Reflections in the Nile

by J. Suzanne Frank

  They continued up the passageway, stopping before an enormous wall painting, fully finished and beautiful in its longing. A man and wife stood in their garden, his arm around her waist, holding a lotus to her nose. They looked out at gamboling children playing with geese and monkeys, their youthlocks swinging in the breeze of the garden. A huge sycamore wrapped all the way around the garden, from the waterfowl in flight to the delicately painted fish swimming in the pool, protecting and embracing. It was from the heart of a man who had had everything except a family life with the woman he loved. Hat was dressed in a fluted, transparent linen sheath; only the ankh in her long fingers and the vulture headdress atop her finely braided black hair gave clues to her position.

  Senmut had painted himself with enormous modesty, allowing for the age around his eyes and the slightly peasant features of his face and ears. He was dressed finely, but it was his jewelry that was the most detailed. He wore a long pectoral, and by holding the torch high, Chloe and Cheftu could read the words painted by the side of the Eye of Horus: “Protect my brother from harm; save his soul on the Shores of Night; that which he did wrong, he did for me. Weigh his heart and find it pure.”

  “She took eternal responsibility for his transgressions,” Cheftu whispered. “She loved him for all time, into the hereafter.”

  “I bet that necklace is here,” Chloe whispered, her throat choked with tears.

  “Aye,” Cheftu said, drawing her close. Breaking away from the enchantment of the painting, they followed a short flight of stairs up to the burial antechamber. It was mostly empty; a lot of the drawings were done but still unpainted. Cheftu estimated they were slightly aboveground, inside the rock. “This is incredible,” he said. “I knew Senmut was brilliant, but this is genius, pure genius.”

  They hit the jackpot.

  Turning away from several still uncut false trails, they entered the burial chamber. For the first time in her life, Chloe understood the madness of gold. Her pulse increased, her eyes burned, and for a few minutes all she thought was about how much she could take. Cheftu positioned the torches, and they stared. Life-size statues stood in each corner. One was Anubis, his collar a mass of precious stones and his body carved from obsidian with such delicacy that the tendons in the jackal's shoulders were visible. Amun, HatHor, and Hapi stood in the other corners—Amun golden, HatHor in granite, Hapi of greenstone. Each was draped with jewelry and linen so fine that it looked spun from cobwebs.

  At the opposite end of the room stood the gold-plated sarcophagi covers, each waiting for the granite one that would carry the body, before it was sealed inside the other and sealed inside again and again, like Chinese boxes for giants. There were at least twelve full-size ushabti, their bodies covered in gold, their eyes onyx. There were altars covered in enamel, gold, and electrum. The dressing table that had been Hat's when she was a princess stood to one side, covered with makeup pots and dolls, flanked by matching stools.

  Then they saw it, the object that if found, could set the modern world twirling like a gyroscope. Cheftu sat down, suddenly, in one of the many chairs. “She must have hidden it away from Thutmosis the First in his great anger and purge,” he murmured, stunned.

  Chloe knelt before it, reading the deeply etched cartouche at the base: “Hail, Horus-in-the-Nest, Prince Ramoses, Makepre, Mighty Bull of Ma'at, He-Who-Brings-Light, Favored Son of Aa-kheper-Ra Tehutimes, Thutmosis the First, Pharaoh, Living Forever! Life! Health! Prosperity!”

  She looked into the face of Moshe, prince of Egypt, deliverer of Israel. She touched the gold arm, each muscle hammered in carefully, the dark eyes rimmed in black, the collar of turquoise, lapis, and gold resting, a separate piece, on the broad golden shoulders.

  He was life-size, taller than most men, stepping forward with his left leg in perfect pharaonic style, his left hand grasping the Ankh of Life, his right holding the Feather of Truth. He wore the blue helmet of the army, the cobra and vulture jutting forward proudly, defending the body of the Hope of Egypt.

  The artist had been true to Moses’ form; his nose was sharper than most Egyptian sculptures, the chin more pointed, the eyes deep-set.

