Chapter Nine: The Storm
It was the annual flooding of the Eshe that supported the farms and orchards that were the lifeblood of Khemet. If the floods came, then it was a sign that there would be something to harvest the coming year. But when the flood failed to come, or the water was clear and not murky with mud, then all the people knew that they would face a lean year ahead.
This year, the Eshe flooded on time, and the water was so laden with silt that it was almost black. It meant a very good year ahead, and so it was a time of celebration. The Temple of Hapi, the god who controlled the flooding of the Eshe, had a continuous stream of grateful worshippers entering and exiting the stone portico. Singing and dancing took place in the square in front of the temple, as Hapi's devotees honored him and thanked him for blessing Khemet with another fruitful year. The melodies of the flutes slithered, snakelike, to meet the merry jangling of sistrums, and their sounds echoed throughout the city, mingled with laughter and song.
Not that far away, the Grand Port Marketplace of Yaminah was lively and crowded, as merchants from all over Khemet and nations that were on friendly terms with her came in to display their wares in time for the Flood Festival. Folk from the tribes in the desert brought in their precious caches of lapis lazuli, carnelian, agate, gold and copper, and large blocks of beautiful rock crystal in colors as varied and as subtle as those that tint the sky at sunset. Almond-eyed merchants from Rûmenyen displayed bolts of silk with weave as fine as a spider's web, or brocade embellished with gold thread; they were even selling a beautiful cloud-gray mare, raised by the Horsemasters of Rûmenyen – the Doran. The slender, tattooed Ma'yen offered gleaming pearls, some as small as a kernel of wheat, others almost as large as a fat pomegranate, and the sweet-smelling oil of the coconut in cool clay bottles.
Mié Djeserit took in all of these, listening to the rise and fall of different accents, though all spoke the Common Tongue that had come down to them from the people of the North. The air was a heavy mélange of food, liquor, fragrant resin, fish smells, camel smells, horse smells, and the sea – a mixture so intoxicating that she felt she was getting drunk just breathing.
And tonight, many would be drunk, she thought with a small smile as she walked unhurriedly down the middle lane of the market. The celebrations would last an entire fortnight – just long enough for the floodwaters to leave their precious deposit of silt on the otherwise infertile desert ground and retreat back to the river. During that time span, the sandstone walls of Yaminah would resound with the music of flutes, drums and sistrums, and many vats of beer and wine would be drained dry. After that, life would go back to normal, for it was time to till the fields and plant the crop for the following year.
The celebrations made Yaminah vulnerable to attack. It was something that had always worried Mié, ever since she realized that the war against Umbar would take longer than she had wished. If there was ever a time when Umbar could easily bring Khemet to her knees, it was during the Flood Festival. The soldiers would be intoxicated with liquor or made sluggish from the consumption so much food.
But thankfully, the Umbarians had not realized that yet, or else the people would be singing dirges instead of love songs.
At the thought of dirges and love songs, a dark weight settled on her stomach. On this day, she should have been singing a love song, she should have been singing her thanks to Sakhmet and Ptah [1], to Hathor [2] and Horus, to Isis and Amon-Ra, but no. A fortnight ago she had sung the dirges to Osiris and Anubis, the King of the Dead and his jackal-headed messenger, respectively, and those dirges still echoed in her mind during lonely nights in her chamber.
On this day I would have been made a bride, she thought bitterly as she walked down the long avenue that ran through the center of the city. Her fingertips slowly rose to brush against the golden arm bangle that clung to her upper arm. It had been a gift, and in that gift had been bound a promise.
"With this, I make you a promise…"He did not keep that promise, she thought, looking up as she neared the temple that had been her home for so long, her steps slowing as she entered the cool shadow cast by the huge stone structure.
And yet, did she have a right to hold him to his promise? So many had told her to simply let him go, to free his spirit from her heart that he may make the journey across the Duat [3] to the peace and prosperity of the Fields of Osiris [4], but she could not. Memories are difficult to let go, if they are all one has left.
