The reed pen is heavy in Malik's tired hands. He has been practising re-writing scriptures for the past three hours without a break – look at the bottom, re-write the line, repeat. His father has encouraged him and his sister to become the top students in the class; thus, the two children have spent many an afternoon under the shade of a tree, armed with a pen, a piece of ostracon, and old rolls of papyrus. For Ishizu, this task is honourable: she is the only female student in the class. She sits with her back straight and her long hair cascading down her back. Her shift dress is wrinkle-free and her feet, though bare, are clean. Ishizu is the prize student of both the teacher and her father. When she finishes her studies, she will be one of two female royal scribes.
However, Malik is not like Ishizu. Malik has messy blond hair and wears clothes that were once pristine. He rubs his eyes and smears the Kohl outlining them. For Malik, writing is not honourable. He is one out of a dozen young boys sitting cross-legged before a crochety old man who believes that the best teacher is one with a beating stick. When Malik grows older, he will be one of a hundred men re-writing the libraries and collecting taxes. It is true that being a scribe is one of the most prestigious jobs, but Malik doesn't want to spend his life locked in the palace. Malik wants to have a job where he can live away from the city and visit the new places. At the very least, he would like a job outside of Waset.
Snap!
Malik anticipates the stick before it hits his back, but that does not stop him from crying out when the wooden end collides with his spine. Before tonight, Malik believes he will have a new bruise.
"Pay attention!" his teacher yells, and the old man hits Malik's knee as a reminder. Malik says nothing. He returns to his studies with a loathing glare. There is too much to write and too much more that Malik does not understand. His hieroglyphs have become sloppy from his laziness. The teacher does not notice these; instead, he stands alongside Ishizu and praises her for her neat lines and precise writing. Ishizu is the perfect student.
Malik growls in frustration and returns to his studies. As he turns his head back to his own work, he catches sight of something huddled in the distance – or rather, someone. Malik would have missed seeing the person if he hadn't known that right where the person was crouching was the best place to eavesdrop on other classes that met here. Malik sees him now, though, and he wants to cry out to the boy and ask him to play. Anything to get away from here – or his house, because once Malik gets home he will continue his studies under the stern eye of his father (who also believes in teaching with a stick).
Snap! Malik groans as the stick hits him on the head. The action forces his head downwards. When Malik looks up, the person is gone.
"Look at your work and write! Your text has become smudged. Re-write it all!"
Malik says nothing and returns to his work. In his mind, he thinks up a thousand nasty phrases he could say to his teacher.
The following day, Malik heads to a new study group. This one is nestled in a cosy grove surrounded by tall trees. The area is encircled by stone pillars upon which are marked with messy hieroglyphs from young students. It is wrong to sully public property by drawing on it, but once children learn to write, they often find themselves scribbling on anything they can find. Everyone wants their name to survive history and be remembered. Malik was the same. Now, however, he detests writing.
He spreads himself out underneath the shade of a tree, stretching his limbs before he has to take up the uncomfortable scribe position. Next to him, Ishizu lowers herself to the grassy floor and crosses her legs. Her long, black hair sweeps the dusty floor, so she ties it up with two lapis lazuli clips. Then she turns to Malik, pink lips pursed, and frowns.
"Sit up, brother!"
"I'm sitting," Malik mumbles, and he takes up the same position as his sister. The two of them begin their lessons, but Malik's eyes search for something intriguing – for example, whether or not the mysterious figure will make an appearance again. This location does not offer many hiding spots, so Malik suspects that he will catch the person far easier than before. Furthermore, where Malik sits is far enough from the teacher that he will not be seen if he is glancing around instead of paying attention to his work.
He and his sister begin re-writing the scriptures of a famous poem, line-for-line, mimicking the perfect symbols made by an expert scribe. Ishizu can replicate it: her lines are clean even when scratched into old ostracon, as though she possesses a power that allows her to master any profession. Malik, on the other hand, has crossed out dozens of hieroglyphs, and the ones he has managed to copy look nothing like those on the papyrus.
After re-writing the same hieroglyph five times and it still looking lop-sided (not to mention the fact that Malik doesn't know what this particular hieroglyph means), Malik looks up. The stranger is there. Now that he is closer and his hiding place weaker, Malik can see that the stranger is a young boy, possibly a few years younger than Malik. He has short, white hair that is mussed-up from the wind. Though he was hidden in the shadows, Malik spots a dirty piece of limestone and a pointed rock in the boy's hands. Is he … writing? Malik wonders.
And he is. Malik watches with keen interest as the boy attempts to mimic the hieratic scripture of a classmate. The boy looks frustrated as he scratches up and down on the limestone. His writing must be worse than mine, thinks Malik, and this makes him smile.
The boy spots him. Malik stops smiling at first, but then he can't help but grin at the other child. The boy looks frightened and angry at the same time, as though he is unsure whether he should fight or flee. In the end, he stays, watching Malik with guarded eyes. He does not copy anymore.
When class is over, Malik is the first one to leave. He charges right for the boy. The child runs. His speed surprises Malik – who had once believed he was the fastest in all of Waset – and Malik finds himself lagging behind as the child charges on, darting down small streets and between busy shoppers. Soon enough, the boy is gone, and Malik stops to catch his breath on a wall. He closes his eyes and attempts to still his breathing. How can that kid be so fast? he thinks.
