20,000 years before present.
On the East bank of the Red Sea.
Angry with Hanra for allowing her mother to share their home, Oqmar had wrapped bread and goat cheese in hessian, shouldered a bladder of sour wine and stamped his bare feet as he left their hut. A track led north to the hills, and within them to a favourite cave. First he had to pass through the ramshackle baked clay dwellings that made up their village. He kept his head down, hoping not to see, or be seen, by that witch, Kardinuta, Hanra’s mother. Living with the two women had become a conflagration. Flocks of birds rose to escape the cacophony of three shrieked and bellowed shoutings, and unless he raised his fist, he’d always lose the battles.
Neither did Oqmar want to be seen by Sar Abdul, the village elder. Oqmar would be cudgelled for not subjugating his women. But Sar Abdul hadn’t had his will broken by evil black eyes boring into his head.
Luckily, the midday sun blasted down, forcing life into the shadows. He scurried through the narrow shaded gaps between rough walls, occasionally glimpsing the flashes of sun reflecting off the sea to his left. He knew every corner, palm tree, derelict and new dwelling. This was his only world. Travellers told of other settlements to the north, but neither he nor his family had been further than four days walk from Jedir.
He’d had to walk for days when the goats he tried to control wandered off. He preferred his secondary role. When he fished, he’d been scarily out of sight of the township in the palm-leaf and clay boat he built with his brother.
He’d spent a few nights out there, lit by the moon and stars. He’d lie in his craft trying to sleep in the never-ending bobbing, wondering at the moving stars—some shooting through the blackness into the horizon. Some of the pinpricks were like the reds and blues of desert flowers. Perhaps they were reflections, the sky a pattern of tiny colours, each with a god to steer them and control destinies. He enjoyed rather than endured the solitude—not that he was ever completely alone. The sea-bats clicked their greetings while hunting water insects, as did the splashing flying fish, laughing at his attempts to grab them. The netted fish would spit at him, flapping for their feeble lives, as he exchanged their spirits for the survival of his family. And, again, the gods would speak with him. At least he supposed that was the purpose of long whistles, hums and groans in the black air. Sometimes, especially when a growling storm rolled near, sending fire to light up the sea, he’d see dreams even though he was awake-scared. He’d witnessed flying shiny pots, great fire, floating moons and sensed the silent screams of the not-yet-living.
His brother wouldn’t share the boat in times of impending storms, but Oqmar had faith in the boat, and thus his survival. But mainly it was because his visions of the screamed dances of the gods were so vivid.
Looking ahead he saw he was past the thorn stockade, where goats scampered away as they saw him. He’d been herded in there, as a child, with the others for lessons on milking, telling the truth, efficient slaughter, avoiding trouble, skinning and tanning, when lies were necessary, which berries and leaves helped life, and which would gripe him to death. He’d also had to learn the ancient stories.
The old people, who’d seen thirty wet seasons, and the young were shepherded into the stockade when it was too late to run for the reed beds in times of the Klar attacks. They’d taken anything and anybody they wanted years ago, but now the village had grown. Strength in numbers.
His shadow-self hid under his bare feet. The overhead sun hammered down, but his self-incriminating anger drove him on. He waved his goat-herding crook at the sun, but it ignored his threats.
In his cave it would be cooler and calmer. No one should be travelling in this baking midday, but he withstood it. His twenty wet seasons body was sufficiently strong, and his mind determined. Sweat could be replaced. If he didn’t seek solace in the womb of his cave, he’d kill Hanra, and that would be a shame.
A scuffled sound in the gravel behind made him turn. A brown deformed dog looked at him with tilted head. A twisted leg made it a reject by all but Oqmar. It earned its scraps by keeping small predators off the goats and herding them.
“Here, Kur. Take the chance of being kicked. We’re both cursed, but have each other, eh?” The dog shambled up and licked Oqmar ’s hand, no doubt finding remaining smears of cheese to savour.
“You have no women trouble, Kur. Shag the bitches and scamper away. No mothers come after you waving dead snakes, and hurling stones and spells.”
The old dog threw him a sympathetic look as if the witch had tried to feed it hemlock too.
“Kur, we’re going to the cave. I’m glad you’re here; you make a good vermin chaser.” Oqmar looked over at the glowing orange sandstone of neighbouring hills.
When he stood on the summit he could see a horizon of purple mountains.
The hour walk stretched as the scorching heat slowed both man and beast.