Tears welled up the same time as memory, and she bowed her head, too proud to show her tears to the world. She was a priestess of Sakhmet, the Ward of Vengeance, and she would not show the world that she was weak.
The hour may have been late, but at least, there was still time. She closed her eyes to push back the tears, and slowly, slowly, turned around, and walked across the street – to the Temple of Horus, the home of the Horus Mdjai.
The open doors of the temple exhaled the odors of myrrh and frankincense – perfumes burned in honor of the dead. She stopped at the entrance, standing in the shadow of the imposing stone statues of Horus, and looked inwards to the shadowy hall. The fluttering wings of the hawks and owls that roosted in the eaves of the temple whispered in her ears, a sound like a lover's tender murmurings in the warmth of the night.
"…to come back, no matter what…"
How like to his voice that last, fateful night was the whispering of the birds' wings. Her heart twisted painfully, and she suddenly wanted to turn away and run back to the Temple of Sakhmet, not caring if she made a fool of herself in front of any people who might be passing by, or any of her sisters who might encounter her as she raced back to her chambers, there to weep in solitude.
Her pride rebelled fiercely at that idea. No, she would not turn and run, whimpering like a bitch-jackal with her tail between her legs. No, she would stand, and endure this pain. She was a warrior, a woman of Khemet, not like one of those weak, fragile women from the North who could not survive outside the walls of their homes and needed their men to protect them.
But it would not be easy. No, it could not be easy.
Sakhmet give me courage, she prayed as she took a trembling step into the gloomy hallway. She walked forward, her footsteps echoing hollowly, hollow like the beating of her heart.
When he died he took half my soul with him, she thought, her eyes slowly dimming with tears as she approached the pedestals that were standing at the farthest end of the long hallway, in front of the golden statue of Horus. Again, her fingers touched the armband, and for a brief moment she could almost feel his fingertips, the way they lingered on her skin and made her tremble with love and desire.
"…and a fortnight hence, you and I will sleep in each other's arms as husband and wife."
She stopped in front of the statue. There were seven low pedestals there, all of them draped in white linen. Two weeks ago there had been bodies on these pedestals, and the linen had been wrapped around those bodies, to prevent the carrion birds from picking off the flesh before there had been time to embalm them properly. But now the bodies were gone, taken to the necropolis of Amarna [5], where they would be embalmed and entombed according to the tradition that had been followed in Khemet since its formation.
Only the white linen sheets remained now, to receive any objects and gifts that those who were connected to the dead might want to return to them. It was essential that any gifts given, especially gifts that were accompanied by promises and oaths, should be entombed with the gift-giver, lest their soul be unable to make the journey to the Fields of Osiris and wander the planes between life and death as a restless spirit.
Had his spirit been wandering up to now, then, she wondered as she approached the middle pedestal. It was a place of honor, reserved for he of the Horus Mdjai who carried the highest rank or had died doing the most valorous of deeds, that he would always under the protective gaze of the falcon god.
She sank down to her knees in front of the pedestal. Damn her pride; none would be able to see her here. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, dropping soundlessly onto the cold granite floor.
Tem Nebtawi. He had been a friend, a comrade in war, and a lover, as well. In her heart, there could be – there would be – no other whom she would love as well and as much as she loved Tem. They had seen much together, both in war and in the few precious moments of peace. They had been childhood playmates, growing up in the Royal Palace of Yaminah, but when he left to train with the Horus Mdjai she almost forgot about him in her later years.
She had loved him even in their childhood, though when their first meeting as grown-ups – she as a priestess of Sakhmet, and he as a lieutenant of the Horus Mdjai – would have indicated otherwise.
But she loved him. She loved him. And now he was gone, killed by Umbarians at the battle of Ahzel-Therman.
"I cannot let the memory of him go," she murmured quietly, her voice raspy from the tears she struggled to hold back. She did not know whether she was speaking to Horus or to herself. "I cannot bear to let him go. He has been taken away from me, and now must I give up the only tangible thing I have left of him? Must I do this?"
