Huy nodded. Thin wisps of grey smoke were beginning to curl up into the motionless air and Huy sniffed at them appreciatively. The odour was not sweet. Neither was it bitter. It reminded Huy of the sticky sap that sometimes oozed from the sycamore fig growing in the garden, but that was not right either, for this was richer and gentler and other strange smells were combined in it. The priest saw him craning to inhale it with eyes half closed. “You have not smelt frankincense before?” he inquired. “Your parents do not bring you to the shrine on Khenti-kheti’s feast days.” He sighed. “This incense is only used on very special occasions, Huy. It is expensive because it comes from far away behind the mountains where there is never any rain. In the mighty temples of Iunu and Abtu and Mennofer the gods may delight in its fragrance every day.”
“I am to go to school at Iunu after the flood,” Huy blurted. He liked this man’s gentle manner. “I don’t want to go. I’m scared.”
The priest set the incense carefully on the stone floor and bent close to Huy, laying a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. “Of course you don’t,” he agreed. “You are safe at home. Everything is known to you. Every person, every room in your house, every corner of your garden. And what is Iunu? It is the name of a place you cannot imagine, full of people you have never seen, where strangers will tell you to do things you think will be beyond your power. Is it not so?” Miserably Huy nodded. The hand moved to his chin. “But you will go, little Huy, because you are not a coward, and because although you do not yet know it, Iunu is full of interesting things to see and do. You need not fear anything but the pictures you make in your head, the ones that try to tell you how unhappy you will be. They do that, don’t they?”
Huy looked up into the friendly face. “Yes,” he whispered. “They do.”
“Well, they are partly right.” The man straightened. “You will be very homesick for a while, and everything will seem too big and too confusing, and you will feel very small and unimportant, but that will not last long. Then something wonderful will happen. You will begin to learn the secrets of the great god Thoth, and everything else will fall into place.”
Huy’s eyes grew round. “What secrets?” he demanded.
The priest retrieved the incense. “Set your bag on the floor,” he said, and taking Huy’s fingers he closed them around the long holder. “Keep it level,” he warned. “Because this is your Naming Day you are privileged to be an acolyte. The secrets of Thoth begin with a mastery over the sacred hieroglyphs he gave to Egypt so that we would not be crude and ignorant like the animals but would learn the graces of dignity and nobility and thus be fitted to sit under the Ished Tree in Paradise.”
The holder was not heavy, but it was long and required careful balancing if you were only four years old. Huy held it out in front of him with both hands. “Master, I don’t know those words,” he protested.
“I speak of the knowledge of reading and writing,” the man explained. “You will learn these marvellous skills at Iunu, and you are most fortunate to be able to do so. Knowledge is power, Huy. Don’t ever forget what I tell you. I want you to make me a promise.”
Breathless with this exciting interpretation of something both his parents had described as not only commonplace but also alarming, Huy stuttered, “A … a … all right.”
“I want you to write me a letter as soon as you are able. My name is Methen. Will you do that?”
The prospect of being able to write his own name, let alone a whole letter, seemed as improbable to Huy as waking up one day to find himself sprouting wings, but he nodded vigorously. “I promise.”
“Very good. And what is my name?”
“You are Methen, priest of Khenti-kheti at Hut-herib.”
Methen laughed. “Excellent. Now we will pray.”
Opening the door to the shrine, he prostrated himself before the figure that had been revealed, came to his feet, and began the prayers of thanksgiving. Huy repeated the words automatically as he scanned Khenti-kheti’s image with fascination. It was not very big, no bigger in fact than Methen if it had not been standing on a pedestal. Its tiny black eyes regarded him thoughtfully. Its long jaw was slightly open, revealing a red tongue and white-painted, rather vicious-looking pointed teeth. Huy would have liked to feel one with a finger, just to see how sharp it was.
