Lauren Haney: Face Turned Backward

Anger surged through him. As Imsiba had said, Userhet had meant them to die.

The long, drawn-out bray drew Bak’s eyes to the top of the ridge. Imsiba stood with the donkey above the rock slide, letting it rhapsodize. Bak’s anger slid away in a smile. Not only had the Medjay rescued the creature, but he had loaded on its back their weapons, what little food remained, and no doubt the ancient jewelry and statue as well. The tools, he had left behind.

After sharing a celebratory jar of beer and rewarding the beast with water, they set off at a good pace. Two men, a boy, and a donkey, all coated with dust, streaked and mottled. Because the ridge offered a broader view of the landscape, Bak suggested they walk along the top. From there, they could keep an eye on the path they had followed to the tomb, now a multitude of intermingled impressions.

Should Userhet stray, they would be sure to see his trail when he left the trampled sand. A further inducement was the breeze, stiffer on the high ground, a gift from the gods after their sojourn in the tomb.

Beyond the low rise from which Bak had first spotted the entrance to the burial place, the ridge narrowed and its eastern face steepened. From above, it looked as if a giant bite had been taken out of the rock. A ledge spanned the cut, a flat shelf cluttered with boulders and lesser chunks of stone.

“That’s the ledge I thought we should explore.” Eyes dancing with enthusiasm, Mery leaned so far out Bak grabbed him by the belt so he could not fall. “See how smooth it is?

I bet there’s a tomb behind all those rocks.”

Bak eyed the ledge, noting scuffs in the sand he assumed Mery had left on their outbound trek. His glance dropped to the path below, and he stiffened. The many smudged footprints were suddenly overlaid by the twin impressions of runners, the mark of a sledge. The track ran south along the base of the ridge as far as he could see.

“A sledge has been lowered from above,” Imsiba said, voicing Bak’s thought. “Perhaps the boy is right.”

Scrambling to his feet, Bak grinned at Mery, “If you say ‘I told you so,’ I’ll send you back to keep Wensu company.”

Laughing, the boy plummeted down the steep, rocky slope to the ledge, so eager to find a tomb he risked a twisted ankle or worse. Bak hurried after him, leaving Imsiba to hobble the donkey. Scuffed sand and a smudged footprint led to the back of the ledge. There they found a lever leaning against a boulder and a gaping, rectangular portal.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Mery’s eyes glistened with excitement.

“I saw no opening when I climbed up here before-the boulder must’ve stood in front of it-but I knew there was a tomb. There had to be!”

Certain Userhet had gone long ago, Bak allowed the boy to enter first. Following close behind, he heard Mery’s disappointed grunt. The instant he crossed the threshold, he understood the reaction. The small amount of light falling through the door illuminated a shallow chamber with rough, undecorated walls and a doorway cut at center back that led nowhere. A tomb never completed.

Imsiba peered into the empty room, casting an elongated shadow across the floor. “A second hiding place? Could this be where Userhet stored his share of the contraband?”

“More likely, he was holding out on his partners,” Bak said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Wensu, suspecting deceit, followed him into the desert in search of enlightenment.”

“And Userhet slew him rather than share?”

Bak shrugged. “What better reason to slay a long-time ally?”

Buzzing flies drew his eyes to a pile of leaves crumpled in a corner. He picked them up, spread them out, sniffed. They were slick with oil and reeked of fish. From the small number of ants he found, he concluded the bundle had not long been emptied of its contents. Flashing a sudden smile, he handed the leaves to Imsiba. “Maybe we’re not as far behind Userhet as we thought.”

While Imsiba unhobbled the donkey, Bak studied the landscape to the south, searching for a sign of life among the lengthening shadows that heralded the approach of nightfall. In the distance, heat waves rose from the tawny sands, merging land and sky in a wavering, shimmering world more fanciful than real. A broad swath glistening like water teased the imagination. A figure the shape of a man came and went, a small indistinct image moving through the shiny pinkish, yellowish haze. He reappeared, his head dis-jointed from his body.

“The headless man,” Bak murmured, barely above a whisper.

Imsiba’s head snapped around. “Userhet? You see him?”

“I’m not sure. I…” Bak stared at the distant haze, willing the figure to again show itself in the sparkling, gauzelike vapor. As if on cue, the image reappeared, this time with no legs or feet. “In the haze! Can you see?”

“There!” Mery yelled, pointing roughly in the right direction, his finger bobbing up and down with excitement.

“I don’t…” Imsiba laughed. “It’s him! It has to be him!

Who else can it be?”

Mery ran to the laden donkey. “Where’s my sling?”

“Wait!” Bak caught the boy by the nape of the neck, stilling him. He had risked the child’s life once during the day; he had no intention of doing so again. “Darkness will soon be upon us and we’ve no time to lose. You must ride to the cove and…”

The boy’s smile crumpled. “No! Don’t send me away now!”

“Psuro must be warned,” Bak insisted. “Tell him to borrow skiffs from the local people and spread men across the river from the cove to the far bank. Should Userhet sail downstream, they must snare him.” He paused, waiting for a response.

The corners of Mery’s mouth turned down in a pout.

“Can you see the donkey making speed with my weight or Imsiba’s on his back?” Bak asked.

The boy gave a slow, reluctant shake of the head. “No, sir.”

Imsiba retrieved the weapons from the creature’s back and Mery climbed up in their place, settling himself among the nearly empty baskets. His eyes looked close to overflowing.

Bak squeezed the boy’s knee and backed off. “Go with haste, little brother. Userhet has defied the lady Maat, making light of right and order. He must not be allowed to get away.”

The importance of the task stiffened Mery’s spine, the term of affection drew forth a faint smile. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He jerked the rope halter, pulling the donkey’s head around, and kicked it in the ribs. It plunged down the ridge and trotted toward the river, boy and baskets bouncing to the animal’s gait.

Bak armed himself with spear and shield, while Imsiba shouldered the quiver and carried the bow. With their quarry in sight at last, they hurried south along the base of the ridge, following the dual channels left by the sledge. They lost much of the breeze, but were less likely to be spotted by the man ahead. For the first time in many hours, they dared hope for success.

When they reached the trail of smudged footprints joining the ridge to the cove, the twin depressions left the well-beaten path and continued south, straddling the prints of a single man. Userhet was heading for his skiff, not Wensu’s ship.

How far away had Ahmose said the backwater was? A half-hour’s walk?

“His sledge isn’t large,” Imsiba said, “but the furrows it leaves are deep. Whatever his load, it’s holding him back.”

“I pray it includes an elephant tusk.”

“As do I.” The Medjay’s face, his voice were grim. “I’d not like to spend the rest of my days, searching every wretched ship and caravan passing through Buhen and Kor.”

“If Wensu hid the tusk on Mahu’s ship, and I’m convinced he did, Userhet told him to do so.” Bak blew a drop of sweat off the tip of his nose. “He’ll confess. He must.”