The Twice Born

by Pauline Gedge

  “Now you’re learning,” Anhur murmured as the man withdrew. “It does no harm to throw your weight about sometimes. The servants here seem very haughty to me. Not like the ones at home in Iunu. There they know their place.”

  “I think that Pabast must still be learning his,” Huy returned wryly. “Besides, we’re punished if we’re unkind to them or make undue demands. Sometimes a servant rises in the world and becomes a master.”

  Anhur’s caustic reply was lost as a man stepped out of the doorway and stood wrapping a sheet around his thick body. He too was squinting in the harsh midday light, but he managed a bow. “I had hoped to meet you at some point before you left us, Son of Hapu,” he said gravely. “I was sorry not to see you when you ate with my bevy of pupils. How may I help you?”

  “I know I’ve chosen an inconvenient moment to disturb you, Master,” Huy apologized, “but my errand is a private one and I didn’t want it shared with a crowd. I seem to attract a lot of interest wherever I go.” The words were not meant to be immodest, but to Huy’s cringing ears they sounded so.

  “That is understandable”—the Overseer nodded—“but regrettable. I believe your name is known in every schoolroom in the country, and there will be howls of disappointment if you disappear from Khmun without spending at least some time with my boys. Or with most of them.”

  The glance meeting Huy’s was astute. Huy saw with relief that this man was aware of his history with Sennefer. Of course he was. Every good Overseer of Schools made it his business to know as much as possible about the students under his care.

  “They mean you no harm,” he continued. “They simply need to hear the words that will shrink rumour down to the level of the mundane. Come inside, out of the sun.” He waited for Huy to precede him. Anhur took up a position outside.

  The small reception room was blessedly cool and dim. Beyond it Huy could see into the even-smaller sleeping room and the edge of a rumpled cot. The servant had returned to his mattress at its foot and was snoring gently. Waiting until the Overseer had sunk onto the one chair available, Huy perched beside him on the stool. Behind them the wall was covered with orderly rows of niches, each neat hollow holding a scroll; and the table, which was the only other piece of furniture, held a lamp, a scribe’s palette, a collection of ink pots, a jug, and a cup.

  “Gossip feeds on such rumours,” the Overseer said frankly, “and the more scanty the array of facts the wilder the conjecture becomes. We Overseers talk to one another by letter and once a year face to face, usually just before the Inundation, when the schools empty. So do the pupils from the various temples when they return to their homes. Your story ought to have belonged to the past by now, but unfortunately the notion that the gods have resurrected you from the dead to become a Seer has kept it fresh and exciting in the courtyards.” He folded his legs and twitched the sheet over his knees. “I do not ask you for the truth of it,” he went on. “A resurrection? Doubtful. The making of a Seer? Entirely likely, especially as you have come here at the bidding of your High Priest and to the delight of ours. Sennefer will say nothing, which only fans the flame of speculation, but I wish that before you return to Iunu you could speak in the schoolroom regarding why you are here.”

  Huy had listened to him with mounting distress. “Master, I am not responsible for the things said about me in idleness!” he broke in. “Nor am I obliged to run about Egypt putting out those flames! I am here to study the wisdom of Thoth and nothing more.”

  The Overseer cocked an eye at him. “You are implying that it is my place, mine and the teachers’, to cast the sand of common sense upon this fire,” he said dryly. “Well, I suppose I can say that I have heard the reason for your visit here from your own mouth, that you are indeed training to be a Seer under Mentuhotep and other High Priests, and that though grievously wounded you have recovered fully and there is no connection between the attack on you and any scrying gift you may possess.”

  “And Sennefer has said nothing?” Huy managed.

  The disappointment on the Overseer’s face was fleeting. “Nothing. He walks away when your name is mentioned. He will not mix with those of his own age but has a few friends among the younger pupils.” Huy thought of Samentuser and the little boy’s slavish devotion to Sennefer. “He makes it clear that he does not want to be here,” the Overseer told Huy. “But as you must know, the affair of his attack on you came to the attention of Governor Nakht, who took it to Pharaoh himself for a judgment. Sennefer was expelled from Iunu at once by High Priest Ramose. Sennefer’s father, the governor of the Nart-Pehu sepat, wanted his son transferred to the school at Amun’s temple in Weset, but the One refused to allow it. As well as removing Sennefer’s right to bear the throwing stick, he ordered him here, to Khmun. Our teachers can do little with him. He is very bitter.”

