Reflections in the Nile

by J. Suzanne Frank

  Cheftu looked excited she thought. “Is it far enough away from Egypt?” she asked with a frown.

  “I believe it is. We will be between the gates of Egypt and the valleys of Canaan. I have not seen any other signs of habitation.”

  Chloe sat up; the water was revitalizing. “Then let's go.”

  She was still weak from her strange dehydration experience, and Cheftu half carried her as they walked around the edge of the promontory. The cat frolicked in the sunlight, chasing real and imaginary creatures. The Red Sea stretched out northeast and southwest of them, sunlight glinting in its clear depths, reflecting the turquoise, green, and lapis waters.

  Cheftu took his knife and stood in the water, the gentle waves caressing his shins as he waited still as a statue. The cat curled up by Chloe's leg and stretched out, the lighter-colored fur of his belly exposed to her soft petting. His purring grew so loud that Cheftu looked over his shoulder in dismay. When Chloe pulled her hand away, the cat pranced off to the water's edge, running back in fright from the oncoming waves and shaking off the water drops that sprinkled him. Cheftu remained motionless, and Chloe watched the line of shade change as the sun passed toward the west.

  Then, in a splashing fury, Cheftu stepped out of the water, a wide grin on his face and the palpitating body of a large, beautiful fish in his hands. The cat, smelling dinner, ran to his side, and they walked toward Chloe, both beaming with pride. She looked up in horror as Cheftu handed it to her.

  She sat back, hands behind her.

  “Prepare our dinner.”

  Chloe looked at him, stung by the imperious tone of his voice. “Why should I?”

  “Because you are a woman. The man catches the dinner, the woman cleans and prepares it.”

  “Not this woman,” she said with a wrinkled nose. “It smells and it is gross.”

  Cheftu crooked an eyebrow at her. “So I am to provide us fully with food? Will you allow me to serve you?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm, and Chloe could tell he was rapidly losing patience. But suddenly it was too much—too much change, too much stress, too different. She just couldn't take it.

  “I did not ask for you to serve me! I can look after myself! I do not want your stinky fish!”

  He stared at her, his already dark skin deepening with anger. “As you wish, madame.” He sketched a bow and walked back to the shoreline. After a confused backward glance at Chloe, the cub scampered after Cheftu, following the food.

  “Traitor,” Chloe muttered, getting to her feet. She grabbed her basket and walked away, rounding the jutting land, until she saw the place Cheftu had found. It did look perfect. She looked at the surrounding low cliffs. The trees were still decked in green growth—apparently the locusts had not made it here. The small beach was crescent shaped, the sandstone cliffs providing a windbreak and hiding places. She already saw that the area was honeycombed with caves. Several palm trees clumped together marked the high tide. With the azure sky, the clear sea, and miles of golden sand, this was paradise.

  Seeing it alone and in a funk took some of the glow of discovery away. She stepped into one of the caves facing the water and set down her stuff, looking carefully for animal tracks and scat. There didn't seem to be any, so she pulled out her cloak and lay down. Sleep came quickly.

  Her first thought was that she must have died and gone to the Grand Sunday Brunch. The aromas were heavenly! With effort she opened her eyes in the darkened cave. Outside, the sun painted the water in pink and orange; already a cooler breeze blew.

  She smelled a fire and heard Cheftu singing … not the Egyptian songs she knew all the words to, but “Frère Jacques.” Chloe laughed and rose to her feet, wrapping the linen around her as she stepped outside. The man must have been a Boy Scout, she thought, amazed.

  He'd built a fire and was broiling the fish. If the cat got any closer, he was going to be a fireball, Chloe thought. His little eyes were narrowed against the flame but unmoving from his objective. She could see the edges of the flame, where the bread was cooking, and saw a parcel of papyrus, close to the edge of the fire. “This is a masterpiece,” she whispered.

  Cheftu looked at her, across the fire, his face unsmiling. He broke off singing. “Thank you. Where is yours?”

