The Sublime Seven Read online

  “Like what? I have a lot on my mind, Moswen. Please get to the point.”

  “Your engagement to Nephi...?”

  Jamila felt tears well up., and fought them back. She would not cry. She would not weep out here in front of everyone. She wouldn’t give them anything else to gossip about.

  “What engagement? There is none, and I have no desire to discuss it.”

  Moswen nodded. “I know. And we won’t. He’s an entitled dolt,” she said, louder now. “You’re wise to be rid of him.”

  Jamila didn’t respond. Only two people stood in front of her now, and her anxiety ratcheted up. The supervisor skulking in the background was known for his sharp tongue and sharper oversight. She would get no extra helpings today.

  “Anyway, I don’t care about him. I want to talk about your father.”

  “Perhaps later,” Jamila mumbled, then stepped up to the counter, withdrawing the household bowl from her basket. She handed it to the attendant behind the food table, who wouldn’t meet her gaze, then watched the reduced portion being scooped into it. Just enough for one person’s dinner.

  “You there,” Moswen hissed to the server. “You can do better than that. Akhon’s service to Khafre is well-known. Do you want the gods to see your hard heart?”

  Jamila noticed the volume was just loud enough for the worker to hear, and no one else. She herself would not have attempted to cajole the hapless man; at least not unless she was much hungrier than she was now.

  The man ladled several additional spoonfuls into the bowl, then waved her away. Jamila was happy for the plentiful meal, but embarrassed by his mild disgust.

  “Thank you, Moswen. I need to get home, now. May we talk this evening?”

  “Yes. I’ll be over to help with your father’s bath. The stench is wafting into my own apartment,” she added in a voice that was not unkind.

  ***

  Among Moswen’s dubious talents was her knack for consummate timing. Later that evening, after the meal was gone and Akhon’s eyelid was drooping with fatigue and a full belly, Moswen barged through front door. Her chubby arms were filled with towels, brushes, and perfumed soap paste.

  Jamila’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “We can’t afford that. I can barely manage olive oil and ash for bathing.”

  “It’s a gift. Did you get fresh water today?”

  “Yes, of course. But it’s not boiled. There wasn’t time after my shift at the bakery.”

  “Yes, yes. I know you’re working extra hours. Another reason you’ll need my help with him,” Moswen said, removing her wrap and fixing her gaze upon Akhon. Jamila’s heart was moved by the expression she saw on the woman’s face; it was mirrored in her own on a daily basis.

  Compassion was a side to the pesky woman she had never seen before.

  “I’ll do his private parts. I’m a married woman. It’s not like I don’t know my way around down there.”

  Jamila laughed. She realized it was the first time since her father’s accident that she had done so. “That is a kind offer, but I can’t ask you to do that. It won’t be a pleasant task.”

  “Clearly,” Moswen sniffed.

  “Your husband would object to this. I can’t allow it.” Jamila’s tone was unconvincing even to her own ears.

  “My husband is attending his whore. He could not care less if I wash the genitals of a camel, let alone a man. Why don’t you go fetch some more water? The task will take more than we have. Also, on the way, take this and smash it in the Eastern cemetery.”

  The pudgy hand reached into a pocket and withdrew a pottery shard. Jamila took the object, reading the amateurish inscription.

  “Moswen, we don’t believe in demons. The silly practice of smashing shards in the cemetery won’t dispel a Sickness Demon lurking inside my father because it doesn’t exist. His condition is due to an accident, not evil spirits.”

  “Why take a chance? That’s the way I see it. Now, just do as I ask, and let me tend to your stinky father. You’ll both feel better once he’s clean.”

  Moswen turned her back and went to work on Akhon. When she began pulling off the linen wrap below his waist, Jamila ducked out the front door. Her father’s half-hearted protests followed by Moswen’s soft scolding made her smile.

