An Apostle’s Tale 0.2 – After the Fall

There came a crushing impact, and he distinctly felt every one of his bones shattered to splinters. And then he felt nothing except cool, damp stone against his hands and face.

In view of recent events he wasn’t ready to accept deliverance so easily, prudently remaining prone and motionless, preparing to meet whatever fresh abuse was about to commence with whatever dignity he could muster. No blow fell, however; no flame scorched him, no ice bit his flesh, no gaff pierced his vitals. After what seemed a sensible period of immobile anxiety, he relaxed enough to assess his new situation.

Wherever he was, the river hadn’t followed. Deep silence lay upon him like a heavy blanket. The stone under his hands felt level and smooth and reassuringly solid. Wherever he was, he couldn’t fall and wasn’t likely to drown.

So far, so good.

He opened his eyes and winced. A large, sandaled foot rested just inches in front of his splayed hands, ideally situated to launch a kick at his face, which seemed depressingly probable, under the circumstances.

Steady, now. Anything’s better than the river.

He drew a careful breath that sounded like a gale in that soundless precinct, lifted his gaze and beheld a striking apparition. A well-formed male of superior height stood over him, broad shoulders surmounted by the graceful neck and head of an ibis. He’d seen no end of images depicting otherwise human figures sporting the cap and countenance of lesser organisms, but meeting one up close and personal struck him as both comical and more than a little weird. A brilliantly white pleated skirt wrapped the figure’s waist, held in place by a belt of braided silver thread. Thick gold bands encircled its muscular arms, and beneath its long, curved bill hung an immense gold collar densely crusted with precious stones. Though not a religious man, he knew enough to recognize Thoth when he saw him.

He looks just like his picture.

Exactly what business the heavenly scribe had with him he couldn’t begin to guess. He cautiously raised himself to a kneeling position, keeping his hands respectfully open and palms-down on his legs, at the same time straining to keep his eyes on Thoth while holding his head piously inclined toward the floor. He held his peace, fearing it might be considered presumptuous to address a living deity without invitation. The god cocked its narrow head sideways in a familiar twitchy, disarmingly bird-like way and returned his gaze with a single round, unblinking eye. After what he thought an uncomfortably long time it seemed clear that Thoth was in no hurry to explain himself, which, he decided, gave him tacit leave to look elsewhere.

He saw before him a windowless rectangular chamber perhaps thirty feet long and twenty wide, dimly lighted from no obvious source. Six stout, square, and, he deemed, structurally unnecessary pillars supported the low ceiling, marching away from him in two even rows to the far wall, which lay cloaked in gloom. Apart from the bare stone floor, every surface was smoothly plastered and brightly painted. A large scale occupied the room’s center; two shallow copper bowls suspended from a plain wooden cross-tree perched atop a plain wooden post. A lone white feather was its only burden. At Thoth’s left heel sat the largest crocodile he’d ever seen, its eyes closed, to all appearances asleep, which didn’t make him feel any better about it.

Decorated stone benches ran the length of the walls on either side. The bench to his right stood empty, while that on his left held a stately panel of robed figures, perhaps a dozen serious-looking men, each sitting stiffly erect, each crowned by the regal menes headscarf and false beard reserved for kings, each wearing an identically stony expression that could be interpreted as solemnity, or possibly boredom, or even indigestion. None betrayed the slightest interest in him. On reflection, he preferred it that way.

As best he could tell, the wall above the empty bench to his right was entirely covered by unremarkable scenes depicting the unremarkable life of an unremarkable man – gathering bundles of grass; stooping under the weight of a heavy basket; dragging a large block of stone at the end of a rope, wielding a hammer and chisel. With a shock only slightly less jarring than falling into a flaming river, it dawned on him that the chamber was a tomb, and the unremarkable man was he, the unremarkable life was his, and the unremarkable scenes might be evidence at some manner of trial that appeared poised to begin.

“So I’m dead after all,” he said in a low whisper that hissed about the soundless crypt like falling sand, “and now I’m to be judged.”

With the sober panel of dead kings lending gravity to the proceedings, Thoth would weigh his heart against the feather. Should it be found too heavily freighted with sin and falsity, the great reptile at his heel – Eater of Souls, he remembered – would consume the guilty organ on the spot.

The surety of one’s demise might, in another man, precipitate a sense of loss, a moment of grief, a touch of apprehension, at least. Instead, kneeling on the hard, gray floor of his eternal abode, he felt a wave of relief wash over him like wind off the river on a stifling afternoon. Muscles relaxed and anxieties bled swiftly away to nothing, leaving him feeling agreeably tired, like a diligent laborer who completes a difficult job to own satisfaction. He’d worked hard at difficult jobs for as long as he could remember in return for little comfort and no peace at all. Life held no particular joy for him, and the thought of being parted from it occasioned no particular sadness. Like all creatures, he preferred living to the alternative, if only in principle, but at that moment, kneeling before eternity, he could think of no good reason to plead for reprieve. If he expected no better from the next world than he had received in this one, neither did he expect any worse. And if he had been an unremarkable man, he had also been a reasonably honest one, and he saw no reason to fear much in the way of remedial action. He wasn’t really up on the procedures involved, but he was confident the transition could be accomplished in relatively efficient and straightforward order.

“I’m ready,” he said, spreading his hands wide before him and touching his forehead to the floor, “to take my place among the dead.”

“You are not dead.”

It wasn’t a voice so much as a sigh, at once everywhere and nowhere, the secretive murmur of a breeze passing through a papyrus swamp. But it was not Thoth who had pronounced his living status. He became aware of a white figure that he sensed had been present all along. There was a dead man seated at the far end of the room upon a carved wooden throne, atop a low stone dais, beneath a plain white canopy. The morbid figure was tightly bound to the neck in ribbons of white linen, pale hands crossed upon his chest, one grasping a golden hook and the other a jeweled flail. The dual crown of the Two Lands sat upon his head. It could be no other than Osiris, Lord of the Underworld, august magistrate of that spectral court and Egypt’s foremost authority on death.

“If I’m not dead, then what am I doing in my tomb?” He didn’t mean to sound impertinent or impatient, but the good news was surprisingly disappointing. If his ordeal of the last few minutes wasn’t prelude to the Gardens of Plenty, then somebody was jerking him around.

“This is not your tomb,” Osiris replied, his face blank and still and so pale as to be almost transparent.

Of course it’s my tomb, he thought. Isn’t that my life scribbled all over the walls? He was about to make that point when he remembered that his family owned no crypt – could scarce afford to dig a shallow hole in the sand, for that matter – and that the sumptuously decorated sepulcher around him lay far beyond his meager personal resources. Has a patron made some provision without my knowledge? Who do I know with money?

“If it’s not my tomb, then what is it?

“It is a place between.”

Well, that tells me exactly nothing, he thought, and then nearly gagged as it belatedly occurred to him that Osiris could conceivably have the capacity to hear mortal thoughts and might not appreciate sardonic commentary, however valid. When, after several tense moments, Osiris made no move to punish the unspoken affront, he concluded that his private musings were still private and decided to risk a cautious nudge; maybe encourage the King of the Dead to more helpful revelation.

“If you’ll forgive my ignorance, a place between where and where else?”

“Between life and death.”