The Field of Reeds (Imhotep Book 4)

by Jerry Dubs

  Akila and Imhotep walked silently, their shoulders softly bumping into each other, reassuring themselves of each other’s presence.

  Ninety-two million miles away an immense sphere of colliding hydrogen and helium protons sent streams of energy that rippled across space to wend through the air that surrounded Akila and Imhotep. Below them, grains of quartz and feldspar and traces of long-dead volcanic eruptions scattered as they walked through the sand.

  Off to their left, cells formed themselves into trees and weeds while bonded molecules of oxygen and hydrogen swept past carrying algae and fish and silt dragged from deep in Africa.

  Imhotep saw the trees and the bright sand. He smelled the floating, flowering lotus blossoms and he smelled the salt of his own sweat. He heard the river brush against its banks and his own feet scuffing along the trail.

  His eyes and nose, his ears and tongue and his skin absorbed the aura of the Two Lands, but his heart was unmoved. He felt only facts. His heart no longer had room for beliefs.

  No magic remained here for him.

  “What kind of god ... ” he began, then stopped to regather his thoughts, scattered like a flock of frightened pigeons.

  Akila squeezed his hand.

  “No, that isn’t the question, is it?” he said, jabbing his staff against the hard packed trail. “The question is, who would want to believe? Who would persuade themselves, who would allow themselves to be persuaded to believe in a god who can’t prevent evil? What kind of weak, ineffective god would that be?”

  Akila squeezed his hand.

  “Or who would persuade themselves to believe in a god who could prevent evil, but simply chose not to? Who would want to believe in a god like that? What’s the use?”

  “It isn’t a question of logic,” Akila said softly, although she knew that he already understood and that he was trying to find a way to expel the anger and pain of losing his daughter.

  “I know, I know,” Imhotep said. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to go about proselytizing atheism, trying to change history. Although, how different would our world be if civilization had evolved past religion?” He scowled, angry at a world that gave more weight to superstition than science, that glorified beliefs rather than accepting facts.

  “Hitler wouldn’t have had an excuse to annihilate Jews. And the Jews wouldn’t have had a reason to expel more than a half million Palestinians so they could take their land. Religion! God’s will!

  “Just think, no crusades. No moral reason to wipe out the Aztecs. No excuse for slavery. And I don’t know anything about what went on through the years in Africa or Asia. But it can’t have been any better than in the Mideast and Europe and the Americas.”

  “Maya was loved, Tim,” she said, pulling him away from his rant. “Pentu adored her and she adored him. Neferhotep loved her and respected her. Maya and her mother shared a strong bond. And she worshipped you, almost as much as you did her.”

  Imhotep bowed his head and sighed.

  “She had a happy life, an exceptional life,” Akila said. “All lives end, Tim.”

  He nodded. “I know, Akila. I’m just ... I don’t want to keep losing the people I love. I feel like a piece of my heart dies each time. I want it to end.” He stopped walking and stared at her, his thoughts forming around a conclusion.

  “I want to die before anyone else that I love dies.”

  Before Akila could object, footsteps pounded up the trail, drawing their attention.

  Turning, they saw a winded messenger slow to a stop. He knelt and then said, “Lord Imhotep, Queen Satiah is in labor!”

  The Days Upon The Year

  Menwi woke to the sound of oxen grunting and snorting.

  Slipping from her bed, she ran across the warm stone floor to her window that overlooked the enclosed garden of Hut-ka-Ptah in Men-Nefer. A dozen priests carrying long switches were herding oxen toward the sloping entrance of the sacred pond.

  The beasts were brown with wide heads and curving horns as long as Menwi’s forearm. Moving reluctantly, the oxen entered the pond. Some of the priests untied their shendyt kilts and laid them aside to wade into the water with the oxen. Others cleaned the ground the oxen had littered with heavy, wet droppings.

  The priests who had waded into the water began to wash the oxen with linen cloths, scrubbing their heavy flanks, rinsing their backs, wiping their curved horns and even — making Menwi laugh into her hand — lifting the tails of the beasts to clean them there.