  But perhaps his bitterness has nothing to do with his punishment, Huy thought suddenly. He must know that the penalty meted out to him was just. No, he smoulders for a very different reason, one I can well understand.

  “I would like to speak to him, with your permission, Master,” Huy said carefully. “I want to ask him for forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness!” the Overseer exclaimed loudly. “What for? Were you not his victim?”

  “Because of Sennefer I have prospered,” Huy said, a lump in his throat. “My education is assured. Because of him I have come to the attention of the gods, who have seen fit to endow me with a gift. Sennefer sees his guilt, but he also sees that the consequences of his impulsive cruelty have lifted me out of the dust of Hut-herib forever. I want him to understand that none of it was of my choosing, or his. Not really.”

  The Overseer did not reply. His gaze went to the square of bright light in the doorway and the view of green grass and blue sky beyond. One finger began to tap thoughtfully against his whiteclad knee. Then he cleared his throat. “I will grant your request, providing you meet Sennefer here, in my presence. Notwithstanding the son’s disgrace, the father is an important man and will not take a further insult to his honour lightly. This affair has already shamed him enough. Do you agree?” Huy nodded.

  The servant appeared and went away, and before long the Overseer emerged, this time clad in a soft sheath belted with thin white leather and wearing the band of his office on one upper arm. He did not resume his seat. He stood just inside the doorway, breathing easily, his shoulders squared, and Huy could sense the mantle of his profession settling over him. Nothing was said. Huy, his heart fluttering, tried to compose the right words to say to Sennefer, but his mind remained blank with tension. A slight breeze stirred the folds of the Overseer’s linen, but it was hot and brought no relief from the stifling afternoon.

  At last the doorway darkened. The servant entered, bowed to the Overseer, and left again. Sennefer also bowed. He was barefoot and had tied his kilt too loosely in his haste. His youth lock was untidy, an unbraided tangle drifting down past one ear, and kohl had smudged from one eye onto his temple. “I am sorry for my appearance,” he said. “I was asleep when your servant woke me, Master. What …” Then he saw Huy sitting on the stool. “I might have known!” he shouted. “I did not hurt you yesterday, Huy, yet you run to tattle to my Overseer! Am I to be punished again?” At the sound of his voice a shadow darkened the doorway. Anhur’s bulk blocked out the daylight.

  “Control yourself, Sennefer!” the Overseer said crisply. “Huy has said nothing about any event yesterday. He has asked to speak with you, that is all.”

  Sennefer’s gaze went from one to the other, then fastened on a point somewhere below Huy’s chin. “He said enough in the passage yesterday,” he said sullenly. “Have you come to add something more to my future ruin, Huy son of Hapu?”

  Huy could see the effort he was making to keep the sneer out of his voice because of the presence of his master. The Overseer’s head snapped to Huy at the words. He had opened his mouth and Huy, dreading the question being formed, rose quickly and confronted Sennefer’s angry face. “No,”
he said. “No, Sennefer. I have nothing to add to that except to beg you to change it if you can. But I am ashamed of the spite with which I said it. Such callousness is not worthy of me. Nor were your insults worthy of you.”

  “Worthy?” Sennefer snarled. “Worthy? What right have you to this self-righteousness? I flung a throwing stick at you in a moment of impulsive hatred, and ever since it has been travelling through the air, turning over and over endlessly in my mind, tormenting me with its motion because I cannot call it back. I am imprisoned by that instant, whereas you …” He gulped, his chest heaving, and Huy saw that he was near to tears. “For you the moment passed into triumphs greater than a peasant could ever have imagined. Your whole life has become a reward for that one small loss of restraint—a reward that you did not earn! You had no right to be at school in the first place, mixing with your betters, prancing about with the son of the Governor, showing off an intelligence you surely did not obtain from your dullwitted, common family!”

