The Twice Born (22 page)

Casting himself into his chair, he leaned back and closed his eyes, aware that around him the house had settled into its mid-afternoon torpor. At once the great Imhotep’s face bloomed with the clarity of a noon brilliance behind his eyelids. “I am to put to you this question,” he said. “Will you taste the fruit of the holy Ished Tree?” The scroll was in his hand. “Atum gives you this choice, to make entirely freely. He deigns to share with you his divine wisdom. Will you read?”

But why?
Huy thought urgently now, sitting in the quiet stillness of his room.
And why did I not ask the reason while I had the chance? Why did it not occur to me to put that obvious and simple question to Imhotep? What is the creator-god’s true purpose in bestowing such an awesome privilege on such as me? Is the Book of Thoth somehow connected to the magical lamp inside me that will illuminate the fate of anyone I choose?

“I will read.”

He heard himself give his august companion the answer, felt his lips move without reflection as they had done in that beautiful place while in the real world his body was passing lifelessly through many hands and five days were going by. Five days. Yet in Imhotep’s presence time had ceased to move.

Huy stiffened. A cold shiver ran through him, prickling over his scalp and numbing his skin so that involuntarily he sat forward and rubbed his arms. Time had ceased to move. Five days dead, as Methen had warned him not to forget, yet time had meant nothing in the place where his consciousness or soul or shadow, or whatever part of him had operated apart from his body, sat beside Imhotep in the deep shade of the Ished Tree.
I died and I can see into the future
, he thought.
I can be here and ten, twenty years ahead, all at once. Time no longer has any meaning for me. It is an illusion. Only my flesh remains trapped in its web. The destiny of every man in Egypt is mine to discover if I so choose
.

Yet there was the hyena.

He paused, troubled, in the flush of elation that had followed the moment of chill. Hyenas were ugly scavengers, kept by many households to dispose of various wastes and offal. To cleanse, in other words. The hyena had been lying contentedly in the warm grass, its eyes half closed. It had ignored him. Huy knew that everything he had seen, everything he had heard in that celestial place was becoming of supreme importance to him. Much was still shrouded in mystery. Then what did the hyena signify? It had been almost noble in its stately docility. He had barely noticed it at the time and Imhotep had seemed unaware of its presence, but now Huy saw its chest rising and falling with its light breaths, the golden eyelashes growing from the half-lowered lids, the glow of sunlight in the halo of its furred ruff. Was it there for him, an obscure communication he could not fathom as yet? Did it belong to Imhotep, if there was such a thing as belonging in Paradise? Did it serve the Ished Tree in some peculiar way, or had it simply paused by the Tree in its wanderings? Huy frowned restlessly, his earlier elation evaporating. The hyena was vitally important, he sensed it, but the significance of the beast remained elusive no matter how fiercely he bent his memory upon it. In the end he sighed and went to his couch, thrusting the pulse of unease away. He would think of Thothmes and the journey to Iunu and drift off to sleep.

In the early evening, before the last meal of the day, Huy sat with his mother while she examined the contents of the boxes Nakht had brought. Under the lid of the first one she opened was a small wreath of dried flowers wrapped loosely in linen: narcissus, pink jasmine, tiny yellow chrysanthemums, and the buds of white water lilies, all intertwined with dark ivy leaves and twigs of marjoram that gave off a faintly spicy aroma. “Anuket made that!” Huy exclaimed, taking it carefully from Itu. “She dries the flowers herself and will not say how she keeps their colours so bright! She loves making wreaths and garlands.”

Itu cast a sidelong glance at him. “You always speak of her with affection,” she said wryly. “I’m sorry she did not accompany her father, I would have liked to meet her.”

“I’m sorry too,” Huy replied simply. “I’m very fond of her. May I hang the wreath in my room?”

Itu nodded absently, her attention on the jar she was withdrawing. She sniffed the seal. “Olive oil! A generous gift indeed! There are three more like it. Hapzefa will be pleased.” She set it down. “And what is this? Oh, look, Huy! Saffron from Keftiu, the very best treatment for stomach ailments!” She had licked the tip of one finger and put it gently into the orange powder, withdrawing it and tasting carefully. “This must be used sparingly so it will last.” Replacing the stopper, she delved into the box again. By the time the boxes were empty and she sat back on her heels, she was surrounded by pots and jars of all sizes. There were dried carob pods from Rethennu, pistachio nuts from Mennofer, grey antimony for salves, red antimony for her lips, galena and charcoal to be mixed with goose fat for her eyes, dainty alabaster pots for her perfume, ground rowan wood for infected wounds, a small pot of almonds, another of powdered medicinal myrrh, and lastly an alabaster jug in the shape of a poppy flower that had been filled to the brim with undiluted opium. Itu sighed, in envy or gratitude Huy could not tell. “How rich Nakht must be,” she said, “and how generous he is. He must value you very highly, Huy.”