  Chloe looked at him in surprise. She'd been temperamental earlier. Not very nice. Okay, a witch on wheels, as Mimi would have said. However, pride reared its ugly head. “I have yet to catch it.”

  “You are welcome to share our”—he indicated the cat—“dinner. The oysters are chilling in that pool over there—” He pointed toward the tidal pools south.

  Haughtily she stepped away. “Nay, but I thank you. I will do my own.” She walked toward the shore, trying frantically to remember how to catch crabs. She'd done it only once, but it had been pretty easy. All she needed was bacon. She stopped.

  Unfortunately they were fresh out, so what would substitute?

  Cheftu called her for dinner, but Chloe refused to turn. She was being immature, she was being ridiculous. Unfortunately she just couldn't stop. She whirled around when he touched her. His eyes were dark, almost brown in the fading light. His voice was low, velvety, and caressing. “Come, ma chère. Let us dine together in our new home, haii?”

  She ground her teeth. “Nay.”

  He licked his lips and looked away. “Why not?”

  “Because you think I am a burden. I can take care of myself.” Her tone of voice was ludicrously defensive, but she didn't care.

  Cheftu's words were measured. “I apologize for …” He looked away and then back. “Damn it, I do not apologize! There is nothing wrong with asking you to participate! I hunt and you clean and cook, or the other way. I do not mind cooking, but we must work together! Now quit this childish, infantile, ridiculous behavior and come eat dinner before the cat …” His expression froze, and he repeated, “The cat,” before he ran back to the fire. Chloe heard his shouts across the beach and saw him in pursuit of his dinner, now fleeing on golden paws. His frustrated curses rose in the air, and she saw him throw up his hands.

  A few minutes later she walked toward him. He was seated on the ground, back to her, face against his braced arms. “Cheftu?” He didn't move or acknowledge her. She laid a hand on his neck, feeling the muscles bunched and tightened in knots. She dropped to her knees and began to massage out the kinks. They sat there as the darkness became complete, Chloe gentry ridding his body of its tension, Cheftu turned away and closed off. She could feel the slight ridges of his burn scars and the muscles and tendons that had carried her, ministered to her, rescued her so many times. She should be grateful.

  Instead it rankled.

  She didn't want to be the weaker partner! All her life she had been able to compete on almost any ground with any male. It had been hard, yes, but she'd earned their respect, even from the hotshots in her class, and it made her stronger. Cheftu had never seen anything other than her weeping and fainting and being sick and weak. She dropped her hands. She couldn't handle an unequal relationship. She'd had too good of an example of an equal one growing up. Her parents were so in love and so equally dedicated to each other that she sometimes felt they hadn't needed children. Father worked in obscure Middle Eastern countries, and Mom excavated them and threw fabulous alcohol- and pork-free parties.

  Chloe loved Cheftu body, soul, and mind but could not and would not live with him without his respect. How could she win that from a nineteenth-century man? Even ancient Egyptian women had more power and freedom than the women he had known in his own time. No matter how long he had lived here, those first sixteen years were French. She knew well enough that you could take the child out of the country and its customs but never fully take the customs and country out of the child.

  She sighed and turned her back to Cheftu, hunkered down, and stared out at the approaching tide. She heard a loud rumbling and realized with embarrassment that it was her stomach.

  “We still have the oysters,” Cheftu said tiredly. Apparently he'd
heard it, too.

  “I will get them. Which tidal pool?” Chloe asked as she got to her feet.

  “The third on the right.”

  She crossed the rocks, counting the tidal pools. The moon was rising, a sliver in the sky but enough to show her the large pile of oysters. Cheftu must have been diving to get this many, Chloe thought as she placed them in her shredded gown. She stumbled back to the fire.

  It was a roaring blaze, and Cheftu had uncovered the bread. The papyrus packet was open, and Chloe saw that the herbs and wild onions within it were steamed and crunchy. With the knife she began to pry open the oysters, jabbing herself several times and swallowing her curses.