  “You were jealous of me,” Huy said. A pain had begun to grow in his stomach. “Oh gods, Sennefer, if you only knew how desperately I long to return to that day you wounded me so that I might choose to take another way back to my cell with Thothmes, so that I might go on with my studies in peace and eventually become no more than an underscribe!” He pressed a hand to his abdomen, where the pain was growing. “You can let go of that moment if you want to. You can forgive me for everything that has happened to you. But no matter how much I want to be the boy I once was, I don’t have that choice! Please believe me when I say that the things you call a reward are a curse! Please forgive me and understand!” To his horror he realized that he had begun to cry.

  “It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not,” Sennefer said thickly. “The damage is done. I did it. You did it. I am guilty of an outward act of violence for which I have been outwardly punished whether I am able to put it behind me or not. But where does your true guilt lie, Son of Hapu? Who will dare to punish you?” He swung clumsily to the Overseer. “Dismiss me, Master. The sleep is almost over and I need to wash.” He did not wait for the small gesture the Overseer eventually made; bowing, he left, pushing his way past Anhur and running over the dry grass.

  Huy collapsed onto the stool and bent over. A cup was thrust into his hand. He drank the water thirstily, handed back the cup, and, lifting his kilt, wiped his face.

  “Are you satisfied?” the Overseer inquired. “Is there any word that might help me and his teachers deal more kindly with Sennefer?”

  Huy shook his head. You agree with him, he thought suddenly. To you I am an upstart, and moreover I am to be envied for my gift. Perhaps feared also. He looked up and saw his thought mirrored on the Overseer’s face. “I thank you for your indulgence today, Master,” he said, rising and bowing. “I am sorry, but I am not able to address your pupils. Tell them what you wish.” He left abruptly, glad to feel the sun strike his head, to have the comfort of Anhur’s presence beside him, to be aware of the slow easing of anxiety in his stomach. “I want to be a boy again, Anhur,” he blurted. “I am very lonely.” The soldier did not reply, but his hand descended briefly on Huy’s shoulder.

  They returned to Huy’s cell, he to his couch and Anhur, with a grunt of relief, to his pallet. The hour of sleep was over. There were voices in the passage beyond the cell and a general stirring of feet, but Huy, exhausted, did not care. No one would bother him, he knew; the priests had their duties and Mentuhotep, if he sent for Huy, would believe he was meditating in privacy. My guilt lies in the choice I made at Imhotep’s feet, Huy thought, but surely I cannot be punished for such innocent arrogance. I am already paying a price. I remain a child by law for the next three years, and yet already I carry a weight only the priests can understand, and even then their discernment is limited. I am alone. It is not self-righteousness, Sennefer, it is self-pity that fills me today, even as it consumes you. Tomorrow I will ask for the commentary. I will discuss it with the High Priest, I will send for Amunmose, I will make my prostrations to Thoth, and then I will go home to Iunu. In spite of his swollen, itching eyes and the faint ache still troubling his belly, he slept.

  To his relief he did not have to steel himself to demand the commentary, for when he was admitted to the High Priest’s office the following morning he saw the casket already open on the desk and a linen-wrapped scroll beside it. Mentuhotep greeted him and bade him sit. “You look unwell,” he commented. “Your conversation with Sennefer yesterday upset you. I know all about it—the Overseer reported to me what was said. Being so close to the one who harmed you is doing you no good, Huy. I think I will try to have Sennefer transferred to another school before you return here to study the fourth part of the Book.”

  Huy looked at him in horror. “Oh, Master, please don’t do that! Sennefer did not disturb me as much as I disturbed myself. If you know what was said, then you know why. Is he to be punished forever?” His end is dire, Huy wanted to add. Leave him alone to enjoy what life he has left. But he shrank even further from discussing his gift with Mentuhotep than he had with the Overseer. It would be like lifting his hair and revealing the ugly scar on his scalp to someone whose interest might be sordid.

  “Well, I shall read the reports on Sennefer’s progress and behaviour while you are away and make my decision based on them,” Mentuhotep said heavily. “If he becomes more unmanageable after talking with you, then he must go. No one can heal another’s soul, Huy, and you were wrong to try. It was arrogant of you, and if, as I suspect, Sennefer was not ready to hear what you had to say to him, his condition will not improve. Your need to say it is entirely irrelevant.”

  The High Priest was right, Huy knew, and his reprimand stung, but he kept silent.

