What if the court magician's of Pharaoh's retinue got in over their heads? When you mess with life and death...it never turns out well.
 |
| A graphic novel is coming...stay tuned! |
“My Lord, the Hebrews have
gone,” Haran-ka prostrated himself at Pharaoh’s back.
Pharaoh said nothing; He stood
before the enormous statues of Isis and Osiris. The gleaming white marble
reflected the blazing Egyptian sun onto the tiny figure nestled atop the joined
arms of the silent gods.
The Pharaoh’s son was dead.
The screams of last night’s horrors still echoed in the ears of all those who
had survived. Haran-ka felt his own eyes well with bitter tears. Only…he did
not weep for the son of Pharaoh. Instead, his tears were for his oldest
brother, Isto-Ra, who, at this very moment, lay on the death altar in his
parents’ home.
Throughout the land families mourned.
The death of the firstborn had come in the night just as The Hebrew promised.
These past weeks had been one nightmare after another. The heads of all the
royal magicians still adorned the staffs that had once been symbols of their
office.
Well…all heads but one.
“Ready the men. Prepare my
forces. We march within the hour. I will see this Moses on the end of my spear.”
Pharaoh rose slowly, head still bowed over the lifeless body of his son. “And
tell Neraphatte to come at once. He will be given the same chance his nine
brethren were given.” The venom of anger displaced the sorrow in his voice.
Haran-ka could feel the Pharaoh’s
eyes bore into the back of
his head as he left the chamber.
***
Neraphatte gripped his staff
so that his knees would not buckle. Why could he not have been called to rid
the waters of blood or banish the frogs?
“You will undo what Moses has
done or your head shall join the others and your body shall be cast into the
endless sands for the scorpions and serpents.” Pharaoh stood in his full battle
dress, his spear leveled at Neraphatte’s chest.
“By Isis and Osiris, I shall do as my Pharaoh
demands.” Neraphatte’s eyes dared not drift up from the point on the floor he
fixed them to the moment Pharaoh entered the chamber.
“When I
return, my son shall greet me…” Pharaoh gripped Neraphatte’s chin, tilting his
head up. He locked eyes with his last remaining court magician and his gaze
turned ever colder. “Otherwise, your head shall rest on that staff your fist
clenches so tightly.”
With that,
the pharaoh and his men left. The sounds of an army thirsty for vengeance
filled the morning air. Eventually the roar faded as the might of Egypt raced
after those responsible for the smell of death that already hung over the city like
a lingering cloud.
***
Neraphatte’s
quarters were dark and cluttered. Scrolls lay on tables, benches, and the
floor. Still curled up in a corner was the lifeless body of his favorite
assistant, Kherfin. Like so many others, his face was locked in that visage of
pure terror. Perhaps he had seen this Angel of Death sent by the God of Moses
just as he took that last breath.
“I know it is
here,” He snatched up one scroll after another. Scanned its contents, and
discarded it. How long would it take Pharaoh’s men to deal with the Hebrew
slaves? Perhaps two days at best.
“A-ha!”
Wading through
the mess he had added to in his urgency, Neraphatte rushed to the door. A
thought came as the sour smell of death tickled the back of his throat. He had
no idea if this ritual was worth the papyrus it was written on. If he did some
elaborate ritual on the Pharaoh’s son in the palace and it failed…
***
He laid
Kherfin on the long wooden table, brushing everything to the floor with no
regard for the many scrolls he spilled the day-old pitcher of wine on. If this
failed, none of his belongings would be joining him in the afterlife. He would
be killed and never granted the Rites of Death that would allow his life to be
weighed before the gods.
Hastily he
scrambled about the chamber. Neraphatte rummaged through bins and ransacked his
shelves as he gathered all of the oils and other associated items needed for
the ceremony. Satisfied that everything was in order, he began to pour fine white
sand in the forms of the symbols called for. With oil, he traced still more symbols
on the cold, stiff body stretched out before him. He only became aware of how
profusely he began to sweat when stinging drops trickled into his eyes.
