The Spitting Cobra (4 page)

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Hopi was at a loose end. Mut and Isis had gone to see where they would be performing that evening, and Heria was preparing food for her father’s return from the kings’ tombs. He wandered out on to the main street and looked around. The village nestled between a hill on one side and the mountain on the other, its lower slopes dotted with little chapels and the dark entrances to the villagers’ tombs.

Hopi walked up the street, looking for some way up on to the mountain. Women stared at him from their doorways, and young children ran behind him, calling out. Hopi was used to being followed, so he spun round and pulled a face, waving his arms. The children ran away at once, shrieking and laughing in terror.

Beyond the cemetery, Hopi could just see a track leading up on to the cliffs. The limestone rocks were perfect hiding places for lizards and scorpions – and snakes, of course. It would be good to spend a few hours up there. He found a side street that led him to an unguarded gateway and climbed up slowly, nursing his leg, which was sore after the morning’s long walk.

In the heat of the afternoon, the chapel courtyards were deserted. Voices from the village drifted up, but around the tombs Hopi was aware of a strange stillness. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, trying to ignore the feeling that was creeping over him. He couldn’t say why, but he was sure he was being watched.

He began to walk faster and suddenly came across the cliff path winding its way up the mountainside. Slowly, carefully, he followed it.

He didn’t get far.

‘Hey!’ called a voice, somewhere nearby.

Hopi spun round, his heart thumping. There was no one there. He stood still for a moment, surveying the view below. Still nothing. Nervously, he began climbing again.

‘Where are you going?’ The voice was loud and clear this time.

Hopi stopped. ‘Where are you?’ he called.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, from behind some rugged boulders, a young man stepped out.

‘Who gave you permission to climb this pathway?’ he asked gruffly.

Hopi shook his head. ‘No one.’

The young man stared at him. ‘So how did you get past the Medjay guards?’

‘There weren’t any,’ said Hopi. ‘I came through that gateway there.’ And he pointed down at the cemetery gate.

‘You were in the village already?’

‘Yes. I’ve come with the music and dance troupe from Waset.’

‘Ah, I see!’ The young man’s expression cleared. ‘Well, I’m surprised no one warned you. You’re not supposed to wander around up here – it’s out of bounds to strangers. This path leads to the Great Place, where the kings are buried.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go back down, I was only looking for snakes and scorpions . . .’

The young man examined Hopi more closely. ‘Really? What do you know about snakes and scorpions?’

Hopi shrugged. ‘Well, quite a lot, I suppose.’

‘You’ve been trained?’

‘No, no – I’ve just taught myself.’

The man stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. Then a mysterious glint appeared in his eye. ‘Strange,’ he muttered. ‘This could be . . .’

‘Could be what?’ Hopi was curious.

The man shook his head. ‘Oh, nothing. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Seti. I’m a painter up at the tombs – I’ve just finished my apprenticeship. I’ll show you a bit more of the mountain, if you like.’

Hopi nodded. ‘I’m Hopi. Thank you. I’d like that.’

Seti smiled, then turned and began to climb energetically. Hopi struggled to keep up, cursing his injury. Seti looked back and waited for him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, nodding at Hopi’s leg, then continued more slowly, taking a side path that led around to the left, out of sight of the village. Perching himself on a ledge, Seti patted the space next to him. Hopi sat down, and rested his elbows on his knees to get his breath back.

Seti was quiet for a few moments. Then he spoke, just one word. ‘Meretseger,’ he said.

The word meant
she who loves silence.

Hopi frowned. ‘Who’s she?’

‘You don’t know of her?’

Hopi shook his head.

Seti gestured up at the mountainside behind them. ‘This is her home,’ he said. ‘She is the cobra goddess of the mountain. She has many names, but Meretseger is the most powerful. Sometimes we call her after her home: the Peak of the West.’

Hopi was astonished. The only cobra goddess he had ever heard of was Renenutet, the goddess of the harvest. ‘We don’t worship her in Waset,’ he said.

