Ancient Evenings (13 page)

Since the statue of Isis was without eyes to weep, tears could only flow from Her breast. That is to say, moisture appeared at each nipple. Thoth placed His hands there. During this vigil, He had grown familiar with Her shape, and if He knew nothing of the smoothness of Isis’ skin (which once was finer than the patina of marble) Thoth’s fingers enjoyed the rough flint. Like many a scribe to follow, He was not comfortable with the undulations of women. Irritation was more stimulating to His mind. Whenever some fires of incense were lit, His lungs would look for the harshest smoke—a small damage to the flesh improved His ability to think. Just so, His fingers even showed a blister here and there where they had fretted too long at the stone.

While holding Her, Thoth would often place His forehead against Her thigh. He would ponder what He wanted to ask, and try to compose the question with such purity of mind that the thought could reach into the mute recesses of the flint. Then, Isis would sooner or later reply. Not, however, by words. Pictures would come instead into His mind, misty at first, but sometimes this fog would dissipate, and Thoth would see Her response in an unmistakably clear image.

Now when He inquired if She would like the head returned to Her body, the flint presented no more than a muddy river to His mind, too muddy, that is, for vision until Thoth was given one wholly unpleasant view of the buttocks of Set in the midst of defecation. The flint had given its opinion of the head.

This vehemence left Thoth unsettled. Still, He tried to let His next thoughts flow quietly. He suggested that while She might no longer desire Her own face, still the heads of many birds, animals, insects, or flowers might be satisfactory.

Her reply made Him wait, but at last He was encouraged to wander in His mind down a jungle trail. Thoth, too sedentary for long marches, watched in wonder while strange animals and birds flashed in front of His closed eyes. He had never seen land so green, nor hills so steep. Huge insects crawled into his vision, and leaves of papyrus waved. Then He saw the horns of a gazelle, then a cobra. Now a herd of cows came forth to graze, and as He moved toward this herd, only one cow remained in sight. He could see nothing but the cow’s head, lovely and soft was this cow’s head, then Thoth heard the first sound ever to issue from stone. A ruminative voice full of the flavor of grass came forth, and as He opened His eyes, the flint was returning to flesh and Isis was before Him in all the beauty of Her own body, younger by years after this incarceration in stone. No longer headless, She had the small and comfortable horns of a fine cow. And the new name of Isis was Hathor.

Thoth could not keep from touching Her. If He was never guilty of excessive fornication—dry as the feather of Maat had been His small itch—still He was now as unstrung as a cat in heat. So, Hathor, in recompense for His long labors, allowed Him to rub against Her. The touch of real flesh put a rent, however, in His sluices, and He spewed all over Her flank. She was kind, and wiped His face, offered one kiss of a massively lolling tongue, and departed in search of Her son.

It proved no long search. The sound of Horus’ cries reverberated through the desert. Blind, bewildered, His heart bruised, He lay near a grove by a spring and moaned in a voice that seemed small to Himself, yet it was so pure in its burden that His mother could hear it from many hills away. And when She finally reached His sightless body, She had a seizure of pity as if Her blood had passed through His sorrow.

Horus was surrounded by a field of lotus. It had flowered out of the first lotus that grew from His eyes, and a gazelle was feeding on the leaves. Isis, without hesitation, took milk from this gazelle. The animal never retreated as the Goddess approached for Isis was in the head of Hathor, and when did a gazelle have fear of a cow? Indeed, the animal barely knew she was being milked. She assumed this strange cow merely wished to pay homage, and did not know, poor cow, how to begin. Now, discovering that nothing was desired of her but milk, the gazelle (none so secretly vain as the gazelle) stamped her front paws on Hathor’s breast, then, in a panic at her daring, rushed off. Hathor went up to Horus, and licked His face, washing gazelle’s milk over those outraged sockets where His vision had been. Delicately, She uncovered His loincloth so that the breeze which rose from the spring might soothe His parts, even as the milk gave balm to His empty sockets, and indeed this tender wind on His loins offered peace to the harsh blood-crusted void above His nose. Horus, receiving these caresses, felt seeds beginning to germinate where once His eyes had been. He wondered if flowers could grow from His brow, and reached up to touch the petals, but, instead—through a waterfall of blood and tears and pearly milk—saw His own two hands, and cried aloud, “My mother has forgiven Me.” In the next instant, He saw the sad, luminous eyes of Hathor, and smelled Her great tongue with its odor of earth and grass licking at His brows. Then He could only say, “How can I forgive Myself?”

