Voices from the Other World (5 page)

But the poor man could say nothing . . . for he understood nothing . . . he appeared struck by paralysis. Life had stolen back into the long-dead mummy—as it abandoned the living Pasha.

The mummy, meanwhile, resumed his reproach:

“What's the matter with you—why do you not speak?
Am I not Hor? Are you not my servant, Shanaq? Do you
not recollect that I came to you in your northern country, during one of my victorious raids? Do you pretend
not to know me, slave? Your white skin, which is the
mark of servitude, gives you away—no matter how
much you may deny it. What are these ridiculous clothes
that you have on? And what is this false pride that you
hide yourself behind?”

Hor evidently believed that the Pasha deliberately refused to reply—so he shouted, his veins swelling, his face scowling with anger:

“What has befallen you? What has befallen the earth
that the lowly are made lords and the lords are laid low?
The sovereigns are reduced to slaves, and the slaves
raised to sovereigns? How can you, slave, own such a
palace, while my sons sweat there as your servants?
Where are our inherited traditions? Where are the divine
laws? Is this some sort of mockery?”

Hor's rage intensified. His eyes turned a furious red. Sparks flew out of them, as he railed with a voice like pealing thunder:

“How could you be so insolent with my son, you
slave? Indeed, you humiliated him with a harshness that
proves the slave-like nature that your soul exudes. You
struck him with your stick because he was hungry, and
forced his brothers to beat him, as well. Do Egypt's children go without food? Woe unto you, abject one. . . .”

Hor had not quite finished his rant when he advanced, roaring like a lion, upon the Pasha—intent to make him his prey. But the hapless Pasha did not wait for him—he had lost his power to endure. He fell motionless upon the ground, while Hor's menace spread a new terror throughout the chamber that shattered our last shred of composure. Shaykh Jadallah instantly prostrated himself on his face, the lamp going down with him—extinguishing its light, sending the room back into gloom. I recoiled in shock, as if expecting a deadly blow, without knowing from what direction it would strike my head. I stared into the darkness, shivering with panic and alarm. My strength deserted me, while, to my good fortune, I lost all consciousness—and absented myself from the world. . . .

My dear sirs . . . There are times when I am beset by confusion, when I am wracked with doubt. So I ask myself, was what I saw real, or a deception? Perhaps, at times, I have a tendency to lie to myself. Yet each time that I incline toward disbelief, I am confronted by facts over which I have no control. What do you say, for example, to the testimony of Shaykh Jadallah, a living person ready and able to repeat to you what I have relayed? And what is your reply to the two pathetic servants, who were driven insane? And what of the tomb of Hor, and the now-deserted palace? And, above all else, what of the death of Mahmoud Pasha al-Arna'uti— which all the readers of the press remember with the utmost sense of wonder?

The Return of Sinuhe

The incredible news spread through every part of Pharaoh's palace. Every tongue told it, all ears listened eagerly to it, and the stunned gossips repeated it—that a messenger from the land of the Amorites had descended upon Egypt. He bore a letter to Pharaoh from Prince Sinuhe, who had vanished without warning all of forty years before—and whose disappearance itself had wreaked havoc in people's minds. It was said that the prince had pleaded with the king to forgive what had passed, and to permit him to return to his native land. There he would retire in quiet isolation, awaiting the moment of his death in peace and security. No sooner had everyone recalled the hoary tale of the disappearance of Prince Sinuhe, than they would revive the forgotten events and remember their heroes—who were now old and senile, the ravages of age carved harshly upon them.

In that distant time, the queen was but a young princess living in the palace of Pharaoh Amenemhat I— a radiant rose blooming on a towering tree. Her lively body was clothed in the gown of youth and the shawl of beauty. Gentleness illuminated her spirit, her wit blazed, her intelligence gleamed. The two greatest princes of the realm were devoted to her: the then crown prince (and present king) Senwosret I and Prince Sinuhe. The two princes were the most perfect models of strength and youth, courage and wealth, affection and fidelity. Their hearts were filled with love and their souls with loyalty, until each of the two became upset with his companion— to the point of rage and ruthless action. When Pharaoh learned that their emotional bond to each other and their sense of mutual brotherhood were about to snap, he became very anxious. He summoned the princess and— after a long discussion—he commanded her to remain in her own wing of the palace, and not to leave it.