Whack! Pain explodes and blisters on the crown of his head where he has been hit with an old, wet rag. Malik is shocked to see the boy before him, stark naked and holding his wet loincloth. He bares his teeth and growls. However, Malik is not scared. He holds his ground, fists his hands, and tells the boy, "What the hell was that for!"
The boy doesn't say anything, but he steps up to Malik. Then, with his god-like speed, he snatches Malik's scribe tools – his reed-pencil and small case for ink – before taking off down the road again. The tools were once his father's, so Malik knows that he will be in trouble for losing them. He will have to purchase new ones. His teacher will also be mad at him for rushing out of class and losing his writing materials. Ishizu also won't be happy that he left her.
But Malik doesn't care. This boy is fast and strong and free – he chooses when he wants to go to class. Despite the boy being younger than him, Malik wants to follow him. He wants to know why someone would eavesdrop of a scribe class. More importantly, Malik wants to know who the boy is.
On the way home, Malik carries his head high and thinks about how he will catch the boy. He is certain the child will come back – and, now armed with a pen and ink, the stranger can write – so Malik knows they will meet tomorrow at class.
The next day, Malik fidgets on the hot sand. Today's class is held in an open field that is surrounded by three tall, leafy trees. There is a new teacher today – one who is far younger but still holds the same "beat to teach" philosophy as the older generations. Because of the new bruises Malik sports from both his teacher and his father, Malik decides that today he will pay attention to his lesson. He attempts to sit still and re-write a poem from the 15th dynasty.
However, it isn't long before Malik catches the boy in the corner of his eye. The boy sits atop one of the trees, nestled between the foliage, so that Malik can see him but the teacher cannot. In his hands the boy holds Malik's old reed pen and ink well; on his lap balances a torn sheet of papyrus that Malik assumes the boy ripped from a book. Even though Malik swore to pay attention today, he can't help but watch the boy as he tries to read over Malik's shoulder and copy.
Why would he want to write all day? Malik wonders. Surely he has better things to do. Nonetheless, Malik adjusts his book so that the boy can see it better, and the two of them write together for the rest of the afternoon. When it is time to go, Malik hears the boy begin to shuffle down the tree. His teacher has turned and begun to pack up his belongings. Ishizu continues to copy her text, unaware that class has ended. No one is watching Malik. Now's the time!
"Wait," Malik whispers. The boy stills and turns. His eyes are guarded and stormy. He looks prepared to put up a fight, but Malik has no intention of chasing the boy through the city again. Instead, Malik motions for the boy to follow him, and then points left towards an empty park.
The boy shakes his head and prepares to go.
"I'll help you write," Malik says.
The boy looks over his shoulder. He purses his lips together. "Fine." His voice sounds young but mature, as though he's been forced to grow up too early. He also sounds eager, which confuses Malik. Who is eager to write?
Malik forces a cheer down his throat. He lets go of the boy's wrist and tells him to go forward. Then once the boy is gone, Malik turns to Ishizu and waves good-bye. "I'm going to study for a bit." A pause. "Alone."
"Be safe, Malik," Ishizu says. Malik nods – and then he runs. He takes off across the hot sand, feet sinking and slipping on the loose ground. Sweat streams down his back; Malik wishes he could strip down to nothing, but his father will never let him take off his royal garb and jewellery. Malik is thankful when he makes it to the abandoned park where there is a small oasis. He kneels down to drink and notices the boy doing the same. They both slurp from the oasis until their fronts are soaked.
"So you know how to write?" the boy says, leaning back and propping himself up on his hands.
"Yes," Malik says with a sniff. "And you can't?" Malik already knows that he can't. Three days of watching the boy scratch hieroglyphs have proven that this boy is illiterate. Malik assumes that the boy is poor. He wears no clothes, his skin is dirty, and his body sports cuts and bruises. (Malik also notices that the boy is strong, but he doesn't want to think that a little kid can overpower him.) The boy's family must also be illiterate, and thus he has never had and instructor to teach him how to read and write.
The boy growls. "I can write."
Malik leans his head towards the papyrus scroll. "Sure." He looks back up. "I can teach you how to write – how to properly write – but I'm going to need something in return. What can you give me?"
The child becomes defensive. He crosses his arms over his chest and takes a step back. "Who said you're my teacher? You're a student, just like me. We're the same."
"Suit yourself," Malik says, and he begins to walk away. He has better things to do than tutor little boys. After all, another opportunity for escape will present itself.
The child grabs onto his hand and pulls. "Turn around look at me." Malik doesn't, but he stops walking. "Please teach me how to write." The words are strong, full of longing and intention. Malik doesn't want to turn around because he's afraid that the boy's hopeful face will melt his heart. Malik does want to escape his fate as a scribe …
"Fine."
The child plops down to the ground, reed brush and papyrus in hand. He holds the brush in a fist, and the hand that clenches the paper is crinkling it. Malik takes the child's hands and relaxes them, pulling at his fingers until the boy is holding the brush in a C-grip and his posture has relaxed. The boy gives him death glares as Malik's hands touch his, but he does not pull away. Malik can see that this child is determined to learn.
When the boy has mastered the correct positioning of his hands, he begins to write. Malik watches as he drags the brush back and forth along the paper. It appears that the boy is attempting to write hieroglyphs, but his printing blends together to resemble more of a hieratic text.
"What are you writing?" Malik asks. I thought you couldn't write, he thinks
"My name," the boy says. He furrows his brows when his hand smudges over the wet ink. He swears and begins writing below it.