‘No. There’s no reason why you should. But if you know so much about snakes, perhaps you could help me meet her.’

‘You wish to hunt out cobras? But why?’ Hopi was puzzled. ‘Doesn’t Meretseger have a shrine or temple where you can worship her?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s over there.’ Seti nodded towards the south. ‘I make offerings there every week. But that’s not enough.’ He studied his hands, and seemed to be trying to decide what to say. ‘I need to see her for myself. I need to know . . . I am seeking an answer . . .’

Hopi was intrigued. ‘An answer to what?’

Seti hesitated. He looked out over the view, a frown on his face. Then he turned to Hopi and spoke in a low, confidential tone. ‘You are younger than I,’ he said. ‘But I see from your leg that life’s troubles have already touched you.’

‘Indeed they have,’ agreed Hopi, with feeling.

‘And perhaps some of the gods seem more important than others,’ suggested Seti. ‘Some bring blessings, while others bring pain.’

Hopi nodded. ‘The god Sobek has brought me both,’ he said, for the crocodile god had taken much away from him, but had also given him his unusual gift.

‘Then you understand,’ said Seti, relief in his voice. ‘Now, if I tell you that a crisis has brought me to seek out Meretseger, you will accept what I say.’

Hopi thought about it. He had great respect for all the gods, and Seti’s words were still a little confusing. ‘The cobra is a powerful snake. This must be a powerful goddess. I would not want to attract her attention without good reason.’

His words seemed to trouble Seti. ‘No, no, you wouldn’t,’ he agreed, fear clouding his face. ‘She’s terrible when she’s angry. And . . . and that’s what I need to know – if she is truly angry.’

‘If she is angry? With who? You?’

Seti looked uneasy. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said. He sighed, a little wearily, and stood up. ‘All I can say is that I feel that she has sent you. So will you help me, or not?’

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Mut was helping Heria with her make-up, patting red ochre powder on to her cheeks.

‘Not too much!’ exclaimed Heria. She grabbed her polished bronze mirror and peered at her reflection. Mut had already finished her eyes, which were surrounded with dramatic black eyeliner and a touch of green malachite paint.

‘You look beautiful,’ declared Mut. ‘Doesn’t she, Isis?’

Isis nodded and smiled. ‘Lovely,’ she agreed. She was watching Mut in surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time her dance partner had seemed so happy. Mut was fussing around Heria, dabbing at her cheeks and then her lips with the red ochre, her face alight with friendliness.

‘I wish I had a sister,’ said Heria wistfully. ‘You two must do each other’s make-up all the time.’

Mut’s smile disappeared. ‘I told you,’ she said sharply. ‘We’re not sisters. We’re just dance partners.’

A flicker of surprise crossed Heria’s face. ‘Yes, but . . . you live together, don’t you?’

Mut pursed her lips. ‘We haven’t for long. And anyway, Isis has Hopi,’ she said.

‘Mut!’ Isis couldn’t keep quiet any longer. ‘What’s Hopi got to do with it? He doesn’t do my make-up, does he?’

‘So
do
you do it for each other?’ Heria looked at Isis, clearly puzzled.

‘Of course we do,’ said Isis.

Mut went very quiet. All her good humour had vanished, and there was an awkward silence. Then Mut reached for the wig that lay by Heria’s side. ‘It’s time to put your wig on,’ she said.

Quietly, Isis slipped out of the room.
Leave them to it
, she thought, and went out to the courtyard to find a beaker of water. As she did so, there was a soft knock on the front door. She went to open it, and found a boy of about Hopi’s age.

He grinned at her. ‘Is Mut there?’ he asked. ‘Nefert’s sent me.’

‘Yes,’ said Isis, letting him in. ‘She’s in the back room with Heria.’

The boy obviously knew where he was going. Isis trailed after him as he walked straight through the house.