Calling out
to Osiris, and singing the words on the scroll, Neraphatte began to feel a
coldness fill the room. It was like that chill on a night where no clouds masked
moon or stars; where each star blazed, and skin pebbled up as the air kissed
it. His eyes followed the markings as he sang each line. He watched the ink
fade into the scroll and vanish! Something tugged deep inside. For a moment, it
felt as if the spirit was too large for his mortal body. With tremendous
effort, he spoke the final word. He stared perplexed at the scroll; all that
remained in his hands was a blank sheet of age-browned papyrus.
A moment of
uncertainty mixed with fear struck him like an invisible fist that sent him
staggering back from the table. Then…relief. The words remained in his head!
Neraphatte had no doubt that he could recall them at will. Every symbol traced
on the body seemed to vibrate at the ends of his finger tips. His arms felt
strangely limber, and could easily repeat the intricate patterns they wove with
shaky effort just moments before when they had spilled the fine white sand
around the prone and rigid figure on the table. But, was there any reason to
repeat the ritual? So far Kherfin lay still. Cold. Dead.
***
The sun had just
vanished behind distant hills leaving the sky tinged in reddish hues. Several
hours passed in agonizing slowness and still nothing had changed in the
condition of his acolyte. Neraphatte paced back and forth. His mind was
cluttered and full of unsettling images. He was haunted now by the smiling,
laughing severed heads of his fellow court magicians. In his visions, they
laughed and called him “Fool!” How could he think to wield the power of a god?
How could he expect to defeat Death?
A low moan
filled the room.
Neraphatte
froze. His eyes locked on the body stretched out on the table as one hand clenched
slowly into a fist. Moving closer, he felt a rush of triumph as he witnessed
Kherfin’s eyelids fluttering open.
Success!
Not waiting
for another moment to waste, Neraphatte scooped the small urns and jars he
would need into his arms and rushed to the door. The Pharaoh would have his
son, and he, Neraphatte, the last of Pharaoh’s court magician, would keep his
head right where it belonged...firmly atop his shoulders.
“Meet me at
the palace as soon as you’re able,” he yelled over his shoulder not waiting for
his acolyte to gain his feet. He dashed through the door and down the street.
Kherfin rose.
In a slow,
awkward series of movements, feet swung off the edge of the table and landed
heavily on the floor. Vacant eyes sought for something. Only one need filled
the being that was…but was not…Kherfin.
Hunger.
***
Queen Meraseti
sat on the floor cradling the body of her dead son in her arms. The magician
had pleaded that she not disturb the body until the magic took hold and
returned him to life. The moment his hand had flinched, she had shoved the
frail, sickly looking excuse for a man aside and grabbed her son.
The young
prince’s body convulsed violently against her once and stopped. Then, in fits
and starts, she felt him move against her. His hands flexed and closed on her
arms. She felt his head shift slightly and nuzzle into her. Memories of how
she, Queen Meraseti, had nursed her son flooded her mind. She had refused to allow
a slave the privilege of tending to the needs of the beautiful boy who had
broken free from her womb. Now, it was as if this re-birth brought with
it the desire to nurse. She knew that there would be no milk, but she could not
stop what was happening for fear that just as suddenly as life had returned, it
would vanish again.
Cold lips
touched the bare skin at the curve of her left breast. With a defiant gaze, she
looked up to see the magician staring with mouth and eyes wide. She dared him
to speak a word in protest. For giving her back her son she would not kill him,
simply remove his tongue. That would prevent him from spreading any sort of
gossip.
A sudden jolt
of pain caused Queen Meraseti to cry out. She looked down in time to see her
beloved son pull away with a mouthful of her breast. Blood gushed from the
jagged and ugly wound, turning her white dress crimson. She looked into blank,
white-filmed eyes that displayed no emotion or recognition as her precious
son’s blood-soaked face came forward...mouth opening wide. Teeth closed on the
tender flesh of her throat and tore.
Queen Meraseti
wanted to scream, but nothing came forth except a froth of hot blood. She watched
in frozen terror as a thin stream of it shot several feet, splattering the
sandals of the magician who still continued to stare…unable to turn away.
