Lauren Haney - Face Turned Backward

Not far below the summit, a tiny mudbrick house stood behind a walled courtyard, partially shaded by acacias. A pigeon-cote stood close by, and four pottery beehives filled a rocky nook overlooking the house. As they approached the building, a wizened old woman vanished through the doorway, leaving a mound of coarse-ground flour beside a grindstone.

“My mother-in-law,” Ahmose said. “Just the two of us left now. Everybody else has gone. My wife, my sons and daughters, my grandchildren. Most are dead, the rest moved away.”

Bak could well understand the reason. Not many people would thrive in so lonely a spot. Though the island offered a rare freedom, few could tolerate so much time alone with their own thoughts.

Imsiba sat cross-legged in the shade and cut the goose into four portions. He rewrapped one in several limp leaves and placed it near the grindstone. Ahmose’s eyes flickered surprise, but he made no comment. The other portions, the Medjay handed around.

“Now, old man,” Bak said, sitting beside his friend, “how long have you been watching these secret meetings in the night?”

“More than a year.” Ahmose wiggled briefly, searching for a softer spot for his bony rear. “Mighty entertaining, they’ve been, and often enlightening.”

“Tell us.” Bak handed him a small, round loaf of bread but held on to a beer jar as if too intent on the answer to think to pass it on. He was certain the old man was the source of Nebamon’s tale, a tale sure to draw either a desert patrol or the police, and he was equally certain Ahmose wanted something in exchange for the information he meant to give.

The old man tore a chunk from the crusty bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and began to chew, stretching the time.

The pigeons swept low overhead, returning from their flight with a whirring of wings, and settled on the courtyard wall, the house, their own house, and the earth. Imsiba covered the fresh-ground grain with a reed mat he found draped over the wall.

“I’m in need of a servant,” Ahmose said. “Someone young and strong, who’ll help tend my vegetables and my flocks.

Someone to carry water when the plants are thirsty and feed the animals when they hunger. Someone to help the old woman with cooking and cleaning, neither of which she can do any longer with skill. Someone to care for the two of us when our strength fails.”

Bak stifled a smile. The request was reasonable, the need probably greater than the old man let on, but he had too much experience to agree too readily. “Until I know what you have to offer, I can do nothing but think on the matter.”

“Two ships, I’ve seen.” Ahmose paused, pretending to sort out his thoughts. His eyes drifted to the beer jar Bak held, then dropped to the portion of goose Imsiba had given him.

“One vessel is small and agile, sailing swift and sure among the rocks, its master a man of the south who can see in the dark and who can tell by the whisper of the water what lies beneath the surface. The other vessel is bigger, a trading ship, the captain a man of Kemet who goes by the name of Roy. He, too, knows these waters, but is hampered by the size of his vessel.”

“You’ve told me nothing I didn’t already know.” Bak looked at the jar as if surprised to see it in his hand, and tossed it to the old man, who caught it with the deftness of a youth. “To earn a reward, you must give me information far more worthy than that.”

Ahmose’s mouth tightened to a thin, stubborn line. “I’m no longer young, Lieutenant, no longer able to protect myself and all that’s mine. If I tell you what you want to hear, how can I be sure the headless man won’t come to slay us? Me and the old woman? How can I know he won’t carry off my animals or leave them to starve?”

Bak exchanged a weary look with Imsiba. The question was fair, but it stretched his patience. Ahmose had gone out of his way to draw them to the island, yet here he was, bargaining as he would for fodder. “Soldiers will be coming tomorrow to tend to Kefia’s farm. I’ll see that they also look after you and yours.”

Ahmose gnawed a mouthful of meat from the leg of the goose and chewed, no doubt waiting for word of this servant he needed. When Bak failed to speak, failed to bend further, he heaved a long, resigned sigh. “I’ve watched the headless man fetch the ox from Kefia’s farm and lead the animal away in the dead of night. Sometimes he meets a ship-the Kushite’s vessel-and he loads a wooden box heavy with contraband onto a sledge, which the ox pulls away. At times his burden is so great he also loads Kefia’s donkeys. They form a caravan and all go off together.”

“And at other times?” Bak demanded.

“Hmmmm!” Imsiba, peeking into the food basket, withdrew a leaf-wrapped package and a small jar. “Sweet cakes and honey.”

Ahmose’s eyes lit up and he looked at the package with longing. Sweet cakes, it appeared, were his weakness, maybe a treat the old woman could no longer prepare. “He goes away with the ox and brings back a laden sledge. All it carries is loaded on board Captain Roy’s trading ship.”

“Where does he go, old man, when he leads the ox away?

Into the desert?”

“He walks west, yes, but I know not how far.” Ahmose, watching Imsiba spread the leaves wide, revealing the rich brown, crusty cakes, licked his lips unconsciously. “I long ago learned the value of caution.”

Bak understood. An old, no longer strong man would not wish to draw attention to himself by leaving tracks in the sand that the headless man would be sure to follow. “After his night of labor is ended, he returns the ox and donkeys to Kefia’s farm. Where does he go after that?”

Ahmose hesitated. If the look on his face told true, he was well aware of the value of the information he had thus far given away and was reluctant to part with the rest until he knew for a fact he would be rewarded. As Imsiba trickled honey onto a cake, the old man stared at the rich golden stream, his face registering desire, indecision.

He tore his eyes from the sweet with obvious effort. “I’ve heard you’re a fair man, Lieutenant, one who gives with a generous heart. How can you take from me, giving nothing in return, when you reward in a grand fashion others who’ve helped you less than I?”

Has word traveled so far of the objects I left with Pahuro?

Bak wondered. “Don’t believe all you hear, old man. Tales have a tendency to swell in direct proportion to the wishes of the one who listens.”

Ahmose’s face fell, reflecting the resignation of a man 212 / Lauren Haney convinced he must settle for a sweet cake in place of the servant he requested.

Touching his arm, Bak gave him a reassuring smile. “You’ll get your reward, never fear. Not one servant but two: a young man who’ll ease your burden, and a wife who’ll keep him happy in this lonely place.”

Ahmose stared open-mouthed. Then he lowered his head, hiding his face, and when he spoke his voice was husky with tears of joy. “The headless man goes upriver. A half-hour’s walk above Kefia’s farm is a backwater, and there among the reeds he hides a small skiff. He climbs aboard, poles the vessel into the current, and lets the river carry him downstream through the darkness.”

“You should not have promised so much.” Imsiba stood ankle-deep in coarse wind-blown sand, looking back across the cove and the channel of fast and turbulent water toward the island they had just left. “Commandant Thuty will not be pleased.”

“What would you have me do?” Bak demanded. “Give the old man nothing?”

“Where will you get these servants you promised? With Thuty already complaining that you seek to usurp his powers, he’ll not command the chief steward to search them out and hand them over.”