By the time the priest had finished the prayers, Huy realized guiltily that he had been saying the words without trying to understand their meaning. Methen took back the holder. Hastily Huy stepped forward, laid the bag containing the offending skittles at the foot of the pedestal, executed a clumsy kiss in the direction of the painted feet, and withdrew. Methen carefully tapped the remains of the incense and charcoal into a nearby urn, stood the holder against the wall, bowed to the god, and taking Huy’s hand he backed out, closing the sanctuary doors behind them.
The sunlight in the outer court was dazzling. Solemnly Huy came up to his waiting parents. “I have decided to go to school after all,” he told them haughtily. “I am going to learn the secrets of Thoth.” Their gaze fled to Methen, who appeared to be leaning on his staff of office. Hapu raised his eyebrows.
“We have had an absorbing conversation, Huy and I,” the priest said. “All about the marvels of Iunu and Thoth’s gifts to our forebears.” There was a subtle warning in his tone. “Your son seems eager to explore both. You must be very proud of his enthusiasm.”
Hapu moved forward and placed a small coil of copper on the man’s palm. “For the indulgence of the god,” he murmured. “I don’t know how you did it, Master, but we are very grateful.” With a short bow he turned away, Itu and Huy behind.
“How is it,” Itu remarked in aggrieved tones, “that a stranger can accomplish what we could not? Do you think he cast a spell on Huy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Itu!” her husband snapped. “Why would he bother to do such a thing? He does not know us at all.”
“Well, he did something,” she muttered under her breath. Hapu heard her but chose not to reply, and they went on their way in silence.
Hapzefa had set out a feast composed of Huy’s favourite foods in the shade of the garden. Bowls of chickpeas, slices of watermelon, salads of lettuce and cucumber, and cold fried inet-fish lay invitingly beside fresh dates and figs, newly picked grapes, and succulent sweet doum fruit. Huy pounced on a dish of ribbed pods. “Bak seeds! Is Uncle Ker here?”
Hapzefa tapped his hand away. “Of course, or how would the seeds get here? What a strange child you are, mad to crunch up those pungent things! He and your aunt are in the orchard. Did you make a proper obeisance to the god, or did you squirm and grumble under your breath? Your father has included Ishat in your celebration meal. Be nice to her, Master Huy. Here—keep the flies away from the food while you wait. I must unseal the wine.” She thrust a fly whisk at him and hurried away.
For a while Huy amused himself in trying to accurately knock the insects out of the air just as they were about to settle on some chosen morsel, but the lure of the bak seeds proved too strong. His mouth was still full of the sweetly bitter radish taste of both pod and seeds when his uncle and aunt came through the gate leading from the orchard. He rose to greet them as his aunt flung herself upon him.
“Huy! Darling Huy! So you are four today! The gods have answered our prayers and kept you safe for another year! Give your Aunt Heruben a big kiss!” Obediently, Huy allowed himself to be crushed to her fashionably bejewelled bosom, kissing her cheek while inhaling her perfume, which he liked. His mother had told him that it was the most rare and expensive perfume his uncle made, a blend of imported cinnamon, myrrh, and cassia in a base of balan oil, unlike the simple aura of lilies Itu carried around with her. Ker provided Itu with that popular perfume also, and Huy loved it because when it drifted into his nostrils it meant that she was near. But Aunt Heruben smelled of faraway places, and that was almost as good.
Hapzefa reappeared carrying a tray, and behind her came Itu and Hapu, who presented Huy with the traditional bou
quet of flowers. “We give you life, dear Huy,” Hapu said.
Huy buried his face in the cool blooms. Everyone loved him, and somehow the priest Methen had taken away his fears. Contentment filled him, and he beamed at them all as they sought the cushions scattered about. “I’m a lucky boy, aren’t I, Mother? Can I have wine today?”
Everyone laughed. Hapu nodded and Hapzefa bent almost double to offer him the tray. “Date wine, grape wine, or shedeh?” she asked. Beside the cups a square of spotless linen was folded. Hapzefa indicated it with a jerk of her head. “And that is my gift to you,” she went on. “I sewed it myself.”