Darkness began to narrow her vision. Before total blackness fell, she saw her
husband’s final remaining royal magician turn and flee like the coward she knew
him to be. She thought she heard him whimper something just before he left. Had
she lived but a moment longer, she would have heard him shout a name that would
echo throughout the empty palace corridors.
“Kherfin!”
***
Down the dark
streets Kherfin wandered. A sudden noise made him turn his head. Something was
coming closer. The hunger rose and the painful coldness that filled the thing
that had once been Kherfin sought the warmth filling this source nearby.
***
Ulina sat in
the doorway sniffling. Her parents were still praying over the shrouded body of
her big brother, Nepara. All the food that had been prepared for today’s feast
sat untouched. Nobody wanted to celebrate her eleventh year when so many had
died in just one night. Knees pulled up under her chin, she watched the stars
reveal themselves in the total blackness above.
A sound
caused her to jump just a bit. Somebody stood at the end of the path that led
up to her family’s house. None of the lanterns had been lit that would allow a
visitor to see clearly up to the door. It also kept Ulina from seeing exactly
who stood waiting to be invited up.
Perhaps it
was somebody who had remembered that today was her special day! She unfolded
her coltish legs and stood. A glance over her shoulder revealed that nobody was
moving inside the house. She considered calling out, but did not want to
disturb her parents. Besides, they might send whoever it was away, saying that
it is a bad time for visitors.
First walking
fast, then breaking into a run, Ulina rushed to greet the visitor. Just as she
got within arms’ reach, she noticed something that made her halt with a slide
in the still warm sand of the walkway. This person smelled like her brother. It
was definitely a man, and he had that same sourness that made her stomach churn
and had caused her to be out on the steps in the first place.
She thought
she recognized something about the man. He worked a couple houses away at the
home of one of the Pharaoh’s magicians!
“Acolyte
Kherfin?”
Without
warning, hands lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders and jerking her off her
feet. She thought to scream, but before any sound left her mouth, something
clamped down on her tiny throat. White-hot pain seized Ulina, and in a total
state of shock, her body coped with the fright and sudden pain the only way it
knew how…she fainted.
***
The warmth
filled him. Tearing into his prize, Kherfin immersed himself in the heat that
rose like a fountain, pouring forth from the figure in his clutches, and
seeping into his coldest places.
For just a
moment, the warmth sent a flicker in a part of the mind that had been the
living Kherfin. In the horror, during that brief flash of conscientiousness, he
dropped the body. Then, just that quickly, the coldness returned in a rush,
tightening its grip. That tiny spark was gone forever.
He looked
down at the body sprawled near his feet. Much of the warmth he craved was gone,
but deep inside he could sense something pulsing faintly. Each pulsation sent a
ripple of that much desired heat throughout the tiny figure.
Once again, Kherfin
tore into the unmoving form. Finally, he found the prize he sought. Burying his
face in the waning warmth that remained, he fed until the coldness completely filled
the body he fed from.
A moment
later he stumbled down the narrow street in search of new warmth. There was another
source nearby and Kherfin was once again so very, very cold.
***
Neraphatte
burst through the wide-open doorway and raced to the room he first performed
the ceremony on the cold, dead body of his assistant. Empty! No sign of Kherfin
anywhere. Fearing it was useless he still dashed from room to room. Equally
useless. He stepped out onto the balcony. “Kher-fin!” he cried out to a strangely
quiet city.
The warm
night breeze wrapped around him. The stench of death was growing stronger.
Looking out into the darkness, past the city, he thought he could spy a faint
glow on the horizon. Not the sort you would expect from a large encampment. Instead,
this glow seemed to reach up to the heavens. On any other night he would think
to investigate…but not now. Now he must find Kherfin.
***
Side-by-side,
but oblivious to one another, Queen Meraseti and her son Prince Haru-Tanis
moved haltingly along the smoothly polished stone floor. The wide passage allowed
for them to be several feet apart. Yet, they felt drawn close to one another even
though neither had any idea why.
