The expanse of the training ground shimmering in the heat had given way to the cool, roofless confines of the place where the sacred Ished Tree had been planted by Atum at the beginning of time. Huy was sitting with his back against its trunk, a scroll across his thighs. Above him, the leaves of the Tree rustled and whispered. His nostrils filled with its curious scent, honey and garlic, orchard blossoms and the merest whiff of something corrupt, something rotting. The beauty of the ancient hieroglyphs contained within the Book of Thoth filled his vision as he began to read. At that moment I understood that I equated Atum’s metamorphosis with my own, Huy remembered as his younger self sat on in that magical room, cocooned by the vast labyrinth of the temple of Ra. I was declared dead of Sennefer’s throwing stick and of drowning at Iunu.
The walls around him dissolved, the floor lengthened and became hot beneath his sandalled feet, and he was standing in Ra’s temple forecourt, Thothmes beside him, his bow in his hand. They were on their way to the training ground, Huy for archery practice and Thothmes gauntleted for the chariot. Beyond them, in the trees, Sennefer was brandishing his new throwing stick, his sycophantic follower Samentuser watching admiringly. Sennefer, seeing them come, started towards them, a string of insults already streaming from his mouth. Bully that he was, he hated both Huy and Thothmes, but in Huy’s peasant roots he had found the perfect target for his jibes. On this day, as Huy and Thothmes came to a halt, the hurtful invective was all about throwing sticks, and how only the nobles were allowed to own them, which was a pity, for Huy’s father might have used one to kill the rats in his hovel. Huy, unaware that his body lay flaccid on his couch, once again stood stiff with a mounting rage as Sennefer’s voice echoed across the wide stone flagging of the temple’s forecourt and the verge of the lake fronting the apron sparkled in the strong afternoon sunlight. Thothmes put a warning hand on his arm, but Huy shook it off. “Not this time,” he said through clenched teeth, his heart pounding, a redness before his eyes. Somewhere deep behind the vivid re-creation of this memory Huy knew that the opium he had taken was compelling him to relive this most terrible day, but the knowledge was a faint whisper come and gone. He lunged towards Sennefer, saw the boy’s expression change from a sneer to one of frightened surprise, saw Sennefer’s arm come up and back, and then the throwing stick was speeding through the air, turning over and over, glinting as it came. It struck, and Huy the man in his dimly lit room, Huy the twelve-year-old pupil at Iunu’s temple school, cried out together. In the grip of memory, Huy began to crawl sightless over the hot stone, insensible to the pain in his hands and knees. Then there was space beneath him and he was falling into the lake, the water cool against his skin.
Such a terrible death, Huy groaned silently through the smothering mantle of the drug. But I did not know that I had died until much later, for while my lifeless corpse was being floated north to Hut-herib, to the House of the Dead, I was in the Beautiful West, the Paradise of Osiris, speaking with the Great Seer and Physician Imhotep himself, and agreeing, in my innocence, to read the fabled Book of Thoth. Five days later, as a sem priest was about to cut open my abdomen with the obsidian knife and begin my Beautification, my ka was returned to me and I sat up, not knowing where I was, ill and confused. Methen found me naked and sobbing under a palm tree and took me to my parents’ house.
The memory did not fade; it was snuffed out as though its bright candle flare had been doused in a shower of water, and Huy found himself staring across at the wall of his room. That rebirth was my First Duat, he realized dully. Of course. I metamorphosed into the Twice Born, the one favoured by the gods, the
The walls around him dissolved, the floor lengthened and became hot beneath his sandalled feet, and he was standing in Ra’s temple forecourt, Thothmes beside him, his bow in his hand. They were on their way to the training ground, Huy for archery practice and Thothmes gauntleted for the chariot. Beyond them, in the trees, Sennefer was brandishing his new throwing stick, his sycophantic follower Samentuser watching admiringly. Sennefer, seeing them come, started towards them, a string of insults already streaming from his mouth. Bully that he was, he hated both Huy and Thothmes, but in Huy’s peasant roots he had found the perfect target for his jibes. On this day, as Huy and Thothmes came to a halt, the hurtful invective was all about throwing sticks, and how only the nobles were allowed to own them, which was a pity, for Huy’s father might have used one to kill the rats in his hovel. Huy, unaware that his body lay flaccid on his couch, once again stood stiff with a mounting rage as Sennefer’s voice echoed across the wide stone flagging of the temple’s forecourt and the verge of the lake fronting the apron sparkled in the strong afternoon sunlight. Thothmes put a warning hand on his arm, but Huy shook it off. “Not this time,” he said through clenched teeth, his heart pounding, a redness before his eyes. Somewhere deep behind the vivid re-creation of this memory Huy knew that the opium he had taken was compelling him to relive this most terrible day, but the knowledge was a faint whisper come and gone. He lunged towards Sennefer, saw the boy’s expression change from a sneer to one of frightened surprise, saw Sennefer’s arm come up and back, and then the throwing stick was speeding through the air, turning over and over, glinting as it came. It struck, and Huy the man in his dimly lit room, Huy the twelve-year-old pupil at Iunu’s temple school, cried out together. In the grip of memory, Huy began to crawl sightless over the hot stone, insensible to the pain in his hands and knees. Then there was space beneath him and he was falling into the lake, the water cool against his skin.
Such a terrible death, Huy groaned silently through the smothering mantle of the drug. But I did not know that I had died until much later, for while my lifeless corpse was being floated north to Hut-herib, to the House of the Dead, I was in the Beautiful West, the Paradise of Osiris, speaking with the Great Seer and Physician Imhotep himself, and agreeing, in my innocence, to read the fabled Book of Thoth. Five days later, as a sem priest was about to cut open my abdomen with the obsidian knife and begin my Beautification, my ka was returned to me and I sat up, not knowing where I was, ill and confused. Methen found me naked and sobbing under a palm tree and took me to my parents’ house.
The memory did not fade; it was snuffed out as though its bright candle flare had been doused in a shower of water, and Huy found himself staring across at the wall of his room. That rebirth was my First Duat, he realized dully. Of course. I metamorphosed into the Twice Born, the one favoured by the gods, the
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