on its face but quickly pushes itself up. It picks up the broken finger from the floor and attempts to attach the missing appendage back onto its hand, but the clay finger remains hard and unchanged, and falls to the ground once again. The shabti’s head raises and regards her with an inquiring look on its face.
“I’m sorry,” Aniya explains by way of apology. “I didn’t mean to drop you.”
The shabti shakes his head and rounds his shoulder back as if losing his pinkie finger is no real concern. He takes the stance of a soldier and stands at attention, ostensibly waiting for her command.
“Should I wake the others, then?” she asks the little man. Although he says no words, the way he regards her speaks volumes enough. Aniya voices the words she knew he would say if he could. “Why is a queen of Egypt asking advice from a lump of clay, right? Well, pardon me, but this queen has never been trapped in a burial tomb with no one to talk to other than a small, clay shabti that magically came to life.”
The shabti seems to bristle at the mention of his short stature, but when the queen finishes and slinks down next to him on the floor he pushes forward one of the other clay figures as if to say, “He’s next.”
Aniya holds the shabti in her hands and says the word that brings the clay to life. The first shabti she awoke, the tallest of the bunch, brings the others to her one-by-one and she awakens all of them. One wears a scowl on his face and moves with clipped precision. Another is shorter and somewhat more chubby than the rest. The fourth brandishes his sword as soon as he is awakened and bows when he realizes he is standing before the queen. The fifth takes two tries for Aniya to awaken, and when he finally does, blinks his eyes drowsily before stretching his arms with a long yawn. The next moves so quickly into position next to the leader that his little legs are a blur. The seventh and final shabti, though the shortest of the lot, smiles broadly at the queen and bows before her with a great flourish of his sword. He swaggers across the floor to stand next to the rest of the clay regiment. When he steps into line the tallest of the shabti, the leader, motions to the others and they bow low before the queen. Aniya nearly bows back when she realizes that not only is it not appropriate for a queen to bow to her servants, but that she would be bowing to clay. “We are all just lumps of earth, fashioned as the gods see fit, are we not?” she asks them, and bows to them in spite of herself.
“Well,” she says, standing back up. “I wonder what else might be useful to accompany me through that doorway,” she says to the little men. They stare back at her, silent as the grave they’re standing in. Aniya realizes they will be of little help in this endeavor and begins to search the room for items that might be useful in getting her out of the pyramid. There are chairs, tables, decorations, food, even - but nothing truly useful. It is all embellishment and decor.
She lifts an alabaster lamp from one of the tables, wondering if she might find some flint to light it when the wick of the lamp combusts into blue flames on its own. Aniya tilts the lamp to the side and opens the top. There is no sesame oil inside for the fire to burn, and yet the blue flame continues to flicker on.
“Well, there’s this, then,” she says to the shabti that continue to silently monitor her every move. “At least it won’t be quite so dark when we walk through that door.” Aniya gives the room a final, sweeping search, but there is nothing else for her to take that will truly help.
“Funny that all of these things are meant to help me in the afterlife, but the only thing that seems remotely helpful is this,” she says, lifting the lamp.
The leader of the shabti raises an eyebrow at her. “And you, of course,” she says hurriedly.
Aniya stands before the black opening in the wall and holds the light up to it. The
“I’m sorry,” Aniya explains by way of apology. “I didn’t mean to drop you.”
The shabti shakes his head and rounds his shoulder back as if losing his pinkie finger is no real concern. He takes the stance of a soldier and stands at attention, ostensibly waiting for her command.
“Should I wake the others, then?” she asks the little man. Although he says no words, the way he regards her speaks volumes enough. Aniya voices the words she knew he would say if he could. “Why is a queen of Egypt asking advice from a lump of clay, right? Well, pardon me, but this queen has never been trapped in a burial tomb with no one to talk to other than a small, clay shabti that magically came to life.”
The shabti seems to bristle at the mention of his short stature, but when the queen finishes and slinks down next to him on the floor he pushes forward one of the other clay figures as if to say, “He’s next.”
Aniya holds the shabti in her hands and says the word that brings the clay to life. The first shabti she awoke, the tallest of the bunch, brings the others to her one-by-one and she awakens all of them. One wears a scowl on his face and moves with clipped precision. Another is shorter and somewhat more chubby than the rest. The fourth brandishes his sword as soon as he is awakened and bows when he realizes he is standing before the queen. The fifth takes two tries for Aniya to awaken, and when he finally does, blinks his eyes drowsily before stretching his arms with a long yawn. The next moves so quickly into position next to the leader that his little legs are a blur. The seventh and final shabti, though the shortest of the lot, smiles broadly at the queen and bows before her with a great flourish of his sword. He swaggers across the floor to stand next to the rest of the clay regiment. When he steps into line the tallest of the shabti, the leader, motions to the others and they bow low before the queen. Aniya nearly bows back when she realizes that not only is it not appropriate for a queen to bow to her servants, but that she would be bowing to clay. “We are all just lumps of earth, fashioned as the gods see fit, are we not?” she asks them, and bows to them in spite of herself.
“Well,” she says, standing back up. “I wonder what else might be useful to accompany me through that doorway,” she says to the little men. They stare back at her, silent as the grave they’re standing in. Aniya realizes they will be of little help in this endeavor and begins to search the room for items that might be useful in getting her out of the pyramid. There are chairs, tables, decorations, food, even - but nothing truly useful. It is all embellishment and decor.
She lifts an alabaster lamp from one of the tables, wondering if she might find some flint to light it when the wick of the lamp combusts into blue flames on its own. Aniya tilts the lamp to the side and opens the top. There is no sesame oil inside for the fire to burn, and yet the blue flame continues to flicker on.
“Well, there’s this, then,” she says to the shabti that continue to silently monitor her every move. “At least it won’t be quite so dark when we walk through that door.” Aniya gives the room a final, sweeping search, but there is nothing else for her to take that will truly help.
“Funny that all of these things are meant to help me in the afterlife, but the only thing that seems remotely helpful is this,” she says, lifting the lamp.
The leader of the shabti raises an eyebrow at her. “And you, of course,” she says hurriedly.
Aniya stands before the black opening in the wall and holds the light up to it. The
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