  The oysters were delicious, the taste far different from that of the chemically engorged ones Chloe had eaten in her own time. They wrapped the herbs, mostly a wild garlic chive, into unleavened bread and ate with gusto, passing the water skin back and forth in silence.

  Chloe's stomach felt as tight as a drum when they finished, seated among the empty oyster shells and the dying fire. They had not spoken a word, and the cub had not dared to show his face. Cheftu was distant, avoiding her gaze, sitting with his shoulders hunched, staring out to sea. Chloe yawned for the seventh time and got to her feet, taking handfuls of shells with her. Cheftu noted her movement and looked away again. In three trips she had thrown all the shells away and come back for her blanket. “Will you put out the fire?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  She stood a moment, seeing the wreck her temper had made of the evening. He'd tried so hard. “Good night.”

  “Aye.”

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  He glared at her for a moment and answered again, his voice heavy and tired. “Aye.” Chloe stared at the fire a moment longer, then walked toward her cold and lonely cave. She lay for hours, shivering, while Cheftu sat beside the fire. After a while the overpowering smell of fish surrounded her, and she heard a sandy tongue cleaning fur. After an exceptionally long bath, the cat curled up in the crook of her knees and fell asleep. She caressed his head with her fingers, delighted that his purrs could soothe her soul so well. Finally she slept.

  Unfortunately, nothing had changed in the morning. They were still distant. They ate stale bread, and Chloe again craved a cup of coffee. Even instant would have been appreciated. The cat had been gone when she awoke, cold and stiff. The sun rose rapidly, sending much needed warmth through Chloe's body, but still her heart was cold. Cheftu didn't even look at her.

  He'd washed at some point, she noticed. His hair was neatly tied back from his face, his beard and mustache clean. He'd scrubbed out his kilt and tied it in place with a narrow leather thong. His legs and arms were scratched and nicked, but he was still sexy. Chloe had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd done this last night and felt horrible all over again. He rose to his feet, staring across the water, his words clipped. “I will make us some bricks for a dwelling and will catch a bird for our noon meal.”

  “Agreed,” Chloe said meekly. “However, I will fix dinner.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and walked off toward another cave where he'd stored his gear.

  She got up and doused the fire, wishing she had a clue what to do. Tears inched down her face, and she buried it in her hands, sobbing. Moments passed, then she felt Cheftu embrace her, his strong arms holding her close and tight. “Do not cry, beloved. We will survive. I will take care of you.”

  She pushed him away. “I do not want you to take care of me! I am acting like a child, and I am disgusted with myself! But I cannot stop!” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I want to be your equal! I cannot stand it that you think I am weak and useless! I am not RaEmhetepet!” He reached for her again, and she turned away, crying into her hands. The cat brushed against her ankle, his purring a balm. Still crying, she picked him up and held him close, her tears falling into his fishy fur.

  Cheftu said slowly, “I am confused, Chloe. I have never had this sort of responsibility. Your life is a gift, and I must guard it carefully.” He snorted in derision. “I have never lived without servants—not here and not in France. I only know how to provide for myself because of hunting trips and the army.”

  He turned her, lifting her chin with his finger. “Unfortunately, I do not know how to give you security. We are living on the edge of the desert; I have no idea where. We dare not go to an Egyptian because I am banished and you should be dead. If we go to the tribespeople in the desert, they will kill me to marry you. Anywhere we go to trade, we will be noticed”— he smiled grimly—“because of our eyes, if nothing else. My only thought is to hide you, protect you, try to form some type of life for us. Then take you back to Egypt and get you to your own time,” he said wearily.

  “I am not your responsibility, Cheftu,” Chloe said. “I am my own.”

  He looked at her, fully, for the first time that morning. “I know very well that you can provide for yourself, but you are my responsibility because you are my heart. I cannot eat unless I know you also receive nourishment. I cannot sleep without your body next to mine. You are a gift to me because I love you. For no other reason. No other commitment or tie. Because you are my soul.”