"I thought you didn't know how to write," Malik says.
"Well I know how to write my name. I know how it looks." The child's tone is sarcastic. It's as if he's saying, Well doesn't everyone know how to write their name? Malik begins to think he's made a grave mistake.
"What's your name?" Malik asks to break the awkward silence that has come over them. The boy is now on line seven, and he has yet to complete writing his name. It appears he can write the first hieroglyph quite well, but he fails at writing the determinants or the final symbols. However, the kid never gives up. He scribbles some more on the paper, until there is a mess of black ink. Then he holds it aloft for Malik to read. "That is my name." He points to the bottom signature to signify which one he's completed.
"I can't even read that," Malik says. He rips the paper out of the boy's hands and sets it behind him. "I told you I would help you write, so stop being so cocky and telling me that you already know it." The boy opens his mouth to reply, but Malik cuts him off: "I'll write your name for you."
The boy huffs. "Fine. It's Bakhura – like the western mountain Bakhu and the sun god Ra."
Even though Malik doesn't say it, he thinks that the boy's name is beautiful. He's named after gods. The sunset of Ra.
Malik writes out the name is perfect hieroglyphs. His writing looks more like Ishizu's with the way that each line is clean and neat. Malik's hands haven't smudged the ink, nor do any of the symbols have odd-shaped designs or are written in a shaky, up-and-down pattern. When he is done, Malik shows Bakhura his work.
Bakhura doesn't say anything resembling a "thank you", but Malik sees him smiling as he attempts to re-write his name – again, and again, and again. Malik watches as he retraces the symbols down the page, until the whole sheet of papyrus is covered with smudged, messy ink that at some point was the child's name. When Bakhura is done, he turns the sheet over and begins writing again.
"I think you've mastered that. Here, let me show you how to write my name."
The boy looks up, affronted. "Why would I need to know how to write your name?" he growls.
"It's practice," Malik says with a sigh. He reaches for the papyrus, but Bakhura holds it away from him. "Give it here. You said you wanted to learn how to write, so I'll help you. You can't just keep writing your name. You won't get a job."
"I already have a job," Bakhura says. Malik thinks he's lying. "And besides, I don't want to be a scribe like you – stuck in a palace all day writing for some spoiled Pharaoh. I'm going to be the best thief in all of Egypt and everyone's going to know it."
Malik feels his stomach sink. Malik wishes that he could be free like this boy – but become a thief? Definitely not! Malik thinks that the boy is trying to impress him with these stories. Bakhura couldn't kill anyone. "No one's going to remember a thief."
Bakhura whirls on Malik. He tackles him to the ground, throwing his weight down on Malik's chest and pining his arms and legs to the ground. Despite the boy's scrawny appearance, Malik can see Bakhura's muscles rippling underneath his tanned skin. This stranger is dangerous. As the boy leans down to Malik, stormy grey eyes inches from his own, Malik thinks that he will die. This is it. The knife that Malik can now see hanging from the boy's hip will soon be at Malik's throat. The blood that will soak both of them will be Malik's. It will make a red river down the sand, but no one will spot the blood line it creates. Malik will not inherit his father's job, he will not become a scribe, and he will not be free.
"I will be remembered," Bakhura hisses. "I'll write my name on every tomb I rob. On everything I take, I will sign my name because the things I steal belong to me. I want everyone to know who I am."
"You're stupid," Malik tells him. "No one's going to remember a thief like you."
The knife comes to rest against his neck. Bakhura looks livid. His eyes are wild, his rancid breath coming in gasps. He shakes as though he full of pent-up emotion that can only be released by killing or stealing. Malik hopes he will do neither. If Malik dies, then he won't be free.
"If you kill me, I won't be able to help you write. You're gonna need more than just your name to make it in the history books." A pause. Malik feels his face blush. "And I will remember you. I can write your name too."
Bakhura laughs. He climbs off of Malik and laughs out loud. He falls to the sand and gasps and rolls as though Malik has told him the best joke in the world. This goes on for nearly a minute, during which Malik feels as though his life is more on the line than when he was held at knife-point. He doesn't know what to do. Should he escape and run to the city? Or should he stay because Bakhura is far faster and stronger than him?
"You're cute," Bakhura tells him, struggling not to begin laughing again. He sits up and grins. "I don't need you to remember me – I can be famous without you."
"I didn't mean it like that!" Malik says. His face feels hot; he's blushing. Malik feels worse, which only makes his cheeks burn brighter. "I just – I would want to be remembered too. You want a good after-life, right?"
Bakhura's face goes blank. "No," he says at length. "I'm going to live forever, so I don't have to worry about that. But I want people to know who I am. I don't want to a nobody on the street who robbed a few houses. I want to be the greatest thief in Egypt. I want the daily gossip to be about me. I want stories to be written about my heroic feats. I want my name written down so that it will never be forgotten." He finishes the speech with a cheeky grin.
"Whatever," Malik says in an attempt to hide the beating of his heart and the flush of his cheeks. "Now you know how to write your name. Good luck. I need to go home and practice with my father." Malik heaves himself to his feet and brushes the sand from his clothes. His father will be upset that he's home late and dirty. Perhaps the yelling and beating he will receive will limit the amount of time that he has to sit and practice writing.
"See ya," Malik says, and he begins walking back to his house.