The statue remained silent, the eyes of the falcon god blank, dispassionate. She inhaled a trembling breath. Perhaps that was what she needed, to steady herself, to steel her nerves: she needed a statue, an emotionless watcher, to give her strength to do what she had to do.
Carefully, she reached up to her upper arm, pressing the latch that held the armband closed. There was a soft click as the catch was unhooked, but to her it sounded as if her own heart had broken.
She slid the band of ruby-inlaid gold from her limb, her hands shaking harder the lower it drifted down her arm. As she did so, it felt as if she was tearing out her own heart.
At last, after what seemed almost an eternity, the band had slipped off her wrist, and she held it in her left hand. She stared at it, stared at the gold gleaming dully in the shadowy light. Reaching out, she moved to place the band on the pedestal where Tem's body had lain, and said, "But because I love you, I release you from your promise to me, and free your spirit that it may find its way to the Fields of Osiris. Go. Just as the orchards are ever-green in the Fields of Osiris, may your love for me never fade."
The armband settled on top of the linen with a muffled clink.
The walls she had built around herself, her resolve to be courageous and strong, all of that collapsed, and she fell forward on the floor, the sobs and the tears she had restrained suddenly pouring forth from her as water from a punctured dam. No longer was she the spirited warrior-priestess, nor the Ward of Vengeance [6] – now she was merely a woman, a woman whose husband-to-be was taken from her before his promise of marriage could be kept.
She did not hear the footsteps as they approached her from the western wing of the hall. It was too late to dry her tears when she felt the large, calloused hand that rested on her shoulder. Staggering to her feet, she spun round, and saw, the wizened, battle-scarred face of Nizam Auset, General of the Horus Mdjai. "Lord General-"
The grizzled man shook his head slowly, his eyes solemn and grave, so grave in the half-light of the hall. "Do not be ashamed of your tears, child. It is only right that you should shed them, rather than carry the bitterness of your loss with you for the rest of your life. Your pride is not worth all of that."
"My pride is who I am," she murmured, even as more tears cascaded down her face. She struggled to wipe them away, but still, they kept on coming, kept on pouring. "I am a warrior-priestesses of Sakhmet, the goddess' Ward of Vengeance. I cannot allow myself to be seen this way – even by you, Lord General."
Nizam shook his head, holding her shoulder firmly. "It is a good warrior that has courage, and it takes courage to cry," he said quietly, strange for a man of his size and strength, and the General was a giant amongst the men of the Horus Mdjai. "A warrior that does not know how to weep is not a warrior, but a killer – a person with no emotion and no regard for the lives that fall beneath the blade."
She said nothing, merely stared at the stone floor.
At length, Nizam spoke again. "But I am glad that you finally had the courage to do this, Mié. Tem would be happy to know that you are letting him go. He would not like to see you unhappy, unable to accept another love."
But I will never accept another, Mié thought. I will never love another.
"It will be as you say, Lord General," she murmured. The tears had stopped coming, and she felt a little lighter, a little less heavy than before. Perhaps Nizam was right: it was not wise to carry all of that weight in her heart.
Nizam gave her a small smile, made somewhat crooked by the scar on his cheek. "That is better. Now, go back to the Temple. There are things that you must see to."
Mié nodded, and walked out of the hallway, stepping at last into the light of the outside world. But the light seemed colder now, less bright. She looked up at the sky, frowning. The sky was still blue and clear, but there was hardly a stir of wind in the air. But the city was near the sea, and there should have been at a constant breeze, no matter how small.
Is there rain coming, she wondered, and hurried into the temple. She was in no mood to get drenched by rain.
She was cold enough inside without having to be cold on the outside as well.
He sniffed the air, and frowned. He glanced up at the sky. It was clear, with hardly a wisp of cloud to spoil it. But the air smelled of water – plenty of it.
