Come quick!"
"How rude," she muttered, then, shouting, "What is it?"
"You have to come!"
Clearly Aunt Zalika didn’t enjoy being ordered around, especially by a furniture maker’s servant. But her curiosity must have gotten the better of her. "Stay here," she told Ramses, and hurried outside.
When Aunt Zalika reached the boy, he started babbling and gesturing with his arms. Ramses strained to hear, but was only able to catch snatches of words. Then the boy pointed across the fields—straight in the direction of the painted shed.
Ramses felt dizzy.
His aunt’s cheeks turned crimson.
He had to hear what the boy was saying! Tearing through the house, he reached the dining room window and hid behind the curtain.
"I’m telling you," the boy said, "it’s a huge crowd. They’re gathered around that old building in the field."
Ramses broke out in a sweat.
"On my property?"
Flea-dung! How could he have been so stupid? Why hadn’t he washed the drawings off?
"What are they doing there?" she demanded.
"Like I said, I saw them from the road. It was pretty obvious something terrible happened. I bet I know what it is." The boy lowered his voice. "I bet it’s a dead body!"
"A dead body? Someone left a dead body here? How dare they?"
He heard her run off, heels clacking.
"But where do you want this bed?" the boy called.
Ramses clenched his fists. Should he go after her? He had to stop her. But how?
Horrified, he sped outside and ran across the courtyard.
"Hey!" the delivery-boy said, cutting him off. He latched onto Ramses’ arm.
"Let go. What do you want?"
"Don’t go talking all high and mighty at me!" the boy said, eyeing Ramses’ grimy fingernails and tattered kilt. "Help me move this bed."
"Move it yourself. Third door on the left." He started after Aunt Zalika.
"I can't do it myself. It'll bang up the walls. And I'll blame you for it."
Ramses let out an angry breath. He ran to the sledge and started unlashing it.
Sepi stuck his head out of his window. Dark circles ringed his eyes. Grinning, he said, "What’s the big excitement?"
"By the gods, Sepi." Ramses threw down the ropes and pressed his hands into his eye sockets. Again, he remembered his cousin's warning when they'd sat together in Ramses' cell. "She found out."
"My mother?" Sepi’s smile faded. "About last night, you mean? How?"
The two friends stared at each other.
"Don’t tell me you actually left it all covered with . . ."
Ramses nodded.
"Covered with what?" the delivery boy cried. "What are you talking about?"
"Well don’t just stand there," Sepi said. "Stop her!"
Ramses bolted. He tore across the fields.
Ahead, a huge crowd had gathered. Men from the neighboring fields stood in clumps, all talking at once. He recognized Kontar, a gruff man who owned the next farm over. Ramses crept up and hid behind his back.
The members of his own crew posed up on top of the mound next to the building, looking important. And beside them, staring at the wall and gritting her teeth, stood Aunt Zalika.
The paintings looked larger than he’d remembered. Many times larger. In fact, they were huge.
Kontar whispered, "It’s amazing."
"Who do you think made it?" the farmer beside him asked.
A third said, "I never did see something so real. Makes my hair stand on end, it does."
Kontar said, "I saw Pharaoh on the river once. That looks just like him."
"Maybe one of Pharaoh’s artists made the thing, you know, just passing through like. And he needed to keep his skills in order?"
"Are you gogglers deaf?" shouted Aunt Zalika. Her face was purple. "I said leave!"
Kontar sighed. He called out. "I don't understand, my lady. What’s the harm?"
A man who’d been chewing straw pulled it from his mouth and shouted, "Bet you didn’t even know this old shed was here."
This got a laugh from the others.
"Enough. It’s my land!"
"It may be your land, Zalika," a second man said, "But this is a miracle. I’m a simple man, I lead a simple life. And I’ve never seen something so beautiful. I want my wife to see it. And my children. This is a gift of the gods."
"Gift of the gods?" Her eyes flashed. "This is vandalism!"
The straw-chewing man said, "It’s drawn in charcoal. Don’t like it? Wash it off."
"I don’t like you talking to me. I don’t like your face. I don't like you trespassing!" She snatched up a scythe and advanced on him, the blade singing.
The man shoved backward. Others did the same.
Ramses found himself suddenly exposed.
Aunt Zalika froze. "You," she hissed, tightening her fingers around the blade handle.
Everyone turned to stare at Ramses.
"You mean—" Kontar shot him a look. "You drew this, boy?"
Here was his only chance. He stepped forward and started to speak.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
All eyes were turned on Ramses. Aunt Zalika plunged downhill toward him. He backed away and quickly appealed to the crowd.
"It’s true, they're mine," Ramses told them. "I’m practicing for the—"
She seized him by the neck. "Him, draw this? Don’t be fools!"
"For the exam," he managed. "At the Place of—"
She clamped her fingers over his mouth and smiled. "What a joker he is."
Ramses’ own field crew frowned. Over the years, they’d seen his drawings in the sand, and they looked doubtful at her words. For a moment, he felt sure they'd defend him.
A man opened his mouth. He glanced at Zalika. All that came out was, "Better get back to my work."
One by one, the others began to leave. Meanwhile, the men from the surrounding fields started to laugh, Kontar along with them.
"Very funny!" one shouted. "He really had me!"
"Yeah," shouted another, "Him? Draw this? And I’m a prince of Egypt."
Zalika smiled.
Ramses struggled free. "Please," he begged Kontar. "You have to help me!"
"Boy, this is between you and your mistress."
The crowd dispersed, shaking heads, smirking.
"You there," Aunt Zalika shouted at one of their last departing crewmembers. The man—Kepi was his name—tensed his shoulders. "Fetch me a bucket of water. And be quick about it."
"Yes, ma’am," Kepi said, relief clear in his voice.