"Wait." Malik stops. He wants to turn around, but a part of him is worried that Bakhura will attack him with his knife again and make him teach him how to write more. Malik doesn't want that. He wants Bakhura to call him back and tell him that he's about to whisk him off to a world Malik wouldn't believe exists. Malik wants to hear Bakhura's footsteps behind him and feels his hand touch his as he drags him along on an adventure. Malik wants to share Bakhura's freedom because he'd rather be remembered as a rebel than a sheep.
"What?" Malik says. He refuses to look at the other boy.
"See you in class tomorrow."
Malik is glad that Bakhura can't see the beaming smile on his face. "Don't be late."
The next day Malik does not go to class. When he wakes up in the morning, it is because his father is shaking his shoulder and yelling at him. "Wake up! Get your ass out of bed and come downstairs." Malik does not want to do, but the hands hitting him tell him that he should not disobey. Without a word, Malik climbs out of bed and lets himself be dragged down the hallway. When Malik and his father passes by the kitchen, Malik spots his sister leaning against the wall. Her eyes are full of tears and her shoulders shake with sobs. Malik breaks free from his father's grasp to run to his sister. He embraces her in a constricting hug and tangles his fingers in her long hair.
"What's going on?" Malik dares to ask, because he knows that if he asks his father, he will be hit.
Ishizu wipes her eyes and attempts to smile at him. She looks tired and hungry and scared. She takes hold of Malik's hands and squeezes them tight – an offering of comfort and safety that Malik accepts.
"I think there's going to be an attack," Ishizu whispers in his ear. "An attack on the palace."
Malik's heart stops. He swallows a pit in his throat and clenches his sister's hand. Their father stands a few feet away, staring down the hallway. The man never smiles, but he never has this expression either: he looks scared. His face is white as a ghost and the dark shadows make him look far older than he is. His eyes appear to sink into his skull. Everything about him seems … tired – as though this news has dragged him to Duat and back and aged him by twenty years.
"I don't care what you're heard or seen or what someone tells you. You are not to spread rumours or tell stories to anyone. Whatever happens in this palace stays in this palace. Am I understood?"
Malik nods. He doesn't know what else he can do. What does his father mean by "whatever happens in this palace"? Did something bad happen? Malik can't think of seeing any suspicious activities recently, so he assumes that this is a recent threat that the Medjay are attempting to keep secret. And if Ishizu is correct in saying that there will be an attack, Malik wonders who is attacking. Rogue bandits are a threat to any nation.
"Now go. There is no class today. Stay in your bedrooms." His father gives him a push in the right direction. Malik heads back, but not before checking to see his father storm down the hallway towards the front door. Malik stops walking and listens. He hears his father walk through the house, pause, and then open and close the door. Click. The door is now locked. Malik knows not to disobey his father, so he returns to his room and spends the day on his bed.
In his room, Malik paces the perimeter. He is scared and worried and his mind is racing with wild ideas. What is happening in Waset? But most of all, Malik realises that he is missing class with Bakhura. Class may be cancelled, but Bakhura will still wait for him to come. Because of their promise, Malik knows that he has to leave the room. He begins searching for a way out. The window, for example, seems like a safe route out of the house. He could scale it, but he's never tried it before. The more Malik looks at it, the more easier it seems. It wouldn't be too hard to climb out the window. He could hold onto the windowsill and drop to the ground. The drop wouldn't be too far for him. Malik's father is also gone, so he doesn't have to worry about being quiet when he leaves.
And besides, thinks Malik as he gets to his feet and climbs onto the windowsill, I'd be more scared of seeing Bakhura if I missed today than having my father catch me sneaking out of the house.
With that thought, Malik turns around and grips the windowsill. He uses his arms to slide his body over the sill and let his legs dangle. When he is hanging, he drops. The impact sends shocks up his legs that knock him to his bottom, but Malik laughs and gets up regardless of the pain. He looks around for a few seconds to see if anyone has noticed him. It is silent. Smiling, Malik struts down the pathway and heads towards the city.
It feels strange walking without Ishizu, or even knowing that when he gets to class his sister will not be there. Ishizu is always with him. She is the guardian angel sister who watches over him to make sure he does everything right and nothing wrong. Even those she is the smart and hard-working one, it is Malik who will inherit his father's job as the Pharaoh's personal scribe. Because of this, Malik is expected to study longer hours than any other student and, once he grows older, to spend all of his waking hours at his father's side as an apprentice. Any other child would be thankful to inherit such a powerful job – but Malik isn't. He thinks of people like Bakhura who don't have obligations or royal blood lines that bind them to their destined fate. Bakhura is who he wants to be.
When Malik arrives at today's classroom – a natural sanctuary decorated with hanging vines and old stone – he stops short. No one else is there. The large stone bench at which the instructor sits is empty. The wild flowers and grass stand erect as though no one has visited this location is weeks. Malik looks around. He is certain that this is where his class arranged to meet for today's lesson.
"You finally showed up." Bakhura comes out from behind a stone pillar. He looks pissed – which he has every reason to – so Malik prepares himself for a fight. "Is everyone gone because of the raid?"
Malik pauses. "How do you know about the raid?" he says.
"Everyone knows about it." Malik rolls his eyes. Bakhura continues: "There's a big foreign army coming to attack the Pharaoh. People are saying that the Medjay doesn't stand a chance. I'm surprised the city's not being evacuated right now." Bakhura steps forward. He swings his dagger at his side. "How come you're here? Shouldn't you be escaping?"