  Since the statue itself was gold, the kilt was inlaid lapis lazuli, each piece fitting exactly with its partners, laid at varying degrees and angles to give the illusion of pleats. The sash was an actual gold leather strip, its edges embroidered and beaded. The tassels on the ends were uneven, but the cartouche of his name was beautifully stitched. Chloe touched it and, marveling at its softness, turned it over. She gave a shocked squeak. Cheftu joined her, and together they stared at the childish hieratic note embroidered inside: “To my half-brother, Ramoses. May the gods bless you and please remember to feed my pony.” And then, meticulously written out in full hieroglyphs: “Hatshepset, Second Princess of the Great House.”

  “She must have almost died when she saw him in Avaris,” Chloe whispered, unable to take her eyes off the statue.

  Cheftu led her away, and they walked through an aisle between heaping piles of treasure: throwing sticks, arrows, and bows; quivers inlaid with precious stones; game boards with faces painted on the pieces, some ridiculous, some endearing; fans, flails, whisks, sandals, makeup boxes, trunks of linens; baskets filled with dried foods; dates, raisins, waterfowl jerky; cases of beer and wine, the cartouche and date from Senmut's house.

  Before them was an enormous bed, with graceful lotus cut into the feet and posts, draped in linens so soft that they felt like tissue. Two headrests lay on it, one in ebony, engraved with the cartouche of Hat, one in simple wood, unadorned but well used.

  It was like a honeymoon after a plane crash—the lovers were gone. The things were beautiful but unused full of futile hopes. For hours they wandered through, picking up things, admiring the handiwork, and then laying them down. The bodies, for which Hat and Senmut had so carefully prepared were gone. Their souls might still wander, but this artistry was pointless.

  It was too much, too poignant.

  She met Cheftu's teary gaze. “Out?”

  Taking torches, they walked back the way they'd come; squeezing through the tight holes barring their return. At last they stood in the bare chamber, clean and empty except for the extra rock on the floor and the empty water jugs. They crawled back up the ladder, breathing deeply of the clean air, and were more than a little surprised to see the sun up and blazing.

  Cheftu was last out, and he doused the torches with sand then threw them back down, closing the passage behind them. The sun was hot, but the heat brought sweat, and with a stab Chloe realized it felt good—after being in a place of pointless death, it was a comfort to feel moisture on her skin … the dead didn't sweat. They retreated in silence to the shade, content to hold and caress each other as they watched the life of the desert. Thief rolled in the sand chased the few birds, and then ran to the nearby grasslands, seeking his supper.

  Chloe leaned against Cheftu's chest, feeling the cement of their skin together, watching the brilliant blue of the sky, listening to the seven-toned cry of a hawk as he plunged to the earth, grabbed some small animal in his talons, and wheeled away, higher and higher into the blue. The days were much cooler, the colors sharper, than a month ago.

  “What day do you suppose it is?” Chloe asked, laying her head against Cheftu.

  “I do not suppose, I know. I have kept count since the day we left Imhotep. It is Tybi, about October the eighth or ninth. Time for planting.”

  “So we leave the drawings here and go to Noph?” she asked, hoping not to get an answer.

  “Exactement,” he said, kissing her hair. “We must be careful; the rekkit are returning to rebuild after the Inundation, and there will be a lot of scribes counting to ascertain what the people will pay for taxes.”

  “How do they know before the harvest?”

  “By the level of the Nile. There are elaborate charts that detail how much yield from each field in each province, and also what they will plant next season.”

  “Do yo
u miss your home?”

  He kissed her head again. “What? Miss sleeping on a couch clean kilts, a steam shave, bathing, and fresh food? Whatever for?”

  She joined his rueful laughter. “Nay, I meant working with the grapes, or with medicine, those kinds of things.”

  He sighed. “I have not thought about it. It would be torture to long for that which you cannot have, haii?”

  They sat silently, watching the day come to a close, the sky darken to a deep lapis, the calls of the animals as they either woke for the night or settled into sleep.

  “What will you do when you return?” he asked quietly.

  Chloe tensed. She didn't want to return, not anymore, not without Cheftu. However, she had been told clearly to return, and Cheftu had not volunteered to join her. “I… do not know. My sister must have been so upset this past year; I am afraid it will even be more disturbing to have me back. I wonder how I will change back to the way I really look.”

  “You do not look like this?” Cheftu asked, startled.

