The Call of Eternity

47 | THE DESERT

Desert of Thamud, Autumn. Reign of Ramesses, Year 7

Urhi-Teshub rolled his shoulders in the vain hope the movement might loosen his leather tunic from his back, where it stuck, unpleasant and hot, against his skin. It slid free just as the wind gusted anew. A blinding surge of gritty desert sand blasted over him, breaching the gaps between his armor and his flesh, clinging to his skin. He cursed, eyeing the traders in their long, linen robes and headscarves—the colorful material wound around their heads, and over their noses and mouths—envying them for the hundredth time. His heavy leather tunic and kilt were useless in this wilderness of rock and sand. Nothing obstructed the horizon. In every direction, the sky reached down to the dunes, a basin, encircling them, a solid wall of brilliant blue. He tugged at the neck of his armor, his back itching, regretting for the thousandth time his refusal to accept a robe when he had been offered one, preferring to be battle ready. Too late, he realized, he would be able to see an enemy's approach from an hour's march distance. Plenty of time to prepare.

Under the shade of his hand, he glared at the unforgiving sky, the sun a brutal blister against the cerulean blue, its heat relentless, unending. Not a single cloud marred the sky. And yet, he had learned soon enough, the torture of Thamud did not end when the sun lowered its great, swollen weight below the western horizon. Granted, for a short while, the air would become pleasant, comfortable even, but as soon as dusk deepened into night, the last of the heat would dissipate from the sand and stone, dying as the stars winked to life, brilliant and sharp against the soaring curve of the blue-black canopy.

Each night, as he warmed his hands against the murky orange and green flames of dried camel dung, he would watch Istara. She sat, her eyes unfocused, fixed on the flames of her fire, lost in her memories, traveling the hidden corridors of her past, her tears exhausted, replaced by an aching silence, empty, desolate. Heartbreaking.

Each night he longed to go to her, to comfort her, yet he knew he was not who she wanted. Not yet, at least. So he stayed away, and kept his distance, grateful just to be able to see her, to protect her, to watch over her. He tore his gaze away from the endless horizon and looked at his feet instead, as one sandaled foot moved in front of the other, an endless amount of steps. He counted them until thirst forced him to stop. Untying a water skin from a nearby camel's baggage straps, he drank, deep. Sixty days until the winter solstice. Twenty-one days since their departure from Pi-Ramesses. Fifty-four days until they would approach Ishtar's blue gate. Every day, the same. Unchanging. Relentless. Maddening. Maybe it would never end. Maybe he was dead after all and this was the Under Realm, an unending, vast desert, one he would walk for eternity.

He glanced back along the column of camels, to where the closed linen hangings of Istara's wicker palanquin flapped in the wind. Ahead, the palanquin carrying Baalat swayed to the rhythm of the camel's gentle gait. She had left her hangings tied back, and sat gazing over the column of the caravan toward the west, toward the long-vanished Egyptian delta.

Teshub joined Urhi-Teshub. He held out his hand, nodding at the water skin. Urhi-Teshub passed it to him. Teshub drank, gulping, noisy, uncaring of the water he wasted. He handed the skin back, wiping his arm over his mouth.

"You need to get over your hatred for these beasts," Urhi-Teshub muttered, tying the water skin back into place. It slapped, soft, against the camel's shoulder.

Teshub shot a disparaging look at the creature. "I'd rather die of thirst than dirty my hands touching one of them." He scowled. "Filthy, slobbering, noisy, ugly things. I really don't know what the Creator was thinking when he brought them to life."

"Perhaps he was thinking: 'These will be useful for crossing deserts,'" Urhi-Teshub said, wry. "Or, would you rather carry one of those palanquins on your back?"

Teshub said nothing. He looked away, sour. "What I wouldn't give to have my ship again." He nodded at Baalat, slumped, exhausted, on a bed of cushions, her body swaying with the movement of the palanquin. Smuts of desert dust smeared her brow and cheeks and clung to the dried sweat staining her gown. Tendrils of her hair hung loose, pulled free from its tight coils. They danced around her face and neck, caught in eddies of the wind. "My sister should not have to travel like this. It's degrading."

Urhi-Teshub cut a discreet look at Baalat. Despite the rigors of the journey and her deep sorrow, Baalat still bore the timeless beauty, elegance and grace of a queen. It was not difficult to see the shadow of the goddess Istara had once worshiped; the one who had offered to spare Tanu-Hepa's life if Istara learned to become a healer. Urhi-Teshub tore his gaze away from Baalat, ashamed, thinking of how he had patronized Istara, assuming her words the wishful fancies of a child—how he had told her the gods never spoke to mortals. But she had not made it up. It had been real. Baalat had come to her, and had used her light to spare Tanu-Hepa's life, just as Teshub had used his to bring Urhi-Teshub back from the brink of death. Istara's prescient words,  said in the sweet innocent voice of a child returned, haunting him: "My lord, if the gods have chosen me for a task, it means they have chosen you, too, because I cannot obey them without your permission."

Istara had understood, even then, the gods had chosen them, while he had remained willfully blind. He glanced at Teshub. The once-god glared, fierce, at the camel carrying his sister, as though trying to strike the beast dead with his thoughts. Even after two months in the company of Hatti's fallen storm god, Urhi-Teshub still hadn't become accustomed to the idea gods could become mortal. He accepted it, but didn't dwell on it or try to understand his part in it. Apart from complaining about the lack of his ship, Teshub no longer spoke of his previous incarnation as an immortal. Urhi-Teshub preferred it that way, he didn't like knowing how much his world paled in comparison.

Though he was grateful for his second chance, Urhi-Teshub longed to put the events of the past months behind him, to return to what he knew: The weight of his sword on his back. The pull of his horses' reins in his hands. The bite of a cold, winter morning upon the terrace of the Court of the Sun, a warm cup of spiced wine in his hand. He reached up and tightened the leather thong holding his hair back, enduring a fresh ripple of bitterness, wondering anew why his path had to be so difficult. When would it end? How long until he ruled once more as Hatti's rightful king? Had he not been patient enough? Obedient enough? Had he not honored the gods enough? Without thinking, he began to pray to Teshub for his aid. He stopped, catching himself. What could Teshub do for him now? He was alone. Perhaps he always had been.

He cast another look over his shoulder, eyeing Istara's closed palanquin. His hand moved to the pouch tied to his belt, feeling the reassuring shape of her pendant tucked within, wrapped in an embroidered piece of linen. Perhaps tonight she might look up at him, might meet his eyes, might allow him to join her by her fire—

His hands clenched into fists. He silenced his hopes, crushing them, savage, thinking of her inside her palanquin locked in grief, her heart raw, silenced, broken. She would not look at him tonight, or the next night, or the next. She loved a dead man. There was nothing he could do but wait. He scowled at the endless horizon, and walked on.