"I did escape – from my house." Malik tries to appear casual. Bakhura can't be telling the truth. The Medjay is the largest army in all of Upper and Lower Egypt. It is therefore impossible for foreigners to come to the capital of Upper Egypt and attempt to usurp the throne. But there is a part of Malik that thinks that this is true. His father's anxious behaviour, Ishizu's frightening words, and Bakhura's dark omen tell Malik that something awful is going to happen.
"Why are you here then?" Malik says. "If they city will be attacked, why haven't you left?"
"I came to get you," Bakhura says.
Malik swallows. "Why?" he asks. Why would he want to find me?
"You need to teach me how to write my name neater. I wrote it on some walls yesterday and people think it's just a bunch of scribbles. No one will remember me."
"I don't think I need to teach you anything. And why aren't you hiding or running away?" Malik pauses, then sneers. "Don't have a home?"
"Do too," Bakhura growls. "And it's not gonna get burned to the ground like Waset. My home is away from here – so far away that the news of the raid will never even reach my village – so I don't even have to worry about any attacks." Bakhura falls silent afterwards. Malik watches him toe the ground, but his eyes remain on Malik. He looks uncomfortable as he shifts his feet in the sand, put his hands in his pockets, and shuffles around because Malik is certain that Bakhura doesn't know what else to say.
"You should come with me."
Malik blinks. "Why?"
"Because it's safer with me," Bakhura says. His throws his arm behind him and points to the mountains. Malik has never travelled out of the city, but he's studied maps and he knows of the little village on the other side of the Nile that helps build the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. That's all Malik knows about them though. The people never come across Iteru because it's too dangerous in most places and they seem to live better in seclusion. There are even rumours that the people from the village are cursed, and that the village itself holds a great evil. As such, the village is avoided and the people are scorned.
"Over there is a place where no one will attack. It'll be safe."
Malik doesn't think before he grabs Bakhura's raised hand and stretches his fingers out. His hand is bigger and cleaner than the boy's, but Malik appreciates the scars and dirt that decorate Bakhura's hands like medals for hard work. Malik looks beyond the river to see the faint glow coming from behind the houses on the hill. The name of the village escapes Malik – it's practically nameless to anyone outside of it – but Malik now looks at it with a new appreciation. It could be his new home. It may be evil, but Malik thinks he could come to like the village.
Bakhura pipes up with a grave reminder: "You can't go back. Waset will perish."
Malik shakes his head. "This is my new adventure."
The younger boy laughs. He grabs Malik's other hand, entwines their fingers together into a tight lock, and then pulls the boy out of the grove. When they are out on the street, Malik lets go and runs. There are no people to avoid; all the shops are closed and the marketplace is bare. For the first time Malik can look down the streets and see places where he can run. He can do silly things like laugh and play and not have to worry about missing class. As a tomb builder, he'll have an education, but it won't be before an abusive teacher. No, he'll be the apprentice of a hard-working man.
"What's your village like?" Malik asks.
"It''s not called a village," Bakhura snaps. "It's called Kul Elna. Haven't you ever heard of it?"
Malik shakes his head.
"Well it's important. Lots of strong people lived in Kul Elna and built tombs. There's also some tomb robbers there, too; tomb building and tomb robbing go hand in hand." Bakhura continues to talk, and Malik drinks in the information with the thirst of a parched animal. Malik yearns for this new, interesting information. This is the life that Malik wants to live: a life of freedom and adventure and hard work. Malik doesn't care about the reward or the money. He wants to make something of his life with his bare hands, and not just write some scroll for a rich, incestuous man.
"You aren't going to run back to your family, right?" Bakhura stops running. Malik is grateful; neither agility nor endurance are his strong points. While Bakhura stands, hands on his hips, Malik is bent double and gasping for breaths.
When Malik is able to speak, he says, "Never. Why?"
"People here stick together. The friends you make are the kind that you can trust for the rest of your life – the sort of people that if you're in trouble, you know they'll come to save you. I trust you, and I need the others to trust you. There's not many people in Kul Elna – just 100 – so you need to keep a good reputation."
Malik rolls his eyes. "I'll try not to piss anyone off."
"I'm not kidding," Bakhura continues. He grabs Malik's shoulder and lifts him up so that their eyes meet. "Kul Elna breathes as one. We eat, sleep, and live together. If you're going to come here, you need to be able to sacrifice yourself for the good of others."
"I can do that," Malik says, brushing off Bakhura's hands. Malik takes a few steps forward before looking back over his shoulder. "You can trust me. I'll stay with you."
The rest of the trip is less serious. Bakhura points out all the wonders that surround Kul Elna as he and Malik walk along Iteru. The waters are low and calm during Shemu, so Malik and Bakhura dip their toes in the river. Malik has been to the great river many times to watch water sports or swim along the shoreline. However, ever since he started school his father hasn't given him much time for recreation. Life has become focused on studies and school. Malik can't remember the last time he had a day off to play – to go outside and run and laugh and not worry about any upcoming test.
Malik looks up from the water. Bakhura is crouched on the shore. He drags his finger along the wet sand to make small groves. At first, Malik thinks Bakhura is digging. But as Malik continues to watch, he notices the precise movements and he realises that Bakhura is writing. The other boy's fingers move up and down as he writes the hieroglyphs that he has been practising for days. Malik watches with admiration. Malik's name will be in the history books as the scribe-to-be that would replace his father. He won't be famous anymore because he's run away, but he'll still be remembered. Bakhura won't be. The young child has to make a name for himself, even if it means rewriting it a thousand times so that one of his signatures will survive history.