  “Nay. I look about as different as HatHor from Sekhmet.”

  “Haii? Like what?” His words were casual, but he was tense with curiosity.

  Chloe responded as if automatically. “Oh, you know. Long gray hair, hook nose, little piggy eyes, and a hunchback. Not bad for an eighty-four-year-old woman.” She spoke in English, and laughed aloud when Cheftu's mental translation was complete. Poor man, he was trying to decide whether or not she was serious.

  “This is a farce, correct? Besides, you cannot be older than mid-twenties, which is still pretty old.” He sounded nervous.

  She laughed in indignation and turned to him. “Twenty-four is not old. You, however, are what, thirty-one?”

  “Aye, but I am a man. What did you look like?” he said, dismissing her huff at his sexist comment.

  “My coloring is different, that is all. I have the same features, the same body …”

  “Assst, well, I am very glad about the body,” he said, touching his more favorite parts. “Were you a blonde, a brunette?” he whispered as he nuzzled her neck.

  Chloe gasped out, “A redhead, actually….”

  “With skin like ivory….”

  “White, definitely white.” More like a dead chicken, she thought.

  “May I introduce a new flavor?” he whispered into her ear.

  Blood pounded through her as she turned in his arms to kiss him. “I think we might go for a sundae.”

  “A Sunday?”

  She nipped his earlobe. “Not the day of the week. It is an ice-cream special.”

  “What makes it special?”

  She gasped at the feel of his hands, rough against her bare skin. “Three flavors, syrups, and nuts.”

  “Three?” He pulled back, startled.

  “Of course if you cannot—?”

  “Of course I can,” he commented, folding her legs. “I just clarified. I can do three.”

  “Cheftu? I, oh, I want them all to be … different.”

  The days at Hatshepsut's empty mausoleum were like a honeymoon. They sat in the sun in the morning, holding hands and enjoying the peace of life, no one pursuing them, no wounds, not starving. It was a nice change, to put it mildly. They made love in the heat of the day and slept away the afternoon. At dusk one or both of them went hunting with Thief, then shared their dinner over the fire. There was a nearby pride, and sometimes Thief hunted with them, trailing behind the lioness and her cubs.

  Lost weight was regained, energies restored; and then the day came. They had to leave. Together they walked through the tomb once more, marveling at Hatshepsut's beautiful things, standing in awe before the statue of Moses, then down and into the entry room. They sealed over the opening, and Cheftu pressed his private seal as an erpa-ha of Egypt into the wet plaster. Chloe tried to remember what Cammy had said about how the scrolls were found, and when they walked past two enormous water jars in the hallway, she knew that the final piece was in place.

  They looked through all the drawings again, and Chloe wondered if, or under what circumstances, she would see them again. With silent prayers they rolled up the scrolls, leaving the largest wrapped around the back, making it the easiest to unroll. The Exodus scroll. They leaned the jars up, brushed away their footprints, and ascended into the light once more.

  As Cheftu disappeared over the top of the makeshift ladder, Chloe told him to wait a moment Taking the last torch, she went to the opposite wall, the passageway up to where Hatshepsut's treasure house was. Kneeling in the dust, she painted her fingertip with kohl and drew her cat logo and a ladder. Ladders on tomb walls were common; they symbolized climbing to Osiris. They also meant “to move upward.” Maybe it would be the proof she'd need in the twentieth century. “Look up, Cammy,” she murmured.

  Once she was out, Cheftu moved the rocks back to hide the opening, and they took their lightened baskets and began the walk toward Waset.

  Cheftu would not let Thief go with them. They had argued for days. Cheftu said Thief was not afraid of humans, and that would get him killed. Chloe suggested a zoo. Cheftu said the nearby pride had no male lions; he could have a family. Chloe said he was a kitten and wasn't interested in females yet. Cheftu said they couldn't protect him.

  Chloe burst into tears. “He saved our lives! We cannot just leave him here, alone and forsaken!”

  “So we take him into Waset? What then, Chloe?”

  “Nay …” She rubbed her eyes, sore from her tears. Deep inside she knew Cheftu spoke the truth. She also knew what he wasn't saying. They wouldn't be here. He would be in nineteenth-century France, and she would be in twentieth-century America, and Thief would be a memory. Would they become only memories for each other? Was she also mourning Cheftu?

