Huy grimaced. “It would do me no good to fear them, seeing I am commanded to read them all anyway. What is your name, Master?”
The man clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, I am rude! I am called Khanun.” He laughed. When he did so, his whole face lit up. Its grooves deepened around his mouth and eyes, but the impression he gave was one of youthfulness and vigour, though while he had been talking Huy judged him to be in late middle age.
Huy held out his hand. “If I am permitted, I will come and discuss the Book with you. But it won’t be for some years, I think.” The fingers closing about his own were strong, and cold from the water.
“Of course not. You have an education to finish and a living to earn as well. May the gods grant you health, and me a life long enough to see you return fully grown.” He bowed. “Dine with us this evening. We will not be too solemn for you. The heka of Thoth is a wholesome and happy thing.” He padded away, his bare feet leaving damp imprints on the stone path, and Anhur whistled.
“How old are you, Huy? Thirteen? This is all heady stuff for a stripling! Now may we please spend a few moments under the shade of those sycamores? I’m tired.”
They entered the lake’s enclosure. Anhur lowered his spear and himself, but like a good soldier on duty he did not lie prone. Resting his spine against a tree, he sighed and relaxed. Huy crossed his legs and watched the play of light and wind on the surface of the water.
Yes
, he thought,
Thoth’s magic feels strong and steady and quiet, but with an edge of caution to it. Ra’s heka at Iunu is boisterous and unsettling and unpredictable, making me anxious or exhilarated but seldom utterly at peace. Here there is peace, but the warning tingles in the air, waiting for a blasphemy, an insult, a moment of arrogant presumption. The prayers must be said correctly here, the rituals perfectly observed. How do I know this?
He closed his eyes.
Seshat writes on the leaves of the Ished Tree and Imhotep sits under it, reading. If I were a king, how many years of life would be notched on her palm rib for me? Only twelve? Have I become untimely?
That evening he washed in the priests’ bathhouse, braided his hair, being careful to tie it with his little frog, put on his best sandals, and went to dine with the priests. They welcomed him without undue effusiveness, talked to him casually about his family and his school work, and, when the meal was over, wished him a pleasant night and scattered to their own rest or to their duties. The experience was a welcome relief after the awkwardness of noon, but Huy resolved to make one more foray into the school compound to talk to Sennefer.
Not yet, though
, he vowed to himself as he and the plodding Anhur made their way through the torchlit passages to Huy’s cell.
I need to be more sure of myself here before I risk another humiliation
.
A servant had turned down the sheets on Huy’s couch and left a lamp burning beside the images of Thoth and Khenti-kheti, whose crocodile smile seemed to hold a smug pride at being in such august company. Huy smiled sleepily back at both of them as he began his nightly prayers. He did not hurry the words, though he wanted to. It would not do to offend either god so early in this strange journey he had taken upon himself when he had spoken those fateful words to Imhotep. After his final prostration he trimmed the lamp, saw that a jug of water, an empty cup, and one full of wine had been placed on the lid of the tiring chest, and gingerly sampled the wine. The sweet flavour of distilled pomegranates slid down his throat, and after another mouthful he went to the door and opened it. Anhur was sitting on his pallet with his back to the passage wall. “Finish this if you like,” Huy said, handing him the wine. “And if you need water in the night, there is some in my room.”
“You are kind,” the guard said as he reached up and took the goblet. “Thank you. May the gods grant you safety from the demons that ride the darkness, and give you a good omen in your dreams.”
Huy, about to turn back into his cell, hesitated. Anhur was raising the cup to his mouth in both meaty, strong hands, his bare legs sprawled across the floor of the passage, and a vision of Hapu blossomed in Huy’s mind. His father often sat in the same pose while Itu spooned the evening meal onto his clay platter, the beer cup clasped in his half-naked lap, his spine against the wall, his shoulders collapsed in exhaustion after a day of labour in the fields. Both men were muscular and browned by the sun. An aura of physical command clung to both of them, but whereas Hapu’s battle was against drought, weeds, and plant diseases, Anhur projected the comforting promise of security against more human predators. He also radiated a rough sort of kindness. Huy had seen it in his treatment of Sennefer. His words had been impersonal but not unduly harsh.