"Can anyone else in your village write?"
"No, and it's not called 'village'' – it's Kul Elna." Bakhura pauses to finish writing the final hieroglyph. He begins rewriting his name again. "We can talk, but we can't read or write. Anything important has to be passed down orally. But that means that everyone has a good memory, so it's fine. I just … don't want anyone to forget about us."
Malik doesn't say anything else. He watches Bakhura write his name until the child says it's time to continue walking. They walk in silence until they reach a thin part of Iteru where they can swim across. Malik has never been a confident swimmer, so when he jumps into the still waters, his head bobs under for a moment. He kicks hard to reach the surface, but a pair of hands come to rest on his hips and they lift him above the water. Behind him, Bakhura holds him steady with a deep blush on his cheeks.
"I can swim," Malik says, pulling forward and spraying water in the other boy's face. Bakhura lets him, but Malik notices that the boy never strays far.
When they reach the shore, the walk to Kul Elna is shorter. The scenery is sparse. The Valley of the Kings stretches along the west coast of Iteru, but the tombs are hidden within the rocks. As they continue walking, Malik spots another tall mountain, behind which there are mud houses built up the side. From Waset, this mountain has always appeared to be glowing, as though Ra hid behind this mountain each night to protect himself from Apep. Now Malik sees that the lights were from the houses scattered along the mountainside.
Besides the houses, Malik spots people. These people are dressed in rags and don't wear shoes. Each one of them wears at least one piece of gold, but it is minor compared to the gold armbands, necklaces, and earrings that adorn Malik. When the children approach, they greet Bakhura like a friend. Younger children come up to him and pull at his arms to lead him away. An older woman comes to his side and tugs at his hair.
"You've been away all day!" she chastises. "What did you do?"
Bakhura doesn't say anything, but he assumes a crouching position and begins writing his name. The younger children gasp in awe. The woman smiles.
You're the only one who knows how to write, thinks Malik. After all this time practising, his handwriting has become much neater and cleaner, but he still holds the pen in a fist and slashes down the sand to create rough edges. Nonetheless, his name is more readable than before. When he is done, the woman and children clap in excitement. Malik has never been praised for anything he's done, so he feels a twinge of anger when he sees Bakhura being praised by the other villagers. Malik's writing is far neater than that.
Out of anger, Malik drops to his knees and begins writing. He drags his finger along the sand, writing vertically instead of horizontally. When he finishes it, he returns to the top of his writing and begins drawing a long oval around it. The line is clean. He finishes his name by slashing a line along the bottom of the oval.
"What's that supposed to be?" Bakhura says. His haughty tone irks Malik.
"My name – surrounded by a cartouche."
Bakhura rolls his eyes. The woman next to him bends down to examine it. Though Malik is certain that she cannot read, she marvels at the design. She traces her finger along the cartouche, and then presses her hand next to it. "If you have a name, your spirit will be preserved. Will you write my name?"
Malik agrees, and he helps the woman write her name in the sand. Over time, her name will blow away and she won't be remembered. Names need to be written on something permanent like stone or papyrus; nonetheless, the woman seems grateful by the action. Afterwards, Malik writes the name of each of the kids. He doesn't put a cartouche around the others, but the villagers, though they must know this symbolizes royalty, do not ask for it. Other people from the village come out to watch. Soon Malik can see almost one hundred faces looking at him.
"No one knows how to read or write, but we all want to be remembered," whispers Bakhura in his ear.
Malik nods, and continues to write.
By the end of the day, Malik's hands are too sore to pick up the dates on the plate before him. He sits cross-legged on the floor with Bakhura, watching the younger boy draw the symbols of his name in the sand with a stick. After writing out all one hundred names in the sand, Malik doesn't want to write again. He'll be happy when he can begin trailing Bakhura and his friends through the desert. Bakhura has explained to him that there are foot trails behind Kul Elna that led to the Valley of the Kings. These trails are often used by the tomb builders in the morning as they head to work. Bakhura has told him that one day they will visit these paths.
For the rest of the week, Malik does not hear any more about raids. In fact, he hears nothing about Waset. News never travels from outside of the village, but that does not mean that gossip does not travel. On the second day, Bakhura's father catches them lazing in the shade and tells them to stop sitting and get to work. The man is neither tall nor strong, yet when he takes them fishing, he catches large fish with his bare hands or with a spear. While on the coast, Malik watches the villagers chat about the recent happenings – who's sinned, who's pregnant, who's grown older. When Malik is with his father, there is no casual talk. The man is far too serious.
On other days, Malik and Bakhura spend time with the women of the village. At first, Malik thought this was embarrassing. Only poor girls spent their days with their mothers. However, the women of Kul Elna are as much of the breadwinners as their spouses: they hunt fish like their husbands, grow food in small gardens, and create beautiful clothing and tools. Rich women in Waset have power, but it is all legal; these women help keep a roof above their families' heads.
The most surprising of all is the children. Like Bakhura, none of them have any formal education. The young children stay with their mothers, while the older children – or the more enthusiastic children such as Bakhura – follows their fathers to work. Because none of the children can write, Malik becomes a god amongst them.
