The Crocodile Tomb

by Michelle Paver

  The Sun had risen, and in the dancing air, the Great River was a deep shimmering blue, alive with waterbirds and brilliant white egrets. Along its banks were rippling green papyrus and spiky date-palms, and beyond lay fields of golden stubble, huddled villages and lion-coloured hills.

  ‘Iteru-aa,’ repeated Itineb, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘See how beautiful!’

  Hylas did not reply. It was beautiful, but as never before, he felt the strangeness of Egypt: strange creatures, strange gods – and now this vast, mysterious river. He didn’t belong here. How would he ever get home?

  Pirra had woken up, and from her face, he could tell that she felt it too. She pointed to the hills on the west bank. ‘Are those tombs?’

  Itineb nodded. ‘The Houses of Eternity. The East Bank is for the living, the West Bank is for the Dead.’

  ‘But it has fields and villages,’ said Hylas.

  ‘Of course! Tomb-diggers, coffin-makers, linen-weavers – they all have to live.’ Itineb took a deep breath of the swampy air, and smiled. ‘It begins and ends with the River. When we are born, we take our first bath in it. It gives us mud for our houses, fish to eat, linen to wear, papyrus for boats. It gives us an easy road for moving about: north with the current, south with the wind; and it is easy to cross from one bank to the other, if you know the currents and the sandbanks. Finally when we die, we take our last bath in it, and rest in a tomb plastered with its mud.’ He glanced at Hylas. ‘Have you no river in your country?’

  ‘A few. Nothing like this.’

  ‘They say you have whole hills covered in trees.’

  ‘Yes, we call them forests.’

  Itineb raised his eyebrows, as if suspecting a joke. ‘What trees? Date-palms?’

  ‘No. Pines, oaks, firs, but no date-palms.’

  ‘No date-palms?’ Itineb shook his head in pity. ‘My brother would hate that.’

  ‘But in summer we have lots of flowers.’ Hylas felt a stab of homesickness. ‘And rain – that’s water falling from the sky – and in winter when it’s cold, it goes white and fluffy, we call it snow.’

  Itineb laughed. ‘Ah, now I know you’re making it up!’

  Pirra woke to a glare of sunlight and the hum of many voices. For one terrifying moment, she thought she was back on Keftiu. Then she saw Hylas peering from under the awning. His back was rigid with tension.

  ‘Hylas get out of sight …’ Itineb’s voice receded as he ran to the steering-paddle. ‘We’re passing Ineb-Hedj!’

  For a moment, Pirra saw only the crows wheeling overhead. She thought of Telamon and Alekto, and shuddered. Then she saw the town on the East Bank and her spirit quailed. It was even more immense than the House of the Goddess. In awe she took in towering stone walls and columns carved like lotus flowers. Swarms of people: men piling ox-carts with watermelons, bundles of sesame and linen; women holding flapping bundles of waterfowl by their feet.

  And so many boats! At a quayside, men loaded a great wooden cargo ship with giant blocks of stone. Beside it, on a richly painted vessel with a curving prow, a yellow canopy fluttered in the wind. And everywhere smaller craft – boats, punts, canoes – all heading up, down and across the River with casual skill.

  Hylas touched her arm and pointed west. ‘Why would men build such things?’ he said hoarsely.

  In the distance, Pirra made out three astonishing mountains rising from the desert. Their triangular sides were impossibly straight and their smooth flanks blazed with colour: red, yellow, green, blue. Their searing gold peaks pierced the sky.

  ‘They call them Mer,’ muttered Kem. ‘Places of Ascension. Perao’s ancestors built them long ago to climb the sky and be gods.’

  Pirra stared at the enormous stone tombs and felt the power of Egypt tightening like a fist around her heart. That power was on the side of the Crows. Against it, what chance had she and Hylas?

  Back beneath the awning, she took out her amulet. The Eye of Heru was made of heavy bronze. The upper eyelid was red jasper, the iris and brow were deep blue lapis – and so was the mark of the falcon, the thick line that swept down from the lower lid, like a tear.

  Years before, Userref’s older brother had lent it to him when they were boys and the family had gone on pilgrimage to Ineb-Hedj. ‘You can keep it for today but don’t lose it,’ Nebetku had warned. But that was the day when Userref had strayed and been taken by slavers. He’d felt guilty about the wedjat for years.

