Hunger's Brides (189 page)

His Spanish is only passable. She asks in English, does he mean the Inquisition exhibit at the Museo de la Medicina. That is of interest too but no, he means the one for cars, the Nissan Museum. He can see the Vanidades boutique. It can't be far. He thinks it is finally this, but she has known who he was from the start. So S has fucked Professor D.J.G.

But he knows better, knows it is more than that. She is not ashamed or angry, she is curious and sad, has half-guessed why he has come, understands as much as he does or as little. She knew he could not help telling her when he was ready, and he has told her, with the museum. She hopes for good news, but does not expect it. He would not be the one to bring it. And though he tells himself they are even and that it is nothing to be so upset about, he goes back that night to the hotel between the cathedral and the convent, Hotel Isabel la Católica.

Over the next days he returns to places she has shown him, others he has only read of, sees the strangeness of the strangest of cities, alone. One day a dervish dancing blind across sixteen lanes of traffic. And a series of strange kindnesses. Another day an abduction on the sidewalk ahead, of a young girl who looks Mexican. Those who have
also seen this walk faster. No one stops to take down the licence plate. He takes busier streets, the busiest, then only buses on El Paseo de la Reforma. The comforts of German engineering, the same AM radio as other places … tunes he recognizes, songs that stop when teachers enter lecture halls.

The buses roll on past the galleries, the theatres and jewellery shops, past the Angel of the Independence and the statue of Cuautémoc. FallingEagle. The buses are quiet, the air is cool inside, cleaner. The stops not too frequent. Museum of Anthropology, Chapultepec Lake, National Auditorium, Museum of Modern Art. Getting on, getting off, he rides switching seats so he can face the park. A uniform, an employee gets on, sits across from him, her back to the museum. Over her head he can see the Indian fliers whirling above the tops of the trees.

She watches him, seems about to ask the foreigner a question, asks it, but there is something in her accent he does not catch. She repeats it. The music is a distraction. He realizes it is the same song. He has heard it also a few hours before, popular with the students just now. He watches her fingertips flutter at her cheeks, thinks of rain. They play these things in cycles, playlists. Her face not unkind, she comes to sit beside him, an older woman, takes his hand. He feels her raise it to his own face, as with the fingers of her other hand she flutters little tongue-tips of rain, cool against his cheek.

The following morning he returns home, to his real home, a cabin in the mountains a friend has lent him. He settles in, prepares to write a prologue, looks for a way, a place to begin.

H
ORUS
        

(
1–4 HORIZONTALS) THE ALL-LORD:
Who prospers the Two Lands; the Two Ladies: [—] beloved of Ptah, l.p.h.!, who is called by the great name: [Ta-te]nen South-of-his-Wall, Lord of Eternity. [Joiner] of Upper and Lower Egypt.——who created the Nine Gods in the Temple of Souls.
³⁴

Re-Atum, this one comes to thee, child of thy seed, I, a spirit beyond destruction, return to thee, sown from thy fist through the first fist-twins, God Shu, Goddess Tefnut, through the cunt-twins their children, earth and sky, God Geb, Goddess Nut. I, child of thy seed, come to thee—may thou cross the sky united with the dark! may thou rise in lightland, forever where thou shinest!

I come, a spirit indestructible, second-born son after Osiris, and Isis, his fuck-twin, my sister. With Seth's own sister-wife Nephthys we are the Nine. Sky breaks! stars dim! earth quakes! planets still!—
to see Seth rise in his power
. A god—I—who lives upon the flesh of his fathers, who feeds upon the flesh of his mothers. Seth's glory is in lightland, like Atum my begetter. Through thy jism am I not bull-of-heaven, who rages in thy heart and feeds on the heart of every god, who eats their entrails and swallows their seed when they come, their bodies full of magic, from the Isle of Fire?

But if thou wishest me to die, I will die. And if thou wouldst that Seth live, Seth shall live.

I am master of cunning, whose own mother knows not Seth's secret name. I did all that majesty commands in bringing murder to my brother
Osiris, Foremost-of-the-Westerners—life, prosperity and health! I acted as his beloved brother, feasted the return of His-heart-is-weary. Osiris had travelled far to bring knowing to the Asiatics, to take learning to the barbarians in their stinking. In welcome and hospitality did Seth build for him then a fine casket, a sarcophagus of ebon and ironwood, worked with gold and lapis lazuli, in mother of pearl rimmed. Much feasting and beer, many toasts of his safe return. Seth offered then to the all-gathered-there the prize of the sarcophagus of Life in Eternity, awarded to him-who-lies-within-most-easily. All tried, none fit, much laughter, until His-heart-is-weary lay down in it. Good fit, good plan—swift my followers pushed down the lid, sealed it with lead! No laughter, no sound, no word from inside. Much consternation. No word from inside. MUCH CONSTERNATION. Seth clothed my brother's sarcophagus in its regalia, decked the breast of the casket with greenstone and turquoise, clear gems. Seth was pure of hand in decking the sarcophagus, like a priest of clean fingering. I made my allies to take up the
neshmet
bark, led the procession, champion of my brother, repulsed our attackers. Much death, much blood, sorrow. I cut down who would stop the launching of the Bark-truly-risen-is-the-Lord-of-Abydos. Seth hacked a path to the Nile shore, shielded the sarcophagus through the PANIC and consternation on the land. Then Seth set the casket in the Great-Bark-of-the-Nile. It bore his beauty, straight to the bottom. Cleansed is he who is cleansed in the Field of Rushes! Seth brought rejoicing to my followers in the eastern deserts, much joy also to the western deserts.

