The Tale of Nefret

  Text copyright © 2015 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to Luke Broadhead, my nephew, blacksmith, archaeologist-in-training and professional brainstormer. I have three words for you, “To the swords!”

  I am your darling sister.

  I am to you like a bit of land,

  With each shrub of grateful fragrance.

  Lovely is the water-conduit in it,

  Which your hand has dug,

  While the north wind cooled us.

  A beautiful place to wander,

  Your hand in my hand,

  My soul inspired,

  My heart in bliss,

  Because we go together.

  Egyptian poem, 2000 BC

  Prologue

  Egypt—18th Dynasty

  Farrah stood outside the door of the tent and stared up into the night sky. No matter how heavily time etched cruel marks on her face, the view grabbed her breath as if her dark eyes were seeing it for the first time. The lines on her brown face deepened as she pursed her lips. The air around her was pregnant with the future, but her inner sight was dark and full of mystery. Her limited insight into the other world made her uncomfortable. She made the sign of peace to the Dancing Man that hung above her in purple-blackness as he rose above the tribal camp. The Cushite traders called the Dancing Man a different name—Osiris he was called in the Black Lands and beyond—but here in the Red Lands where the red sands swirled and swam about the desert people like a dead ocean, he was known as the Dancing Man.

  How long will we travel this path? An endless caravan moving from one rain oasis to another? Many of the clan no longer know from whence they came or that there had once been a place for them. How many Meshwesh must die in the Red Lands before we see those white walls again?

  Once the Meshwesh dwelled in a city of white stone, Zerzura. What a city it had been! Farrah could barely remember the feeling of cool stones under her feet, the tastes of orange fruit sweet on her tongue, and the many pools of clear blue water that her young body had swum in. Had it been just a dream? No, Farrah remembered the day when the cowardly old king, Onesu, had fled the city ahead of the horde of giants who rushed in to claim it. But he had not lived one day after he left Zerzura, for Farrah had cut his throat while he slept. When he awoke to see her face above him, she whispered why she had done it as she watched him bleed. He had lost the city and had abandoned Ze, his queen and Farrah’s sister, leaving her to the pleasure of the giants who no doubt raped her to death. Farrah shuddered inwardly thinking of what she had done. Nobody knew, yet it was a spot on her soul. She did not regret it, although the gods had seen fit to take her inner sight from her as punishment for her crime. That had been long, long ago. His face no longer haunted her. Yet often she imagined she heard Ze’s screams in the clear night.

  Now, with a silent prayer Farrah considered again the stars above her. Regardless of the constellation’s name, this sour omen was an inauspicious sign for the birth of a royal child, but there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Even her magic could not stop a child who wanted to enter this realm.

  Farrah suddenly felt old. Had she, leader of the Council of Old Ones, become too old to consider the deeper meaning of such things? Was she too old to help bring another baby into this increasingly difficult world? The sounds the mother made, the painful moaning, the calling of her name, let Farrah know that she indeed still had a purpose. She took a deep sigh, breathing in the warm desert air and shaking off the unseen trepidation. She tossed her head cloth to the ground. No heads covered this night. She smiled peacefully as she walked to the birthing bed and looked down into the face of the beautiful Kadeema.

  What a beauty the young queen had been when she first arrived here as the bride to Semkah! However, the Red Lands had sapped away her pretty softness like it did to all women who were not of true Red Lands’ blood. She had become hard, hard like the clay that lay beneath the rough sand. Kadeema’s olive skin was no longer pale but red, and her hair no longer like bright copper but dark and dull. The young queen’s eyes still had their sea-green beauty, but the sparkle, the joy of love and living, had faded. A wife of a young tribal king tied to the Red Lands people only by the most tenuous of threads—love. Farrah looked into those eyes, saddened to see that where there had been hope and excitement, there was now fear and regret.

  When Kadeema arrived, the people had loved her, celebrating her light skin and unusual eyes with poems and songs. She had been like a child—a treasure to them, for the tribe treasured children above all things. Their young prince needed a bride, and why should he not take a beautiful bride like Kadeema? She was the daughter of a faraway Grecian king who was a friend to the tribe, so it was a good match.