She put a finger on His brow to convey the answer: Whatever He prized most had to be offered to His father. And Horus wondered what He could give up.

Even as He asked Himself, He looked out on the desert and it was uncommonly beautiful. The rocks were the color of rose, and the sands a powder of gold. Wherever light gleamed on stone, He saw gems. Beholding a vision of such generosity, Horus no longer debated. “O Father,” He said, and His desire was to utter each word with dignity, “I, Horus, Your Son, have been returned My eyes in order that I may offer them to You.”

The new vision of Horus fell into darkness, and the loss reverberated like boulders crashing in a gorge. When He opened His eyes once again, His sight was restored, but there was all the difference in His view. To His left eye, each color was still resplendent. Yet His right eye saw the depth of gray in every stone. When both eyes looked out together, the world did not appear beautiful nor hideous, but well-balanced. So He could see Isis in all the loveliness of Her body and the shock of Her broad cow’s head.

“Let Us go back,” She said sadly, and They returned holding each other’s hand.

“I can tell you,” said Menenhetet in a sharp turn of voice, “that as soon as They entered the walls of Memphi, Horus’ eyes were put to a new test, and His simplicity of mind to a greater one. Osiris had decided that Horus and Set must stand before Him.”

SIX

“It is the passion of Osiris,” Menenhetet remarked, “to conquer chaos. That is why in Khert-Neter, He is quick to extinguish the mediocre. It is important that only the Ka of the finest should survive in the Land of the Dead. Otherwise, the human stock that heaven takes into itself would not be rich in courage, pleasure, beauty, and wisdom. Ruthless selection becomes, thereby, the kindness of good husbandry. On the consequence, Osiris is never merciful for too little. Yet He will always be lenient when it is a matter of forming agreement among Gods. Since They are eternal, great chaos can boil up out of prolonged dispute. So Osiris looks to make peace among Them. Maybe that is why He forgave so much when Set and Horus appeared before His tribunal.” Menenhetet now inclined his head as if to return me to the illusion that I could hear the story without listening to his voice.

“Both of You,” said Osiris to His brother and His son, “have fought with courage and suffered much. Horus lost the vision to look on His life, and Set lost the eye of His loins. Out of the mercy of this Court which seeks for harmony among Gods, Set has been given back His loins, and Horus His eyes. Go now, both of You, and feast together. Those who have fought with the ferocity of gladiators should know one another as friends. Share in the virtues of Your battle. Discover the power of peace. Go in peace.”

The Gods cheered. Horus looked with His rich eye upon Set, and saw the passion that may be found in a red complexion. He thought His uncle splendid. He could have employed His other eye, but for fear it would reveal such unpleasant sides of the uncle that He would wish to disobey His Father, Horus contented Himself with the fair view of both eves and they saw much suffering. In His gentlest and most courteous voice, therefore, Horus asked Set to come to His camp.

“No, nephew,” said Set, “there We will be surrounded, and never speak alone. Come to My camp. I am deserted, and You will spare Me the company of silence.”

Affected by these sad words, Horus departed with Set, and They walked side by side down all the distance to the uncle’s camp, and Set slaughtered one of His captive boars and They roasted the carcass into the evening, drinking Their meat down with wine pressed from the grapes that grew in the blood of the devoured thieves. By the campfire, They paid great compliments back and forth, and spoke of the other’s great skill in combat. Finally, Set made a speech to the spirit of wine. “Some,” He said, “crush the grape with a wine-press, but I want my slaves to step on the grapes with their feet. For nobody has more desire to travel than a slave, and this wish gives flight to the spirit of the grape.” He raised His glass. “My wine will make You ready to do what You have never done,” and Horus applauded, and They drank a final toast, and fell asleep by the fire.