He also sent for the two princes and said to them, with firmness and candor, “You two are but miserable, accursed victims of your own blind self-abandon in the pursuit of rashness and folly—a laughingstock among your fellow princes and a joke among the masses. The sages have said that a person does not merit the divine term ‘human' until he is able to govern his lusts and his passions. Have you not behaved like dumb beasts and love-struck idiots? You should know that the princess is still confused between the two of you—and will remain confused until her heart is inspired to make a choice. But I call upon you both to renounce your rivalry in an iron-bound agreement that you may not break. Furthermore, you will be satisfied with her decision, whatever it may be, and you will not bear anything toward your brother but fondness and loyalty—both inwardly and outwardly. Now, are you finished with this business?”

His tone did not leave room for hesitation. The two princes bowed their heads in silence, as Pharaoh bid them swear to their pact and shake hands. This they did—then left with the purest of intentions.

It happened during this time that unrest and rebellion broke out among the tribes of Libya. Pharaoh dispatched troops to chastise them, led by Prince Senwosret, the heir apparent, who chose Prince Sinuhe to command a brigade. The army clashed with the Libyans at several places, besetting them until they turned their backs and fled. The two princes displayed the kind of boldness and bravery befitting their characters. They were perhaps about to end their mission when the heir apparent suddenly announced the death of his father, King Amenemhat I. When this grievous news reached Prince Sinuhe, it seemed to have stirred his doubts as to what the new king might intend toward him. Suspicion swept over him and drove him to despair—so he melted away without warning, as though he had been swallowed by the sands of the desert.

Rumors abounded about Sinuhe's fate. Some said that he had fled to one of the faraway villages. Others held that he had been assassinated in Libya. Still others said that he had killed himself out of desperation over life and love. The stories about him proliferated for quite a long time. But eventually, the tongues grew tired of them, consigning them to the tombs of oblivion under the rubble of time. Darkness enveloped them for forty years—until at last came that messenger from the land of the Amorites carrying Prince Sinuhe's letter—awakening the inattentive, and reminding the forgetful.

King Senwosret looked at the letter over and over again with disbelieving eyes. He consulted the queen, now in her sixty-fifth year, on the affair. They agreed to send messengers bearing precious gifts to Prince Sinuhe in Amora, inviting him to come to Egypt safely, and with honor.

Pharaoh's messengers traversed the northern deserts, carrying the royal gifts straight to the land of the Amorites. Then they returned, accompanied by a venerable old man of seventy-five years. Passing the pyramids, his limbs trembled, and his eyes were darkened by a cloud of distress. He was in bedouin attire—a coarse woolen robe with sandals. A sword scabbard girded his waist; a long white beard flowed down over his chest. Almost nothing remained to show that he was an Egyptian raised in the palace of Memphis, except that when the sailors' songs of the Nile reached his ears, his eyes became dreamy, his parched lips quivered, his breath beat violently in his breast—and he wept. The messengers knew nothing but that the old man threw himself down on the bank of the river and kissed it with ardor, as though he were kissing the cheek of a sweetheart from whom he had long been parted.

They brought him to Pharaoh's palace. He came into the presence of King Senwosret I, who was seated before him, and said, “May the Lord bless you, O exalted king, for forgiving me—and for graciously allowing me to return to the sacred soil of Egypt.”

Pharaoh looked at him closely with obvious amazement, and said, his voice rising, “Is that really you? Are you my brother and the companion of my childhood and youth—Prince Sinuhe?”

“Before you, my lord, is what the desert and forty years have done to Prince Sinuhe.”

Shaking his head, the king drew his brother toward him with tenderness and respect, and asked, “What did the Lord do with you during all these forty years?”

The prince pulled himself up straight in his seat and began to tell his tale.

“My lord, the story of my flight began at the hour that you were informed of our mighty father's death out in the Western Desert. There the Devil blinded me and evil whispers terrified me. So I threw myself into the wind, which blew me across deserts, villages, and rivers, until I passed the borders between damnation and madness. But in the land of exile, the name of the person whose face I had fled, and who had dazzled me with his fame, conferred honor upon me. And whenever I confronted trouble, I cast my thoughts back to Pharaoh—and my cares left me. Yet I remained lost in my wanderings, until the leader of the Tonu tribes in Amora learned of my plight, and invited me to see him.

“He was a magnificent chief who held Egypt and its subjects in all awe and affection. He spoke to me as a man of power, asking me about my homeland. I told him what I knew, while keeping the truth about myself from him. He offered me marriage to one of his daughters, and I accepted—and began to despair that I would ever again see my homeland. After a short time, I—who was raised on Pharaoh's famous chariots, and grew up in the wars of Libya and Nubia—was able to conquer all of Tonu's enemies. From them I took prisoners, their women and goods, their weapons and spoils, and their herds, and my status rose even further. The chief appointed me the head of his armies, making me his expected successor.