  Semkah was not a king like his brother Omel, who was fierce, strong and brave yet crafty and changeable. Semkah was steady and ever obedient to the Council, trusting them in all things that concerned the Meshwesh. Omel never displayed such devotion.

  Semkah wore the tribal king’s robes early after the death of his father, but he cut a fine figure even as a young man. Farrah remembered that day. She’d watched as his arms were tattooed with the sign of the tribe, the falcon’s wings with a swirl of sand wrapped around it. He had worn his hair long, with two long braids at his temples. His chest gleamed with turquoise and gold necklaces from the mines of the Meshwesh, and at his wrist were the slender snake bracelets that only kings wore.

  The young king’s older brother Omel had an unabashed love for all things Egyptian. He wore linen Egyptian tunics that showed his scrawny, tanned legs. Tall and thin, Omel kept his dark hair shaved and his head shone with oils. Sometimes he wore a folded cloth on his head, but always his eyes were lined with black, as if he were an Egyptian royal. There was no doubt amongst the Council that Omel loved the Black Lands and would abandon his heritage if given a chance. But for that, he needed his brother. Semkah and Omel had received a divided inheritance—a smart and seemingly prophetic move by their wily father, Onesu. Semkah held the turquoise mines and Omel the gold, but they shared a workforce and the resources required to continue the work. Farrah suspected that Omel would seek to correct this. Already he drew men to his side like flies to a sweet fruit. She wondered what he promised them.

  The brothers had different ideas about the future of the clan. Omel wanted with much passion to bring them into Egypt’s good graces. Farrah spat on the ground at the thought of such nonsense. Semkah’s dream was different—he dreamed of reclaiming Zerzura, as was his right, but he had no way of accomplishing that. No more than his father had.

  Omel often met with Semkah and other tribal leaders to try to rally them to his point of view. “We need Egypt, brothers! They have wealth beyond measure and green lands that are just waiting for our plows. Come with me to Egypt and meet with Huya. He has given me his oath that Pharaoh wants to honor us with these lands.” Semkah had laughed at this idea and made no secret that he wanted no part of Omel’s Egyptian ways.

  “And what will Pharaoh require, brother?” Semkah had said with a patient smile that only further angered Omel. “The king of Egypt does not simply give away lands to appease his neighbors. What of our inheritance? Have you given up finding our homeland, all for a bag of beans from Egypt’s hand? I know what it will require, and that I cannot do. Pharaoh will take our mines, our cattle—maybe even our wives and children—and for what? Some soggy ground so wet that only mosquitos dwell there? How can you ask this of me? What do I say to my tribe?”

  Omel had scowled but said nothing else on the matter at that time. Farrah did not think any of the Council or the other leaders believed they had heard the last of Omel’s desires. But Semkah never saw the dark side
of his brother; he only recognized the good. He had a heart of gold.

  Farrah mumbled to herself remembering the night Semkah was born. What were the words she had said over him as she cradled him on that first night? “He will pursue love from one end of the desert to another. He will give his life for love, and that is the noblest of deaths.”

  That had been her proclamation then. She wondered what the hidden words would be tonight or if her old ears would even hear them. She shook her head, reminding herself to stay in the present; she had a habit of getting lost in the past so many times lately. With authority, she flipped up the dress of the writhing Kadeema. She prayed and swayed, calling on her ancestors to assist her.

  “No! Do not call on them. They must not know…!” Kadeema shouted savagely.

  Farrah could not help but shudder. In her madness, Kadeema could offend a wandering spirit or worse. Farrah made a secret sign to ward off evil curses. Before she could protest further, Kadeema’s womb burst forth blood and she screamed into the musky night. Farrah nodded and prayed silently as she examined the woman’s body.

  Something was amiss. Ignoring Kadeema’s scream, she probed inside her with expert fingers and felt the baby’s head. No! Inside the queen were two babies, two lives struggling to emerge into this world. Without knowing how she knew, she did know—these would be the only children of Semkah and Kadeema. Before they were born, it had been prophesied that from Semkah’s tribe would come the mekhma, the leader who would carry them home. Farrah felt an excitement greater than the fear, an urgency like none she had experienced before. These children must be born!