  The crescent moon floated above the horizon, even though Ra’s evening boat, Semektet, had not completed its journey for the day. The air was warmer than it had been, a change she had been dreading. The bakery would be unbearably hot during the warm months, and she would have farther to walk back and forth to her job once she and her father were evicted. The esteemed neighborhood in which they now lived was reserved for the most skilled in Khafre’s work force, not lowly bakers nor disabled stone masons. She expected to be moved within the week.

  She forced anxiety from her mind and tried to enjoy a moment to herself as she trudged in the direction of the village cistern. She would indulge Moswen on the way and perform the pottery shard ceremony. It was the least she could do in exchange for bathing her father.

  What was behind the woman’s sudden beneficence? Their nosy neighbor had never struck her as helpful or selfless, yet there she was giving Jamila’s father a bath, a task that no one in their right mind would seek out. She remembered the words from earlier: There’s much you don’t know, child. Jamila had been too distracted to ponder their meaning, but she did so now. In her preoccupied state, she didn’t see the young man lounging near the beer vendors until a low, familiar whistle caused her to turn.

  “What do you want?” she said, watching Nephi detach himself from a group of young men and stumble, drunkenly, toward her.

  “I miss you, Jamila. I wish you could find it in your heart to forgive me.” There were tears in the brooding eyes, but were they for her or for himself? Nephi’s only hardship was not marrying his first choice of female; there were plenty in line to take her place.

  “I’m sorry, Nephi, but my mind is made up. There will be another girl for you,” she added, feeling a stab of jealousy. She quashed it quickly. There was no longer room in her heart for romantic nonsense.

  “I’m not a bad man, Jamila. I just made a mistake.”

  She noted the chin quiver, and sighed. “Of course, you’re not a bad man, but your impulsiveness cost me and my father everything. A happy marriage cannot come from such ominous beginnings. You know this.”

  He nodded, wearing a comical, lopsided frown. He was too drunk to appear properly miserable.

  She hurried on before her conviction wavered. “Go back to your friends, Nephi. Enjoy your evening. I have work to do.” She used the coldest tone she could summon.

  He stopped on unsteady legs where the road ended and the funerary ground began. She proceeded without looking back.

  The moon was higher now and Ra’s boat had vanished. Unlike some, Jamila didn’t find the builders’ cemetery eerie or sinister. Surrounding her were merely the remains of humans who had passed into the glories of the Afterlife. They could do her no harm, and since she didn’t believe in demons or evil spirits, she was as safe here as anywhere else. She set her bucket on the sand, located a hefty rock, placed Moswen’s shard upon the ground, and smashed it into several pieces.

  “There, Sickness Demon. Consider yourself vanquished.” She brushed off her hands, gathered her pail, and turned to leave.

  Movement in the farthest corner of the grounds caught her eye.

  “Who is there?” she called, pivoting and scanning the perimeter. Nephi was gone, and so, it seemed, was everyone else. Even the beer vendors in the distance had packed up for the night.

  She refused to allow fear into her heart. Ghosts couldn’t hurt her. Demons didn’t exist.

  She heard a noise now – the scuffling of feet on rocks and sand. She squinted her eyes in the gloom to see what approached. Finally, a form coalesced, still too distant to see clearly.

  “What do you want?” she called, keeping her voice steady and clear. It would not do to show unease to whomever – or wha
tever – was out there. “Reveal yourself.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” came the scratchy reply. The voice made the fine hairs on her neck prickle. “Trust me. You do not want that.”

  The figure moved slightly closer, then stopped. The ragged linen clothing and bandaged limbs revealed nothing other than a skeletal frame. The head was swathed in gauze strips, mummy-like, except for the glittering eyes visible through a slash within the shredded fibers. The mouth was likewise partially covered, allowing the whispers to escape.

  The reflective eyes, the moonlight, and the setting felt suddenly, poignantly familiar, though she had no idea why. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she said, hoping her voice sounded brave and confident.

  “I live nearby. And the same could be asked of you.”

  “I…I came to dispel a demon,” Jamila replied, dismayed as the figure shuffled closer, then relieved when it stopped.

