“Mother, Mother, the stranger is awake!” The shout roused Mata from his slumber. He shifted uneasily against the unevenness of his bed. Small juts were sticking into his back that only the gentleness of sleep had made up for. As he rolled over, he realized he was on the floor. Getting up promised to be a chore. “Mother, the fair-skinned is alive!” A taller figure entered the room, feline in her curves but retaining a sizable bump in the abdomen. She took care to move slowly, using the door frame for support. She huffed and puffed in maternal fatigue.

It was fair to say that Mata had never been a handsome man. As a youth, calling him a faunlet should’ve meant relinquishing your creative license, and in his later years, his hairs had receded, gone, like the travel of caravan peoples. “Do not move. You are still weak. Eta, bring bread.” The language spoken was gravel to the ears.

“Water,” he said, surprised at the unfamiliarity of the words leaving his mouth. The lady at the doorway chuckled.

“To be so crass after having received so many favors? The Gods really did strike us down when he brought you here.” Bring me here? Who? Mata glanced at the little girl kneeling beside him as she handed him bread. He brought hands to face and started wolfing it down. And favors? What favors? I’m stuck sleeping on reeds like some peasant farmer. The girl, Eta her mother had called her, glared at him wondrously. She was not used to seeing outsiders. What’s she looking at, then? Eta dressed modestly. A linen tunic of accidentally-acquired earthy tones covered her with an outset of short sleeves, fastened at the shoulders with simple knots. Eta matched her mother's attire. How the hell did I get here? Even these memories were starting to escape him. He felt like he was touching them without ever quite managing to make contact as if his thoughts were purposely beating him around the bush. I need to piss. He looked toward the lady’s stomach. She turned the other way in the doorway and yelled something about a shawl or another.

“Look, mister, this necklace that my baba crafted! It’s truly a blessing of the River. The string of deglossed white-beige shells covered her neckline. He regarded Eta awkwardly. What language is she speaking? And yet I intuitively catch her meaning.

“Mm-hmm, nice, and your… baba? Where is he?” Her face turned sullen.

“Baba did not return after bringing you here…”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“He often travels west to search for rare rock in the hot, hot deserts. He was expected to return on the second decan of Akhet*, but instead, he came with you on the ninth day of the first decan.” The ninth day of the first decan?

“Forgive me, er, my head must still be a little hazy, how much time has passed since he left me here?

“Two days, mister, it is now the second decan of Akhet,” she said, choking on her words, tears flowing breezily, “Please, help us find him, mister.” What was most curious, the ten-day week or the missing father?

“Eta, leave, do not show the stranger your tears,” the mother returned with a deep crimson shawl in hand. She showed no remorse when throwing it at Mata. “Are you not ashamed?” She was looking down on Mata, face twisted in disgust. Her daughter had barely left the room. “Are you not man enough to stand up and speak with dignity?” Mata climbed to his hands, rough reed straws pricking him, and shakily got himself to his feet. This one… this one was mean. She adopted a more satisfied look. “My iry-pat* has gone missing. What have you done? Why were those philistines after my Bayek?”

“My lady, I know not of this Bayek. I simply remember mindlessly wandering the desert, and then waking up here. That is all, I give you my word.” Her impatience stoked.

“Your word has no meaning in these lands, can you not even swear it on the Gods or the mighty River?”

“I… still know not what you speak of,” he hung his head slightly in an act of performative shame. Mata indeed wished to help her, but he didn’t see how he could, and in turn; he didn't understand why he would be blamed.

“You really do not know?”

“No, I do not. I can swear it on whatever you wish, but, my lady, please, it is not good for you to be agitated with a baby on the way.” He pointed toward the bump on her body and gestured softly toward the corner of the hut’s room, where there was a convenient hocker. “Please, sit. And breathe deeply.” Her face turned more empathetic, and after what might’ve been some inner turmoil, she acquiesced.

“By the grace of Bastet, may my child be healthy,” she massaged her baby-bump, happy to rest her back on the wall. Mata did not take notice of her comment.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Congratulations,” Mata spoke genuinely. A visage of a smile showed itself on her until the curtain of oozing sternness was inevitably pulled back.

“You have much to do, yes, very much to do! Son, guide the stranger.” A pesky-looking boyappeared from out of the shadows, grinning with crocodile teeth. Black oil-tipped hair covered his eyes, teeth sharp as jutting spears. Had he been bigger, Mata might have cowered. “I hear those who have much alike work well together,” the mother, Aya, said. The son, clad in dirtied linens, signaled for Mata to come with and then he vanished out of the doorway. They left the mud-baked hut and Aya sighed. “Two minds like an empty room,” but it was true that her smile bespoke what her words dared not.

