by Marc Graham
She glanced toward Yanuf.
“She has the vision of the gods,” he said. “If she says they will protect us, that is what they will do. Or we shall all be very wet.”
Yanuf let out a hearty laugh and again faced the flood. He gave a shout of defiance to which Mother added her voice. I joined in, though my cry was less of defiance than terror.
The sound had scarcely reached my ears before the flood was upon us. Yanuf swept around to put his bulk between me and the surge. He could not, however, shield me from the noise, from the tremors that shook the dam, or from the waves that turned the air around us to mist. I closed my eyes against the stinging droplets, clapped my hands to my ears. How long Yanuf sheltered me, I could not be sure. Yet after what seemed an age, the gods’ fury eased, and I looked up.
The dam stood.
A roiling pool of water rose almost to the wall’s full height and stretched away toward the mouth of the wadi. Already the irrigation channels directed their life-giving streams to the fields of Maryaba where the people danced and laughed and splashed one another.
I turned to hug my mother, but she wasn’t there. I looked along the dam and scanned the crowds upon the banks to no avail. I turned back to find Yanuf standing at the downstream edge of the dam. My belly twisted as my feet carried me to the gatekeeper’s side.
Ayana, Mukarrib of all Saba, daughter of the kings of Uwene, lay at the foot of the dam. Water puddled around her as her unblinking eyes stared toward the heavens where the gods had claimed a final sacrifice.
10
Yetzer
“The hierophant summons Yetzer abi-Huram.” Yetzer’s heart recognized the words and floated to a shallower state of meditation.
“Yetzer of Tsur, you are called forth.”
His ka, the intangible part of himself, twitched. The clarity of the inner world dissolved into a fine mist.
“Yetzer, Friend of Pharaoh, arise.”
Like an air-filled bladder released from the bottom of a pond, Yetzer’s awareness escaped its anchor and leapt to the surface. His eye sprang open and his lungs drew a sharp breath. His vision spun, and it was only by force of will that he restored focus.
The painted image before him resolved into the Wanderer, shoulders stooped by his pack as he leaned on his walking staff. A dog nipped at the traveler’s heels while a crocodile lay beside the path, jaws open, awaiting a misstep.
For months Yetzer had sat before this painting and its twenty-one companions gracing the walls of the Chamber of the Postulants. Scattered about the hypostyle hall, Yetzer and his fellow students sat upon the marble floor, meditating on the various images of the sacred trinity. Osaure and Auset and Haru—father, mother, and son—posed in their various guises. The priest-instructors bade them not to think about the images, but simply to open their hearts and allow the message of each to speak for itself.
Yetzer was a craftsman, the son of a mason. Reality was what his hands made of it, yet his heart whispered there was more to existence than simply manifest creation. Until arriving at the temple of Amun, he had only glimpsed that other world in his dreams. That world now called to him, and he longed for it more than he longed for Pharaoh’s daughter.
He’d followed the priests’ instructions. He’d fought boredom and fatigue. He’d sat before each of the twenty-two images numerous times with no results. With each failed session, he fought the desire to give up, to return to Pharaoh’s house and Ameniye’s embrace.
Hope finally came with his seventh round as he again sat before the Wanderer. For an instant, Yetzer was unaware of the marble beneath him. He was oblivious to the weight of his hands upon his knees, of the breath in his lungs or the rhythm of his heart. Even the Wanderer disappeared from before his eye as he found himself enveloped in a sheath of white light. The sensation fled from him as soon as he became aware of it, but he knew he had glimpsed Aaru, the realm of the gods.
Another round of study had passed before the vision repeated. Yetzer managed to sustain it for perhaps the span of two heartbeats. As a hunter stills his movements when a deer approaches the brook, Yetzer stilled his thoughts. The sensation lingered, then fled as Yetzer’s thoughts moved in its direction.
Now, at the end of his twelfth round of the murals, Yetzer was able to separate ka from body at will, to travel in the celestial plane while the sacred images communicated with his innermost being.