  “You believe in demons?” The words slurred, as if the speaker were missing teeth.

  “No, of course not. I was doing it as a favor.”

  “That’s kind of you, then. Most young girls aren’t brave enough to venture out here after dark.” There might be more missing than teeth, so mangled was the creature’s speech.

  “I am not most girls.”

  “I can see that. There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, at least.” The words were punctuated by a dry cough which might have been laughter.

  “I must be going. My father is expecting me.” She turned to leave. She would not run, but would walk as sedately out of the cemetery as she had when entering it.

  “Not yet, please, child. Give me a few moments of your time. It would be a mercy. I don’t get to speak to people often.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t skulk about in cemeteries, then.” Jamila wished she had brought the knife her father had given her on her twelfth birthday. She had forgotten it in her rush to get out of the apartment.

  “You are quite lovely. Who are your parents?” The voice seemed wistful now, somewhat diminishing the ghoulish quality.

  “What business is that of yours?”

  Another dry cough, sounding even more like laughter now.

  “None, I suppose. I’m just curious, and as I said, I don’t often get the chance to talk to people.”

  Inexplicably, Jamila felt a flicker of sympathy. “What is wrong with you?” she said in a kind voice. She could afford to be gracious, as long as the figure maintained an acceptable distance. She could outrun the emaciated, shambling creature with ease, especially with a head start.

  “You haven’t guessed? Are you prettier than you are intelligent?”

  With dawning horror, Jamila realized whom – or rather what – she was speaking to.

  “You’re a leper.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry, though. It isn’t as contagious as most believe. You’re in no danger at this distance.”

  Despite the reassuring words, Jamila was filled with fear and revulsion.

  “You remind me of someone,” the leper continued. “Is your father Akhon, the finest stone mason in Giza? You have his nose and mouth.”

  “You know him? How can that be?”

  Another cough-laugh. “Do you think I was born like this? I knew him many years ago. Is it true about his accident?”

  “Yes.” Jamila was listening hard to the whispers, not just the words themselves. Was this a man or a woman? It was impossible to tell from the skeletal, shrouded shape.

  “Such a pity. May the gods have mercy on him.”

  “Thank you. How do you know him?”

  “It’s time you were on your way. The whores and thieves will be out soon. A nice girl like you should be safe in her home.”

  Abruptly, the leper turned and shuffled away.

  “Wait,” Jamila called, but the shadowy form was already lost in the gloom.

  The creature was right about the late hour. Jamila darted from the cemetery and quickly finished the tasks she had set out to do.

  “You took your time,” Moswen said, when she returned home.

  “I was merely doing your bidding.” Jamila placed the water next to her father, who now wore a clean loincloth. His eye stared at her in wordless horror. She stifled a giggle.

  “You missed the worst of the bath. Just as I planned.” Moswen winked.

  “Ah, I see what you did.”

  “Two birds, one stone.”

  “Thank you, Moswen. We don’t deserve such kindness.”

  “Of course, you do. All good people deserve kindness. Now, wash his feet. They’re disgusting.”

  Jamila nodded, squatted down, and rubbed soap paste upon her father’s feet. Without looking up, she said, “What did you mean earlier? ‘There’s much I don’t know.’”

  Moswen combed Akhon’s freshly washed hair, taking her time in answering. “Did you know that your mother was not the first woman to whom your father was engaged? There was another, an arranged marriage, not one of love, as was the case with your mother.”

  “I never knew that. Did he tell you? How do you know?”

  The plain face turned melancholy. “Because I was that woman.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “Look at me, child. Do you see a face that might once have been beautiful, even before I got fat? Don’t answer that. I was promised to Akhon and thrilled to be so. He was...underwhelmed by the match, but at least pleased to be connected to such a well-respected family as mine. That all changed when he met your mother.” Moswen sighed, then continued combing her father’s wet hair as gentle snores wafted from his open mouth. Jamila noticed the affection in her movements now. She watched the woman tend to her disabled father – supine, asleep, and drooling – like a devoted spouse.