  Kadeema screamed again as the children turned, each fighting to emerge first from their mother’s womb. The sharp scent of birthing blood filled the tent, and Farrah sniffed. Did she smell death? Ah, yes, it lingered there, just beyond the gathered crowd.

  She rubbed her hand with oil and soothed the expectant mother, numbing Kadeema to the pain with expert movements. Quietly Farrah called Mina, her acolyte. “Listen to what I say. Go about the camp and untie all the knots. No one must wear anything that is knotted. It is a bad omen for this birth, for this night. Do as I tell you, Mina!” Mina, who rarely spoke, nodded and touched her forehead as a sign of respect, and then fled from the tent. Farrah heard a hush fall over the camp; even the animals were mute. Farrah went about the tent untying everything she could find as Semkah watched her nervously. Finally, she untied Kadeema’s gown and covered her with a blanket. Even the braids in her hair were removed and left untied.

  “What are you doing, Old One?” Semkah inquired, a worried look on his handsome face.

  “No questions now,” Farrah warned. Was it her fault that the king did not understand birthing magic? That by untying the strands near and around the queen she would prevent strangulation of the children on the mother’s cord? She clucked at him with her teeth as she attended his wife.

  The woman’s breathing quickened, her birth pains coming more strongly now.

  Ten minutes later, Kadeema’s water seeped out of her and the birth began in earnest. Kadeema leaned forward in her sitting position, gripping her knees. Semkah sat behind her, whispering in her ear. Farrah could not hear the words that he spoke, but she was sure they were words of love.

  That is a shame. He will not have her long.

  She thought these things without ever questioning why or how she knew them. She just knew them. There was no denying that. More often than not, she was correct, but why cause anguish at such a time? A birth is a time of joy—a time to celebrate, not a time to cry and mourn. “Ah, but mourning there shall be, and much mourning…”

  Farrah spoke the words of life as the first pink head crowned from between the mother’s loins. But as quickly as it began to slide out, a tiny hand reached out and grabbed its shoulder, pulling it back inside the mother. Kadeema screamed in great pain as the second child now emerged. In amazement, Farrah watched and faithfully caught the first child to emerge from the womb. Would this be the first or the second? Who came first? She smiled at their luck—two children! She tossed the first birth rag into a nearby container. She would burn it later at a special ceremony; it was a precious and rare item to possess.

  Thank you, ancestors!

  The second child began to emerge. Farrah helped guide the child into this realm, cooing softly to the emerging soul. “Come out, come out now,” Farrah purred to the second child. “No more fighting. You are no longer number one, but now you are number two. Let us see what you are—oh, another girl, Semkah. Two girls for you!”

  Semkah’s beautiful smile reflected his full heart. He had come to the tent dressed for receiving a new princess or prince, a royal child—he was now doubly blessed. No man had ever loved a woman more than Semkah loved Kadeema. And although it would have benefited him and his tribe a great deal if he had married a daughter of the Red Lands, he would have no one but the princess he met in a faraway land. He kissed his daughters’ foreheads, even before Mina and Farrah cleaned them, and then turned his attention to his wife.

  “Girls, Kadeema. Fine girls!”

  Semkah’s wife smiled weakly, shallow grooves appearing briefly at the sides of her mouth. She was too thin, too gaunt, but her vivid green eyes showed her emotion so clearly. Hers was the face of weary happiness.

  Until…

  As Farrah wrapped the second child in linen and wiped the blood from her skin with a damp cloth, a strange thing happened. Two birds flew into the musky desert tent. The flap had been opened slightly so the well-wishers could pray for and sing to Kadeema as she gave birth to the treasures of the tribe.