Huy murmured something noncommittal and stood, clutching the wreath. “I am going to my room to pack,” he told her. “Nakht will take me back to school tomorrow. I will write a letter to Uncle Ker about it, and speak to Father tonight, but I don’t think he will object.”

His mother glanced up at him sharply. “You ought to wait for permission from the Overseer, and at least discuss the matter with Hapu before you pack, out of respect for him,” she objected.

Huy shook his head on a wave of rebellion against his father’s desertion, his uncle’s cowardice. “I don’t think so,” he retorted. “I love them both, but I am determined to leave regardless of what they say. Many things have changed, Mother.”

She bit her lip and, holding up her hand, said simply, “I know, dearest. You are the same and yet not the same. I have sensed it.”

Huy grasped her fingers with his own. As he did so, he felt the quiver of something still alien begin to stir deep within him, a seductive compulsion to take one look—oh, just one brief glimpse!—at her ultimate fate, and he responded to it with a violent inner
No!
To his relief, it subsided at once.
So I do have control over it
, he thought as he bent to kiss Itu’s cheek.
I am not helpless against the tug of its subtle coercion. I may yet save my own sanity
. He left her and went to his room.

It was not empty. Ishat sat cross-legged on his couch, picking at the dirt under her fingernails with the end of one of Huy’s paintbrushes. Pieces of his sennet game were scattered on the rumpled sheet under her. His cedar box lay open on the floor, his palette beside it. She shot him a sulky look as he came through the doorway and her mouth opened, but Huy did not give her a chance to speak. On a wave of anger he dropped the wreath, strode across the room, snatched the brush from her grip, dragged her off the couch, and pushed her onto his chair. Tight-lipped, he collected up the cones and spools of the game and replaced them with the sennet board. He put away the paintbrush after ostentatiously wiping its end on his kilt. Ishat snorted but said nothing. Checking the contents of his box, he laid his palette inside it and closed the lid. Then he faced her. “If I ever catch you going through my belongings again without my leave, I’ll have you beaten. I have that authority and you know it, Ishat. Your parents would be disgraced. What were you thinking?” He picked up the wreath and laid it on the couch.

“I was sent in here to sweep the floor,” she replied sullenly, pointing at the broom propped by the window, “but I didn’t feel like working today, so I just waited for you to come.” Her eyes narrowed. “I saw you in the garden with your new friends. I saw you embracing that pampered little princess. Is she the one you love, Huy? Is she?”

Huy struggled to see past the jealousy disfiguring Ishat’s face to the pain beneath. “She is the sister of my friend, the young man who sat with us,” he started to explain, trying to keep his voice reasonable. “She is not at all pampered, in fact her father is very strict with his children. Yes, I am fond of her, Ishat. She and the rest of her family are very good to me and I enjoy being with them. I am returning to Iunu with them tomorrow. I must pack my bags, so please go away.”

Instantly she slid off the chair and ran to him. “I’m sorry, Huy. Forgive me. I had no right to touch your possessions, but I was angry. You make me so lonely. I miss you so much.”

She never doubted me
, Huy reminded himself.
She neither feared me nor ignored me
. He forced himself to meet the pleading in those dark eyes so close to his own.

“You are my oldest friend, Ishat. I love you for that. Why can’t it be enough for you?” Put your hands on her shoulders, something whispered to him. Take a look into her future. Perhaps she is to die soon … Ease your mind, Huy. See if this complication may be removed. In horrified denial he put his arms around her and drew her close. Her disordered hair smelled of hot sunlight. The brown skin covering those flighty bones had no odour at all. I might be holding a bird, Huy thought, or a small gazelle. In a rush of affection and pity he took her head between his palms and kissed her softly on her mouth. “I cannot imagine living without you.”

She wrenched herself away from him. “That’s not what I want!” she shouted. “I love you, but I hate you as well! Hate you! Go back to your stupid school, then, and keep kissing the hennaed toes of those pretty aristocrats! One day you will be sorry you spurn what I am offering you so freely!” Spinning on her bare heel, she flounced out the doorway and into the passage.