Such was the tableau of his surroundings that Mata knew not where to step or where to direct his gaze, all the while wondering where the boy had gone off to. The sun-drenched streets were pounding with people; peons, serfs, and merchants alike, all paying attention to the rhythmic beat of a distant drum. Rumors spread in throngs of whispers; there was a religious procession approaching. The street was cramped but broadened further along. On either side, the traders seized their ceaseless scrambling and beckoning of merchantries. But it was a careful process, some deals being struck in the nick of time, seeing it fit to deal with religion with a measured degree of zeal. The odd piece of jewelry being bartered in the masquerade of gold - it was actually bronze painted with yellow ochre* - and exchanged for the poor farmer’s daily bread. The damned bracelet didn’t even shine in the sun. Four men ached under the pressure of the marching palanquin. Mata could imagine them squealing under there, a terrible fate - surely.

It was accepted that the rich were fat and the poor were skinny and that they still, somehow, did the same amount of work. In fact, these fat people were seen as more industrious. Don’t judge a book by the fat hanging off its chin and all, but it hardly seemed fair.

As the procession proceeded, as such it was designed, a stranger squeezed Mata’s shoulder. “Brother, mister, lend me your aid, I shall be indebted to you for generations.” The man, bearing the weight of the litter-pole, carried the head palanquin of the procession. There was only the drape of a spotlessly white canopy covering the inside of the palanquin. The head-fatso must be inside, and this slave wants my help carrying him, Mata mused. He was a little shocked at the stranger’s request but enjoyed the sound of generations.

Was he always this spontaneous? He had taken over the stranger’s role, and the grisly fellow was now by Mata’s side leaping and cheering, egging on a crowd that had assembled in holy glee. “Cheer, mister, cheer with the crowds! It grants power!” Naught to do but oblige.

“Bu-ha, bu-ha! Bu-ha!” Mata joined the rabble in their fanaticism. The rhythm of the chanting inspired the palanquin, which now bounced with much enthusiasm to each throb of the beat. He had ended up at the back-left of the palanquin, resting the girthy litter pole on his trapezius and wishing it had a little more give. The pain shot up his shoulder and neck. The sooted serf that had promised Mata indebtedness of the generational order continued alongside Mata, waving to the gentry both-handedly as if he were an idol.

There were un-priestly chomping noises behind the linen curtains of the palanquin, drowned out by the incessant drumming of the crowd and… Is that music? This was really turning into something, now. Only those featherbrained enough to volunteer for a pole on the trapezius heard the eroticisms emanating from the palanquin. And there was something else. Who the hell is slamming that drum? Pain shot up his spine as he turned to glance.

“Bu-ha! Bu-ha!” Neither was his eye-sight too good, it seemed. Had he done so many bad deeds that he didn’t deserve glasses in the afterlife? That’s what this is, right? The afterlife? And are those really human noises coming from inside this palanquin? So he kept hollering instead. A sweet rhythm had never hurt anybody. Maybe a shake of the shoulders would do the trick. Alas, they were getting quite sore. The palanquin shook slightly. No one noticed the small opening caused by the ruffling of the sheets. Mata had too many burdens of his own to pay it any attention. “Hey, you,” he looked at the man who had caused him this pain, ”yes you, slave-man. You have a, eh,” what’s the word again, “mobile? "A phone?" The rag-tag friend looked at him apologetically. The man had no clue. Not even a fucking flip-phone?

Potent incense soared in the skies, intermixing with the sweats of the closely assembled parade. The sounds echoed back into the crowd from the sandstone facades making up the small town as the group barraged onwards. Delicate, flutey tones whispered across the rabble, each note like a whisper of the Gods.

It was eerie, chaotic, ghastly ancient, and for Mata, it was all too much. The mingling of scent and melody felt like sensory incest. He was about to be sick.

Friend. Mata’s words drowned in the sea of sounds. Or maybe he had failed to articulate them. Friend. His face turned severe.

“Friend,” Mata finally got the attention of the generational one, catching his breath inbetween his words he spoke, “friend, I didn’t catch the name of this place?”

“There is nothing to catch, mister,” the slave’s arms extended and the golden sun rose behind him; in an embrace of the sun behind him he said, “This is Kemet!*”

*Akhet: The three seasons of Ancient Egypt were commanded by the River Nile. Akhet was also known as The Inundation, this is when the land would flood, covering the land in silt, a high-quality soil excellent for growing crops. Decan were the 10-day weeks of the Ancient Egyptian calendar.

*Iry-pat: Great one of the House/Husband

*Yellow ochre: Ochres are natural pigments used in the creation of dyes. The raw ochre is ground into a fine powder and then bonded into a paste. It is not appropriate for the coloring of jewelry.

*Kemet: The Ancient Egyptians referred to their land as the “Black Land,” which was often translated as “Kemet.” The “Black Land” refers to the fertile soil of the Nile River bank, brought by Akhet.