The Bone House (17 page)

“This is the sacred road,” the young man informed them.

“Where does it lead?” asked Arthur.

“It joins other sacred ways in other places,” replied the acolyte. “There are many such throughout the land.”

They walked along, the passageway cast in deepest gloom though the sky above held the faint glimmer of the rising sun. They passed an elaborate doorway that had been carved into the tufa; columns, also carved, supported a triangular pediment that bore the sculpted image of a man in long robes lying on a low couch. There was an inscription, which seemed to be a name carved into the architrave. The doors were of stone and sealed.

“What is this?” asked Arthur.

“It is the tomb of Lars Volsina,” answered the youth. “He was a king of our people many years ago.”

They passed another doorway set in a niche on the opposite side of the sunken road, then two more; as they continued along there were more of these elaborate facades: some larger, grandly decorated porticoes with steps and columns; others simple posts and lintels framing a stone door. “Are they all tombs?” wondered Arthur. “All these doorways?”

“Yes, all are tombs of kings and noblemen.”

The deep-carved passageway wound gently down, curving as it went. As it straightened again they saw a short distance ahead a group of people standing before another of the rock-cut tombs, this one somewhat larger than the others and more elaborate, with stone steps leading up to a covered porch. A fire had been lit in an iron bowl supported by a tripod, and torches attached to the columns and walls of the sunken roadway gave the tufa a warm, ruddy glow. There was a stone plinth covered with an orange cloth in front of the steps. King Turms stood before it, flanked on either side by women in long white linen gowns. Both had their hair braided in such a way as to fall over each shoulder; one of them held a golden bowl, the other a knife with a blade of black glass.

“Welcome, friends,” called Turms as they came to stand before the plinth. “This rite is best observed on the sacred way in the presence of venerable ancestors,” he explained. “This is a most auspicious place.”

At Arthur’s sceptical expression, he said, “I suppose it will seem strange to you that the celebration of new life should take place amongst the tombs. Even so, this, like the road you have taken to come here, represents the journey of life itself. We are travellers, and each of us, body and soul together, are companions for life’s journey. One day we will part company, as we must. The body, grown weary, will take its rest at last.” Turms lifted a hand to the surrounding tombs.

“But for those whose spirits are alive to the purposes of creation,” he continued, “there is no final destination. For such as these, death is merely a pause, an interlude where one can gather strength for new and greater journeys. Friends, we are created travellers. I ask you, what true traveller ever arrived in a new place who did not wish to explore it, and in exploring did not continue his travels, seeing new sights, learning new ways, breathing the air of a new land under new skies, and rejoicing in new discoveries?”

Turms the Immortal, priest king of the Velathri, turned and motioned to the woman with the bowl. She stepped forward, placing the bowl on the orange-draped plinth. “Though the body you bring before me in this most favourable hour will one day grow weary and die, the new spirit which has entered the world in this body is immortal and will never die. Know this, my friends, we are—all of us—immortal.”

He held out his hands. “Give me the child.”

Xian-Li, who had been following Turms’ explanation with Arthur’s whispered translation, extended her arms and gently placed her newborn son in the king’s hands. Turms raised the infant above his head, then passed it to the woman who had held the bowl. She unwrapped the baby and presented it naked to the king, who cradled it in his arms. “As the last stars of the night fade into the dawn, so begins a new day in the dying of the old. This is as it must be.”

Turms dipped a little water from the bowl and wet the baby’s head. “We welcome you, little soul, into the life we all share in this world,” he said, his voice growing soft as a mother’s. Extending his hand to the woman with the knife, he said, “Yours is not a solitary life, little one.” With a quick deft stroke he pricked the sole of the infant’s foot with the point of the knife.