A hand on his shoulder drew him fully from his reverie. Yetzer knocked three times on the marble floor. The sound and sensation grounded his ka within his body.
“The hierophant beckons,” the priest told him.
Yetzer nodded and rose, mindful of the vow of silence he’d observed since entering the temple. His guide led him to the rear of the chamber, to a narrow doorway hidden among the shadows of the great columns.
“You have passed the first threshold,” the priest said in a grave voice. “The profane may enter the Chamber of the Postulants and leave of their own volition.”
Yetzer nodded, having received similar instruction upon his arrival.
“You now stand at the second threshold, the Gate of the Initiates. Only those marked by the gods may enter, and only those fully admitted to the priesthood may leave. Pass the ordeals set before you, and you shall join the ranks of the brothers of light. Fail, and you shall ever remain behind these walls.” The priest’s expression turned grim. “As a slave or as a corpse.”
Yetzer might have laughed, but the priest’s humorless eyes told him this was no jest. He put on an expression he hoped would match his guide’s solemnity and nodded.
The priest placed his fingers on Yetzer’s lips. “As you have successfully passed the tests of a postulant, your vow of silence is lifted. You may speak, but only if directly addressed. The path ahead holds many dangers and even more curiosities. Trust that those who have gone before you have anticipated every need and every question. All will be provided to the one who is worthy. Are you ready to proceed?”
Yetzer nodded again, caught the hint of his guide’s raised eyebrow, then spoke. “I am ready.”
His voice sounded foreign, and the priest gave a sympathetic smile. He placed his right hand on Yetzer’s forehead and raised his other toward the heavens. The priest’s palm was hot against Yetzer’s skin and combined with a pressure beneath the scalp. It seemed an opening formed there, an eye in the center of his forehead. Yetzer took a steadying breath to set aside the strange sensation.
“Yetzer abi-Huram,” the priest intoned, “you arrived at this hall in search of light. Have you found what you sought?”
“I have,” Yetzer replied, and the pressure behind his brow increased.
“Having attained the object of your quest, what do you seek as you pass the second threshold?”
Answers flooded Yetzer’s heart. Wealth. Security. Ameniye. These and countless others vied to be his response, but as he took a breath to form the seed of his answer, the would-be desires were extinguished until only one remained.
“I seek more light.”
The priest lowered his hands and smiled. “Your desire being noble, may the gods smile upon your journey.”
The guide ushered him through the doorway. Yetzer stepped into a courtyard of whitewashed stone. The midday sun reflected from every surface, and Yetzer raised a hand to shield his eyes. A metallic coldness settled against his breast. As his sight adjusted to the savage rays, it revealed two men wearing the blue-striped headscarves of Pharaoh’s royal guard. One soldier held the blade of his sword against Yetzer’s chest. The other stood to the side, his sword raised overhead, poised to cleave through Yetzer’s skull.
Yetzer drew a sharp breath. He might have cried out, but he remembered his guide’s instructions. Instead, he clamped his teeth together, raised his chin, and swallowed his fear.
The guard before him waited through nine of Yetzer’s rapid heartbeats, then spoke.
“Who are you, and what do you seek here?”
“I was told—” Yetze
r began, then took a breath and started again. “I am Yetzer abi-Huram. I come in search of more light.”
The pressure of the blade eased slightly.
“By what right do you enter the Court of the Initiates?” the guard demanded.
“By having entered the Postulants’ Chamber and been led to the second threshold.”
“Show me the stance of the Postulant.”
The first guard took a step back and drew the sword above his shoulder, poised to plunge it into Yetzer’s heart, while the other stood unmoving. Unease turned to bowel-melting panic as Yetzer struggled to interpret the demand.
From the day of his arrival he had learned the proper forms of prayer, the foods most beneficial to body and soul, and the patterns of the heavenly lights. He’d studied the natures of form and number, which brought harmony and which discord. Above all, he had learned the secret of entering and moving through the inner world. But he had never been taught a stance of any kind.