Huy let out a gusty breath. When he inhaled, it was to draw into his nostrils the faint tang of marjoram from Anuket’s wreath. Lifting it, he looked about for somewhere to hang it, wondering at the same time, with a spasm of excitement, what he had done with his two leather satchels. Ishat would recover her equilibrium, as always, and would greet him happily, as always, when he came home. The foundations of his world were being re-established, and for the moment he was full of anticipation.

That night, over their lentils and beer, Huy told his father that he would be leaving the next day. He did not ask for permission or advice. Hapu listened impassively, his eyes on his son’s face, and Huy thought he read both relief and regret in the man’s gaze. “I will write a letter to Ker for you to deliver on my behalf if you will, Father,” Huy said. “He may not wish to continue to pay my expenses, although he has not said so, but perhaps he will for a little while out of the guilt I believe he feels.” Hapu did not ask what guilt; his gaze flickered for a moment. “I will also leave a letter for Methen. He has been more than good to me.”

Hapu’s lips twisted suddenly, a gesture of pain. Reaching for Heby, who had been crawling on the floor between them, he pulled the child onto his knee. “Your unspoken accusation towards me is just, Huy,” he said heavily, “but I beg you to remember that every man has his faults and weaknesses. Mine hurt you. I am sorry.” He had put down his mug and was running a hand over Heby’s curls. “If Ker’s generosity no longer extends to you, I will petition Methen for assistance from the town and I will dictate a letter to Ra’s High Priest at Iunu. The god may be willing to spare something for one of his pupils.”

All at once ashamed, Huy touched his father’s foot. “Thank you.”

Itu leaned across him to refill Hapu’s mug, avoiding Heby’s delighted attempts to catch the stream of cool brown liquid as it cascaded from the flagon. “I wish you would consider staying home,” she said vehemently. “You would not have to work in the fields, would he, Hapu? Ker would take you as an apprentice perfume maker, I’m sure he would. After all, you can read and write. You would be a great help to him.” She glanced at Huy appealingly. “You are still not well, Huy, you have not regained your full strength. Stay with us, please!” Hapu did not join her pleading. He was lifting his beer purposefully to his mouth with his eyes on the rim of his mug.

“No,” Huy said firmly. “I love school. I want to finish my education if possible. I’ve eaten enough, Mother. May I go?” She nodded resignedly.

In the entrance to the passageway he paused and glanced back at them. Itu had a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Her face was upturned to him. He was looking across at her with a gentle smile, and above her outstretched arm the top of Heby’s head gleamed in the soft glow of lamplight. In a surge of love for them and sorrow for himself, Huy knew that the three of them were sufficient for each other and that he did not belong with them anymore. There would be time spent in this house, there would still be moments of laughter and good conversation, but the weeks of horror and ecstasy behind him had severed the chord of childhood security binding him to them, forcing him towards an accelerated maturity. Huy had become a man.

Making his way into his parents’ sleeping room, he opened his mother’s tiring chest, fumbling a little in the darkness until his fingers found the cold smoothness of ivory. Drawing out the monkey with a shudder of distaste, holding it away from his body, he retreated to the passage and slipped out of the house into the garden. The last shreds of Ra’s blooding had left no more than a tinge of pink on the horizon. The sky was a rich, deep blue already thickening into black, but a few tentative stars had begun to appear, weak and pale. There was no sign of moonrise. The garden lay in a shrouded dimness, the pool giving back no reflection, the grass still warm under Huy’s feet, the air still holding the scents of growing things.

Going straight to the pool, Huy walked around it until he saw the grey surface of a rock flat enough to take the monkey. Laying it down, he knelt and lifted the rock next to it, feeling the fronds of his mother’s celery plants brush his wrist as he did so. She would know that her vegetable rockery had been disturbed. Perhaps, when he was finished, she would find tiny shards of ivory sprinkled among her onions and garlic. She would understand. Raising the rock in both hands, he brought it down on the hateful toy with all the strength he could muster, hearing it crack and splinter, still able to vaguely see its idiot face, its jerking limbs, split and shatter. Again and again he struck, his muscles taut with the grief of his father’s betrayal, his uncle’s desertion, his love for them awkwardly mended now but never to be whole. Only when he tasted a salty liquid on his lips did he realize that he was crying.