AT ANCIENT THEBES
A Short Story
by
Randall McMullan
www.pianobeach.com
Copyright 2014 Randall McMullan
She stopped walking, so as to enjoy the view. The ancient valley lay silent beneath the great sun. The stony barrenness below her yielded suddenly to fields which stretched, green and golden, to the Nile. On the far side of the river the buildings of Luxor rocked gently in the haze. Beyond the cluttered town the precarious strip of vegetation dissolved into white cliffs, where the desert resumed.
But she needed to watch her feet rather than the view. The slopes of the hill had become a slippery screed of loose stones where it was as difficult to return as it was to go forward. The ruins of the small temple that she sought were no longer in sight; so much for her short cut.
At least she seemed to be alone, and that was an achievement. In this country someone could materialise, as if from nowhere, even in the remotest of places. This morning she had pleaded stomach trouble in order to stay alone at the Rest House while the remainder of the group went to the excavation site. She had needed a rest from them all.
This solitary walk towards The Valley of The Tombs of The Queens had been an impulse, a celebration of escape. But unless she soon turned back she would suffer the consequences of not having brought water. Already her mouth was dry and the heat of the sun pulsed against her skin.
Again she rested and looked out across the patchwork of the fields. Dots of colour marked the places where men, women and children crouched over the crops. Their methods of sowing the seeds, spreading the water, reaping the harvests had hardly changed in thousands of years. It was quite possible that ancestors of these families had farmed the same ground under the rule of the Pharaohs.
The great age of this country was a continual stimulus. Her original interest in archaeology had come from romantic notions of getting closer to the people of the past. Of bridging time by treading the same ground, by touching the same stones as those people. In the Canadian Plains of her childhood a building was considered ancient if it had been built last century, and such antiquity was not usually considered at all desirable
The buildings of Europe provided her first journey into the past, but now, what a short path that seemed. Here at ancient Thebes she could stand in temples that had celebrated sacred rites three thou- sand years before those of the gothic cathedrals. Alexander the Great had been here, as a sightseer even then, and had added his graffiti to the stones.
Her study of the past increasingly absorbed her energies and emotions; her social life in the present was now minimal. Professionally, she always gave the most careful consideration to the finds that they made during excavations. But, when imagining the people who had once used these buildings and artefacts, she allowed her mind rather more freedom. Perhaps she herself was a reincarnation from the time of the Pharaohs. Perhaps she had once been a stately Queen. One who had died while in youthful beauty and had been buried in the royal tombs nearby.
It was easy for her to imagine the scenes. The temple thronged with mourners standing shoulder to shoulder between the massive columns. The glitter of the great displays of gold, the chanting of the priests, the smell of incense. The huge figures and scenes carved on the broad walls and completely surrounding the people, shutting them off from the world of their daily life, concentrating their sense of mystery and grief.
She blinked. Sweat was trickling into her eyes. The black ribbon of the road appeared to dance against the baked white limestone of the valley. She wiped her eyes and then, she slipped. The suddenness of the initial fall was heart-jolting, the rocks were so hard. The stones began to move beneath her, sliding and rolling her down the rugged hillside. There was a sensation of falling, of hot dusty air; and then there was nothing.
Consciousness returned to her, slowly at first. Then with an overwhelming rush of pain, heat, thirst, fear. So many feelings converged upon her brain that they could, mercifully, be experienced only in spasms, one after the other. A wetness dribbled down her face and the tastes of blood and of dust mingled in her mouth. With a tremendous effort she lifted her head a little and opened her eyes.
She lay crumpled in a hollow, completely surrounded by rocks. It was hard to believe that those limp and mangled legs could belong to her; dark blood oozed rhythmically over the protruding bones. She sank back onto the sharp pillow of rock and closed her eyes, but for a long time she could see the contrast of red against white.
Later in the day she was aware of a tourist bus on the nearby road and the sound brought her a brief but terrible moment of lucidity. Who would think of searching for her? No one would have any reason to believe that she hadn't gone to Cairo, as she had said in her note. There were no telephones and it would be days before she was missed. The countryside nearby was certainly full of people but she was hidden away from that strip of life. For once, it was unlikely that anyone would appear out of the blue.
