Reeds of Time

The third time I died, the Gates swung wide again.

Not Saint Peter's pearly ones that my grandmother sang about. Not the ones that Allâh opened for my Muslim friends. The Gates open to Duat where the sun travels under ground at night from west to east, where the blessèd dead cluster in the shadow of a jackal god, and where the ka-soul begins its final journey, if you're lucky. I haven't been lucky yet.

"Dessie! Do you hear me?" Oswin's voice dragged me back to the sun-baked pavement. His face, creased and leathery from the desert, hovered over me. I caught a glimpse of a hawk god fluttering over his shoulder, riding the wind in the cloudless sky. I blinked; the god disappeared, leaving only the coppery smell of blood to saturate the air.

My fingers scrabbled in a mound of sand. Always sand, everywhere sand. There's no end to the sand in Egypt, no matter how often the fellahs sweep to keep things tidy for the tourists. I shivered, although the morning had been warm and on its way to blistering hot.

"Welcome to Alaska, Oswin." I said, but the joke that I found so hilarious the first time I came out to Egypt fell flat. A jagged pain carved a path from my collar bone down through my ribs when I breathed.

Oswin squeezed my hand. His face was close enough to smell the spearmint gum he always chewed, but the drum beating in my head drowned out whatever he said. Sunlight danced off the cliffs behind Hatshepsut's temple (Hatshepsut sounds like Hot Chicken Soup, another stupid joke we tell the tourists.) I fumbled for my sunglasses. Gone. I squeezed my eyes closed. The glare faded to red haze.

"Dessie, stay with me, now," Oswin shouted. "Stay with me."

I drifted along a dark road beside a river. Misty passages forked off the main path; yet I came unerringly to the ornate gate in a wall nine cubits high. A crocodile-faced goddess with the body of a hippopotamus prowled the iron wall with the easy grace of a cat, despite her girth. Her hooded eyes scanned the riverbank, looking for the ferryman's boat, I suppose. Or maybe, like me, she searched for Setne. Setne Khaemwaset. Prince. Magician. Lover.