“The gravest challenge that I faced was the great thief of the desert, a demonic giant—the very mention of whom frightened the bravest of men. He came to my place seeking to seize my home, my wife, and my wealth. The men, women, and children all rushed to the square to see this most ferocious example of combat between two opponents. I stood against him amid the cheers and apprehension, fighting him for a long time. Dodging a mighty blow from his axe, I launched my piercing arrow and it struck him in the neck. Fatally weakened, he fell to the ground, death rattling in his throat. From that day onward, I was the undisputed lord of the bad-lands.

“Then I succeeded my father-in-law after his death, ruling the tribes by the sword, enforcing the traditions of the desert. And the days, seasons, and years passed by, one after another. My sons grew into strong men who knew nothing but the wilderness as the place for birth, life, glory, and death. Do you not see, my lord, that I suffered in my estrangement from Egypt? That I was tossed back and forth by horrors and anxieties, and was afflicted by calamities, although I also enjoyed love and the siring of children, reaping glory and happiness along the way. But old age and weakness finally caught up with me, and I conceded authority to my sons. Then I went home to my tent to await my passing.

“In my isolation, heartaches assailed me, and anguish overwhelmed me, as I remembered gorgeous Egypt—the fertile playground of my childhood and youth. Desire disturbed me, and longing beckoned my heart. There appeared before my eyes scenes of the Nile and the luxuriant greenery and the heavenly blue sky and the mighty pyramids and the lofty obelisks, and I feared that death would overtake me while I was in a land other than Egypt.

“So I sent a messenger to you, my lord, and my lord chose to pardon me and to receive me hospitably. I do not wish for more than a quiet corner to live out my old age, until Sinuhe's appointed hour comes round. Then he would be thrown into the embalming tank, and in his sarcophagus, the Book of the Dead—guide to the afterlife—would be laid. The professional women mourners of Egypt would wail over him with their plaintive rhyming cries. . . .”

Pharaoh listened to Sinuhe with excitement and delight. Patting his shoulder gently, he said, “Whatever you want is yours.” Then the king summoned one of his chamberlains, who led the prince into his wing of the palace.

Just before evening, a messenger came, saying that it would please the queen if she could meet with him. Immediately, Sinuhe rose to go to her, his aged heart beating hard. Following the messenger, nervous and distracted, he muttered to himself, “O Lord! Is it possible that I will see her once again? Will she really remember me? Will she remember Sinuhe, the young prince and lover?”

He crossed the threshold of her room like a man walking in his sleep. He reached her throne in seconds. Lifting his eyes up to her, he saw the face of his companion, whose youthful bloom the years had withered. Of her former loveliness, only faint traces remained. Bowing to her in reverence, he kissed the hem of her robe. The queen then spoke to him, without concealing her astonishment, “My God, is this truly our Prince Sinuhe?”

The prince smiled without uttering a word. He had not yet recovered himself, when the queen said, “My lord has told me of your conversation. I was impressed by your feats, and the harshness of your struggle, though it took me aback that you had the fortitude to leave your wife and children behind.”

“Mercy upon you, my queen,” Sinuhe replied. “What remains of my life merely lengthens my torture, while the likes of me would find it unbearable to be buried outside of dear Egypt.”

The woman lowered her gaze for a moment, then raising up to him her eyes filled with dreams, she said to him tenderly, “Prince Sinuhe, you have told us your story, but do you know ours? You fled at the time that you learned of Pharaoh's death. You suspected that your rival, who had the upper hand, would not spare your life. You took off with the wind and traversed the deserts of Amora. Did you not know how your flight would injure yourself and those that you love?”

Confusion showed on Sinuhe's face, but he did not break his silence. The queen continued, “Yet how could you know that the heir apparent visited me just before your departure at the head of the campaign in Libya. He said to me: ‘Princess, my heart tells me that you have chosen the man that you want. Please answer me truthfully, and I promise you just as truthfully that I will be both contented and loyal. I would never break this vow.' ”

Her majesty grew quiet. Sinuhe queried her with a sigh, “Were you frank with him, my queen?”

She answered by nodding her head, then her breath grew more agitated. Sinuhe, gasping from the forty-year voyage back to his early manhood, pressed her further.

“And what did you tell him?”

“Will it really interest you to know my answer? After a lapse of forty years? And after your children have grown to be chiefs of the tribes of Tonu?”

His exhausted eyes flashed a look of perplexity, then he said with a tremulous voice, “By the Sacred Lord, it matters to me.”

She was staring at his face with pleasure and concern, and said, smiling, “How strange this is, O Sinuhe! But you shall have what you want. I will not hold back the answer that you should have heard forty years ago. Senwosret questioned me closely, so I told him that I would grant him whatever I had of fondness and friendship. But as for my heart. . . .”