The guard drew back his sword for the fatal strike. Yetzer raised a hand against the blow, and the image of the Hermit, ninth among the mystical figures, leapt to his memory’s aid. Though his left hand was empty, it mimicked the Hermit’s raised lantern that illumined the path before him.
Hesitantly, Yetzer stretched forward his right hand in imitation of the Hermit’s staff that steadied his pace. He searched the guard’s face, but the man’s expression remained inscrutable. As a final, hesitant measure, Yetzer stretched his left foot forward to complete the sign.
Both guards immediately lowered their weapons and stepped to the side.
“Follow the path,” the lead guard told Yetzer. “When you reach the gate at its end, knock three times and you will be admitted. Give the sign and the word, hreri.”
Yetzer nodded and followed the path through an alabaster gateway. Where the Postulants’ Chamber was a wonder of construction and artistry, the Courtyard of the Initiates was a tribute to nature. Trees and plants of every description stretched heavenward in praise to Amun, the eternal shining one.
Yetzer traced the meandering pathway, intoxicated by the scent of the flowers, and lulled by the drone of bees. He sobered as the path ended at a high, vine-covered wall. He looked about, but the promised gate was nowhere to be seen. He was about to follow the trail back when his eye settled on a small flower, its pink petals nearly lost among the green tangle of the vines.
The lily—hreri in the language of Kemet—beckoned to Yetzer. He scanned the area around the flower and, seeing nothing amiss, gently pulled on the bud. When it remained firmly planted amongst the vines, Yetzer stretched a hand into the green. Thorns raked his skin. His elbow had just disappeared amid the vines when his fingers brushed hard stone.
He groped about the hidden surface, heedless of the ravaging thorns. He touched metal and a jolt of excitement ran up his arm. Yetzer traced the outline of a metal boss then found a handle in its center. He wrapped his fingers about the handle and pulled.
Nothing happened.
He tightened his grip, settled back on his heels and tugged again. Still nothing. He was about to tear leaf from vine when Pharaoh’s words rose in his memory.
Knock on any door, and it will open before you.
The king had spoken the words during dinner at the palace, the night Yetzer chose the temple over Ameniye. Yetzer set aside his longing for the princess, his thoughts of comfort and riches. It was for light he had chosen, and for light he was here. Following Pharaoh’s advice, he adjusted his grip on the handle and knocked three times.
Silence filled the span of five heartbeats. Relief came with the soft rasp of metal upon stone. The grinding stopped and the throwing of a latch was followed by Yetzer’s scream.
The paving stones dropped away, and Yetzer fell into the earth. His cries echoed within a shaft little more than an arm’s span across. He had no time to examine the walls or to silence his shouts before he plunged into water. The impact jolted up his legs and spine. His scream turned to a gasp that sucked in water and choked his lungs.
Yetzer beat and kicked against death’s fist that closed around him. He struggled to right himself, then burst through the surface. Still thrashing, he fought to keep his head within the life-giving air. He forced a calm he did not feel, commanded his breathing to slow and his flailing to cease.
“Help me,” he shouted up the shaft.
Water choked his voice, so he coughed and called again. When the response came it was not the hoped-for assistance, but the grating of stone as the trapdoor rose back into position.
“No,” Yetzer cried. “Don’t leave me here.”
The door slid inexorably shut. As daylight retreated, Yetzer frantically looked about for some means of escape, but between the water’s surface and his freedom there was only the blank wall. The shaft went dark as the stones locked in place with a heartbreaking rumble that resounded through the well.
“Don’t leave me.” Yetzer’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, but the shaft mocked him with the echoes of his plaintive sigh.
Panic nipped at his heart, and he fought to keep fear at bay. With clumsy strokes he pushed through the water until he found the wall. He felt along the stone above and below the surface, revealing only slime-slick rock. He treaded water and felt the walls all around the pool but found no handhold to aid his escape.
“Amun, strengthen me. Haru, give me light,” he prayed to the gods of Kemet. As an afterthought, in case his father’s gods might hear from Kenahn, he added, “Yah and Hadad, deliver me.”