Perspiration stung Oqmar ’s eyes and his tongue felt swollen. With a dry voice he croaked to Kur. “I wish I’d brought fruit to wet our throats, friend, instead of wine, but at least it’ll help us forget our troubles.” It might bring him insight, he thought. It had once before when baffled in the morning over how to keep his fishing net from drifting too much in the current, his inebriated evening mind told him to tie stones on the ends.
As they staggered up the steep track, Oqmar, slipping on loose red stones, saw the narrow cave entrance. Kur saw it too and ran ahead, remembering the game where he played bite the rats.
Oqmar sat on a shaded rock, listening to yaps and the scrabbling of paws and claws. He didn’t want to be in full view of the cave entrance or the rats might head back in. He had no urge to catch them: their flesh too stringy and bitter to enjoy. He fell off the rock when he saw the scared animal emerging wasn’t a rat, nor Kur, but a wild cat.
He laughed as he brushed off the sandy dust from his long grey shirt. Now he knew there was no vermin in the cave. Nevertheless he waited for Kur to poke his nose into the sunlight.
“Good dog. Your cheese reward is on its way.”
The cave usually smelt musty with a combination of bat and rodent droppings, but Oqmar breathed in air that seemed fresh, with a tangy taste. Maybe the cat had been here a few weeks and driven away the smellier guests.
A feed-me whine brought another smile to Oqmar. He squeezed into a narrow gap a few strides into the darker recesses. Kur waited for him to get through before scrabbling after. A narrow zigzag passage with an uneven floor led them to an open space sufficiently expansive for several dwellings. White rays of sunlight allowed in through overhead fissures illuminated the mysteriously level sand floor. No animal droppings ever fouled the air in this section—another mystery.
He was in error; he’d spoiled in his cave. Not with his waste, only foxes tainted their own nest, but with gnawed bones, fish tails, and bread so green even Kur wouldn’t devour it.
He settled on a rough blanket and straw pillow he’d brought up several new moons before. The air in the cave was not only clean but remained consistently cool— an exhilarating respite from the daytime heat and night chills outside. No one moved out of their sordid dwellings at high sun, yet here he was in paradise, a flask of sour wine, loaf and ripe cheese. He laughed. Kur whined.
Oqmar laughed again, took a swig of the wine, and broke some cheese for the dog, which it took it to a dark corner, wolfed it down and settled. He couldn’t have tasted it. What a waste. The air that was so sweetly clean now carried the sour taste of goat cheese, dog’s breath, and acidic fermented grape juice. He broke off a lump of the gritty grey bread and let it dissolve in his mouth, being careful not to let any stones break more of his teeth.
How could this be bettered? He was away from the nags at home, a real friend snoring in a corner, and half a skin of wine to go.
Without knowing why, he awoke mid-dream. In that otherworld state he was adrift, midnight, in his boat, his net over the side playing with the fish, while he took in the stars. The memory of the dream was fading already, moments after waking, but was it the shooting stars or Kur? For the hound was howling, and in that cave each sound amplified beyond endurance.
“Enough, animal.” He threw a handful of sand in its direction. The howling diminuendoed to whimper, but Kur’s discomfort persisted. “Well, what is it?”
Instead of barking an intelligible response, Kur fled some invisible spirit, keeping to the cave wall, and with tail between its legs, scrambled through the fissure.
“You go then, back to looking out for the goats. I’ve a dream to catch. You always get spooked by nothing.” Oqmar looked around the cave, knowing that if Kur was frightened there would be a real cause, even if he couldn’t see it. Satisfied that Kur was being silly, he reclaimed his place and laid back, folding his arms behind his head.
Moments later he realised sleep wasn’t an option. The cave had lost its calm aura. Kur had detected it first, and tried to tell him, but Oqmar didn’t want to believe his sojourn was over. He raised himself to a sitting position, gathering the energy and will to walk back to Jedir. His neck tingled, and the hairs on his brown arms stood quivering as if he was cold. It couldn’t be fear. A hard life had inured him against the dread of death although the terrors of life, as embodied by Hanra’s tongue and her mother’s witchcraft, vexed him.
A column of loose sand rose from the floor a stride from his foot, and twisted like a dust devil. He’d seen many over the desert on hot days, and much bigger, but never in his cool cave. He leaned back on his elbows to stretch his foot into the sand vortex.
His foot was slowly but forcibly pushed upwards. It also tingled as if many feathers had made gentle contact. He laughed and yanked his foot back before the rest of him left the floor. Standing, he saw the vortex had reached the ceiling a man’s height above him, and the sand spiralled outwards. He kept at arm’s length, not wanting to have his eyeballs sandblasted, but he could see that the sand was dissipating as the cave floor gave up its carpet revealing a smooth circular area.