Xian-Li stifled a gasp, and the child gave a squeak of surprise at the sudden, fleeting pain. A big drop of bright red blood welled up on the little heel. Turms dabbed the blood with a forefinger and made a spot on the baby’s forehead, then repeated the gesture three times, placing a spot first on Xian-Li’s forehead, then on Arthur’s, and finally on his own. “This sign is to remind you that your life is not yours alone—it is mingled with your parents, and with all those who came before you and will come after. But it is mingled with others, too, just as their lives are mingled with still others. In this way, we are all part of one another.”

The baby, growing cold and uncomfortable in the morning air, squirmed and gave out a growl like that of a kitten or a cub. The king smiled and returned the child to the woman holding the swaddling cloth; she gathered the infant once more into the soft folds and returned it to the king. Turms placed his hand on the infant’s head and said, “Our hope for you is that you will grow to be strong and virtuous in spirit and deed, and that whether the length of your journey through this world is short or long, it will be a boon to you and all those around you. Learn well, little soul, so that the knowledge and wisdom you gather on your way can strengthen and sustain you in the life to come.”

Turms raised his eyes and asked Arthur, “By what name will this child be known?”

Arthur’s mouth framed the word
Benjamin
—a name he had decided on that held some resonance for him. Curiously, his tongue uttered, “Benedict.”

The king nodded. Taking the infant’s curled fist in his, he dipped the tiny hand into the water, and then pressed that little fist to its chest. “From henceforth you will be called Benedict.”

Xian-Li glanced at her husband and mouthed the question,
“Benedict?”

The ceremony was completed, and Turms handed the child back to its mother. The two women attendants took up the bowl and knife once more.

“Wait,” said Arthur. “I meant to say
Benjamin
.”

Turms’ smile grew broad, and he put back his head and laughed. “And yet you did not.”

“But—” Arthur started to object.

“It is done, my friend,” the king told him. “And it is right. The name you have given is what was chosen for him. All is as it must be.”

Arthur gave in to the decision with rueful acceptance. They all walked back to the palace to eat a celebratory meal in honour of the newly named infant, retracing their steps along the sacred way, passing the silent tombs. They mounted the steps and, upon reaching the top, the rising sun broke above the horizon, for a moment dazzling them. Arthur felt as if, having spent the night in the tomb, he was rising to new life.

On the way back up the hill, Xian-Li leaned close to her husband. “Why Benedict?” she wondered. “What does it mean?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” confessed Arthur. “Blessing or blessed one, I think—something like that.”

Xian-Li smiled and held the infant up before her to look at him. “He is our blessing,” she decided, and the awkwardness of the mistake dissolved. In that moment, the world settled into place once more.

CHAPTER 14
In Which the Truth Cannot Be Ignored

A
few scrawny cats and a beggar scrabbled among gently smouldering heaps of rubbish. A swirl of black vultures circled overhead in lazy loops, keen-eyed for anything dead or dying. The naked sun slammed down like a hammer upon the poor anvil that was Kit’s throbbing head, smiting through the thin cloth of his sweat-soaked turban. “My kingdom for a straw hat,” he muttered, blinking in sunlight so hot it dried his eyeballs in their sockets.

An endless avenue of pale, human-headed sphinxes stretched before him, its end lost in the shimmering heat haze. Somewhere in that wavering mirage lay the ruins of one of the ancient world’s wonders: the Great Temple of Amun. It was somewhere in the temple complex at the end of the avenue, Kit had been informed, that he would find the man he had come upriver to meet. Squinting his eyes against the glare bouncing up from the white-paved street, he started walking. After only a minute, he was wishing he had not been quite so hasty in rejecting Khefri’s suggestion that he hire a donkey for the journey. “It’s a straight shot to the temple, right?” he had said. “How bad can it be?”

To take his mind off the heat, he tried to imagine why Wilhelmina had been so insistent that he meet this man. What did Young know that could help them? He also wondered how much Wilhelmina had told this fellow about the quest they were conducting, and consequently how much he might risk saying. That, Kit decided, would be the first thing he must discover.