  “You still love him?” It was less a question than a statement.

  “Yes. I never stopped.”

  “But you married someone else. Your husband has provided a comfortable life, much better than Akhon would have given you.”

  “It’s true I have all the material things I want. But I was denied marital love and never produced a child for either my husband or me to cherish. We have an understanding, Jamila. That’s why I’m here bathing your father, and my husband is with his mistress.”

  “I see,” she said, looking at the pudgy force-of-nature in a new light.

  “And that’s why I want to help. Because I’m in a position to do so, and because Akhon will always be the love of my life. Perhaps that sounds pathetic, but I don’t care. And I would prefer you not discuss it with anyone. People have forgotten and I’d like to keep it that way.” The lips puckered into a tight circle, and Moswen wouldn’t meet her eyes. For one so immersed in gossip, the irony of the woman’s request was not lost on Jamila. Still, she would respect her wish, for reasons of honor and also because she needed her help. Desperately.

  “Of course, Moswen. You have my promise. But once we’re forced to move, you won’t be close enough to visit often.”

  “We’ll see about that. Perhaps I can put in a good word with the Clerks.”

  “I would appreciate that very much,” she said, then dismissed the idea. Jamila refused to get her hopes up.

  “He’s all finished, and I must go.” Moswen stood, gave Akhon a kiss on his bandaged head, and patted Jamila’s shoulder on her way out the door and into the night.

  Soon after, Jamila lay on her pallet, pondering the strange events of her evening before her eyes closed in exhaustion.

  When she returned home from work late the next afternoon, she decided to talk to Akhon. Her mind had been abuzz all day, and she needed answers. She hoped he would be lucid.

  “Papa, I brought you some bread for now. I’ll go to the food complex shortly.”

  Akhon was sitting up, gazing about the apartment as if for the first time. Jamila tore off a piece of the perfectly browned loaf and handed it to her father. He glanced at the object in his fingers as though it were a viper.

  “It’s bread. Eat it.”

&nb
sp; “Are you certain it’s not poisoned?” His eye was wild now, like a horse about to bolt from its stable.

  “Why would it be poisoned?”

  He whispered, dismay evident in his voice, “She was here again today.”

  “Moswen?”

  A nod of the head. His jawline had been shaved without even a single nick to the sagging skin. Her father’s appearance had aged ten years, but he looked cleaner and healthier at that moment than he had in weeks.

  “She did a fine job of shaving you. Nobody wants to poison you, least of all Moswen. She’s agreed to help me take care of you. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  A vigorous shake of the head now.

  “Why not?”

  “She loathes me,” he replied.

  “That’s not true. She actually loves you. She told me herself last night after you went to sleep. Why did you never tell me you were engaged to her before Mama?”

  “I only just remembered it last night, during the...bath.” He shuddered. “Perhaps I knew it before the accident. I can’t say for sure.”

  “Oh, Papa. Of course you knew it before. What do you remember?”

  “Everything is foggy, Jamila. I recall a beautiful woman who must have been your mother. I see her holding you, bundled in the wrap you wear now when the air is cool.”

  “My swaddling?”

  “I think so. You were a chubby, happy baby with two little teeth that peeked out when you giggled. Your mother loved it when you giggled. It made her giggle too.” Akhon’s eye closed. The corners of his mouth turned up dreamily.

  Jamila frowned. “That can’t be right. Mama died giving birth to me.”

  The eyelid popped open. “No. That’s not what happened. But I don’t remember what did happen to her, Jamila. I don’t remember!” He was getting upset now.

  “Sshhh, don’t fret. We’ll talk about it later. Eat your bread now,” she said, taking a portion for herself and chewing it while ruminating on his provocative declaration.

  Movement at the doorway interrupted her thoughts.

  “Hello, Jamila. I hope you had a good day. I’ve brought a few pomegranates. Just in case...” Moswen gestured to the solitary chit placed in the market basket next to the bowl.