Jamie Buxton - Sun Thief

‘Then hurry! And don’t go taking any short cuts through you know where .’

‘But . . .’

‘GO!’

Imi, Imi, Imi. My little sister. My parents’ daughter, their real child, as they never stop reminding me. I’m big enough to admit that Imi’s great, even if she is my kid sister. But sometimes, sometimes , I think that if she wasn’t so perfect, I might seem a little less bad.

I scrape the mud off my potter’s wheel, prop it against the wall and leave.

The aunt doesn’t live far away, just the other side of the pyramids, but between our home and hers is you know where – a place that scares the loincloth off me.

It’s like a town, this place. It has streets. It has squares. It has houses, and the rich stay in the big ones and the poor stay in the small ones. But there’s one VERY BIG difference between this town and the one I live in: everyone in it is dead.

I know, I know. Dying is not really dying. This life is a preparation for the next one which is far, far better and you go there surrounded by all your favourite possessions and pets and food and drink and blah blah blah . . .

But here’s the catch. To keep your spirit alive, your relatives have to say your name and bring food to your tomb, and just to check, your spirit flies back from the underworld like a bird every evening. The houses of the dead sometimes even have a little perch above the front door for the soul to rest on.

But what happens to souls that have been forgotten, whose relatives don’t turn up with biscuits and milk? I’ll tell you. They become wandering ghouls. Not just hungry ghosts but hungry, angry ghosts.

Now, because I actually have eyes in my head and a tiny little bit of reasoning power, I know for A FACT that grieving relatives have pretty much given up visiting these houses of the dead. Result? An AWFUL LOT of whispering ghouls and MORE and MORE every day.

Here I am, walking past the wall that surrounds the City of the Dead. Now I’m passing its main gate and I look in – and wish I hadn’t. The houses of the dead are spilling darkness. It fills the streets and alleyways and in the darkness are the ghouls.

My friends, it’s a good place to avoid.

The aunt is rich. She has a two-roomed house with a bread oven out the back and a slave who does just about everything for her. My little sister Imi goes there to learn manners, weaving, hair-braiding – all a girl needs to hook a good husband.

When I get to the house, Imi’s hair is neatly braided and she’s showing off a new tunic and a brightly coloured belt. She jumps up when she sees me and throws her arms around me. I give her a little ram I made earlier and she runs into the house to say goodbye and thank you to her aunt.

Who comes out into the street in order to be rude to me.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ she says.

‘Of course it’s him,’ Imi says. ‘Who else would it be?’ She doesn’t say it sarcastically. She doesn’t understand sarcasm.

‘Never you mind. He’s late.’

I open my mouth to protest, but decide it’s not worth it.

‘Look, he brought me a sheep!’ Imi holds up the little ram. The aunt snatches it and holds it out at arm’s length, squinting the way old people do.

‘Blasphemy,’ she says. ‘I should grind it to dust. The Aten is the one true god and the blessed one has eaten all the old gods.’

‘So if he’s eaten them, how could this be a god?’ I ask innocently. ‘It’s just an animal.’

The aunt looks at me suspiciously, but hands the clay model back to Imi.

‘Right, Imi, time to head off,’ I say.

Please note, the aunt has not asked me if I want a drink of cool, refreshing water or a place to rest before setting out on the long journey home.

‘You’ll have to hurry if you want to get back before dark,’ is all she says.

‘Yes, Aunt.’

She hates it when I call her aunt. Auntauntauntauntaunt.

‘And don’t just stand there gawping.’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘Off you go then.’

‘Yes, Auntie.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Auntie, Aunt.’ I get the scowl I was waiting for and off we go. Imi is skipping along and holding a bunch of weeds that she manages to make look like a posy of flowers. I’m walking quickly because I don’t want to be seen running after my little sister, but don’t want her to get too far ahead either. And everything’s fine until we get to the City of the Dead. Then Imi stops right at the gate and looks through it.

‘Come on,’ I say, walking past very deliberately. ‘It’s getting late.’

It’s true. The sun’s already disappearing behind the pyramids and bats are fluttering between the houses of the dead, black scraps patted by an invisible wind.

‘Let’s go that way.’ Imi points down the street that leads straight into the heart of the shadowy city. ‘It’s much faster. You go down there and turn left and then there’s a hole in the wall and you’re home.’

‘It may be quicker, but it’s too dangerous,’ I say. ‘We’ll get lost and then we won’t get home at all. And you know you’re not allowed.’

‘It’s not dark yet,’ Imi says, holding the ram up so he’s pointing in the direction she wants to go.

‘It will be soon.’

‘Are you scared?’ she asks.

She’s not teasing me, I know, but it still niggles. ‘NO!’ I snap.

‘Silly. Come on!’

‘I’m not . . . no, IMI! COME BACK!’

Because she’s running through the gate and straight into the City of the Dead.

I make a sound that’s a cross between a shout and a whisper. Make too much noise and the ghouls will hear.

She disappears between two buildings. I can hear the pat-pat-pat of her feet. Fine dust hanging in the air is the only sign of her.

‘ IMI! ’

I take a step, then another down the long straight street and try to look straight ahead. My footsteps paff-paff through the dust, beating out the words: angry, hungry ghouls; angry, hungry ghouls . Outside the houses are the dried-up remains of meals left for the dead: empty bowls, sheaves of grain, the odd goose bone . . . Some of the doors have crumbled or been kicked in and even though I don’t want to look, I can see long pale shapes in the darkness.

Mummies.

My heart starts whacking away inside me like it wants to escape and my stomach’s chasing it up my throat. I reach the place where Imi turned off the main street. It’s an alley between buildings so narrow I have to turn sideways to fit. Another lane crosses it in a T.

Left or right? I think I hear the patter of Imi’s sandals and follow the sound, but the alley jinks around a corner and stops dead at a sagging wall. I want to howl with despair.

‘ IMI . This isn’t a joke!’ I do the shouty whisper again and look up. The sky’s darker now and I can see stars behind the pyramids rising above the rooftops. I jump as something flaps off into the air. Too big for a bat. An owl. It must be an owl.

Imi, I hate you!

I backtrack and take the first turning in the direction of home. It’s another alleyway, very dark and narrow, but the gloom seems to lessen in the distance. Perhaps I’m nearly on the other side. But when I get there I stop dead. I could not be more wrong. Instead of heading out of the City of the Dead, I’ve been going right into the middle of it.

I’m looking down a wide, straight street lined with the grandest buildings I have ever seen. They’re built of stone with pillars and porches. The walls inside the porches are painted. I can just make out a man fishing, a woman being waited on by dancing girls. The relatives of the rich dead folk didn’t just leave meals, they left feasts: piles of grain, pitchers of beer, jars of wine – all dry, all dust, all pecked by birds and gnawed by dogs. Under the blown sand, I feel smooth flagstones beneath my feet.