  Pirra lay clutching the amulet, listening to the harsh cries of crows. She thought of Telamon and Alekto gliding upriver in their black ship. She felt afraid.

  Days and nights slid by, and still the wind blew, speeding them south. They glided past Waset, the beating heart of Egypt, that was even greater than Ineb-Hedj; and past countless temples: Abedju, Dobd, Nekhen: City of the Falcon …

  At last, the River narrowed and grew choppy. Itineb and his brothers had to take care steering past rocks and sandbanks where crocodiles basked. There were fewer villages. On either side, cliffs loomed.

  Kem looked about him eagerly. ‘Not far to my country. Soon I leave and head across the desert.’

  Hylas felt a pang. He’d grown to like Kem. ‘What will you do when you get there?’

  ‘Find my village and my family. Then prove I am brave.’

  Hylas remembered the rite of manhood: stealing a weapon from an Egyptian warrior. ‘We could do that now, on the way,’ he said. ‘We could creep ashore. I’m a pretty good thief.’

  Kem looked surprised. Then he laughed and clapped Hylas on the shoulder. ‘You a good friend – but it wouldn’t work. I got to do it by my own self, when men of my tribe are watching – so they know I don’t lie!’

  That sounded unnecessarily harsh to Hylas, but from what Kem had told him of Wawat, it was a harsh land.

  Around midnight, the boat jolted to a halt. Hylas emerged to see Havoc leap into the shallows and vanish in a swamp. Above him, stony hills blotted out the stars.

  Kem’s dark face was alight with excitement. ‘Pa-Sobek just round that bend! From there it not far to my country!’

  Together, they jumped ashore. Itineb was speaking urgently with two men standing by an ox-cart. Pirra was trying to follow what they said.

  ‘These are friends of my cousin,’ Itineb told Hylas in Akean. ‘Tomb-builders from the village of Tjebu on the West Bank. You can trust them.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Hylas said suspiciously.

  ‘They say Nebetku is in hiding from the Crows.’

  ‘They say,’ repeated Hylas.

  ‘I’ve told them you are friends,’ said Itineb. ‘They will take you to him – but you must go blindfold.’

  ‘No,’ Hylas said flatly.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ muttered Kem.

  Pirra chewed her lip. ‘But we trust Itineb, don’t we? If he says they’re all right, I think we should believe him.’

  Kem was shaking his head. ‘Don’t do it, Hylas.’

  Hylas looked from Itineb to the men. They were burly, their faces lined by hardship; no clues there. He nodded slowly. ‘I agree with Pirra. We’ll have to take the risk.’

  Kem backed away. ‘Then we must part sooner than I like.’ Putting his fist to his breast, he bowed to Hylas, then Pirra. ‘I thank you, my friends. You made them bring me on the boat. Without you I could not reach here. I owe you much.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Hylas. ‘You saved us in the desert.’

  ‘Cho!’ Kem brushed that aside. Then he grinned at Pirra. ‘Some day I make you to know I’m no coward!’

  ‘Kem, I know you’re not.’

  ‘But some day I prove it! Good luck, my friends. May your gods go with you. Say goodbye to Havoc for me!’ With that he disappeared into the night, leaving Hylas reflecting bitterly that once again, he’d lost a friend.

  After that, things happened fast. Itineb and his brothers swiftly took their leave and headed upriver, while the two men – Hylas never learnt their names – motioned him and Pirra into the cart. They were
allowed to keep their weapons, but blindfolded, their hands bound.

  The cart jolted along for some time, then they were helped into a boat: Hylas guessed they were crossing to the West Bank. He asked Pirra if she was all right. She said a tense, ‘Mm.’ He whistled to Havoc and heard her distant call.

  Now they were out of the boat and in another cart, then they were led over rough ground and through a doorway. Hylas smelt wood shavings and wet clay. He heard a man’s painful wrenching cough. His hands were untied, the blindfold pulled off.

  He was in some kind of workshop, with Pirra beside him. By the glimmer of tallow lamps, he made out a palm-log roof and a floor of trodden earth. Around the walls were rows of shadowy clay people about a hand high.

  Before him stood two men, both Egyptians. One was skeletally thin, with straggling grey hair that contrasted oddly with his youngish face. The other was twice Hylas’ age but only half his height, with the stumpy legs and bulging head of a dwarf. Both were armed with curved knives and flinty expressions. They were guarding a third man who sat cross-legged on a mat. Pirra was staring at him fixedly.