One day, Bakhura takes him and several other children to the Valley of the Kings. They stand before the rocky ravine, barefoot and naked. Bakhura leads them like a king despite being one of the youngest. One by one, they climb along the ledges until Bakhura spots the smallest opening in the rocks. In excitement, the children scramble up the rock to the entrance, where they form a small circle before it. The opening is small and narrow; a child could fit through, but an adult would have to crawl on their belly. Malik watches the other children for any sign of movement – what are they doing here? Then Bakhura crouches down, shoves his walking stick inside the rough sand before the tomb, and begins writing his name.
"What the hell are you doing?" Malik cries. Malik almost wants to tell Bakhura how ridiculous it is that he wants to sign everything. The Valley of the Kings isn't his, and right now Malik is watching someone commit a crime.
"'Bakhura was here'," he says.
"It just says Bakhura," Malik points out.
The boy rolls his eyes. "You write the rest. Better yet, you sign your name too. You don't know when you're going to die."
"I'm not doing that," Malik says.
For some unknown reason, this pisses Bakhura off. He shoves the stick into Malik's hand. His other hand comes around to grab Malik's fingers and bind them to the wood. "Sign your name next to mine. You don't want to be forgotten, do you? You said that you won't make it to Aaru if you don't have your name, and I doubt someone will remember you if you've left the village. Sign your name."
But Malik doesn't want to. He tosses the stick to the ground and glares at Bakhura. "I don't want to write anymore. I came here to be free, not to be your tutor."
Bakhura looks livid. In anger, he kicks the stick off the side of the tomb. Neither of them hear it hit the bottom. Malik feels uncomfortable before Bakhura even though none of them have weapons. Worst of all, Malik imagines a fight on this small ledge. One of them would fall off, and the bottom is rather far. If either of them were pushed off, they wouldn't be able to catch themselves on any ledge.
In fear of falling, Malik runs away. He dashes past the other children and slips down the side of the cliff. At first, Malik thinks he will fall off the cliff and hit the ground; however, the next landing is only a few feet down, and soon Malik is able to use the small ledges as steps. As he stumbles down the cliff side, Malik listens for the skidding of someone else's footsteps. No one else is chasing him. Malik knows that he is not faster than Bakhura. He knows that if Bakhura wanted him to come back, he would chase after him and drag him back up the mountain. If Bakhura wanted him to write his name, he could've forced him – and because he knows this, Malik cries. He runs deeper into the Valley of the Kings – where royalty will be buried, not poor village boys or runaway scribes – until his feet are blistered and the sky is dark. Off in the distance, Malik can see their bright lights from the houses in Kul Elna. The city is glowing.
With no one chasing him, Malik slows his pace and stomps to another entrance to a tomb. He crouches down in the opening of the cavern and buries his head in his knees. He is mad at Bakhura for thinking that he can use his knowledge whenever it pleases him. Malik is furious that Bakhura takes advantage of him to further his own goals without even considering what goals Malik had for himself. Bakhura is cruel. He thinks of himself – not others – and his priorities focus on getting what he needs to survive. So what if Bakhura can write his name? His name will never be remembered. No matter what he writes or where he writes it, only the gods can transcend time. Bakhura, like Malik and all the other inhabitants of Egypt, will die like everyone else.
The cool wind brushes against Malik's cheeks. There are tears in his eyes and his face is wet. Malik doesn't understand why he's crying, but he doesn't brush the tears away.
I've made a horrible choice, thinks Malik, but he's not quite sure which choice it is, or even how he can fix it.
For the rest of the night, Malik watches the moon and the stars. Everything is bright and fiery, like the spirits of the people of Egypt. Everyone has a will and a dream. As Malik rests his head on his hands and looks up, he thinks about his own dream. He ran away with a mysterious boy to his supposed evil village – and now what? Is this the adventure Malik had dreamed about? When Malik left, he thought he was leaving behind his life as a scribe. However, the skill has followed him like a curse.
Malik hits the sand with a fist. He is not destined to write down the honourable feats of the Pharaohs and gods. Malik doesn't want to write about the goals of anyone! He wants to be able to live through life without having to focus on settling down and making a living. He wants to be free.
But deep inside him, Malik still wants what Bakhura wants. We are want to be remembered.
The glow of the mountain warms Malik's heart. The boy gets to his feet and begins to walk back to Kul Elna. If he slept in the Valley of the Kings, he would be prey to adders, scorpions, and other desert predators. Furthermore, the temperature drops during the night and the cold wind blows across the land. He will be happy to return to Bakhura's house and sleep on a mat. Bakhura may be irate at Malik's nerve to return to Kul Elna and sleep under his roof, but Malik doesn't think Bakhura will kick him out. Even when Bakhura is angry, he is not mean. He forgives – though his attitude can still be standoffish – but he never forgets. This is fine with Malik: Bakhura can remember his faults, so he can learn to appreciate how far Malik's come.
Malik rounds the last of the foothills and comes to stand above Kul Elna. The city is on fire. The lights that Malik had previously thought were coming from the windows of houses are now wrathful, swirling flames that lick the sides of the buildings. Long shadows stretch along the buildings to create apparitions of people burning alive, their arms stretched high above in the hopes that someone will reach out to save them. No one will save them. There are no people in the streets, but there are wails reverberating off the tall mountains. Kul Elna is crying out, but no one can hear it.
The sight leaves Malik frozen. The watches the city fall like a child's block set. The wailing continues. Hot tears fall on Malik's cheeks and slide down his pale face. Malik has never been more scared. This can't be the gods' work, thinks Malik. No one would wish this torture upon anyone.