He thought the hill had been created by Ptah from squeezing the red sands all around. Yet the cleared circle was like the round base of a shiny grey pot. So it wasn’t part of the rock. Grains of sand vibrated off the top of the upside down pot, which appeared blurred. Oqmar rubbed his eyes but it remained indistinct. The air immediately over the apparition seemed to be quivering like boiling water. Yet no heat reached him, so, squatting, he ventured his hand into the turbulence.
Immediately, his hand lifted—gently but forcibly. He withdrew it, finding his black hairs rising up his forearm inside his shirt. A shiver ran through him, up his spine, making the hair on the back of his neck rise.
Oqmar looked at the pot. “Are you trying to scare me? Should I be worried, like Kur?” He walked around the quivering pot, deciding what to do.
“You must have a foxhole beneath, and the animal is trying to push up. That must be it. I’ll help it.” On his knees he dug his hands in the sand at the base of the pot and revealed more. The pot continued vibrating and lifted a little as if to help him.
He snatched his hands away and sat back on the sandy floor.
“Ah, what have we here? The gods try to burn my fingers!” To his amazement the shape was not the upside down pot he assumed. Enough was free of sand to show it had no broad lip below, and it was too shiny for the clay pots he’d seen. It glistened like the moon.
In spite of the unpleasant sensation when he brushed too close to the ‘pot’ he dived at the sand, shovelling it away with his strong hands. Moments later he’d discovered the spherical shape of the object, and sat back in amazement. Hovering a hand’s width above the base of the shallow crater he’d dug in the sand, the sphere shimmered as it continued to slowly rise.
“This is the witch’s doing.” A mixture of fear and disbelief gripped him. He’d seen Hanra’s strange mother perform magic with fire, making objects move, and concocting potions that either made ill people well or healthy people die—usually the latter. He liked the cave because it was his sanctuary, and he relished its cool atmosphere, but perspiration poured off him.
Gradually, he’d formed the opinion that it couldn’t have been the witch. He’d only seen her move small objects like bowls and knives, never something as big as his head.
And the sphere was the size of a bigger head than his. Nor had he known her to magic anything out of her sight, except her curses and potions.
His tentative dismissal of her involvement allowed his curiosity to gain over trepidation. He tossed some leaves at it. They fell off. He tried offering it a few last droplets of wine, but the air turbulence over the top of the sphere prevented him holding the bladder above it. He tried to examine it more carefully by shuffling on his knees all around it, putting his face as close as he could without it repelling him with its unpleasant sensation similar to when lightning strikes near. The surface was not only smooth but showed his reflection like in a bowl of water, but distorted. The sphere appeared to be inhabited. He realised that the surface reflected his own image, but not immediately. Disturbed at his own image, he felt and prodded his nose that seemed huge in the reflection. He remembered where he’d seen shiny rocks similar to the sphere. A traveller had small stones made of a grey-white substance that had been found in streambeds. He said it softened with fire, and we could make better beads and spear points. The matriarch was interested until the traveller wanted four of the children for two handfuls of the silver rocks. We threw ordinary stones at him as he ran away.
Standing, Oqmar poked at the sphere with a stick. He expected it to knock it away or set it afire. To his astonishment, the end of the stick disappeared. But when he threw a stick it bounced off. The sphere chose how to defend itself. The revelation that the sphere might be animal weakened his knees, forcing him to sit once more. It couldn’t be animal. The only eyes, mouth and limbs were his reflection. Was it using his reflection to embody itself? He’d heard of stranger things with gods and evil spirits.
Was the spirit within evil or benign? Apprehension obliged Oqmar to edge to the wall. Leaning back, he felt the coolness through his shirt, reminding him how hot he felt through anxiety. He stared in wonder and awe at the levitating ball. At a size a little larger than his head, there were few objects he’d met with a similar shape. The sun and moon looked round. Children played with baked clay balls, and he’d eaten the round eggs of turtles and fish.
To lay a silver egg larger than his head, this hill would have to have been the largest turtle in the land. A mother goddess of a beast. He squeezed himself back into the wall as if he could melt into it. Had he disturbed a god? He stared at the levitating enigma wondering what he should do. If the sphere had special powers it could be useful to him and the village. The others would regard him as a benefactor, and so bestow privileges on him such as the choice food. There was the possibility he could undo his ties with Hanra and thus her wretched mother. He could have the pick of the young women.
Four of his children had died of wasting illness or pox. The village Elder had traded little Wrok and fat Zeira with a boy and girl from another village, and one was growing up with the matriarch. Maybe they’d let him have his son back if he brought home this sphere—as long as it held richness or good magic for them. He’d have to capture it first without it killing him.