Out of this slumber, Set came awake with the memory of His erection on the first day of battle, and He fondled His nephew’s scrotum and tickled His backbone, and swore He would try to proceed no further. False vow. There is no rest at this place. Set remembered how His phallus had been ready to enter the bowels of His nephew, and that pumped Him up with the sweetest stinks, and He was full of greed.

Horus tried to stay asleep. The drops of gazelle’s milk that He had swallowed had put Him into the happiest tolerance and bliss, just the state in which to receive a few caresses. He was certainly getting ready to learn how much of Himself could be entered by another. What a nice balance that would give to the fires of His victory.

Set, however, was shaking to find Himself so close to the flesh of the son of Osiris. Set was squalling like a boar. The smell of the boy’s cheeks had Him wild. A spew of curses on the milk of Isis and the crotch of Osiris came out of His mouth with such a caterwauling of dead thieves’ screams that Horus saw before Him the sad eyes of Isis in the head of Hathor and freed His sphincter, and caught the semen in His hand, while Set, with a blind cry of exultation, crashed into sleep and the deepest snore.

Horus, befuddled from drinking thieves’ wine on top of gazelle’s milk, forgot at once what had happened. Much too generously had Isis bathed His eyes. The milk left Him with every docility of a fool. He went wandering out of Set’s camp with His wet hand held before Him as if pearls had collected there, and moonlight was on His face. He had not gone a hundred steps before He met His mother.

Isis had been waiting all night at the outskirts of Set’s camp. She knew the weakness of Her husband when it came to understanding His brother. Bathing the moonlight with Her silent prayers, She had been sending Her words of power into the swamp to roll like mist over Set.

“But how little,” said Menenhetet, “can magic offer when the heart of the magician is heavy with fear? It is the first paradox of magic, and the worst, that it is always least available when we are most desperate. On this night, Isis was working within a cow’s head not yet familiar to Herself. How could She measure the potency of a curse when instead of widening a delicate nostril, She now had to revolve a nose as large as a snout? With such unfamiliar instruments, the question is whether She was able to affect anything that night, at least until the moment She did. But, finally, She did. How else account for Set’s stupidity in so exploding, oink, oink,” said Menenhetet, “that He fell asleep without knowing His semen was left in the enemy’s hand. Can you believe it? He dreamed that His seed was taking knowledge, drop by drop, of the secret turns of Horus’ bowels. I can promise you that Set snored with raucous expectation of orgies of possession in years to come. He was certain that Horus could now keep no secret imparted to Him by Osiris. Sweet dreams!” said Menenhetet. “Isis took one look at the hand of Her son, and exclaimed, ‘The seed of Set is as dense as milk of silver,’ and all of Set that had collected in the palm of Horus now was heavy, and brilliant like the moon. That liquid silver became our first ball of mercury, no more (and no less!) than a distillation of the seed of Set. Isis, now in full recovery of Her wisdom, encouraged Horus to throw this gout of mercury into the swamp even if every weed in the marsh must turn poisonous. On the consequence, our native Egyptians, eating the meat of beasts who graze upon these weeds, have turned as spineless as mercury in their will, and so we are reduced from a great nation into one without character, yes, every ejaculation of our Gods that is not left in the body of another is the birth of a new disease. Much of Maat resides in this stern principle. Otherwise, Gods could sow Their seed everywhere.”

He took a breath and smiled. “Be certain that when Horus threw the milk of silver into the swamp, it took the skin of His hand along. Isis gave Him a new palm, however, by rubbing the sore flesh of His fingers in the liquor of Her thighs and that proved as beneficent as the milk of the gazelle—although we will not pause over such a caress. Indeed, I mention the gesture only to assure you that Horus was so excited by the velvet of His new skin that He promptly ejaculated into it, and such an outpouring, as He was told at once by His mother, would prove precious in a little while.”