Huy pulled it off the tray and it shook out to reveal a little shirt with yellow ankhs embroidered around the scooped neck and down the front. “Like gold,” Huy said, standing so that he could wriggle into it. It felt soft against his skin. He shrugged his shoulders experimentally. “I really like it, Hapzefa. Thank you very much.”
Seeing his genuine pleasure, the servant grunted. “Well, try not to get it dirty, and don’t wear it if you’re going to lie in the soil by the pond. What wine do you want? Are you ready to eat?”
He chose grape wine although he liked the pomegranate better. Adults drank a lot of grape wine and today he felt as though, with the anniversary of his Naming Day, he was much closer to being grown up himself.
He was allowed to fill his plate first, which he did with a child’s omnivorous appetite, chewing and sipping with serious concentration, taking care not to spill anything on his new shirt, and he had almost reached the point of satiation before he realized that he had not once thought about the gifts he knew his relatives would have brought for him. They were talking quietly with his parents about amounts of seed to sow, and the plague of dock leaves and wild oats that had infested the flower beds last season from a careless local farmer’s neglected fields, and the reasons for the poor crop of mandrakes. Huy lay back in the grass and dreamily watched the play of light and shadow in the leaves above.
Someone landed beside him. He could sense who it was before he turned his head to find Ishat rapidly filling her plate. Hapzefa had tied back her long black hair with a red ribbon. Her bony shoulders were hunched as she bent forward over her short kilt and bare, scratched toes to snatch pieces of fish and slices of cucumber. Huy sat up. “Ishat, you are late and I can’t hear Hapzefa objecting.”
Her strong white teeth bit a half moon from a sliver of melon. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I know,” she replied. “I was wading out in the flower fields with Father while he checked the dikes, and I tripped and fell. I muddied my kilt.” She lifted it away from her knees. “I had to wash it and it’s still wet. My other one was too stained to put on. I found a present for you, though.”
“You did?”
She shook the melon juice from her fingers and attacked a fig. “I wanted to keep it for myself, but I’m a nicer person than you, Huy, so I decided to let you have it.” At three years old Ishat was already no stranger to the instinctive combination of goading and enticement that constituted coquetry. “But I won’t give it to you if you’re going to try and drag me around by my hair when the others have gone inside for the afternoon sleep.”
Rapidly Huy looked her over. Nothing could possibly be hiding on that wiry little body. “I hate you, Ishat,” he hissed. “You are mocking me again.”
“No I’m not, but you can wait until I’ve finished eating,” she retorted. “Did Mother set out any date juice? She won’t let me drink wine.”
Huy grudgingly responded to the hint, passing her his cup. She drank greedily, wrinkled her nose, licked the purple rim from her lips, and pulling a lettuce leaf from under the remains of the chickpeas, set it on the grass by her hip and continued her meal.
Huy did his best to appear uninterested, but his curiosity was aroused, and by the time Ishat finally dabbled her fingers in the bowl of warm water already clouded from the hands of the adults and dried them on her kilt, he was preparing to be nasty. She seemed to sense that she had pushed him as far as she dared. Reaching beside her, she set something on the lettuce leaf and, balancing it carefully on her hand, held it out to him, eyes fixed steadily on his face. “I wish you happiness on your Naming Day,” she said solemnly.
Huy saw the gleam of it first, a sheen of bright colour that coalesced as it came closer into a golden scarab beetle, its smooth carapace as richly hued as the sunlight glancing off Aunt Heruben’s thick gold bracelet. With a gasp of wonder he took the leaf and stared down at the dead creature’s tiny golden head, its golden legs almost as thin as the whiskers on an ear of barley, the way in which other colours seemed to glint deep within it as he turned it to and fro.
“I found it floating on the flood,” Ishat said with a studied casualness. “My father told me that scarabs are very rare here in the Delta. They like to live in the desert. He said it would bring me good luck, but I said Huy needs it more than I do, seeing that he has to go away to school. I was right about that, wasn’t I?”