Or maybe he should keep it to himself. See what happens. If some of the magic rubbed off onto him, he could be the most powerful person in the village—be the Elder, and start giving orders instead of taking them.
“Hey, sphere, have you something for me? No? Perhaps it is just as well I am not in possession of too much power. I prefer the quiet life. But it would help the village if you could rid us of the savages up in the north. The witch says we might be overwhelmed by the next wet season—our village and existence gone without trace. Is that why you’re here? Are you our salvation or a witness? You’re not going to tell me, are you? I am unworthy.”
A faint luminescence in the sphere lit the cave. It reminded Oqmar of a ball of lightning of which he’d been scared witless, in his boat, a long time past when a fierce, noisy storm blew at him. The waves fought back, but overturned him, making him swallow the brine as he righted the boat and clambered aboard. The fiery miniature conflagration swooped on him then flew across the waters into the black horizon.
Maybe this one buried itself in the sand hills, and only now found its way out.
For all his posturing and pleas, Oqmar had the feeling the sphere ignored him.
He was just another grain of sand in the cave.
An enquiring yelp from Kur brought Oqmar out of his brain-hurting thinking mode.
"Come in, Kur, and tell me what you make of it."
The dog offered a short bark as it scrambled through the narrow entrance, and then bristled as, with a freshly-licked nose, it sniffed the air. Kur lowered his head while fixing the sphere in his best goat-herding stare. With ears twitching like a leaf in a breeze, Kur, emitted a low growl. If the sphere heard the menacing sound, it failed to show any reaction.
“Kur, I don’t think you should atta—” Too late, with lips curled back revealing cruel yellow teeth, the dog leapt at the sphere. Oqmar reached out in a vain attempt to grab him, but all he achieved was to stroke the animal as it flew past and onto the sphere. Horrified, Oqmar expected his dog to be eaten, swallowed whole. But, yelping in shock and pain, Kur slithered over the top and down to the sandy floor on the other side. The sphere hadn’t deviated a jot. The dog lay shaking, but alive.
Oqmar lifted it, cradling it like a baby. “There, you’ll be all right. My hand brushed against it earlier, and I too felt the demon sting, prickly, at me; like being stroked by thorns. We are not permitted to touch the moon’s daughter.” He talked comfortingly to the dog as if he knew what he was talking about. With his back to the cave wall, again, he stroked the whimpering Kur.
Convinced the sphere was not going to attack them, they both fell into exhausted sleep.
* * *
Oqmar awoke in fear, but it was Kur’s rough tongue salt-licking his face. The incoming sunlight had dwindled, but the sphere’s luminescence gave a blue candlelit hue to the cave. His dry mouth fell open when he noticed the sphere had risen to waist height. He had to leave before nightfall, not trusting Kur’s skills to fend off night creatures such as jackals while he picked his way home by starlight.
“Come, Kur, we’ll return at dawn. If it won’t let us touch it, maybe we can trap the devil. I’m a fisherman, and my shirt will be my net!” He pulled off his long shirt and stood thin and naked, considering his next step. The sphere should fit nicely inside the garment, but he had to stop it escaping. While he shivered in the cooling air, he knotted the sleeves at the top. Now the shirt resembled one of his nets—the gap at the neck too small for the sphere to seek its freedom.
With a hoarse laugh, Oqmar gripped the hem in both hands and approached the sphere. It hovered in its eerie blue glow—mocking him.
“We’ll see who’s the master now.” He held the hem with bent elbows at his chest, and then yanked it over the sphere. For a moment the glow shone dully through the shirt. Anxiously, he pulled his side of the hem towards him as if netting a large fish.
For another excited moment he’d thought victory was his. Kur barked encouragement.
Then he fell back clutching the shirt, but the sphere remained, implacable, imperceptibly floating upwards.
“What cursed magic have you worked?” Oqmar said, examining his ruined shirt.
The knotted collar area had disappeared leaving a neat elliptical hole. He fingered the smooth edge. He’d never seen a cut so precise with no raggedness. Neither was it burnt, it was as if the sphere had swallowed the part of the garment with which he’d tried to net it.
“Look at this, Kur. What will she say? I’ll be sleeping with you again tonight.” He slipped the remains of the shirt over his head but only a fragment of cloth kept it on his shoulder. He held it there with the cord from the wine-bladder, and grabbed his shortened goatherd stick.
“Let’s head for home, Kur. I’ll bring my net tomorrow. We’re not beaten yet.”