After a leisurely boat ride down the Nile, and a brief stop to haggle for the turban, Kit and Khefri had shaken hands and parted company at the steps of the Winter Palace hotel. “
Shukran
, my friend,” Kit had said. “If I have need of a boat, I will come looking for you.”

“May God be good to you, Kit Livingstone,” replied the young man. “Farewell.” The last Kit had seen of him, the young man was hurrying back to join his cousin in the boat.

Following Wilhelmina’s instructions, he had presented himself to the concierge at the reception desk and asked for the parcel that, all being well, was waiting for him. The concierge, a robust Egyptian in a black frock coat and fez, disappeared into an office, returning a moment later with a package. He held it in his hand and regarded Kit dubiously. “Could this be the parcel, sir?”

“Why, yes, I believe so.”

The fellow hefted it in his hand, but made no attempt to deliver it.

“May I have it, please?”

“Do you have anything for me?”

“Ah, no,” answered Kit slowly. “I don’t think so.”

“Nothing at all?” wondered the fellow.

“No. Nothing at all. Why? Was I suppose to have something for you? I was not given anything—”

“A small gift, perhaps?” He regarded the parcel in his hand.

“Oh!” said Kit, as understanding broke upon him. “Yes, I see.”

The concierge smiled.

“But I am terribly sorry,” Kit offered. “I don’t have any money. I’ve been in the desert, you see.” He turned out an empty pocket. “Nada. Nothing. Sorry.”

With a shrug, the fellow handed over the small packet, and Kit wandered into the lobby to open it. About the size and thickness of an old-school exercise book, it was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string; a small hand-lettered note had been stuck in where the ends of the string were tied in a neat bow, and it was addressed to him. It read:
Kit: Do not open this package. Take it—unopened—to Dr. Thomas Young at the Karnak temple dig just outside Luxor. You will find him there from late spring to early autumn. The parcel will serve as your letter of introduction. He will know what is to be done. Remember, DO NOT open this package. Not even a little!

He turned the parcel over. The folded flaps were sealed with a blob of old-fashioned sealing wax. Beside the seal was a message:
Do not even THINK about opening this package!

“Okay! Got it,” muttered Kit. “Sheesh, what a nag. I won’t open the stupid package.”

Tucking the packet under his shirt, he had then made his way to the old temple. When he finally arrived at the shattered remains of the temple gate, he was perspiring from every pore, the sweat drying almost instantly as it hit the dry desert air. The huge blocks of the fabled pylons—the great slant-backed walls flanking the temple entrance—lay tumbled on the ground, though the parts of the wall extant rose to the height of several stories. Many of the courses still bore their original paint, and the colours glowed in the fierce light. Through the now-empty gate he could see collapsed pillars and more jumbled heaps of rubble across a very lumpy landscape, most of which was covered with low acacia bushes, stunted palms of various sorts, and coarse, scrubby saw grass. More beggars reclined idly in the broken doorways, while in the shadows he could see the furtive shapes of feral cats.

Kit wiped beaded sweat from his face, put his hand to the cargo he carried beneath his shirt, and started into the temple courtyard, climbing over a heap of rubble and into what had once been an immense expanse of gargantuan columns shaped like bundles of papyrus; some of these stood upright, proudly supporting their connecting lintels as if bearing the weight of the clear blue sky above. His presence was quickly seized upon by the more enterprising beggars, who hobbled to greet him with toothless whines and filthy palms outstretched.
“La, shukran,”
he told them as firmly and politely as he could.

“Sir! Sir!” one of the beggars called in English. “You need a guide, sir?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Kit did not even look up, since to do so would only encourage the fellow. “Thanks all the same.”

“You are looking for someone, maybe?”

At this, Kit glanced around to see a wizened Egyptian in a very dirty kaftan and skin like creased leather standing perfectly still a little apart from the importuning gaggle of his comrades in rags. “You are looking for someone,” the man repeated. “I think so.”

“Yes,” admitted Kit, instantly regretting his lapse. “I am looking for someone—an Englishman, actually.”