Small bolts of electricity coursed up and down his arm when the silk sleeves of his shirt rubbed against the flesh beneath. It was something he was quite familiar with, and portended something that he did not quite want at this moment.
At least, Magtír thought, not when Anna is about to make her journey home.
The Khemetian Water mage had stayed in his home for quite some time now, recovering from her injuries and building her strength to make the journey back to her tribe in the desert.
He heard her footfalls on the grass as she stepped out of his cottage. He turned to her slowly, and said, "Do you think it wise to make the journey now? Or can you not feel the storm coming?"
Anna paused a moment, as if trying to read something in the air in front of her. After a moment, she sighed, and shrugged. "I will make the journey, traveling through the storm if I must. If I make haste, hopefully I will be with the Lisimba before the storm falls."
"Do you not think it is too dangerous?" Magtír asked. While he had shared his home with Anna he had grown to like the young woman in his own fashion. He respected her as a warrior, and a friend who would protect him, if ever their paths crossed once more. And he knew how hard it was to win the friendship of the tribal Khemetians. "I have heard something of the sandstorms in the Great Desert, and they are not pleasant."
He noticed her slow down somewhat, as if remembering something. He did not know what it was, but it must have been quite unpleasant, because she shuddered before looking at him. "You are right. I thank you for reminding me. In my haste to get home I had forgotten about that." She sighed, and bowed her head. "Though my people are taught how to survive in a sandstorm, we always prefer avoiding them altogether if we can."
Magtír nodded at that. "You are free to stay in my home until the storm passes, if you wish."
"I thank you, Master Magtír," Anna murmured, bowing to him gratefully. "You have done much for me already. Should the time come that you have need of aid…"
Magtír smiled. It had been long since he had seen someone so earnest. Indeed, he was grateful that there were yet people like Anna in the world, who had honor enough in them to believe that no debt must go unpaid. He hoped that he would never have to call upon her to pay for that debt – if debt she believed it to be.
This is the example that the people of Rûmenyen must remember and follow, he thought, and a wave of bitterness settled on his heart. He rested a hand on the young woman's shoulder, drawing her towards the cottage.
"Come," he said quietly, glancing up at the sky. It was still clear, but the stillness in the air was troubling him. It would be a great storm, and it would strike hard and fast. "The storm is close, and we only have enough time to see ourselves secure in the cottage before it strikes."
Sweat dripped down Sinag-Tala's back and neck, soaking her hair and clothes. Though she fanned herself continuously, using a small dried leaf of the anahaw [7] for that purpose, it was to no effect. The air was simply too still, and too humid, for comfort – even for she who was generally used to this climate.
It should not be like this, she thought, her brows knitting together slightly. It was not the season for rains anymore – that had been almost two moons ago. This was a season for cool winds and gentle breezes, a time of calm waters and good fishing.
But if it was so, why was the air so still and so moist? When she breathed, it felt as if she was drawing her breath through a blanket soaked in warm water. It was a most uncomfortable feeling, and she felt choked and stifled.
Outside, in the still heat of the sun, several children and even a few adults had taken to the water, hoping that in doing so, they would escape the heat. The children splashed and laughed, but the dolphins were not there. The adults were content to sit down in the shallows, or swim in the shadow of the boats and stilt houses, glad to be out of the heat on land.
Where were the dolphins? She squinted against the reflection of the sun on the sea. It was strange that they were not amongst the children, playing. She had known all her life that the dolphins were especially fond of children, and would always play with them as long as they were in the water. They were in the reef, true, but they were concentrated in the middle, where the water was deepest, and only came up every now and then to surface for air. They never did such a thing, unless…
There will be rain, she suddenly realized. She shook her head, cursing herself for a fool for having not realized it earlier. Had this scenario not repeated itself at least once every year? It was easy to forget, to be fooled by the calmness and the heat, but the hotter and the calmer the air, the more dreadful the winds and the more copious the rain. And always, when such a storm was coming, the dolphins would seek shelter in the deepest portion of the reef, underwater, protected from the battering of the waves and the wind.
