Read Online CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness by Mike Allen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Allen
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Most girls lost Hathirekhmet sooner, before they ever bled.
“She can sense Amuthamse’s approach,” Nefret said; it was the answer the priests gave. She could feel Sekhaf’s dissatisfaction with it. He loved the purity of thought, the clean lines of truth. Anything blurry or untidy displeased him.
No one at the temple thought as he did. They had their scriptures and their answers; they had rituals to carry out, ceremonies to conduct, comforting patterns to shape their lives. None of them had Sekhaf’s restless, questioning mind. Nefret did not blame them; she had not questioned, either. Not until the philosopher came.
And his presence, which she had feared would distract her, honed the blade of her own thoughts. If Nefret tested her body less often against the sun, she tested her mind more, contemplating the nature of Hathirekhmet. When Sekhaf went to the village for food, she meditated in silence; when he returned, she had new answers for him, new fragments of memory dredged up from the forgotten corners of the past.
In the desert, there was no time. The rains fell in the mountains and brought the river’s flood, Amuthamse’s bounty for mankind; Nefret knew nothing of it. The villagers left their offerings and she ignored them, fish bones drying to glass in the sun.
Other men came.
One by one, following word of Sekhaf. Philosophers, men of the mind instead of the temple, their fingers stained from scribing. Some, meaning well, tried to hunt lizards for Nefret, so she might spend more time in thought. Sekhaf taught them better. They waited with patience as she dug out scorpions; they trailed after her in silence as she walked the rounds of her rocks, bare feet hard and cracked as horn against the stone. They did not lust after her, as that man had in Merentari’s house; one might as soon lust after the desert. But they asked her questions, and listened when she answered.
“They say it is because we cannot draw near Hathirekhmet ourselves,” Nefret said, breaking a new flint to use for butchering lizards. Her hands had turned into bony, calloused things, strong as old leather. The sun warmed her filthy hair. “The ancient priests built a pyramid that reached up to the very sky, seeking the goddess, and were burnt when they climbed to the top. Ordinary people cannot bear her presence and live.”
Men both older and younger deferred to Sekhaf here; they spoke among themselves, but only he spoke to Nefret. He said, “But the perfection of her avatars protects them?”
“Imperfections are flaws that can break the vessel,” Nefret said, cracking a clean face off the flint. Pottery would be more appropriate, but she had no pots out here. “I do not think that is why she takes avatars, though.”
The philosopher thought about it. One of the younger men murmured to him, and Sekhaf nodded. “They allow us to experience the divine presence safely. Yet why should that matter to Hathirekhmet? She is the sun’s hammer, the desert wind; humans are not meant to be close to such.”
Nefret tested the edge of her flint with her thumb, feeling it press against her calloused skin. “It is not for us. It is for her, for the goddess—so she may experience the world without destroying it. That is what I think.”
Why else should the avatar live so lavishly? She ate foods sweet and spicy, had garments of smooth linen and supple leather and delicate fur. It was a feast of the senses, for one who otherwise could never know such. If the sun descended to earth, she would burn it to a cinder. Hathirekhmet chose avatars because she was curious about the world she saw so far beneath.
Nefret sometimes wondered if the goddess did not envy Amuthamse, who enjoyed all the earth’s bounty without fear.
The men whispered to each other, voices rising in excitement. Sekhaf clapped his hands, sharply, and they ceased. “We distract her with our chatter,” he said. “Nefret, our thanks. You have given us much to think about. We
“She can sense Amuthamse’s approach,” Nefret said; it was the answer the priests gave. She could feel Sekhaf’s dissatisfaction with it. He loved the purity of thought, the clean lines of truth. Anything blurry or untidy displeased him.
No one at the temple thought as he did. They had their scriptures and their answers; they had rituals to carry out, ceremonies to conduct, comforting patterns to shape their lives. None of them had Sekhaf’s restless, questioning mind. Nefret did not blame them; she had not questioned, either. Not until the philosopher came.
And his presence, which she had feared would distract her, honed the blade of her own thoughts. If Nefret tested her body less often against the sun, she tested her mind more, contemplating the nature of Hathirekhmet. When Sekhaf went to the village for food, she meditated in silence; when he returned, she had new answers for him, new fragments of memory dredged up from the forgotten corners of the past.
In the desert, there was no time. The rains fell in the mountains and brought the river’s flood, Amuthamse’s bounty for mankind; Nefret knew nothing of it. The villagers left their offerings and she ignored them, fish bones drying to glass in the sun.
Other men came.
One by one, following word of Sekhaf. Philosophers, men of the mind instead of the temple, their fingers stained from scribing. Some, meaning well, tried to hunt lizards for Nefret, so she might spend more time in thought. Sekhaf taught them better. They waited with patience as she dug out scorpions; they trailed after her in silence as she walked the rounds of her rocks, bare feet hard and cracked as horn against the stone. They did not lust after her, as that man had in Merentari’s house; one might as soon lust after the desert. But they asked her questions, and listened when she answered.
“They say it is because we cannot draw near Hathirekhmet ourselves,” Nefret said, breaking a new flint to use for butchering lizards. Her hands had turned into bony, calloused things, strong as old leather. The sun warmed her filthy hair. “The ancient priests built a pyramid that reached up to the very sky, seeking the goddess, and were burnt when they climbed to the top. Ordinary people cannot bear her presence and live.”
Men both older and younger deferred to Sekhaf here; they spoke among themselves, but only he spoke to Nefret. He said, “But the perfection of her avatars protects them?”
“Imperfections are flaws that can break the vessel,” Nefret said, cracking a clean face off the flint. Pottery would be more appropriate, but she had no pots out here. “I do not think that is why she takes avatars, though.”
The philosopher thought about it. One of the younger men murmured to him, and Sekhaf nodded. “They allow us to experience the divine presence safely. Yet why should that matter to Hathirekhmet? She is the sun’s hammer, the desert wind; humans are not meant to be close to such.”
Nefret tested the edge of her flint with her thumb, feeling it press against her calloused skin. “It is not for us. It is for her, for the goddess—so she may experience the world without destroying it. That is what I think.”
Why else should the avatar live so lavishly? She ate foods sweet and spicy, had garments of smooth linen and supple leather and delicate fur. It was a feast of the senses, for one who otherwise could never know such. If the sun descended to earth, she would burn it to a cinder. Hathirekhmet chose avatars because she was curious about the world she saw so far beneath.
Nefret sometimes wondered if the goddess did not envy Amuthamse, who enjoyed all the earth’s bounty without fear.
The men whispered to each other, voices rising in excitement. Sekhaf clapped his hands, sharply, and they ceased. “We distract her with our chatter,” he said. “Nefret, our thanks. You have given us much to think about. We
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