  He had once been handsome, and his features were vaguely familiar, but his eyes were sunken, his face wasted by sickness. It was also smeared with lime, heightening his likeness to a skull, and he’d shaved off his hair and even his eyebrows.

  Hylas’ belly tightened. Egyptians did that when they were in mourning.

  Pirra said something shaky in Egyptian.

  The sick man glared at her and spat a retort.

  ‘What does he say?’ said Hylas.

  She’d gone white to the lips. ‘He asks why we come to – to trouble his grief.’

  Oh, no, thought Hylas.

  ‘Yes – grief,’ croaked the man in heavily accented Akean. ‘I am Nebetku. My brother Userref is dead. You barbarians killed him! My brother is dead!’

  ‘It’s not true,’ said Pirra. But every thud of her heart drove it deeper. Dead, dead, dead.

  ‘Thirteen days we had together …’ gasped the sick man. ‘So many years apart. He knew they were after him – their filthy barbarian dagger …’

  ‘He can’t be dead,’ Pirra said numbly. ‘Not Userref.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Nebetku’s fever-bright gaze pierced hers. ‘Itined said you knew my brother – but you’re barbarian – and yet you speak Egyptian. How?’

  ‘Userref t-taught me. He –’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ broke in Hylas.

  ‘I never knew a time without him,’ Pirra went on shakily. ‘He was my slave, but he called me his little sister –’

  ‘You! You were the one who made him swear to guard that cursed thing with his life!’

  She swayed. ‘Yes. I made him swear.’

  ‘You killed him!’ screamed Nebetku. ‘It’s because of you that he’s dead!’

  Nebetku raged on between bouts of rib-cracking coughs, and Pirra stood there and took it. Hylas couldn’t understand what was said, but he could see that every word was a blow to her heart.

  ‘He says I killed him,’ she whispered, scarcely moving her lips. ‘And he’s right.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Hylas said angrily. ‘The Crows killed him, not you!’ He turned to Nebetku. ‘Tell us how he died – and speak Akean, so I can understand!’

  He spoke harshly, and the dwarf and the grey-haired man glared at him and fingered their knives.

  Hylas drew his own. ‘What is this place?’ he cried. ‘Who are these people?’

  To his surprise, Nebetku bared his teeth in a skeletal grin. ‘Haven’t you guessed? Look around you, barbarian!’

  In the flickering lamplight, the rows of little clay people watched Hylas with blank painted eyes. Through the doorway, he saw more workshops. Heaped outside were bales of linen and piles of salt, long baskets and wooden boxes that looked like coffins. In the distance, he saw the glimmer of village cooking-fires, and shadowy fields rising to cliffs pocked with many caves.

  ‘The Houses of Eternity,’ croaked Nebetku. ‘Everyone here works for the Dead.’ He coughed into his hands, then held them up. They were smeared with blood. ‘Soon I will become one of them.’

  Hylas sheathed his knife. ‘Tell us what happened to Userref.’

  The sick man shut his eyes and fought for breath. Gently, the dwarf touched his shoulder – but he frowned, determined to speak. ‘He feared for his life … And he mourned his “little sister”. He thought she was dead.’

  Pirra bowed her head.

  ‘He knew the Crow barbarians were seeking him,’ Nebetku went on, ‘but he grew tired of hiding … Without telling us, he crossed to Pa-Sobek, to make an offering. He was in disguise, but the barbarians caught him – or the spies of Kerasher, whom the Perao had sent to help them, we don’t know which.’ His gaunt face worked. ‘They beat him savagely. “Where is our dagger?” But my brother was brave, he never told.’

  Pirra pressed both hands to her mouth.

  ‘Somehow, he broke free – still with his arms tied behind. He must have known he had only moments before they caught him so he ran to the jetty … He leapt in the River – he gave himself to Iteru … And Iteru carried him away and he drowned.’

  Hylas heard the sputtering lamps and the rasp of the sick man’s breath. Pirra stood with her fists clenched at her sides. Her face was stony, her scar livid on her cheek. ‘Did you find the body?’ she said quietly.

  ‘What do you care?’ spat Nebetku.

  ‘I loved him too!’ she flashed out. ‘I know how much it mattered to him to be properly buried!’

