Stephen Lawhead - The Bone House

“Copt?” wondered Kit.

“We are Copts, yes,” Khefri explained. “Christians.”

“Ah.” Kit nodded. “Please thank your father for allowing me into his home. I am honoured.”

This was done under Ramesses’ benevolent smile. He spoke to his son, who translated, “May the peace of God be with you while you sojourn in our land.”

“Shukran,” replied Kit.

The village patriarch beckoned his son and guest to follow him up to the rooftop, where Kit was given a prime place in the little pavilion-a simple structure of cloth and boards on three sides and covered with palm fronds to keep off the sun. Rugs had been spread and cushions arranged for reclining.

While the elder man busied himself with lighting a small charcoal fire in a brass bowl, Kit leaned back and watched the stars come out. In a little while, when the coals in the bowl were glowing, one of the daughters brought out a hookah or, as Kit knew it, a hubble-bubble pipe, and a small packet of some unidentified substance that would be smoked. The father prepared the pipe and, giving it a few draughts to get it going, passed the hose and nozzle to Kit, indicating that he should have a puff.

Not wishing to offend his host, Kit took an exploratory draw on the tube and was rewarded with a mouthful of cool, curiously menthol-flavoured smoke, on which he promptly choked-to the roaring delight of his host. “Thanks,” gasped Kit. “That was… nice.”

Khefri took a draught and passed the hose back to his father, who then proceeded to puff away happily while plying his guest with questions as interpreted by his son. How was the health of the king? Did Kit think the king would come to Egypt? How many horses did Kit own? Did he live in a castle? Was it true that it rained in England every day? Had he ever met the king?

To these and many more, Kit gave simple, good-natured answers, albeit some of his replies were decidedly vague since he was not certain which king was on the throne. Nevertheless, his forthright responses seemed to satisfy his inquisitive host, who smoked away like a happy sultan. All the same, Kit was grateful when the meal arrived in big brass bowls-a spicy stew of mutton and aubergines with lentils, apricots, and pine nuts. This was served alongside fine, yellow couscous and eaten with the fingers. The men dipped into a communal dish, while the women and girls flitted around filling drinking cups with the local beer-a watery, sour brew that went down astonishingly well. They continually replaced the torn bread with new warm loaves.

When the men finished, the women made their meal of the remains. Kit was yawning and thinking seriously about bunching up a few cushions and closing his eyes when the entertainment for the evening arrived: four men, two with drums, one with a lute-like instrument, and one with a rattle. The musicians had been engaged solely for Kit’s benefit-an honour befitting the guest of the head man of the village-and there proceeded a lively, thumping ruckus that drove all thoughts of sleep from Kit’s weary head. A few of the neighbours showed up to lend a hand, and dancing broke out. Much to Kit’s chagrin, he was pulled into the festivities and forced to stomp about with the men while the women clapped in time to the music and laughed.

It was late-much later than he wished-when the musicians finally laid aside their instruments. They were all treated to jars of beer and then, paying their respects to their host, departed. Ramesses rose and with the pomp of a proper pharaoh wished his guest a good night.

Kit thanked him for a wonderful evening. “I don’t know when I have had a more enjoyable time,” he said, meaning every word.

“Sala’am,” said Ramesses as he disappeared down the steps, still humming a tune the musicians had played.

“You will sleep here tonight,” Khefri told him. “There is a cloth if you get cold.”

“I am sure I will be just fine.”

“I will come for you in the morning. We will leave at sunrise.”

“I’ll be ready,” declared Kit. “Good night-and, Khefri, thanks. Thanks for everything. It was just what I needed.”

“Pleasure,” replied the young Egyptian. “Good night.”

Khefri slipped away quietly, and Kit dragged some of the cushions together and shook out the blanket. In the space of one day-was it really only a single day?-he had been imprisoned and in fear for his life, then hot and thirsty and alone in the desert. Now here he was, full of good food and song and the unstinting hospitality of people that before this night he had never imagined might exist.

Just as he stretched himself out and pulled the blanket over him, the dog-and-donkey chorus began-each setting the others off until the entire Nile valley reverberated with the barking and baying cacophony.

Since sleep seemed to be the last activity any creature was allowed to pursue in this place, Kit lay on his back and stared up at a sky ablaze with far more stars than he had ever seen in any one sky. The Milky Way, never so much as glimpsed in his London, and most often seen elsewhere as a thin dusting of stars, was in the arid atmosphere of Egypt a bright band of luminous cloud. He watched in wonder as the dazzling show slowly wheeled across the gleaming dome of the sky, spinning majestically around the fixed bright point of the Nail of Heaven. And although the moon was late rising, the fulgent starlight radiating from the cloudless heavens cast hard shadows on the earthly landscape below.

How very bright this empire of stars, he mused. Which poet had said that?

The illimitable star field stretched away in every possible direction, everywhere alive with constellations he had never seen before with names he did not know. Here and there he picked out familiar conjunctions of stars, but the glowing firmament was largely unknown to him, easily outstripping the smattering of astronomy he had learned as an eleven-year-old member of his middle school’s Stargazer Club. He had attended all of three meetings before glomming onto the most basic fact that the pursuit of this hobby took place mostly at night in the cold when winter skies were brightest. He remembered but little of the various stellar arrangements. Mostly, he recalled hopping from one foot to the other and blowing on his hands in a futile effort to keep warm while awaiting his too-brief glimpse through Mr. Henderson’s six-inch telescope.

In this-as in everything else of late-he wished he had paid more attention to his studies.

Still, he considered, it was not too late to learn. And he would learn. He would find someone to teach him. Failing that, he would find some way to teach himself. Because, in all likelihood, his life depended on it. If even a portion of what Cosimo and Sir Henry believed was true about whatever it was that lay beyond those glittering stars, the future of the world might just depend on it.

His last thought, as sleep overtook him, was that it was true what Cosimo had said: the universe was far stranger than anyone imagined, or could imagine.

Though she felt obliged to protest at being carried in a chair like the Empress of China, Xian-Li actually enjoyed the attention being lavished on her by the bearers and their overseer. After weeks aboard a fetid ship, lurching about on uncertain seas, the slow swaying of the chair was a pleasant change. Arthur had explained that the ruler of this land on the Italian peninsula had once been a good friend to him in younger days. “But that was many years ago,” he said. “Things can change. Just to be safe, I will go ashore and assess the situation. If all is well, I will return for you.”

Thus the arrival of the chair, though unexpected, was a sign that the situation at court was as good or better than Arthur’s hope. She lay back on feather-stuffed pillows, surveying a land whose gentle hills above a silver sweep of sea made her feel as if she were coming home. As the bearers made the climb up from the harbour and into the town, she felt a sense of peace and calm overtaking her: a sensation of warmth and relaxation she had not known for many weeks now. After the initial jump, Arthur had insisted that further ley travel was simply too dangerous in her delicate condition; Xian-Li had her doubts. Another leap or two seemed far preferable to the voyage she had begun to think would never end.