Cascadia

8. The Book of the Dead

The Queen stretched out her arms and welcomed the coming of the night. Beneath Nut's black shroud, she could travel without fear that word of her whereabout might reach her brother's ears. Long gone was the regal gowns of silk and linen, replaced with the rough, itchy fabric of the commoner. A dark shawl covered her hair while a long, black veil disguised her face. To those who encountered her, she appeared as little more than a widow in mourning.

The captain of the barge on which the Queen found herself was a crude man with a fondness for beautiful, young women. Convincing him to grant her passage on his boat had been easy. A few flirtatious words and a brief glimpse of her bare thigh had been more than enough for him to offer her safe passage to Abydos. Thus, the Queen and her two most trusted priestesses – cleverly disguised as slaves – accompanied the well-preserved body of her husband as they sailed quietly along the gentle river.

The barge's elongated cabin was softly lit by lanterns that reeked heavily of rendered animal fat. Its walls were manufactured by reeds tightly woven together to prevent entry from both light and weather. The queen took a knee beside the funereal bed where her husband's body lie supine beneath a roof made of thatched palm. His body still reeked of pungent anointing oils while thick plumes of frankincense and myrrh engulfed him. She took the dead man's hand into her own, careful not to disturb the ornate wrappings stretched around him. When she lowered her head, she couldn't help but allow the tears to escape. He had been her lover and her king, and now he was gone. She'd done everything within her power to bring him back, but it had all been for naught. Cosmic judgment had been administered, fixed and non-transmutable.

"Osiris, my beloved," she bemoaned softly into her chest. "Gone from me, forever shall you be. Though I mourn your passing, I wish you safe passage into the underworld. May your new kingdom be as blessed and prosperous as the one you've left behind."

It was late when the barge finally made port in Abydos. The crew hurried to secure the barge for the evening, lest they miss their opportunity for visiting the local taphouse to quench their thirst for beer and women.

A group of priests dressed in white linen crossed by sashes made of leopard skin approached the boat. Beneath the brilliant glow of a dozen burning lamps, the queen stepped off the barge. The high priest at the head of welcoming party knelt before her and planted two gentle kisses upon her naked feet. Four lower class priests marched past her with a stretcher made of cedar branches and animal skin. With great strength, the men placed the heavily atrophied body of their king upon the stretcher, wrapped him in the finest of linens, and carried him away back to the temple, followed by a procession of other priests who chanted their sacred hymns while cleansing the path with billows of incense smoke emanating from swinging censers attached to golden chains. The queen's faithful priestesses walked before her, carrying the torches that lit her way for as she followed the chanting procession, her head weighted down with grief.

Abydos. The Sacred City. Her husband had loved this place ever since the first visit. For years, the king and the queen of Kemet would sail up and down the river Ar, visiting the countless tribes and teaching them the arts of agriculture, husbandry, tool crafting, pottery, music, and poetry. Of all the lands they'd seen, her husband loved this place best. Situated on the between the black lands of the river and the foothills of Amentet, he often spoke of the energy that seemed to seep from the very earth on which the queen now stood. Because of this, her husband often returned to Abydos when he sought peace and rejuvenation. A temple had been constructed in his honor and the citizens were eager to give him prestigious offerings of cattle, fresh fruits and vegetables, and an endless stream of flattery.

The queen and her entourage were met by silent streets that held little signs of life beyond the occasional rat seeking their supper and the agile felines who stalked them through the alleyways. Window lights were all but extinguished and the shadowy market stalls had all been emptied for the night. The pallbearers made no complaints as they struggled to carry the king's body up a steep incline on the outskirts of the village. At the very top of the hill, made visible by a multitude of lamps burning along the outer wall, sat an omnipresent, flat-roofed structure build with mudbrick; plain-looking yet somehow made beautiful by the sheer power radiating from it.