Father used to behave towards me in that way
, Huy thought sadly.
Before I was brought home from the House of the Dead. Before my exorcism
.
Anhur took a mouthful of wine, licked his lips, and glanced up. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Huy replied diffidently. “I was just thinking that you remind me a little of my father. Were you raised in Iunu? Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Five sisters.” Anhur groaned. “Three of them are still at home. My father managed to marry two of them off, one to a steward and one to another soldier.”
“Is your father still alive?”
“He’s retired to a piece of land he farms for the temple. Why do you ask? Is it something to do with that look into my future you won’t tell me about?”
Huy smiled. “No. But I hope my prediction for you comes true.”
Anhur raised the cup. “If it’s that good, then I hope so too. Sleep well.”
Huy retreated, closing the cell door behind him. His vision for Anhur had seemed so promising yet so improbable that he did not want to dwell on it.
Once the lamp was extinguished, the wall high up opposite Huy’s couch was lit by one faint slit of grey moonlight filtering through the tiny clerestory window. For a while Huy lay curled up on his side, reviewing the events of the day, but then his thoughts turned to Anuket. Longing and desire flared in him briefly, together with a pang of homesickness for Thothmes and Nakht’s house and his own dearly familiar cell in Ra’s temple; but the heka of Thoth that blanketed his holy house was in Huy’s nostrils, stilling his emotions and weighing against his eyelids, and with a last drowsy glance up at the fading ray of moonlight he fell asleep.
In the morning he was woken by a servant who set a tray of bread, goat’s cheese, and milk on the couch beside him, replenished the oil in the lamp, and before Huy had finished eating returned with hot water and cloths. He stood politely waiting until Huy, having grown more and more uncomfortable, asked him why. “To wash you, young Master, to remove your soiled linen, and then to explore the contents of your tiring chest and make sure that you brought sufficient clothing with you. The High Priest has ordered it.”
“I would prefer to wash myself,” Huy protested. “As for clean loincloths and kilts, I brought all that I have, enough for three days.”
The man inclined his head. “In that case I shall see that your laundry is done every day. If by some chance you need more, you must let me know. I am at your service while you are here.”
“You mean if I get ink on myself or fall into mud.” Huy grinned, although he had never felt less like making a joke. He knew that he should be enjoying all the respectful attention being showered upon him.
Indeed
, he thought fleetingly,
when I was a little boy I would have taken all this as my right and thrown a tantrum if it had been denied me, but now it only adds to the burden of expectation I see in everyone’s eyes
.
The servant permitted himself a wintry smile. “As you say, Master Huy. Then when you are ready I will escort you to the High Priest’s office. At present he is performing the morning offerings to the god.”
Huy was relieved when the door closed behind him.
He’s like an arrogant Pabast
, he thought as he plunged his hands into the perfumed water and then reached for the natron.
A sour Pabast with the added resentment of having to serve a boy as though he were a noble visitor to the temple. Well, I wish Mentuhotep had not bothered to accord me such esteem. I cannot live up to it
.
Anhur’s unaffected greeting restored Huy’s equanimity, however, as later they both followed the servant’s stiff spine the short distance to the High Priest’s private quarters. Anhur took up his post outside the double doors. Mentuhotep rose from behind his desk to take Huy’s hand, bringing with him a strong whiff of myrrh and the sacred kyphi perfume used in temple worship that Huy’s uncle Ker had probably distilled from the choicest raisins himself. “You slept well, I trust?” he asked warmly. “Good. And Khanun tells me that you are quite taken with our holy patroness, Seshat. She will be pleased. Come and sit. The Book resides in a guarded alcove of the House of Life. Khanun has already brought it to me.” Huy took the indicated stool, eyeing the cedar casket with its figured brass corners as he did so and taking a deep, surreptitious breath.