Huy looked across at her. “Thank you, Ishat,” he said thickly. “It is the most perfect present. I promise not to be mean to you ever again. Mother, look! See what Ishat has given me!” He held out the lettuce leaf for the admiration of the gathering.
Ker leaned close. “It is a great omen for both of you. Ishat for finding it and you, Huy, for receiving it on this special day. Keep it safe.”
“Be careful with it,” Hapu added. “It will dry out quickly and become brittle. Do not handle it too much.” Huy could not resist touching its warm silkiness, broken almost imperceptibly by the division down its back under which its wings lay invisibly folded.
“I did a very unselfish thing,” Ishat pointed out complacently. “The gods will reward me.” At any other time such a statement would have earned her a reprimand from whichever adult heard it, together with a vicious pinch from Huy, but today no one disagreed.
Huy nodded. “You can have the last bak seed pod,” he offered, and Ishat took it with all the lofty entitlement of a queen.
The gift-giving that followed was something of an anticlimax and Ishat knew it, watching smugly as one after another of Huy’s family produced the proofs of their homage. Hapu had made his son a sennet game, painting the squares on the board himself, gilding the cones and making the spools look as though they had been fashioned out of ebony. “This is an absorbing and magical game,” he told Huy, “and you are old enough to learn how to play it. There’s a drawer under the board itself where you can keep the pieces, together with the sticks that are tossed to determine each move. They resemble fingers. That was your mother’s idea.”
Huy thanked them dutifully. Indeed, his eye was caught by the vivid colours his father had painstakingly used, but all the time he was opening and closing the drawer experimentally and rolling the cones around on his palm he was aware of the scarab resting in the grass by his knee.
His aunt and uncle gave him an ivory monkey with a thin copper wire protruding from the top of its head. When it was pulled, the monkey clapped its paws together with a clinking sound over its smooth, rotund belly. Ishat exclaimed at it in awe, but Huy, although he expressed his gratitude, found it a little frightening. He did not think that he wanted it sitting beside his cot in the darkness, and the stuff from which it was carved felt cold as he held it. “Ivory comes from the land of Kush, far to the south,” Heruben offered. “It is taken from an enormous animal called an elephant.”
“Is it the bones?” Huy wanted to know. The idea was both distasteful and exciting.
“In a way,” Ker answered for his wife. “Ivory grows out of the animal’s head, to either side of its mouth. It has a long, long nose that reaches to the ground.”
Huy tried to imagine such a thing, and shuddered at the grotesque picture his mind had conjured. For politeness he tugged on the wire a few times and the monkey tinkled its response.
Itu sensed his distaste. “It is one of Thoth’s baboons, clapping to help the sun to rise,” she said. Hu
y set it down. Beside the scarab’s iridescence it looked sickly and dull.
Ker presented him with a small cedar box. On its lid, delicately inlaid in silver, was an image of the god of eternity, Heh, kneeling and holding in each hand the notched palm ribs that denoted millions of years. The subtle aroma of the wood filled Huy’s nostrils so that he put his face closer to it. His uncle’s ringed forefinger interposed. “See, just above the god’s head, the hieroglyphs strung between the palm ribs? That is your name, Huy. I and your aunt wish you many years of health and prosperity. If you lift the lid, you will see several small compartments. They are for the things you most want to keep safe and perhaps draw out in times to come to remind yourself of a person or an event in your past. As yet you have very little past,” he finished gently, “but when you are an old man like me, such objects will be precious to you.”
“Thank you, Uncle Ker,” Huy said fervently. “The first thing I will put in it will be my golden scarab. Hapzefa will give me a piece of linen to rest it on.” Ishat squirmed approvingly. The other adults laughed with indulgence. Huy stared down at the three symbols that meant his name and decided to get out his paintbox in the morning and practise writing them on the door of his room. Then I will already be ahead of the other boys at school, he thought happily, and my teacher will be pleased with me.
The Twice Born Page 3