  As they worked, the priests chanted softly, but the groaning of the oxen and the splash of the water obscured the prayer.

  “They are preparing the oxen for sacrifice at the festival.”

  Recognizing Neferhotep’s voice, Menwi turned quickly from the window. Although she had seen him pass by her room two days ago, Menwi hadn’t spoken with Neferhotep since they had arrived in Men-Nefer three weeks earlier.

  He had been busy, consumed by duties and worries about his mother, but Menwi was sure that he was intentionally avoiding her.

  She smiled now as she looked at him. He was freshly shaved, his head and bare chest gleaming with oil. As always, his shendyt was clean and immaculately pressed, the lines and hanging ties arranged just so. She knew that if she approached him she would be able to inhale not only the fragrance that was Neferhotep, but also a subtle scent that would evoke trees or mountains, reminding her of home.

  She wondered if he chose the aroma to make her less homesick or if they shared a love of the essence of the world that lay beyond the reds and blacks of the Two Lands.

  “Festival?” she asked, wondering how she appeared to him. Has he kept his distance because he finds me unappealing or has he stayed away because he finds me irresistible?

  Smiling at the wishful thought, she felt herself blush.

  “Yes, Queen Menwi,” he said, staying by the chamber entrance. “The Festival of the Estate of Ptah. It marks the end of the year. Then we will celebrate the five days upon the year.”

  She shook her head and furrowed her brow. It was an expression she had practiced before her bronze mirror, a narrowing of her eyes and slight crinkling of her nose. Merti told her it was curious and appealing.

  “We don’t have the days upon the year,” Menwi said, turning her back to him, pretending to study the oxen in the sacred pond.

  Hearing his soft footsteps approaching, she felt a chill sweep over her arms and back.

  “The five days upon the year,” he said, his voice thick and halting, “were created by Khonsu. You see, Re worried that the love Geb felt for Nut would create a child who would take his place. So he forbade them to lie together during any day of the year.”

  She turned to him, her eyes on his face, her mouth aching to taste him.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said, her eyes searching his.

  “The god Thoth knew that Geb and Nut loved each other and ached to lie together,” he said, averting his eyes.

  She nodded. Is he Geb? Am I Nut?

  “And?” she prompted.

  “Wise Thoth sought to help them without violating Re’s command. So he played senet with Khonsu and, after defeating him, persuaded Khonsu to create five new days. Because they were created after Re’s edict, Geb and Nut were permitted to be together. But only during that time. Those are the days upon the year.”

  “And those days are approaching?” She asked too eagerly.

  He swallowed heavily and nodded. The slight movement stirred the air and Menwi closed her eyes as the scent of his oils reached her.

  “Yes, Queen Menwi. Geb and Nut were allowed to lie together during those days.”

  She opened her eyes. Has he moved closer?

  “So these five days, they lie beyond command of the gods? All of the gods?” she asked, tilting her head up to his.

  They stood for a moment, their eyes holding each other, their breath mingling, and then Neferhotep took a deep breath and stepped back.

  “None of us can escape the command of the g
ods,” he said. “Not the gods who created the river or the sky or the sun. Nor the god who sits on the throne of the Two Lands.”

  “But,” she said, reluctant to let go of the hope, “how do we know the commands of the gods? Do they not speak to our hearts?”

  He lowered his eyes.

  “First Priest Puimre asks that you and Queen Merti accompany him during the festival and the celebrations of the five days.”

  “You will be there?” Menwi asked.

  “I honor and obey the gods,” he said, trying hard to drain his frustration from the words.

  ***

  Merti’s eyes grew wide and she pressed her lips tightly to forestall a smile. Without turning her head she looked at Menwi to see her reaction. Feeling her sister’s gaze, Menwi jutted her chin out, stiffened her back and tried to look as regal as she could. But she felt a smile sneaking onto her lips.

  They were seated on gold-gilded chairs atop a low platform in the massive courtyard of the Temple of Ptah. First Priest Puimre sat beside them, his monstrous weight supported by a wide, wooden chair with thick legs.