The gods remained distant, and Yetzer continued his futile circuit about the walls, the better to keep his thoughts occupied. As his muscles started burning, fear renewed its attack. His breath came faster, his panting amplified as the echoes built on one another. The sound added to his desperation and he felt reason slip. In the half-light, the faces of demons peered out from the rock walls, slavering with hunger and ready to devour …
Half-light? A glow that hadn’t been there before now rose from the bottom of the pool. Yetzer tried to gauge the depth, but the weakness of the light and the featureless walls made the task impossible. Grasping at hope, he filled his lungs and ducked beneath the surface. He kicked and clawed at the water, but the light drew no closer. With the first spark of fire in his lungs, he turned upright and reached for the surface.
His gasps filled the well as he broached. Haunting laughter sounded in the echoes and he flailed his arms against whatever demons might have joined him in the pool. His eye and his thoughts cleared, and Yetzer found himself still alone. Still trapped.
With effort, he set reason above panic. He could struggle at the water’s surface until his muscles gave out, or he could use what strength remained to him and again try to reach the source of the light. He might drown in the attempt, but that chance was better than the certainty of his fate if he did nothing.
“Ameniye, pray for me,” he whispered into the void, then drew what might be his last breath, and dove beneath the surface.
11
Makeda
Red-tipped mountain peaks bathed in the sun goddess’s glory, while the flat desert stagnated in gloom. I edged closer to the brooding embers of the campfire that Yanuf poked and coaxed and breathed back to life.
“That’s the way,” the old warrior said as a flame leapt from the slumbering coals. Yanuf encouraged the spark with bits of straw and, when those took up the fiery dance, added a small brick of dried goat’s dung.
“The gods’ best gift to man, fire.” Yanuf stretched his hand over the growing flames. “It lights the dark, warms the cold, heats our food…” He flexed his fingers and breathed a sigh. “And loosens old joints.”
Yanuf cast a smile my way. I wanted to smile back, but between my heart and lips the expression lost its way. My gaze held Yanuf’s for the briefest of moments before falling again to the dancing flames.
“Aye, a fire’s just the thing…” Yanuf continued, but his voice faded to a drone as sorrow wrapped its heavy
cloak about me.
My eyes drifted toward the camp’s edge where Yanuf had tethered our donkeys and where, gleaming white in the predawn murk, my mother’s shrouded body lay. Despite her being downwind of the fire, and despite the thick unguents that perfumed the death-wrappings, I couldn’t miss the taint of death that hung on the air. My mother who, even when a slave, had ever smelled of olibanum and honey, now stank of rot and decay.
“But come now.” Yanuf’s words filtered through the folds of grief’s mantle. “Shams awakens. We must greet her.”
The warrior’s knees creaked as he rose. He extended his hand toward me. His fingers were thick, the joints swollen, the nails caked with grime. But his was the only hand of kindness left in all the world. I grasped it with both of mine and pressed it to my forehead.
Yanuf gently squeezed my fingers, then cleared his throat. “Come,” he said. “Mustn’t keep the goddess waiting.”
I nodded and followed him to the edge of the camp.
“Will you say the words, or should I?” Yanuf asked when we knelt before the brightening horizon.
With another squeeze of his fingers and a nod of my head, I silently urged him to say the prayer.
“Right, then.”
Yanuf settled onto his haunches. He awkwardly prostrated himself, the stump of his missing arm twitching within its flaccid sleeve. I shuddered but lay prone beside him.
“Hail, the East,” Yanuf said as he pushed himself back onto his knees.
I matched his movements, resting briefly on my heels before again stretching out upon the sand.
“Hail, the morning,” Yanuf continued, and we again rose to our knees, paused, then prostrated once more.
“Hail, the dawn.”
The old warrior hefted his bulk from the dirt a third time, then stretched his hand toward Shams’s rising. He pointed his crossed index and middle fingers at the horizon, the other fingers and thumb tucked against his palm.
“Rise, O Shams, Queen of Heaven, Mother of Light. Cast off darkness, put away coldness, and of night make an ending.”