  Nebetku didn’t respond. ‘Soon I also will die,’ he said wearily. ‘No more coughing, no more pain. Death will be my recovery, and I will be with my brother for eternity …’

  ‘Where’s the dagger?’ insisted Hylas.

  Nebetku opened his eyes. ‘That’s all you barbarians think about.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I need to know.’

  But Nebetku broke into a terrible fit of coughing, and his friends closed protectively around him, shooing Hylas away and jabbering at him in Egyptian. With a jolt, he saw that Pirra was gone, stumbling out into the night as if she didn’t care where she went.

  Pirra sat on the bank, watching the black River sliding past. He can’t be dead. How can that be? How can it be that I’ll never see him again?

  Dimly, she took in reeds and date-palms around her. Sandbanks ahead. Choppy water surrounding a small dark island spiked with trees. And over on the East Bank, the flickering fires of a large town. That must be Pa-Sobek. Where he drowned. She couldn’t take it in.

  A large chilly nose nudged her elbow. It was Havoc. The young lioness was wet from swimming the River, and she leant against Pirra, trying to comfort with her nearness. Pirra couldn’t bring herself to stroke her. She felt hollow. Nothing inside but disbelief.

  Echo lit on to her shoulder. Dimly, Pirra was aware of cool talons pricking her skin, and the moth’s-wing touch of feathers. Usually, the falcon tugged her hair and asked for meat. Tonight she simply perched. Pirra was grateful for that.

  Hylas came and touched her arm. She told him to go away.

  ‘Pirra,’ he said gently. ‘You’re too close to the River. There might be crocodiles.’

  It was pointless to argue, so she let him lead her somewhere else. Echo flew off, and Havoc seemed to decide there were too many strangers about, and vanished into the night.

  They stopped at another workshop, this one dark and empty, with coffins stacked outside. They sat with their backs against one. Pirra felt the warmth of Hylas’ shoulder and thigh against hers. She thought: he is alive and Userref is dead. It isn’t possible …

  An appalling idea came to her. ‘What happened to his body? It wasn’t – he wasn’t eaten by crocodiles?’

  ‘No, the River protected him. Someone found him washed up among reeds.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t make that up – I asked Nebetku just now.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Pirra, this isn’t your fault.’

 
‘Yes it is.’

  ‘No. The Crows killed Userref. Not you.’

  The dwarf appeared. He was half Pirra’s size, but he carried himself with an authority that demanded respect. ‘I am Rensi,’ he told her brusquely. ‘I am shabti-maker and friend of Nebetku. I am taking you back across the River.’

  Pirra translated for Hylas, who crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Tell him we’re not going without the dagger.’

  Rensi snorted. Three burly stonemasons appeared, along with the grey-haired man. ‘This is Herihor,’ the dwarf told Pirra. ‘The others you do not need to know their names. Come. You will do as I say.’

  As she sat in the prow of the boat, Pirra was dimly aware that Hylas was still arguing in Akean, and Rensi and Herihor were berating him in Egyptian. It was all meaningless. Why couldn’t Hylas forget about the dagger?

  Vaguely, she noticed that they weren’t heading straight across the River, but in a wide, indirect arc. Hylas had noticed, too. ‘Ask them why,’ he said suspiciously. She did, and was told that the current was bad on the shorter route, with dangerous rocks beneath the surface. She wished Hylas would leave her in peace.

  She smelt the swampy River and watched Echo wheeling across the stars. ‘When you die,’ Userref had said once, ‘if you are buried with the proper rites, your spirit will grow the wings of a falcon. Then you can fly out and be with the gods under the Sun, only returning to your tomb at night, for a rest …’

  Tears stung her eyes. Fiercely, she blinked them back. At least he died in Egypt, she told herself. He always wanted that.

  Out loud, she asked Rensi if Userref had been given a good burial, with the proper rites.

  Her question seemed to outrage the dwarf. He glared at her, then turned his back and ignored her for the rest of the crossing.

  At the East Bank, they moored in a deserted inlet fringed with acacia trees. In the moonlight, Pirra glimpsed fields of stubble beyond, and shadowy rows of beanstalks.

  ‘Where are we?’ Hylas said suspiciously.

  ‘Sh!’ hissed Herihor. Then to Pirra, ‘It’s not good to speak loudly even here, there may be spies. You must go back now, back to your own land.’