  He looked away. “You do not understand. You think I see you as a possession, as a belonging, or a pet, to take care of because I ‘own’ you—” His voice broke. “I can never own you, Chloe. You are free to leave me any time you wish. You are free to make whatever decisions you will. I will see that you are safe to make those choices.” His look met hers, tormented. “Allow me this, Chloe.”

  She turned away, ashamed and humbled by his words. She wanted to hold him to her, but the gap seemed so wide. They were all each of them had. Her head throbbed with unanswered and painful questions. After a while Cheftu touched her hair in a soft caress. “Be safe, my precious one,” he said and left. The cat bolted from her lap and followed, leaving Chloe alone under the soaring blue tent of the sky.

  She worked all day, first clearing the fire area, then cleaning the largest cave with a palm-frond broom. When a large group of birds settled on the beach and on the acacia trees above them, she took her painted throwing stick and went hunting. After two hours she had two birds and an unlucky brown furry thing that had run through the grass by the trees. She'd leave that for Cheftu to skin. With mixed pride and revulsion she hacked the heads off the birds, pulled out their feathers, and cut them open.

  Then she barfed up breakfast.

  Uncertain as to her next step, she threaded them onto a stick and suspended them above the fire. Blood sizzled as it hit the rocks below. Chloe guessed they would take a while, so she went for a swim. The water was glorious, warm, and cleansing, washing the days of grime from her body. When she got back on shore her fire was surrounded by big, ugly birds, who were tearing at the flesh on the spit. Shouting, Chloe ran toward them, angry that they would ruin her hard-won dinner.

  By the time she reached them they had flown away, taking the dead brown furry thing as well. Chloe looked into the sky: the sun was on its westward journey, probably about three hours to dusk. Determined, she grabbed her throwing stick, kohled her eyes, put on her kilt, and set off to kill dinner.

  The sun was setting by the time she was seated next to the fire, three birds now stuffed with sea scallops, twisting merrily over the heat. She'd been sick again when she'd cleaned them, but the growling of her stomach had helped her get a grip on her queasiness much more quickly.

  Keeping an eye on the fire, she went into the largest cave, taking some of the palm fronds and laying a bed dais that was softer and more cushiony. She'd found a squarish rock and set it by one side of the bed, then lit some incense to clean out the room's previous owner's smells. In the small cave where she'd slept the night before, she stored the food, or the little that was left, hanging the bags on broken branches to protect them from predators.

  She'd even woven some fronds together for rather large and unwieldy plates. Then she waited. And waited, hunched in her cloak, as the moon rose.
The cub came back first. She turned to see the sketchy outline of Cheftu's body scrambling down the cliff side. He walked to within range of the firelight, his body and clothing covered in muck. Handing her a fistful of speckled brown eggs, he looked approvingly at the fire, then went to wash.

  The plates made him smile and they gave thanks quickly as they had done since joining the Apiru, then tore into the stringy, overdone bird. There was more than one cooked feather, but Chloe thought that all in all, it was edible food. Cheftu must have agreed—he sucked the bones dry and broke them open for the cat to eat the marrow.

  “We need to name the cat,” Chloe said conversationally.

  “Given his eating habits, ‘Thief’ would be a good name, and appropriate,” Cheftu answered as he pulled one of the unsucked bones away from the bundle of fur.

  Chloe grinned. “I was thinking of something more petlike, since he seems to want to stay around.”

  “How about ‘Miuw’?”

  “I am not going to name a cat ‘Cat’! He deserves more, don't you, my precious,” she crooned at the purring animal.

  “Bast?”

  “That's almost as bad as ‘Cat.’”

  “How about Ankh? I mean, he did show us the fresh water and saved our lives.”

  “Just like an angel,” Chloe mused.

  Cheftu scoffed. “If he is an angel, the rules are quite different than they were in my time!”

  “Because he stole your fish?”

  “Exactly. He also stole my noon meal. It is his way of life.” They looked toward the cat as he sat on his hindquarters, licking his belly clean, limp as a rag and more closely resembling a panda than a cat.