Through a
gauzy curtain warmth awaited. A large, open sleeping area for the servants who tended
to Prince Haru-Tanis directly sat at the end of this long corridor. A few
lanterns burned along the way casting a soft glow over everything.
Together they
stumbled into the curtains; neither one slowing nor bothering to push them
aside with their hands. Queen and Prince staggered into the circular room. Some
of the servants awoke, looking up from their beds at the two dark shadows that
stood outlined in the entryway.
Moments
later, there was screaming. Trained since birth to endure whatever royal punishment
was given, all thirty-two of the servants died at the hands and mouths of their
master and his mother.
***
Making
unsteady progress down the stairs, the gore-soaked girl paused on the path that
led to the street. Stepping out onto the small landing from the darkness of the
house to join her were a man and a woman. Dressed in black gowns of mourning,
it was impossible to see the bloody holes torn in both of them in the darkness
of night.
The woman
moved first to join her daughter. The husband tried to follow, but toppled from
the small rise and landed with a splatter. Slowly climbing to his feet, he set
off down the path after the other two figures. A long, ropy strand uncoiled
from his stomach to lie on the ground like a nest of serpents. He continued to
walk away oblivious, only pausing slightly as something tugged just for a
moment before tearing away.
Animals of
all sorts crawled from the shadows to investigate. None of them fed on the vile
strand. Not even the rats.
***
Neraphatte
reached the palace for the second time that night. He heard screams of anguish
and fear as he climbed the many stairs that led to the Grand Entry.
He had
searched frantically, but found no sign of Kherfin near the house. He could be
any place in the city by now. He must see to the prince.
The main door
remained ajar. Just as he had left it when he had run from the Queen and her
son. The child had been like an animal, tearing into the flesh of his mother.
So much blood. There must have been something he had done wrong.
He stood in
the middle of the hall thinking. This had been where Pharaoh had given his
edict. Well…he had obeyed. Hadn’t he? The son of Pharaoh was…alive?
Now that was
the predicament. Neraphatte had not stayed once the boy had torn into his
mother’s throat. Perhaps that had been some instinctive reaction, like how the
body shudders when exposed to cold air after being submerged into a tub of hot
water.
He must find
the boy. That was all he could do. Of course, the screams he heard as he
approached the palace cast doubts. Deep down, the feeling that he was only
fooling himself did a poor job of hiding.
His gaze
paused on the nine stakes with the impaled heads of his fellow court magicians.
Each face seemed caught in between an expression of pain and peace. Perhaps
death was not such a terrible thing.
***
The trio had
grown. All down the street there were more stumbling out of doorways.
Somewhere, there would be warmth. They could sense it as they passed darkened
houses. Each time they would enter in search of it. Yet, when they left they
were once again unsatisfied and cold. Each instance they found the opportunity
to bathe in that warmth, the satisfaction from it was more brief.
In ones…twos…packs…they
converged on random houses. There seemed no reason or pattern as the
blood-soaked horde added to the woes of an already demoralized Egypt. Numb from
the previous night’s terror, people ignored the screams and wails of their
neighbors until it was too late. Those that did answer did so alone and fell
easy prey.
***
Kherfin
turned. Nothing that was his former self remained. Yet, he was driven to seek
out that one source. It called to him. With no control of his actions, he
walked on. It was closer now. He did not understand the flickering signals in
the small part in his brain that remained. He simply allowed them to lead him.
As the sun
began to crest the distant hills of sand, he arrived. His feet stopped and, for
just a moment, Kherfin stood unmoving. The head turned first, then the body
followed. Step by grueling step he climbed. The coldness in his body seemed to
reach out for that warmth.
Behind him,
the streets were dotted with more just like him. Some walked, some crawled
having lost one, both, or parts of their legs. A low moan had begun. First it
was like a buzz heard when that swarm of locusts had arrived. Many of the
living who remained had shut up their houses fearing, perhaps, their return.
Any who saw the true source of that horrible noise that had grown as the
numbers swelled, as they all converged on that one focal point, also barred
their doors. Many began to pray; some even to the mysterious God of Moses.