Though he was many-eyed, he saw not Seth's coming. Though my brother was the stronger I loosened the knot of his life—yet did not Seth leave intact all his beauty? Am I not great-in-cunning, loving-of-family?
³⁶

Seth will enter into the judgements with Him-whose-name-is-hidden, ever on the day of the slaying of the elder.

Seth is Lord-who-knots-the-cord that binds the sacrifice. Seth is who eats men. I feed on the lungs of the wise, I like to live on hearts and their magic.

But if thou sayest Seth should die, I will die. Yet if thou willst that I live, Seth shall not die.

Isis sought him everywhere. Isis, daughter of Nut and Geb, our parents. Isis, fuck-twin of Osiris, Seth's sister. She searched, left the throne, searched, left the Black Land to return to the Asiatics. Had I not been
given dominion over the foreigners?—yet she too followed him to go among them! Had I not been given dominion over the Red Lands as had Osiris over the Black? To him the fertile, to Seth the barren. Isis found him in Byblos, the sarcophagus grown into a big green tree on the shore. Our sister brought him back in her moon bark to the delta, to the marshes. But there she hid Seth's precious sarcophagus not so well. It called to Seth from the rushes in the voice of my brother. I tore into the corpse like soft bread, shredded it in fourteen pieces. Smashed bones and marrow, seized the liver, pulled the long member from between the limbs. For is Seth not He-who-rends? am I not earth-tearer, life-in-disintegration? I fed up my ally Sobek, fed the fuck-member of my brother into the long gullet. Seth choked the crocodile on the dong-of-his-brother. For was I not then Seth-the-ungoverned, Seth-in-riot, Seth-in-bloodlust?

And was I not only acting as one with Seth's nature? Not fist-born, not cunt-born—but wild-fruit-torn-from-the-side-of-his-mother!

Deep in the Black earth and farthest corners of the Red Lands I buried the Thirteen—at night, when the black boar had hunted down the moon. For the sky-dwellers are to serve Seth—I eat their magic, swallow their spirits, and the pots are scraped for me with their women's legs. Seth seizes the hearts of the gods, as Khons, slayer of lords. I cut their throats, pulling up their bowels through the mouths of their anus. Like snakes from burrows. Seth has eaten the Red, swallowed the Green, licked clean the coils of the Red with abhorrence, yet felt delight in their magics in my gullet. The dignities of Seth will never be taken from me—I HAVE SWALLOWED THE KNOWLEDGE OF EVERY GOD.

But if thou willst my death, I will die. And if thou sayest that Seth should live, Seth will have life.

I went to console the widow of my brother, daughter of our mother-who-bears-the-scars-of-Seth-in-her-side. Seth brought the news of the defiling to where Isis sat on the throne. I sang.

Why did our sister send one dear brother's
ka
to sit in Orion?—while that day depriving Seth of the seat of Sirius, brightest among the stars.

After this, much sickness, heavy limbs. Well did she know how to cast the noose on Seth with her hair. Great-in-magic, she captured me with her eye, changed herself into a jackal bitch. Seth ran after her, lost seed on the sand. She caught it, took my potency. She mocked at Seth, branded me with her seal ring, made Seth's jism call out to him from her palm. Hail, fuck-brother, hail! Three weeks lying on my back in sadness not rising, while she sought out the hidden members of Osiris. Three weeks to the sound of Isis, weeping not for Seth. And Seth's own fuck-sister Nephthys helped her. My own consort also, the river-mare Taweret, helped THEM. Is Seth not copious-of-seed? Why did they covet His-heart-is-weary, why did my seed find in their moist gardens only barren ground?
³⁷

Seth is lord-of-thick-jism! who takes wives from their husbands!—whenever Seth wishes, as his heart wills!

Wherever Seth had buried the gobbets of his brother, our sister, finding them, raised a big temple. Thirteen gateposts to hedge Seth in, thirteen pyramids to fence Seth out.
Then, great was Isis in magic
. As a vulture she swallowed the Thirteen, each in turn, and in the fullness of the moon, vomited our beloved brother whole onto the Nile bank. Yet the dong-of-Osiris she found nowhere, nor even Taweret rooting in the slime of the Nile found it. The fatness of Sobek was not a clue to her. Out of Nile-bank clay, the great-in-magic rolled in her palms a thick member, wetted and made it to bind with the sallow yolk of Seth's own
stale spittle. With the life-in-her-mouth made it slick, stiffened it to enter her. As a vulture she hovered over our beloved brother, on the perch of his member.