Paul Doherty - An Evil Spirit Out of the West

The day was already bright with the glowing rays of the rising sun. Steps were brought to the tail of the cart and the veil lifted. A figure emerged, head and face hidden by a linen mask. A roll of similar material hung over a long, unnaturally thin body, the legs and arms strangely elongated. Whoever it was wore no ornamentation except for a red arm guard embossed with silver studs. I glimpsed sagging breasts and a protruding stomach. As the figure clambered down, his legs and arms, as well as the fingers of the thin hands appeared almost spidery. He wore no sandals, exposing long slim feet, with toes like that of a monkey. So this was the Veiled One?

The figure turned its back on me and went to squat cross-legged on blood-red cushions the guard had already laid out, two pots of burning incense placed either side of him. He sat, head down, towards the rising sun. A low, melodious voice began to chant a hymn which would one day ring through Egypt and shatter its gods.

I crouched transfixed. The rest of the retinue were now squatting in a semi-circle behind this figure; his appearance might be strange but the voice was strong, rich. I had heard hymns and poetry chanted before, but not with the passion which suffused these lines. Was he a worshipper of the Aten, the Sun Disc, a cult gaining popularity amongst the wealthy nobles of Thebes?

The face veil was now pushed back. Leaving my position, I stole quietly through the trees to outflank the guards and obtain a better view. I settled beneath a holm oak. The figure seated on the cushions lifted his head; revealing a face with elongated chin, narrow eyes, and a sharp nose above thick full red lips, his high cheekbones emphasising the narrowness of the eyes. And yet, although the face was strange, it possessed a singular beauty. Again the head went down and the hymn was resumed.

The hymn was taken up by the escort, a low, melodious chant followed by silence. The young man had something in his lap, a blue water lotus. I moved closer. The Veiled One turned to his left, beckoning to the Captain of his escort who hurried forward. A few whispers and the Veiled One returned to his meditations. The sun was now rising fast, bathing the glade with shifting light. I was about to withdraw when I felt a sharp point digging into my neck. I whirled round. A Kushite, one eye missing, stood holding his spear, its point only inches from my face. On either side of him were two archers, arrows to their bows, the cords pulled back tight and taut. They gazed impassively down at me. I couldn’t speak. I was frightened both of them and of breaking the silence.

The Kushite leaned down, grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. I was dressed only in a loincloth, a linen shawl across my shoulders. He pulled this away, whispering to his companions in a tongue I couldn’t understand. My loincloth was felt.

‘I have no weapons,’ I stammered.

‘Bring him with you.’

The Veiled One was already moving back to the carts. He took his seat, the steps were removed, the cushions and incense pots placed back and that strange procession returned to the Silent Pavilion. I had no choice but to follow. One of the Kushites had tied a rope around my neck. He didn’t treat me cruelly, but held it lightly as one would walking a pet dog or monkey. The black gates opened and I entered a square, brick courtyard cut by the canal; a small fountain splashed in the middle. There was no garden plot but an abundance of flower baskets, full of fresh cuttings, their fragrance already filling the air and attracting the hunting bees. The front of the house was like any wealthy nobleman’s, porticoed and columned with Lebanese cedar, brilliantly emblazoned with different insignia and approached by well-cut steps. The cart stopped in front of these. The Veiled One got down and, escorted by his strange retinue, swept into the house. He moved more freely now, not so ungainly but with a natural grace and dignity as if, aware of his disabilities, he was determined to emphasise these rather than hide them. My guard stared down at me.

‘Shall we crucify you now?’ His voice was guttural.

Despite his grotesque wounds and the fierce glare of his one eye, the harsh mouth was smiling.

‘What shall we do with you, Monkey-Boy?’

I hid my fear and glared back.

‘Monkeys,’ he leaned down, ‘can stay in trees.’

‘A monkey can look at a king!’ I retorted.

The Kushite laughed and cuffed me gently on the ear. He undid the rope and pushed me towards the steps. The inside of the house was cool, its walls limewashed a faint green, no paintings except for the richly ornamented borders at top and bottom. Servants clustered there: men and women, about four or five in all. They, too, were disfigured. In Thebes they would have been dismissed as Rhinoceri, men and women who had lost their noses and ears as a penalty for some crime. Usually they would be banished to a dusty village or commune or even exiled to an oasis, some rocky culvert in the Red Lands. These, however, looked well fed and clothed and were welcoming enough. My shawl and loincloth were removed. A servant brought a jug of water. My body was carefully washed and anointed, lips and hands lightly coated with stoups of salted water. I was being purified as a priest would be before entering the Inner Sanctuary of a temple. A fresh loincloth was bound around me, a linen robe, cool and crisp, draped over my shoulders, and strange long sandals fastened to my feet. I was then taken into the inner hall — a beautiful elegant room, its roof supported by four pillars painted green and red. Here the walls were finely decorated but, as I waited in the shadows just beyond the doorway, I realised the paintings were like nothing I had seen in the Temple of Anubis. There was no formal stylisation; here the raging lion was lifelike as if ready to leap from the wall. The birds in their brilliant plumage were about to fly. Everywhere were symbols of the Sun Disc, either in full glory or just rising above a dark-blue horizon. Sometimes they were winged, sometimes not. A fireplace stood in the centre of the room; at the far end was a daïs protected by a grey curtain. Someone propelled me forward, the curtain was dragged back. The Veiled One sat on cushions with his back to the wall, a small table in front of him. I was pushed to my knees and nosed the ground before the daïs.

‘There is no need for that. There is no need for that.’

The words came slowly, the voice low. ‘Let my guest join me.’

I went up the steps. The Veiled One lifted his head, revealing his strange elongated eyes, yet their stare was entrancing, and it distracted my fears. I was no longer aware of the spidery fingers, the long hands on the breast or stomach bulging against the embroidered linen robe. Just those eyes, full of passion as if the Veiled One was going to chant one of those hymns as he had in the glade. His sensuous lips were parted: his tongue sticking out slightly as he studied me closely, like a judge weighing what I was worth, trying to discover in one glance who I really was. He smiled, slightly lopsidedly, a graceful movement of those long fingers gesturing at the cushions on the other side of the table.

‘You’d best sit down, hadn’t you?’

The cushions were thick and soft. The table was of beautiful acacia inlaid with ebony and silver whilst the pots and jars were of the finest quality, containing small chunks of crisp duck, sauces, herbs, and bread cut into thin strips. The cups held wine not beer. When I tasted it I coughed and drew back. The Veiled One laughed softly.