***
Neraphatte
opened his eyes. He found the pale and drawn face of Queen Meraseti only inches
from his own. The stench of death poured from her, filling his nostrils with a
smell so thick it was as if he were breathing through sand.
The gaping
hole in her throat that still oozed dark fluid gurgled slightly as she opened
her mouth. A cold hand brushed his face and many others clutched at his
clothing, but none of them did anything more. They all stood…waiting.
He had run
down empty palace corridors in search of the Pharaoh’s wife and son. When he
found them, it was as if his mind refused to accept what it saw.
Neraphatte
had fainted.
When he
awoke, and that alone had been a surprise after the bloody carnage he had
walked into, he had found a sea of legs on all sides. Looking up he saw the
queen, the prince, and several of the royal servants. Each torn, mutated and
covered with blood and gore. There were smells that were worse than death.
Yet, he was
whole.
He climbed
slowly to his feet, knowing that at any moment they would fall on him and tear
him open in the manner done to them. His heart thundered as all who surrounded
him turned almost in unison toward him. At first, none of them moved.
Neraphatte
held his breath. Partially to avoid breathing in what could only be the most
pure essence of what was death. But also, because he was so frightened that he
momentarily forgot how. Finally, he gasped and sucked in a lungful. This made
him gag. A shuffling sound of several feet moving had caused him to close his
eyes in preparation for the violent death sure to come.
Nothing.
That was when
he had opened his eyes. They crowded in, but none of them attacked him. There
were no teeth ripping into his flesh, no hands tearing him open to feast on his
innards as had clearly happened to some who stood close by.
Blood, sticky
and cool, smeared his face, arms, and robe as more and more they seemed to push
at one another in an effort to be close to him…to touch. For several moments,
Neraphatte stood in the center of the room. Finally he had to move. Either they
would fall on him and kill him or they would not. No matter what, he could no
longer stand still.
He waded
through the bodies. Their hands continued to reach out and grasp, but then, as
he continued to walk, they would let go. They would follow.
***
Kherfin
reached the top stair. Below him, a hundred or more just like him were climbing
up. As a whole, they could sense that what they sought was very near. Their
moans seemed to grow louder. Throughout the city, the smell of fear began to
mask the stench of death.
***
Neraphatte
glanced at the heads of those he had once called brothers. Only he remained of
the Pharaoh’s magicians. He had done what each of them had failed to do.
He,
Neraphatte, had overcome the final and most devastating plague of the God of
Moses. The Pharaoh would have no choice but to acknowledge his power. Perhaps
he would be granted his own temple, or even better, a city.
He reached
the large double doors that led out of the palace. Behind him, the queen, the
prince, and all those servants, still followed. Pulling the doors open, the
golden light of the sun flooded in. Light and warmth rushed to meet his face.
And Kherfin.
Standing
before him was his favorite assistant. Blank eyes stared out of a face empty of
any sort of recognition. For a moment, Neraphatte once again feared for his
life as cold hands reached out and grasped his arms. Looking past Kherfin, he
saw perhaps a couple hundred more on the stairs and in the main street that led
to the palace.
A low moan
grew for just a moment, then faded in a sigh from the throng that sought him.
Neraphatte smiled. Yes, the Pharaoh would indeed be grateful.
Or else.
***
The dust
cloud grew nearer. It seemed very small if it were indeed Pharaoh and his army.
Neraphatte stood at the gates the Pharaoh would enter, victorious from
destroying the rebel Moses and his Hebrews.
Finally, the
individual chariots could be made out. Something was very peculiar indeed.
There were so few. Perhaps things had not gone as smoothly as expected. Perhaps
this Moses and his god had more tricks at the ready.
Oh well, at
least he, Neraphatte, royal magician, had succeeded. At his side, the small
figure seemed to grow restless. The prince began to pull away. As the Pharaoh’s
chariots drew to a halt in a cloud of dust, Neraphatte let go his hold on the
young prince’s shoulders.
Over the din of the pounding
on the gates at his back, Neraphatte announced, “I present your son, my
Pharaoh!”