  A crowd milled about the courtyard, jostling to get a better view of the open space directly in front of the platform where eight priests had just lowered a wide, wooden frame. The frame was eight inches deep and filled with soil, molded into the shape of a man.

  “Osiris was the first child of Geb and wife created during the five days upon the year,” Puimre said to the girls, whose eyes were unable to leave the soil figure of the god, which was sprouting light green wheat shoots. “His brother Seth killed him and cut his body into sixteen pieces. Isis found them all except his penis.”

  Merti glanced at Menwi to see if she was laughing, but her sister suddenly seemed very serious.

  “Isis brought Osiris back to life. The wheat growing from his body represents his rebirth, and the rebirth of the Two Lands when the river brings us the black soil from beyond Ta-Seti,” Puimre said. “But, as I said, Isis could not find her husband’s penis because it had been eaten by a carp.

  “And so Isis created a golden penis for her husband,” he concluded, explaining the shining protrusion that rose from the soil shaped to form the god’s loins.

  Merti raised her hand to hide her smile. Menwi, brushed her little sister’s shoulder and looked past the supine figure of the god to find Neferhotep. When she had captured his attention, she slowly moved her eyes to the shining member of the god.

  Following her eyes, Neferhotep blushed. Quickly he looked away, then, gathering control, he looked up to the dais. Menwi had turned and was listening intently to First Priest Puimre. As he watched her, she turned her head slightly and glanced at him, her eyes bright with happiness.

  ***

  “After Seth killed Osiris he claimed the throne of the Two Lands. Osiris’ son Horus contested the claim and the two gods fought for forty years,” Puimre said the next day as he and the two queens watched the courtyard fill with the worshipers, especially the fishermen who depended on Seth to fill their nets.

  He waved a hand at the statue of Seth that stood in the center of the courtyard as the celebration of his birth began on the second of the days upon the year. Brought from his temple in Nubt, deep in the Two Lands, the statue was nearly as tall as two men and covered with gold from the mines in the desert east of the city.

  Formed as a man carrying an ankh and a was-scepter, Seth’s strange head was painted black.

  “What is he?” Merti whispered to Menwi.

  Menwi shook her head. “First Priest Puimre, what kind of animal sits on his shoulders?”

  Puimre twisted as he adjusted his weight on the chair. Then he pointed to the statue. “He is the Seth animal,” he said. “No one knows where he got a curved snout, or the long, triangle-shaped ears. He has always been represented like this.” He motioned to a servant. “Bring me a cloth,” he said softly. “My back feels wet.”

  He turned back to the queens.

  “He is a god, a god who holds back the desert, a god who sails with Re through the night, protecting him in Duat. Perhaps he was deformed during his forty years of battle with Horus. Perhaps the desert sand and wind forced his change. Perhaps a curse from Isis.”

  When the servant arrived with a cloth, Puimre leaned forward and the boy patted the priest’s broad back.

  Grunting satisfaction, Puimre sat back in his chair. “Where was I?” he asked himself. “Oh yes, the fight between Horus and Osiris.”

  He looked at Menwi. “The gods fought for forty years. Eventually the other gods grew weary of the war.” He turned his head and raised a hand to a servant who quickly brought him a cup of beer. Puimre took a long drink of it, wiped his lips with his free hand and held the cup out for the servant to refill.

  “Eventually, Seth was ordered to stop fighting and to relinquish the throne to Horus, who sits upon it now. Seth was given two foreign brides. They apparently didn’t mind his strange appearance.” He chuckled, realized that he was speaking to two foreign wives and quickly stopped laughing.

  “The foreign brides were goddesses of course. One was named Astarte.”

  “I know her,” Merti said excitedly, happy to show the priest that she was more than just a young queen. “She is goddess of war.”

  Puimre nodded. “Yes, she is, Queen Merti,” he said, happy that the queen had not been offended by his comment.

  “Who was the second goddess?” Menwi asked.

  “Anat,” Puimre answered, “a daughter of Baal.”

  “Anat? Truly?” Menwi asked, her mind racing.