  “I just cannot bear to watch.”

  “Chloe …” Cheftu pulled her close. “Thief has guided us, rescued us, and helped us.”

  “He has saved our lives,” she repeated, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Aye. It is time to do the same for him.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “I know. It just hurts so bad. I do not want him to feel unloved.” She looked at the cat, sitting a few feet away, engrossed in the process of his hourly bath. As though he felt her gaze, he trotted over and butted his head against her leg. “Do you understand, boy?” she whispered brokenly. “We would not leave you, but we cannot take you with us.”

  He settled on the ground, his heavy head lying on her thigh. His eyes were closing, and he purred as she stroked his fur. Cheftu, in the process of petting Thief's neck, slipped a flax rope around it, then staked him to the stone. Thief would be able to get free, but only after they were long gone. Then the smell of people and towns would mask them.

  “Why do we have to do this?” Chloe said. “It is horrible!”

  “He's followed us from the Sinai, chérie. Do you think telling him ‘no’ would make him stay? If he gets any closer, he will be hunted. This is the only safe place, which is why the pride is here.”

  “He will be lonely.”

  Cheftu petted the lion, who was rolling on the earth, delighted with the attention, seemingly unaware of his fate. “He will mate from the pride. He is a lion, not an overgrown house cat.”

  Chloe cried harder, and they sat in the dirt, playing with Thief until he fell asleep, warm in the sun. Then Chloe rose, unable to bear any more. Thief didn't move. She put her hand on Cheftu's arm, pulling him up quietly. They stepped away, but Chloe halted after a few steps and looked back. The cat was free and alert, the end of the rope in his mouth, his furry bottom planted on the cartouche. He watched her with tawny eyes, and Chloe knew that he understood he was loved. She knew that he forgave her and he understood. A frisson ran up her back. Generations of lions, she remembered. He won't be alone. “Cheftu?”

  Her husband turned, his golden eyes filled with tears. “He knows to stay, beloved. He knows to stay.”

  So the lion, guardian angel of them and the scrolls since the beginn
ing, now heeded a higher call to stay and continue protecting: a golden sentinel to the secrets of God. The noble fuzzy knight of a hidden crusade. The first of many….

  After three days of walking, they reached the outskirts of Waset. Choosing a poorer section of town, they rented a small room. Only Cheftu went out, seeking information on a ride downriver. They ate what he bought on the street. One night after dinner, when the waterfront taverns were filling with customers, Cheftu decided to contact Ehuru.

  “You cannot! Are you insane? Thut has probably had your house under surveillance for weeks!” Chloe said.

  He put on his cloak. “Do you think they will notice a man with a beard, and hair like a woman, to be a prince of Egypt? I cannot stay here—inactivity is driving me mad!”

  “What if you get caught?”

  He froze, then turned to her slowly, his amber gaze devoid of emotion. “It is no matter. From here you just wait three more days, take up passage on the Flying Oryx, and sail to Noph. Imhotep helped us piece together most of the formula, so you can return to your own life. And leave me.”

  She got up and walked across the small room to him. “Do you think I want to go?”

  Quiet breathing filled the room. “Nay. You vowed to stay with me. I know only God could make you break your vow.”

  Chloe bit her lip. “It is not my fault!”

  “Nay, I know. I do not understand, but I know you would have stayed if you could have.” He held her close. “I just cannot imagine life without you, Chloe,” he said, touching his finger to her chin. “It is too much to ask for me to take you to Noph, to send you away. That is a love too pure for my soul. Do not make me take you there, please….” His voice trailed off, a plea for mercy.

  She couldn't yield. “I will not miss these days with you, beloved,” she said softly. “They are all I will live with. Give me golden days, Cheftu, please.”

  Chloe felt him trembling as he hugged her. “You ask for life, but to give you my death would be easier,” he whispered. Chloe stiffened, and he felt it and held her more fiercely. “You know I would never deny you anything. If it is in my power to make you happy”—he looked at her—“I will do it. However, you must allow me the peace of mind to check my home here, those I have loved who deserved better than my forgetfulness.” He was determined.