Read Online CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness by Mike Allen - Free Book Online
Authors: Mike Allen
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presence. “When it has passed, I hope you will spare me your time.”
Nefret’s voice came out smoothly from her newly-wetted throat, not its usual dry rasp. “I have no blessing to give.”
“I do not seek your blessing.”
She scowled. “I will not marry you, either.”
“I do not seek your hand.”
“What, then?”
The lines of his face settled in the pre-dawn light. “Your knowledge.”
She stared for a moment, curious against her will. But the sun drew near; she had no time to spare for him. Nefret turned away and climbed the rocks, greeting Hathirekhmet from the pinnacle, basking in this, the goddess’ gentlest touch. Soon enough heat would scorch the water from her, as she hunted lizards to eat.
When she descended, the man was still there, patient as stone. “I know nothing,” Nefret said, and picked up several likely rocks.
“You know something shared only by a four-year-old girl in a temple,” the man said. “You know Hathirekhmet.”
Nefret’s fingers curled around a sharp-edged fragment of flint. “I knew her,” she answered, voice roughening to harshness. “She is gone from me now.”
The man nodded. “And that makes you unique. Nineteen years ago, I tried to find her who had been Hathirekhmet, only to discover she had been sold into marriage, to a husband who let her speak to no other. She is dead now, in childbirth. Eleven years ago, I tried again, only to discover she who had been Hathirekhmet hanged herself from her father’s great loom. She, too, is dead. There is only you, who understands the goddess better than any man or woman living—who understands , but is herself. I cannot ask these questions of Hathirekhmet. I ask them of you.” He paused, still seated on his rock. “If you will let me.”
The stone hung heavy in her hand. The man’s eyes rested unwavering on her—on her , Nefret. Who was once a goddess, and for that he valued her. But not like the man Merentari would have sold her to. Her worth lay in what she kept, not what she had lost.
“Ask,” she said.
The man stood and bowed his gratitude. “Then I will begin. Of temple life, I have heard; I know the ceremonies and indulgences, the luxury in which the goddess’ avatar lives. But only you can tell me: what is the divine presence like?”
The stone fell from Nefret’s limp fingers, thudding into the dust. Staring unseen into the brightening sky, she whispered, “I cannot remember.”
* * *
It was the truth no one spoke, and Sekhaf believed her. In the early years, Hathirekhmet dwelt often in the body of her avatar, but as the child grew the goddess came less and less. She still performed the ceremonies, for they had merit even if the divine presence was not in her; the avatar was the conduit from earth to heaven.
But as Hathirekhmet retreated, the priests began their search for the new vessel. Nefret had not felt the goddess’ touch for a year before she left.
Sekhaf sat by as Nefret sliced open the belly of a lizard and said, “Why? Why does she leave?”
He was a philosopher, and did not ask out of cruelty. He had been with her among the rocks for several days now, carefully probing, shifting between topics arcane and obvious, questioning everything. Nefret licked the blood from her fingers and answered him. “Amuthamse. A woman is of the river’s world, not the desert, and Amuthamse is friend to Hathirekhmet’s brother the moon. Once we begin to bleed, we are no longer fit for her presence.”
“But you said she leaves earlier, sometimes.”
Six months after the last visitation, Nefret had bled for the first time. She had no such name to give herself on that day; the avatar thought of herself as Hathirekhmet, even when the divine presence was not in her. She knew no other identity. But Hathirekhmet did not bleed; Nefret did. She had stayed longer than most, the priests said, her voice remaining high and clear, her skin unblemished, her limbs slender—a far cry from her appearance now.
Nefret’s voice came out smoothly from her newly-wetted throat, not its usual dry rasp. “I have no blessing to give.”
“I do not seek your blessing.”
She scowled. “I will not marry you, either.”
“I do not seek your hand.”
“What, then?”
The lines of his face settled in the pre-dawn light. “Your knowledge.”
She stared for a moment, curious against her will. But the sun drew near; she had no time to spare for him. Nefret turned away and climbed the rocks, greeting Hathirekhmet from the pinnacle, basking in this, the goddess’ gentlest touch. Soon enough heat would scorch the water from her, as she hunted lizards to eat.
When she descended, the man was still there, patient as stone. “I know nothing,” Nefret said, and picked up several likely rocks.
“You know something shared only by a four-year-old girl in a temple,” the man said. “You know Hathirekhmet.”
Nefret’s fingers curled around a sharp-edged fragment of flint. “I knew her,” she answered, voice roughening to harshness. “She is gone from me now.”
The man nodded. “And that makes you unique. Nineteen years ago, I tried to find her who had been Hathirekhmet, only to discover she had been sold into marriage, to a husband who let her speak to no other. She is dead now, in childbirth. Eleven years ago, I tried again, only to discover she who had been Hathirekhmet hanged herself from her father’s great loom. She, too, is dead. There is only you, who understands the goddess better than any man or woman living—who understands , but is herself. I cannot ask these questions of Hathirekhmet. I ask them of you.” He paused, still seated on his rock. “If you will let me.”
The stone hung heavy in her hand. The man’s eyes rested unwavering on her—on her , Nefret. Who was once a goddess, and for that he valued her. But not like the man Merentari would have sold her to. Her worth lay in what she kept, not what she had lost.
“Ask,” she said.
The man stood and bowed his gratitude. “Then I will begin. Of temple life, I have heard; I know the ceremonies and indulgences, the luxury in which the goddess’ avatar lives. But only you can tell me: what is the divine presence like?”
The stone fell from Nefret’s limp fingers, thudding into the dust. Staring unseen into the brightening sky, she whispered, “I cannot remember.”
* * *
It was the truth no one spoke, and Sekhaf believed her. In the early years, Hathirekhmet dwelt often in the body of her avatar, but as the child grew the goddess came less and less. She still performed the ceremonies, for they had merit even if the divine presence was not in her; the avatar was the conduit from earth to heaven.
But as Hathirekhmet retreated, the priests began their search for the new vessel. Nefret had not felt the goddess’ touch for a year before she left.
Sekhaf sat by as Nefret sliced open the belly of a lizard and said, “Why? Why does she leave?”
He was a philosopher, and did not ask out of cruelty. He had been with her among the rocks for several days now, carefully probing, shifting between topics arcane and obvious, questioning everything. Nefret licked the blood from her fingers and answered him. “Amuthamse. A woman is of the river’s world, not the desert, and Amuthamse is friend to Hathirekhmet’s brother the moon. Once we begin to bleed, we are no longer fit for her presence.”
“But you said she leaves earlier, sometimes.”
Six months after the last visitation, Nefret had bled for the first time. She had no such name to give herself on that day; the avatar thought of herself as Hathirekhmet, even when the divine presence was not in her. She knew no other identity. But Hathirekhmet did not bleed; Nefret did. She had stayed longer than most, the priests said, her voice remaining high and clear, her skin unblemished, her limbs slender—a far cry from her appearance now.
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