Mentuhotep lifted the lid and withdrew a very thin hemp bag with a papyrus tag hanging from its drawstring. He glanced at it. “Yes, this is the second part,” he said, setting it on the desk before Huy. “The fourth is also in this box. I must not confuse them.” For some reason Huy suddenly wanted to laugh. He quelled the impulse as Mentuhotep’s hand descended on his naked shoulder. “Reading it will take no more than a few moments,” he commented. “Ramose tells me that you are able to memorize the words of the Book. In that case handle the scroll as little as possible and quickly return it to its protective bag. Do not leave it alone. Stay in here as long as you wish, then send for me when you are ready to leave.” The hand was withdrawn. Mentuhotep walked briskly to the door.
Huy swivelled after him on the stool. “Master, before you go, is there an accompanying scroll of explanation?” He could not keep the pleading out of his voice.
The High Priest paused. “Yes, there is, but Ramose wishes you to ponder what you will read for a day or two before I give you the commentary.” Huy’s sigh was involuntary and Mentuhotep chuckled. “I know, I know! But his reason is sensible. The direct will of Atum is that you come to an understanding of his works. Therefore your conclusions will be the truth. We do not know who wrote the commentary. Although it is full of wisdom, it is not necessarily the truth. What if your interpretation differs? You must not be influenced unduly. May Thoth give you courage.”
It is not courage that I need
, Huy thought resignedly as he turned from the closing door and lifted the bag,
and just when did my accursed decision to read the Book in the first place become “the direct will of Atum”? Already the facts of an event that belonged to me alone are being distorted to feed the secret hopes of those around me. It’s no wonder that more and more I feel as though some other Huy, someone the priests are creating for themselves, is inhabiting my skin
.
In a mood of creeping depression he spread the drawstring and withdrew the scroll. He unrolled it carefully on the desk and held it open, marvelling as before at the pliant state of the ancient papyrus and the sheer beauty of the finely drawn characters. For a moment he closed his eyes, becoming aware of the strident cacophony of birds in the trees clustered against the office wall, the lingering odour of myrrh and kyphi, and another aroma, familiar and disturbing, rising from the thing pressed between his outstretched palms. The Ished Tree was many miles away, yet the scent of its leaves was deliciously fresh, immediately lifting the cloud of gloom that had threatened to engulf him. He swallowed, thinking that he could taste it as well as smell it, and, opening his eyes with the scribes’ quick prayer to Thoth, he looked down and began to read.
I, Thoth of the Twenty-two Epithets, Who Makes Splendid his Creator, set down these words of Atum. Let him who reads them understand and marvel at the profundity within their simplicity.
I am One that transforms into Two,
I am Two that transforms into Four,
I am Four that transforms into Eight,
After this I am One.
Huy read the lines again. They were indeed simple, straightforward—and utterly nonsensical. He scanned them once more, this time speaking them, as if hearing them carried aloud into the warming air of the room could give them meaning. Raising his hands in a gesture of both puzzlement and release, he let the scroll roll up, then slid it gently back into its bag. The words were already firmly fixed in his mind. “I am One that transforms into Two …”
Getting up, he folded his arms and stood facing the window that gave out onto the High Priest’s small private garden. Through the dense foliage of the trees he could see bright sunlight and the deep blue of a mid-morning sky.
The office will be flooded with direct heat as the sun westers
, he thought idly.
Perhaps I should lower the window hanging now. I’m thirsty for water. There must be a jug of it in here somewhere. “I am Two that transforms into Four
…” He found water on a table by the door, poured himself a cup, and drank deeply. Now what? he wondered, and began to pace.
“I am Four that …” That. That. Atum does not say “who,” he says “that.” “I am One that …” Not “I am One who …” Does it mean that the god transforms something else from one to two to four to eight, not himself? But at the end he says “After this,” after the transformings he has performed, he is One. Not “I have turned myself back into One” or “I am still One.” “After this I am One.” Is it a part of himself that he transforms for some unspecified purpose and then changes back into One again?
But “transform” means something deeper and more permanent than “change.” To transform is to alter irretrievably, to become something different for always. Atum took something and transformed it by dividing it. Atum took something of himself and transformed it by being able to divide it and yet remain whole. Something beside himself yet a part of himself?