* * *
Oqmar ate his breakfast eggs faster than the time taken by the water hen to have laid them. But in vain, for Hanra had heard him creep back into the house clattering around to add bread to his breakfast. Kur too had given him away with exuberant yelps.
“Look at your shirt. No, the one you wore yesterday. If you’d torn it, why not bring both bits home? It’s going to take a boatful of fish to replace the missing cloth. I don’t see why I should bake a week’s worth of bread to barter for it. You’re the most useless mate in the village. Well?”
“I’ll catch fish today.”
“Our neighbour’s warthog would be of more use than you. And a better lover.”
Oqmar stuffed bread and cheese into his only other long shirt, but stopped short of taking the sour wine when Hanra stood in front of it.
“I’ll take a bladder of spring water today.”
“You can drink your piss for all I care. And Kur’s.”
“It will taste sweet when I think of you, my dear,” he said, relishing the amazement on her face at his apparent acquiescence. Once he had the sphere with its magic, he’d have the pick of the young women. It’d be Hanra drinking her own tears then. He fought the smile from betraying him.
Outside, with Kur trying to make sense of the negativity emanating from the troubled home, Oqmar shouldered his strongest fishing net, and said to Hanra: “See? I am going fishing.” And then, whispered to Kur: “But we’re going to catch a richer prize.
Yes?”
Kur barked agreement, but was clearly confused whether to take the track to the hills, or to the shore, where they always walked when with a net.
“Come, Kur.” Oqmar led the way towards the shore, knowing Hanra would know if he didn’t. A short time paddling would take him round to a bay where they could disembark for the day’s true purpose.
* * *
Laughing, Oqmar caught up with Kur after a race up a low dune. At mid-morning their shadows sought refuge in shallow depressions to their left. Although proud of his strength, Oqmar sat on the warm sand to let his lungs catch up. He smelt the tar in a blackened patch where Kur pawed at it.
“It’s not food. Here, boy.” He threw him some cheese, which gave off a stronger odour than the tar, though not as much as the dog. No doubt he gave off stink signals to the wildlife too.
Kur lifted his head to expedite sensory reception beyond the tar and already gobbled cheese.
“What is it, Kur? Yes, that’s where our cave is.”
Kur barked.
Oqmar squinted at the red sandstone hills a short distance away, in front of the misty-lilac coloured mountains on the horizon. He looked for telltale dust rising, indicating animal or human movement. Nothing. The stupid dog was barking at flies.
He brought the hog’s bladder of water to his lips. As he swallowed a glint low in the sky caught his eye.
With his right hand shielding his vision from the sun’s glare, he realised he was looking at the area immediately above his cave. The sphere had escaped.
He stood, and then ran with long loping strides towards his cave. Stopping before he reached the entrance, he glared at the sphere. Four men’s height above the hill, it had the look of an extra moon.
With Kur whimpering in trepidation behind him, he angrily climbed the low hill to its highest point immediately above the cave and below the sphere. He threw small stones that bounced harmlessly. He knew it was out of reach of his net. Walking carefully around the sandstone rock summit, he found the neat hole. The sphere had cut a chimney.
He stomped over to a fig tree and sat in its shade, staring at the sphere. He threw an overripe fig at Kur, who nosed and licked it distastefully, and then sneaked off preferring to find a tastier rodent.
The sphere obviously floated upwards so slowly he couldn’t detect the movement. “You beat me. Come back and allow me to snare you in my net. You are condemning me to a miserable existence with the woman from hell and her worse mother. Curses.” He gnawed a fig, including the tiny ants who’d thought it would make a fine feast.
As the sun rose overhead, the sphere inexorably climbed too. An earlier thought surfaced in Oqmar—the sphere had not been aware of him nor his dog in the cave. The magic sphere ignored everything except itself. It performed whatever task it needed no matter what was thrown at it. No yelling back. And yet it had two admirers, followers, who risked ridicule and humiliation to believe it was something they could have. Maybe he should follow its example. Play life like the sphere. Instead of reacting with sarcasm, screeched shouts or violence with Hanra, he’d remain aloof, follow his own path, and she’d come after him—eventually. He’d display the same patience as the sphere did. Perhaps their attitudes to each other would improve in time.
The sphere headed for the stars, but it had left its impression, and Oqmar, with Kur, still possessed their cave, albeit with added ventilation.
He waved goodbye to it, then had the urge to make his own impression on the adventure. He gathered some sharp stones, sticks, figs and berries. In his head lived an image of the sphere’s coming and going, but for others after him to ponder, he’d recreate it on the wall in his cave.