  “This is the commentary.” Mentuhotep touched the scroll. “Like the second part of the Book, it is very short. I don’t think that you will find it helpful.” He handed it to Huy, who unwrapped it slowly, laid the linen on the desk, and unrolled the papyrus. Instead of leaving, Mentuhotep settled himself in his chair. Huy wished that he would go away.

  The script was familiar, written in the same hand as the commentary of the first part of the Book. No breath of Paradise imbued it, no Ished scent, and it felt more fragile than the Book itself under Huy’s nervous hands. Disappointment flooded him as he read.

  Yet the Light cast a shadow,

  grim and terrible,

  which, passing downwards,

  became like restless water,

  chaotically casting forth spume like smoke.

  “But this has nothing to do with Atum making transformations!” he cried out, lifting both hands so that the scroll rolled up with an audible rustle. “It is no help at all! Where are the Twos and Fours and Eights?”

  Mentuhotep leaned across the desk and deftly removed the papyrus. “You must be more gentle. It is quite brittle.”

  Huy laid his folded arms on the smooth surface before him and his head sank onto them. For a long time the room was quiet. Both were still, Huy with his eyes tightly closed and Mentuhotep watching him, breathing easily. Finally Huy stirred and, to Mentuhotep’s surprise, slid onto the floor with his knees up and his hands entwined across his chest. “I cannot treat this part of the Book as separate from the first,” he said dully. “I must go back to the beginning. Atum enters the First Duat, that is, he wills himself to change. He becomes—what? ‘Let us call Spirit pure energy—but it is known to us only as light.’ Therefore Atum becomes Light. He becomes Ra-Atum. Ra-Atum.” He turned his head and peered up at Mentuhotep. “That’s why the Ished Tree is in Ra’s temple at Iunu, isn’t it? Because the very first transformation was from consciousness, to will, to Light.” He did not wait for any confirmation but went back to staring at the ceiling. “‘Yet the Light cast a shadow,’” he murmured. “How is that line in the commentary tied to the words of the second part of the Book? And if the first part is correct, and Atum is alone and he becomes Light, then how can he cast a shadow? There was nothing for the
light to fall on and make a shadow.” Ignoring Mentuhotep’s exclamation, he rubbed at his forehead. “Yet the first part clearly states ‘Let us call light First—but it is known only through darkness.’”

  “It has always seemed to me like blasphemy to attempt to dissect these holy things as though we were slicing open a body in the House of the Dead,” Mentuhotep put in. His voice was unsteady. “Yet the end result for a body is beautification. It is not blasphemy for you, Huy. It is your task. Are you aware that light does indeed cast a shadow without an object to stand in its way? I had not considered it until now. I had accepted the birth of chaos as a deliberate act of Ra-Atum.”

  Huy sat up, swivelling to face the High Priest. “Tell me how!”

  “No one knows how, but if you hold a piece of new white linen very close to the flame of a candle, stretching the linen so that there are no folds, a faint shadow with no cause can be seen. It is a mystery.”

  “So is this,” Huy returned wryly. “So Atum becomes Light, and in doing so he casts the shadow of which you speak. And according to the commentary the shadow is like restless water, chaotic, black, smoking. Does it take Ra-Atum by surprise, do you think? Did he know what would happen if he transformed himself into Light? No matter.” He was frowning, eyes glazed in concentration. “He sees the dark turbulence of his shadow. What does he do? He calms it!” Huy’s expression cleared. He beamed up at the High Priest. “Of course! ‘I am One that transforms into Two,’ and so on and so on, but because the shadow is still a part of him, Ra-Atum can say at the end, ‘After this I am One.’ But the Two and Four and Eight, the way he calms and orders his shadow, what are they?”

  “I know,” Mentuhotep said calmly. “He begins to conceive the cosmos, within the shadow. Frogs, Huy.”

  Huy blinked. “Frogs?”

  “Every priest and every pious Egyptian knows this. Four pairs. Two into Four into Eight. Each pair comprises a male and a female, to draw towards one another, to make harmony, to strengthen the ordering of the chaos within the shadow where one alone, or two males, would not. The male hypostasis is symbolized by a frog, the female by a snake. The Nun is the primeval waters and Naunet its female counterpart. Huh and Hauhet—endless space. Kuk and Kauket—darkness. Amun and Amaunet—what is hidden. So the shadow is put in order, and Atum remains One.”