Lauren Haney: Face Turned Backward

“Someone had to stay behind.” Bak glanced back at the sturdy black donkey trudging through the sand behind him, its back laden with the tools, weapons, food, and water they had taken from their skiff. “Should Wensu and Userhet be leading us on a merry chase, thinking to swing back around to the cove, we could lose them both and the ship, too.”

“Too bad we couldn’t move it to the island.” Mery spoke deep within his throat, trying to sound as manly as they.

“Who among us knows how to sail a ship that size?” Bak shuddered. “I can see us even now, standing helpless on the deck while the rapids lure the vessel to its death-and us to certain destruction, our bodies lost forever, our kas given no sustenance through eternity.”

Imsiba rubbed his arms, chilled by the thought. “It should be safe where it is. With Ahmose keeping watch from his island, Psuro will have ample warning of intruders.”

“And it can’t go far with no rudder,” Mery added, giving Bak an admiring glance. “How did you think of that, sir?”

Bak preferred not to dwell on the source of his idea, a memory from the recent past: his rudderless skiff drawn into the most dangerous stretch of rapids in the Belly of Stones and his life or death swim through the maelstrom. The landing on the mound of boulders, with the raging waters so near, had brought forth memories he had hoped forever to forget.

He nodded toward the ridge along which they walked.

“You mustn’t allow your attention to falter, Mery. Wensu could be meeting Userhet anywhere, but I’d bet my newest pair of sandals we’ll find them at the tomb we seek.”

A hint of pink touched the boy’s cheeks. “You can rest assured, sir, if there’s an old tomb, I’ll find it.”

“We’d not have brought you if we didn’t believe you would.”

Appeased, the boy grew expansive. “Some of the local people, those whose families have lived near Buhen for many generations, tell tales of powerful lords who ruled this land for southern masters, but kept the customs of the land of Kemet. If that’s the case, the tomb we seek might well be deep within a ridge like this. But if the tomb is that of a man who followed the customs of the south, his house of eternity would be a pit dug in open land, covered by a vast mound of rocks and sand.”

“Intef was slain near this ridge, and the bracelets I found hidden on his donkey were those of a man of Kemet.”

Mery gave him a quick look. “He was slain nearby?”

“At least a half hour’s walk to the north,” Bak said, shaking his head, “and on the back side of the ridge, where the sand blown in from the western desert has covered much of the formation’s face.”

Imsiba nodded agreement. “Too far away, I’d think, for Userhet to drag a laden sledge.”

Bak looked back the way they had come and tried to imagine a man leading an ox through the night, after the moon and stars had turned the sands from molten gold to silver gray. They had not come far, but the familiar landmarks had already fallen away. The cove had disappeared beyond a swelling of the desert floor, and he could not distinguish the spine of rock from other, similar formations. At the foot of the long, gradual slope to the river, he could see the swollen waters flowing among dark and rugged, mostly barren islands, all much alike in the distance.

The undulating landscape, a desolate world of yellow sand, increased his feeling of unease. Like the few dry watercourses that had long ago been filled to the brim, the higher formations were slowly being consumed by the constantly moving, greedy sea of granules.

The footprints drew them on. Mery stopped now and again to examine a wall smoother than nature usually offered, or to climb onto a ledge that could hide a tomb entrance, or to explore a crevice in the eroded wall of rock. One ledge, he insisted, had been carved by man, but the rock face at the back had fallen, cluttering the ledge with close-packed boulders that would surely have sealed any cavity that might have existed. Bak, very much aware of the passage of time, refused to tarry.

While Mery chattered about the possibilities the ledge might offer, they climbed a low rise. Near the top, Bak dug the goatskin waterbag from among the food stowed on the donkey and passed it around. Imsiba, the last to drink, returned the bag to its proper place, while Mery poked around in a basket in search of grapes. Walking on ahead, Bak eyed the trail of footprints in the distance-a trail that abruptly vanished. He stood quite still, searching for an explanation.

240 / Lauren Haney

A fissure cut the rock face at the point where the tracks ended.

A fault in the rock. Soft or crumbled stone, most likely, providing an easy place in which to cut a tomb.

“There,” he said, pointing.

Mery ran up beside him, laughed. “We’ve found it!”

Imsiba slapped the donkey on the flank and followed the creature up the rise. He took in the scene with a glance, studied the empty landscape, frowned. “We’d best take care, my friend.”

Without a word, they drew shields and spears from the donkey’s load and made sure their smaller weapons were close at hand. Bak patted his dagger, seeking reassurance.

Imsiba hung a mace from a segment of belt adjoining his dagger. Mery drew a rock he liked from the heavy leather bag tied to his belt and loaded the sling. They strode on, studying the ridge and the rolling sandscape, searching for a sign of life, finding none. The footprints led them to the fissure, which formed a good-sized entryway, crossed a thick layer of sand on the floor, and disappeared in a chamber at the rear.

They eyed the tracks that vanished in the dark, tempting them to follow. Chisel marks dimpled the walls where the natural crack in the stone had been widened and smoothed.

The open doorway at the back, carved and painted in the ancient style but too faded to see well, revealed nothing in the blackness beyond. A large boulder lay across the space overhead, forming a roof of sorts, shading much of the entryway. Wensu-or someone-had to be inside. Why, then, was the tomb so silent?

“A single set of footprints, probably Wensu’s, and no trace of Userhet.” Bak scowled at the dark portal, troubled by the scarcity of revealing signs. “I think it best, Imsiba, that you stay outside. I’d not like to be trapped in there with no one the wiser.”

“Nor would I.” Imsiba looked as concerned as Bak.

Mery hurried to the donkey and dug out a torch, the drill used to start fires, and kindling. Kneeling, he rapidly rotated the stick to get a spark. Bak shifted the tools from the animal’s back to the entryway, while Imsiba climbed the ridge in search of footprints or any other sign that another man was lurking nearby.

The dried grass and twigs soon flared and Mery held the torch to the flame.

“Have you found anything?” Bak called.

Imsiba, towering above him atop the ridge, shook his head. “The track of a jackal, that’s all.”

Not entirely satisfied, but unable to think of any further precautions they could take, Bak took the torch from the boy and led the way into the tomb, his body taut, his senses alert, his spear poised to fend off attack. Beyond the entryway, they found themselves in a room twice as wide as it was deep, the walls blackened by campfires of wandering tribesmen, the ancient drawings indistinct. Two square columns that had once supported the ceiling lay broken on the floor.

The room was empty, the silence so dense Bak could feel it.

Drawn to a doorway at the back, Bak plunged into a second chamber, which was as wide as the first and twice as deep. This, too, was empty.

“Where’s Wensu?” Mery whispered, his eyes wide, scared.

“I don’t know.” Tamping down his own unease, Bak raised the torch high, casting the light over walls, columns, floor, ceiling.