The afternoon hours seemed to increase in length but she no longer noticed her pains, her fears. She was now dominated by the great presence of the sun which seemed to beat entry into her body. The sound of blood in her head pulsed in unison with the blazing light that filled her mind. When the shades of evening finally arrived, all rhythms came to an end. She gave a last shiver as the cold of the desert settled upon the stones.
The boat that carried the sun-god passed safely through the realm of night and brought the morning. Ra was again triumphant and the warmth of his rays revived the sacred land. The walls of the temples gleamed in his light. The great statues of Memnon hummed his praises. The lotus flower opened white petals to receive him.
The fingers of the sun-god reached into the hollow where the woman lay and gave life to her body. She felt refreshed and stood up. The pain was gone and never before had she been able to see so well. The great river made a stroke of blue upon the green valley. On the far edge of the water the golden temples of Thebes stood more majestic and vivid than ever before.
But in the fields below her the farmers tended their crops, just as she had last seen them. One cluster of people caught her eye, a procession of some sort. They were coming out of the fields and slowly moving towards the Valley of the Queens. She would go down to the road to meet them.
The valley now seemed a different place to the one she had been in the day before. The air was sweet and gave no hint of oven-like heat. Instead of unvarying glare the ground was streaked with shadows cast by the boulders and gullies. Today it was easy for her to descend the slopes and reach the bottom of the valley She stood and waited alongside the roadway; it was crudely formed of crushed stones and she didn't notice the absence of tarmac. The valley began to echo with an assortment of sounds as the procession rounded a corner; the shuffle of feet, the strike of hooves and the rumble of wheels on stones.
At the head of the procession the men and women were dressed in simple white tunics and walked with measured steps. As they passed her they ignored her. Rather, they seemed not to see her. Each person looked after some article. Trumpets, drums, various stringed instruments were carried first; then plates and bowls heaped with food. She could see breads, eggs, apples, grapes. Large bulbous jars for wine and beer were stacked in goat carts. A straggle of geese were driven loose alongside the carts while ducks and other live fowl were carried in woven cages. The cries and flurries of the animals added to the general clamour. Other bearers followed carrying inlaid chests, stools draped with lengths of fine cloth, bundles of lotus flowers and papyrus stalks.
White plumes and banners swayed in the a.ir above the nobles who walked behind. Their elaborately-braided hair flowed over the lustrous panels of gold that they wore. Many of the faces seemed familiar to her
but no one acknowledged her presence. The rumbling and creaking of wooden wheels was accompanied by mournful cries. Each voice swelling and falling but combining to produce a continual sound of grief.
The pace of the procession was being set by the oxen who were harnessed and driven to pull a colourful vehicle, a boat on wheels which carried a large wooden coffin. Bright scenes and hieroglyphs were painted on the sides, and the lid of the coffin formed a full-length effigy of a woman. The arms of the figure were crossed over the chest and rested upon a wide collar banded in many colours.
A great bird-like helmet encased the solemn face whose intense black eyes stared at the sky. The features were greatly stylised but, in spite of this, she recognised the face. It was her own. Attendants carrying tall plumes walked alongside the coffin and she moved closer in order to stop one of them. He didn't look at her or alter his grave pace. She reached for his arm but, even as she did so, she suddenly knew that she would feel nothing. It was her body that had no substance to it.
She stood motionless as the procession moved on. Perplexity was giving way to some sort of understanding. It was she who had wanted to bridge time. She had walked upon the same ground as those people of the past, she had touched the same stones, and now she had lain under the same sun. If there was to be rebirth then there was a long journey to be made.
Slowly she began to follow the procession up the valley, to the Tombs of The Queens. Towards those portals in the rocks.
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Thanks for reading this story. I welcome any feedback. www.pianobeach.com
This short story was inspired by several visits to Luxor (ancient Thebes) and by a story from friends who lived in Egypt.
I wrote the story for radio and the story was broadcast by Radio New Zealand in the early 1980s.It was read by Beryl Te Wiata – a well-known broadcaster and wife of the famous NZ Operatic Bass Inia Te Wiata.