Now she knew what she must do. She stood up, and approached Hiraya and Talim, her most trusted guards and once her childhood playmates. "Hiraya, Talim," she called as she walked up to them, "I have a task for you."
Talim looked up at her, the female warrior's eyes gleaming dully in the almost unbearable heat. "What do you wish of us, Sinag?" As old friends, there was no need for formalities, and so Talim and Hiraya only rarely called Sinag-Tala by her title.
"There is a storm coming, and it will be a very bad one," Sinag-Tala murmured quietly. "I want the two of you to go and warn everyone. Tell them to make sure that everything is secure, that they tie down everything that needs to be tied down. It will come fast, and it will hit hard." She glanced at the horizon, and scowled. A dark like of clouds was already beginning to form just beyond the distant blue line where sky and sea met. "See? Even as we speak, the clouds gather."
Talim nodded, accepting the mission. "We will go right away. Hiraya, I will go take the western end, you go east." Without another word, she turned, and headed down the western shore, speaking to certain people as she went.
Hiraya drew himself straight, but before he went, he clasped Sinag-Tala by her shoulder. The babaylan looked up at him, and was puzzled at the strange, inscrutable glint in his eye. "Hiraya? Is something the matter?"
Hiraya blinked, and the glint was gone. "Nothing, Sinag. Go inside now. The storm is approaching, and it would not be wise for you to get caught outside when it finally hits."
Sinag-Tala laughed, and patted Hiraya on the arm. "You do not need to concern yourself so with me, Hiraya. I am a grown woman now, no longer the child that I was when we were playmates. Now go, and deliver my message. It is important that it reaches all the citizens as soon as possible. We will need all the time that we can buy for ourselves."
Hiraya stared at her for a moment longer, and it felt as if he were weighing her words, thinking upon them. She was about to ask if she had said something wrong, but he turned away then, and began walking down the beach to get her warning to everyone as soon as possible.
[1]= In ancient Egyptian mythology, Ptah is the consort of Sakhmet, and is the patron of craftsmen and artists.
[2]= She is the cow-headed ancient Egyptian goddess of love, fertility, and (in her form as Sakhmet) destruction. There is a legend stating that Sakhmet had once tried to destroy humankind at the orders of her father, Ra, but Ra recanted and he and the other gods placated the rampaging war-goddess by pouring out a lake of red-tinted beer. Sakhmet drank from the pool of beer, which to her looked like blood, and became drunk. She lay down to sleep, and when she awoke, she had forgotten her bloodlust, and became the goddess Hathor.
[3]= This is the ancient Egyptian underworld, through which the spirit of the dead must journey. It is filled with many traps and pitfalls, and the gods come forth to test the soul to see if it is worthy to reach its ultimate goal – the Fields of Osiris.
[4]= This is the goal of every Egyptian soul, after the trials and ordeals endured in the Duat, there to live in eternal peace while harvesting the grain of the God of the Dead.
[5]= Amarna is a necropolis, a city of tombs, where the dead of Yaminah are embalmed and entombed as is proper. It is located on the east side of the River Eshe, and farther up north from the city. In reality, however, Amarna was once the great desert capital of Ankhenaten and Nefertiti, which fell into ruin when Ankhenaten and Nefertiti died.
[6]= In the Temple of Sakhmet, there are certain hierarchies that are maintained. There are merely three levels: the priestesses who form the rank-and-file of the Temple. The second highest level is that of the Four Wards of Sakhmet. These are priestesses from the rank-and-file who are raised to the position by being chosen by the original holder of the title they are about to succeed to. The Four Wards stand for the four purposes of war: Honor, Peace, Vengeance and Justice.
[7]= In reality, the anahaw is a plant that has large, fan-shaped leaves that seem to have pleats in them like a fan made from pleating paper. It is often used as a fan or as a shade from the hot sun.