‘Hello, Heria,’ he greeted her. ‘Nefert’s sent me to get Mut. She wants her to help her get ready for the party.’

Heria smiled at Mut. ‘Looks like you’ve finished just in time,’ she said.

Mut looked disappointed, and Isis could guess why. Helping Nefert meant leaving her new-found friend – and more than that, it meant leaving her alone with Isis. Mut fiddled with the beads on Heria’s wig for a moment, her face averted. Then she followed the boy out without a word.

When the front door had closed, Heria turned to Isis, playing with the ends of her wig. ‘Is Mut always like that?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Like what?’

Heria hesitated. ‘Well . . . she wasn’t very nice to you.’

Isis felt embarrassed. ‘Oh, Mut’s just in a bad mood,’ she said. ‘We had an argument yesterday.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Heria. She looked sad. ‘I’d love to live with someone my own age. I’ve got friends, of course, but it’s not the same.’

Isis was suddenly aware of how quiet the little house was. It was unusual for an Egyptian household. Isis thought of their street in Waset, and how all the houses buzzed with people. But here, there was no one around apart from Heria’s father Khonsu, who had come back from the tombs and fallen asleep in the front room.

‘Who
does
live here?’ she asked. ‘Just the two of you?’

Heria nodded. She stood up and straightened the beautiful black wig. Some of the hairs at the back were tangled, and Isis went to tease them out for her.

‘And Father’s so busy at the moment. He’s up at the tombs most of the time, but even when he’s here, he’s stuck in secret meetings in the front room.’

‘Secret meetings? That sounds exciting,’ said Isis.

‘Huh. Not really. He doesn’t tell me what they’re about.’ Then Heria lowered her voice. ‘Though sometimes I overhear things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Well . . .’ Heria hesitated. ‘Didn’t you think it was odd that you and your family were invited here?’

Isis frowned and shook her head. The dance troupe got invitations to all sorts of places; this one didn’t seem any different. ‘Why? Don’t you invite people usually?’

‘No. We have our own musicians.’

‘So what’s happened to them?’

Heria sighed. ‘Well . . . one of the families is sick. And one of the other dancers, Tiya, has broken her arm.’ Suddenly, her voice wobbled. ‘Tiya’s my best friend. Her arm might never be the same again, and no one will want to watch a dancer with a crooked arm.’

Straight away, Isis thought of Hopi’s injured leg, and her heart flooded with sympathy. She put a hand on Heria’s shoulder.

‘That’s not even the worst of it,’ Heria carried on. ‘I know that Father’s having people watched. It’s awful. I know lots of families are being spied on, and I can’t say a word.’

‘Spied on!’ exclaimed Isis. ‘But why?’

‘I wish I knew,’ said Heria. She wiped away a tear that had trickled down her cheek. ‘Now I’ve smudged my make-up, haven’t I?’

Isis smiled. ‘I’ll soon fix it for you.’ She bent down and picked up a piece of soft linen that Heria kept with her make-up pots. She moistened it, then began dabbing around Heria’s eyes.

‘You and Mut are both so lovely,’ said Heria gratefully. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

Isis felt awkward and ashamed. ‘I’m always fighting with Mut,’ she confessed. ‘She doesn’t like Hopi, that’s the trouble. But I have to be nice to her now, whatever she says. Hopi thinks that if I’m not careful, we’ll get thrown out of the troupe.’

Heria’s eyes widened in shock. ‘But . . . they’re your family!’ she exclaimed.

‘Not really.’ Isis explained about her parents, her uncle and how she had been taken in as a dance partner for Mut. ‘We haven’t lived with them for long,’ she said. ‘And Hopi can’t work, so they just keep him for my sake. Now Nefert’s getting angry because Mut and I don’t get on.’

‘But where would you go?’

It was a question that Isis had been avoiding. She hadn’t wanted to face up to Hopi’s warning. It hadn’t seemed real, until now.

‘I think we might have relatives, somewhere,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘But not in Waset.’

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