Malik's feet urge him to run down the hill to find Bakhura, but his heart tells him that he doesn't want to see the boy. Malik doesn't want to see a corpse. Even from above, Malik can see the streets highlighted with blood and vomit.
On shaky feet, Malik steps down to the village. The sand is cold until he is before the village, and then the heat is intense and his feet burn. The streets are littered with ripped clothes and broken pottery. Bakhura's house has already burned to the ground, but Malik visits the houses of friends in an attempt to find survivors. Everything is painted with blood. Their simple possessions are destroyed or burned. If these people do enter Aaru, they will have nothing with them – no name, no clothes, no food. They will suffer for all eternity.
The sound of approaching footsteps startles Malik. He ducks behind a charred box and presses himself low to the ground. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh gags him, but he covers his mouth to hide himself. If he is seen, Malik is certain they will believe he is a child of Kul Elna. No one will recognize him as the son of the scribe Ishtar. He has yet to make a name for himself.
In the distance, two guards approach each other. The fire illuminates their pale faces, revealing how they truly feel – tired, scared, sad. Malik leans around the corner to watch two more guards exit, followed by a man in regal garb. Malik does not recognize the man - it is too dark – but he can see the insignia of the Medjay. The men are under the orders of the Pharaoh. This is the Pharaoh's wish.
Malik's heart thunders in his chest. The last two men to come out speak to the important man in hushed tones. Then a knife catches the light of the moon and the two men fall to the ground. Their blood mixes with the tarnished blood of Kul Elna. Malik holds his breath so as not to scream. He looks in fear at the other guards and wonders if this royal person will kill them all. And if so, will he kill Malik too? Should Malik run?
He looks down the road to where the guards came from. In the distance Malik spots the opening to a great cave. Malik remembers seeing the cave on his first day, but he and Bakhura never entered it. Malik doesn't even know where it leads.
Malik waits for the guards to leave before creeping towards the cave. Each time he steps, he feels a sticky liquid between his toes that makes his blood run cold and his stomach flip. Twice Malik has to stop and bend double. He hasn't eaten in a while, so nothing comes out, but he vomits whatever is left within him. Malik wants to close his eyes to this dark night, but he is scared of not seeing anything either. He doesn't want to find a body, yet it would be worse not to find anyone. What happened to the villagers of Kul Elna? Why are they all missing? Why is the Medjay here – and why did they let Kul Elna burn?
When Malik gets to the entrance of the cave, he can smell burning flesh. He gags and coughs until he can hold his breath and step down. There is more smeared blood. Malik notices that the smears are like fingerprints, as if the villagers dragged their hands down the walls when they were pulled deeper into the cave. What worries Malik is that there are no weapons. The guards carried spears and swords, but Malik does not see any weapons from the citizens of Kul Elna. If this was an attack, it was unfair. Kul Elna never had a chance to save itself.
Deeper into the cave, the smell grows more putrid. Malik never sees a corpse. When he reaches the bottom, is is a horrid smudge of blood. There stands a large pot in the centre, supported by two wooden beams. Everything is dyed red. Again, there are no weapons or bodies, but Malik knows one of those things rests in the pot. Malik can't step closer. The fire burns even down here, consuming everything like a hellish beast. The child falls to his knees before the massacre and sobs. The tears that had dripped from his eyes now fall faster, and they clean the blood and vomit caked on his hands. There are still cries, but Malik knows that there are no survivors. This was where Kul Elna ended.
And it will not be remembered.
Malik cries for hours. He lies on the dirty ground, curls up in a ball on the bottom steps, throws himself to the walls in anger. His fists beat the ground until his knuckles are bloody. He puts on a show and throws his voice to the sky because he is the only one left and no one will hear him. No one heard the desperate cries of Kul Elna; no one saw the fires that consumed the houses. There will be nothing in the history textbooks about the genocide of a western city. No one will think of Kul Elna's fall because no one knew of the city.
After Malik can no longer cry because his eyes are puffy and his voice is gone, Malik stands. His hands slip on the blood on the walls and he falls. His fingers are greasy with blood, but Malik is more interested in the design painted on the walls. There are names on these walls. Some are just a mess of blood, but others Malik can read. In particular, he can spot one name: Bakhura.
Remember me, Malik thinks. He knows that Bakhura will be remembered. His name is preserved on a hundred pieces of ostracon. His signature is on a tomb of the Valley of Kings. There are a dozen pieces of papyrus with his name scribbled onto every available surface. Bakhura's signature is even present on his final resting place – his home. Malik trails his fingers along each line. The sunset of Ra. Like the sun, Bakhura has travelled the sky, shining his warmth and exuberance to everyone. Now he has dived behind the mountains and lives in the Duat until he receives his final resting place.
Malik presses his hand against the signature, then begins writing new symbols. His writing has never looked more beautiful. His name glows crimson against the stone wall. There is a light in the distance that Malik knows will soon touch him. Smoke clogs his lungs. Malik feels hands on his and he knows that soon he will be able to see Bakhura again. But Malik does not hurry his writing. He finishes it and decorates both his and Bakhura's names in cartouches.
Remember us, thinks Malik.
The light touches his face. Malik knows his adventure is complete, so he leans back and lets the warmth envelope him. Before he falls, he feels a hand grab him, but it does not pull him back; rather, it falls with him, and Malik knows that he is not alone.