When he returned, Aunt Zalika said, "Don’t look so sullen, I don’t bite. Now splash it on the wall!"
Kepi sent out a drenching spray. Pharaoh Tutankhamen and the legion of gods slid into confusion.
"At least one person knows their duty. You may go back to work."
With a grunt, Kepi hurried away, leaving Ramses to face Aunt Zalika alone.
A vein bulged at her temple. "No one makes a fool of me on my farm."
He dodged as she kicked the heavy bucket at him. He jumped aside.
To his surprise, she doubled over in pain and grabbed her sandaled foot. Her face was white and her lips were peeled back. She sucked her breath in and out and clutched her toes. She appeared to be seeing stars.
Finally, she let out a yowl. "I’ve broken it! Ow, my foot! This is your fault! You’ll pay for this, river scum," she gasped. "Help me back to the house."
Ramses was surprised at the weight of her sagging body. Aunt Zalika’s perfume couldn’t mask the rank smell of sweat that dribbled from her armpit, onto his shoulder and down his chest.
She recovered as soon as they reached the barn.
Shaking him off, she loped inside. She reappeared, holding a whip, and wearing a jackal’s grin.
"Hands on that rock," she ordered. "This time, I’ll fix you for good."
He glared at her.
Aunt Zalika cracked the whip across his neck. "Hands on the rock!"
Ramses staggered forward. The lash caught him across the neck a second time. Aunt Zalika forced him to kneel and open his hands.
For an instant, Ramses stared down at them. Then the lash came down and tore away a layer of flesh. He couldn’t breathe; his chest froze in a gasp. Down the lash came again, and a third time, flaying the skin from his palms. With a shout, he pulled his hands away. The lash tore into his knuckles. He saw blood, and saw the lash rise again.
Huge fingers closed around Aunt Zalika’s forearm.
"Enough!" Sobek said. "You’ll make the boy useless. There’s work to be done."
Aunt Zalika’s face twisted into a sneer. "Of course. Anyway, I think he’s learned his lesson, right Ramses?"
In answer, Ramses retched at her feet.
Sobek led him the roundabout way to the kitchen.
"We’ll fix you up good as new," Sobek said.
Ramses nodded, staggering along, his limbs damp and shaky.
"I’m sorry, my friend," Sobek said.
"I was stupid," Ramses managed. He opened his fingers. The sight was shocking. "But I’ll live."
Sobek grunted. To Ramses’ surprise, a tear shone on Sobek’s rough cheek. A moment later, the scorching air shriveled it away.
In the kitchen, Hebony was busy cleaning flour from a table. Half a dozen neat loaves of bread stood ready for baking. When she saw Ramses, her face paled. She rushed to his side.
"What have they done?" She pulled him close and let out a smothered sob. "By the gods, your precious hands!"
Ramses didn’t dare look at the mess of torn flesh. Somehow he thought that if he didn’t see it, he could imagine it wasn’t as bad. She quickly went to work, her face a stony mask. Cleaning supplies came out. Towels were dipped in warm water. Soon the horrible sight was hidden under pure white bandages.
"Better get going," Sobek told Ramses. "Zalika will be looking for you."
"To the field?" Hebony said. "He can’t work like that."
"Sure I can." Ramses held up his throbbing hands. "Good as new."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ramses was proud of his scythe. It was shaped like a donkey’s lower jaw. Instead of teeth, it had serrated flint glued tightly into the grooves. The scythe cut wheat with ease. Workers eyed it with jealousy, claiming it was too heavy for him.
He ignored them. He wouldn’t part with it for all of Pharaoh’s gold. It had belonged to his father, and besides, the weight made his
back strong.
Today however, its weight bit into his bandages. He grunted, trying different handholds. Each seemed more useless than the last. The linen wrappings sprouted red, wet stains. As the hours passed, the swelling grew unbearable.
Sobek appeared, holding a dripping cup. "Drink this."
The liquid tasted bitter. He drained it and handed back the cup, now blood smeared.
Sobek took Ramses scythe. He gestured with it at a shady spot. "Take a rest. Cooking's done. I'll take over."
"What about Aunt Zalika?"
"She went to the harbor with Hay to meet the boat from Memphis. Sepi’s drawing tutor comes today."
Ramses brightened at the news, but his head pounded too hard to do it real justice. Under any other situation, he'd argue with Sobek. He didn't want anyone doing his work. Now, he was thankful for a moment of rest. He headed for the shade, sank down and closed his eyes.
The end-of-day gong woke him. He pushed to his knees and winced at a splitting sensation in his palms. Fresh blood surged through the dried bandages. His tongue felt thick and dry. He needed water. Desperately.
A neatly cut section showed where Sobek had been, but the big man must have returned to the house. Ramses decided it was time he did the same. He licked his lips and stumbled back.
Beneath the roof’s eaves, four fat water jars sweated in the shadows. He shook as he poured himself a cup and brought it to his lips. Before the cool drink wet his throat, Uncle Hay appeared and dashed it to the ground.
"No resting until you’re finished. And you’re not finished."
Ramses stared at the water, soaking into the dirt.
From somewhere down the drive came the crunch of footsteps, accompanied by soft laughter. Aunt Zalika rounded the corner, talking. Beside her walked a dark-haired man, impeccably dressed and smiling.
Ramses forgot his thirst.
The famous drawing tutor was here. Right in his courtyard! Until now, he’d been an imaginary thing. But seeing him made it suddenly real. A professional all the way from Pharaoh’s white-walled city of Memphis. His formal kilt had an amazing number of pleats. He carried a satchel made of leopard-skin, along with a matching tube-shaped container that must contain drawing scrolls. They lent him a worldly air unlike anything Ramses had seen.