  The larger bird, a falcon, swooped and screeched as it circled the inside of the tent, chasing the smaller bird with reckless ferocity. The larger bird, a Heret falcon, was a rare sight this far out into the Red Lands but not unheard of. His prey was much rarer—it was the green Bee-Eater, a tiny bird that found bees as tasty as humans did honey. At Zerzura, the Bee-Eater would have been a welcome sight—it was, after all, the Oasis of the Little Birds. No bird was smaller than the Bee-Eater. The falcon screamed in the tent as it crashed into Farrah’s collection of ivory idols, unlit candles and various bowls of dried herbs and flowers. A surprised Kadeema protected her daughters from the melee by waving her hands at the birds. Semkah captured the falcon easily with a cloth, but the Bee-Eater escaped out of the tent, ducking the reaching hands and makeshift snares. Semkah took the falcon outside—it was wrapped in the cloth that had become the creature’s net.

  The king opened the cloth to release the bird, but it did not take to the wind. On closer inspection, it had a bloody wing and seemed unable to fly. Semkah covered it back up, intending to cage it until the injuries healed—then he would set it free. Before he could argue or protest, Farrah reached for the bundle. Her faded dark eyes appraised the animal astutely, and then she gripped it and twisted its neck until it snapped.

  “Why? Why did you do this, Farrah? I could have saved it.”

  “You would try, but you could not. Now it is dead and you are alive. See to your wife, now. She needs you.” Farrah felt tired—too tired to explain to the king the hidden meaning of her actions.

  Semkah jutted out his square jaw. The two turned to walk back into the tent and were surprised to find Kadeema standing nearly naked and bloody at the tent entrance. The people had pushed back and were standing close to the fire in the center of the camp. They whispered, wondering what the omen of the birds meant.

  The Dancing Man above us, the birds in the tent, twins? What did it all mean?

  Farrah heard what they said. Feeling their eyes upon her, she waved her hands, easily capturing their attention. With purposeful steps she walked toward the fire and stared into the flames. She saw nothing—nothing but shadows—yet the words formed easily on her tongue. Prophecy began to bubble up from deep within, somewhere beneath her navel. Each utterance was her offspring, birthed from within her, rare seeds planted there issuing from her ancestors, or perhaps from the gods themse
lves.

  “Peace, sons and daughters of Ma. Tonight is a night to be remembered, for we have been doubly blessed…” Farrah wanted to bring hope and encouragement to help the tribe see that the arrival of the two girls was nothing to be feared, but other words burst forth and would not be held back.

  “Two destinies have been born tonight, Meshwesh! You have a choice! Follow the Old Ways or fall under the shadow of death and be lost forever!” The crowd gasped and stirred uncomfortably in the sand. Farrah’s mind futilely grappled with what to say. The seer inside her would speak unfiltered. “Evil arises from the sand… who can be saved? Ah, I see it!” She screamed despite her mind’s instruction to remain calm. The images of a great battle spanned before her; many Meshwesh perished before the golden swords of giant beasts of men. “Two mekhmas—two paths, Meshwesh. One will lead you to safety behind the white walls of Zerzura, and the other to a future unknown. You saw the Heret pursue the Bee-Eater—so shall one child chase the other. What will be your fate, Meshwesh? Will you disappear into the red sand?” A dry laugh escaped Farrah’s lips as she fought for control of her own mind. She spoke words in a language she could not comprehend.

  Semkah put out his hands to his wife, intending to hold her and wrap her in his arms, but she let out a bloodcurdling scream—and she didn’t stop screaming. There were no words spoken, only an agonizing cry that came from deep within her soul. Her eyes were wide and full of unspoken, unknowable fear. Farrah helped Semkah place her back in the bed. She fought them at first, pointing and staring at something no one else could see. Finally he calmed her and she allowed Farrah to place her in her covers and pat away the blood. Semkah held her shaky hand, wept, and cajoled, but he could not coax her to speak to him.

  For days, Kadeema spoke not a word to any living soul. Farrah stayed with her, watching over her, feeding her, but still she never spoke. Farrah knew what this was. Kadeema had had a vision—a vision of the future. Farrah suspected that Kadeema had the gift all along, but the younger woman was obviously untrained and unaware that she could do and see such things. Since her vision had undoubtedly occurred when Farrah and Semkah had been dealing with the birds, it must have been a vision concerning her daughters. For Farrah, this was impossible to bear. She had to know what hovered just beyond the veil in the other realm.