  Puimre frowned. The stories of the gods were as much a part of his life and memory as his own childhood. He would as soon forget the name of his mother as the name of a goddess. But they were speaking of foreign goddesses and Menwi was a foreigner.

  “I do not question you, First Priest, only I am surprised that Anat would have been given to a foreign god, especially one who looks like your god, I mean, our god Seth. Anat is,” she shrugged, “the most beautiful daughter of Baal, the most beautiful of all the goddesses.”

  Puimre thought of Hathor and Ma’at and Nut and Tefnut. And of Isis, the most beautiful of the beautiful, a million times beautiful, both in form and in spirit. He knew that it was his duty to correct this poor child. How could she think a foreign goddess could be more beautiful than a goddess of the Two Lands?

  But before he spoke, he reminded himself that Menwi was a queen of the Two Lands, wife of Horus. He would be judicious.

  “As you say, Queen Menwi, Anat is certainly the most beautiful of the foreign goddesses, and a worthy wife of Seth,” he said, pleased that he had found a gentle way to correct her.

  Menwi heard the priest speak, understood his placating, yet superior tone, but his words drifted past her.

  I am Anat, she thought. Pharaoh Thutmose is Horus. She glanced toward the side of the podium where Neferhotep had stood earlier after escorting her and Merti from their chambers.

  Is he Seth?

  ***

  The next day they celebrated the birth of Horus the Elder, but Menwi, who was consumed by trying to understand the message of the golden phallus of Osiris and the foreign wife of Seth, received no secret communication from the god who helped maintain the balance of the Two Lands.

  However, on the fourth morning, she became certain the gods were speaking to her.

  “Isis loved Osiris,” Puimre began once they had settled on the platform overlooking the temple courtyard. Menwi and Merti, who had come to look forward to the stories, sat on their golden chairs beside the priest and turned their attention to him.

  “When her husband was killed by Seth, Isis journeyed to Canaan where she found Osiris’ body embedded in a tree. She brought it back to the Two Lands where her magic could return him to life. However, Seth discovered her plan and, while she was sleeping, he stole Osiris’ body, cut it into pieces, scattering the pieces throughout the Two Lands.

  “But Isis would not be defeated. She searched the Two Lan
ds and found the parts of her beloved.”

  Merti looked at her sister, her eyes alive with excitement. She had never heard stories like this before; so much evil, so much devotion.

  I would do the same, Merti thought. I would never give up. And I would smash a rock against Seth’s head.

  Menwi smiled at her sister, but her thoughts were dancing from the words of the priest to the conclusions she had drawn last night as she lay awake thinking about Neferhotep. Because he was a warrior, she had decided that he must be touched by the ka of Seth.

  And I am a foreign bride. My ka is kissed by Anat. The gods mean for us to be together.

  It was early afternoon and while Puimre told the queens the story of Isis recovering her husband, creating the golden phallus and bringing him back to life, the crowd in the courtyard began growing noisy.

  It was the fourth day of heriu renpet, the five days upon the year, and the pilgrims and worshipers were anticipating the concluding ceremonies tomorrow when the celebrants and priests would worship Nebt-het, last born of Geb and Nut, by consuming all the wine and beer that remained in Men-Nefer.

  Part of their restlessness today was caused by the absence of the goddess Isis. A rumor had swept through Men-Nefer that the goddess had not arrived from her temple in Abdju. No sacred boat had docked at the wharf and no secret, shrouded procession had brought the goddess to the temple.

  “I told you earlier how Isis brought Osiris back to life. Now,” Puimre leaned forward, “I also told you that his penis had been eaten. Remember? Well, she replaced it and he was able to plant his seed within her.”

  Merti squinted at her sister, who just smiled in return, her thoughts on Neferhotep and her hope that the gods were giving them this small moment to act upon their desires.

  Before Merti could ask how the seed was planted, the tall, double doors of the pylon wall opened and the crowd began to shout and back away from the opening.

  The sound of horse hoof beats grew louder and Menwi rose from her chair to watch the entrance.