The First 50: Isis Wept 1

[Stephan Loy]

Okay, the query letter is out of the way (unless anyone wants to make further comment). Here is chapter one of Isis Wept. A few things to keep in mind. You can read it right here, and I've broken it into two easy to digest sections (the chapter is 7500 words long). You can read the whole thing and comment, or you can comment on each section as you read it. Again, no obligation here except to tell me what you really think.

For those who dislike reading on a web site (like me), you should be able to download the full chapter in rtf format here. I say should because this is a service I've never tried, called Dropbox. If it doesn't work, let me know. I can email you the document.

Again, thanks! Onward!

Part 1 of Chapter 1, Isis Wept

Isis hurried to the roof of her apartments when she learned of her husband’s return. From there she could see beyond the palace enclosure to the green, tree-shaded riverbank where she would glimpse his approach. She would find him, no doubt, amid a telltale crowd of adoring subjects on the western bank of the Nile.

Isis thrilled at his homecoming, so unexpected after all these months. She missed his laughter and energy; they were food to her, his body a sweet dessert. Only dreams of his touch had kept her from melancholy. The promise of that touch drew a sigh past her lips.

She should return to her rooms, she thought as she paced the edge of the roof, but she could not depart without catching a glimpse. Heedless of the four priestess-retainers who had followed her from below, she fixed her mind and heart on her husband, the king and god of this great city. It was so like him to arrive from the west, from the mouth of the hungry desert. That act was a gift to his loving people, and first of all to the poor. Wherever his journeys had taken him, the river would have made for a quicker return, and a safer one than walking the dunes. Quicker and safer, yes, but few would have witnessed their sovereign’s homecoming. Where was the gift in that? Now the farmers, brickmakers and shopkeepers of Abydos had greeted their sovereign before even their lords on the Nile’s eastern bank. They had no doubt mobbed him in their joy, had offered him gifts of beer, water and gritty bread, treasures with which they could ill afford to part.

In the face of such adulation, how could a goddess do any less, even one blessed as the very definition of life, love and beauty? Isis chuckled at the thought and covered her mouth with her perfect fingers. The erotic force of her godhood was too small a welcome for Osiris, she thought. She should prepare. A bath, perhaps scented with oils? And the softest of linens upon her bed. Something done with her hair, yes, and the eye paint that so destroyed him. She rarely stooped to such tricks of beguilement, but this was a special occasion.

“He comes, my goddess!” the high priestess Merferet called, and pointed toward a barge starting to cross from the river’s west bank. “There! Osiris approaches!”

The boat aimed for the quay where Amnet, high priest of the Grand Temple, waited with dozens of chanters.

“I love you,” Isis whispered. She squinted through the bright sunlight, hoping to pick out her spouse on the barge, but Ra, her grandfather, blazed above, overwhelming her physical eyes. She blinked, lowered her gaze to the temple, and instantly went cold.

The priests chanted toward the barge. But some turned their heads toward a figure ambling onto the quay.

Set, Isis realized, and her lips tightened.

Isis couldn’t say why Set affected her so. He was her brother, after all, and also brother to Osiris. He had never done any harm to her, though he presumed much with lascivious leers. Still, he hadn’t acted on his desire, nor in any other way blackened the godhead of his origin.

Nor had he done much to polish it. He now strutted in among the priests, stealing another god’s moment. Set had no business there, but neither was he likely to leave. He wanted his brother’s fame. He wanted his brother’s power. He also wanted his brother’s wife, Isis knew without doubt. He hated his brother for having won such a wife, was jealous of all that Osiris had achieved. Set wanted to act on his jealousies, and some day he probably would.

Even in the hot sun, she shivered at the thought. Osiris was her love, but certainly not a fighter. Could he stand against Set if challenged for ascendancy? She could only hope that Ma’at would not allow it.

All things knew balance, Isis reasoned. Good was not good unless balanced by evil, prosperity suspect unless balanced by need. Ma’at encompassed balance. She steered the universe far shy of chaos, granting life its natural equilibrium. A diligent overseer, that stony-faced goddess, entirely impartial. But she only influenced; she was never in command. Set would one day twist her to anarchy; it was his way in all things. Osiris, who balanced Set’s wanton vileness, would suffer the consequences of that folly. Isis shivered again, and tried to shrug off dread.

She peered again toward the barge, which now turned broadside to the quay. She thought she saw her husband then. Unlike his men, whose body-sheathing linen uniforms were stained from months of sweat, Osiris wore a linen kilt that covered from waist to knees, a white linen headpiece like a wig, and little else beyond a few trinkets of glass and stone. He moved with characteristic energy, slapping a shoulder here, laughing there. Her husband, all right. He seemed so weak against the threat of Set...

She shut tight her eyes for a moment, her blood rushing hot at the shame of such doubt. Her husband was king in Abydos. Set could not touch him here. She repeated that thought to shore up hope of its truth.

Then she turned away toward the stairs. She had much to do before welcoming Osiris. Fear was a distraction best turned away.

#

The ritual guard of Osiris were few, more entourage than soldiers, and smartly appointed for their role. Their identical uniforms were designed for the wild extremes of the deep desert, exposing only hands, eyes, and sandaled feet to the elements. The waists were drawn by sweat-stained leather belts. Each belt held a flint knife and a remarkable sword of bronze. The swords were a wonder, for few people knew of the hard, glinting metal; few knew of metal at all. The world that had made the guard of Osiris emerged from an era ruled by stone; none could guess the wonders of the new age to come.

Twenty men had roamed with Osiris in the desert. Now they accompanied him from the workers’ quarter on the western bank to his temple amid the villas of the rich.

A guardsman threw a line to a loinclothed dockworker at the temple quay, who tied the barge to a sturdy post. Osiris leapt to land before a ramp could be extended to the ship’s deck. The priests prostrated themselves, all but Amnet who, as high priest, was obliged to stand while greeting his god. He led the others to a chanting crescendo, then cut them off respectfully.

“Set!” Osiris called before Amnet could offer the ritual greeting. He marched toward his brother, arms outstretched. “How nice of you to welcome me! And on my own temple grounds, at that!” He grasped his brother by the shoulders.

“There are no boundaries between us,” Set said, his voice like oil. “What’s mine is yours, and yours mine.”

“Well said, but I doubt my priests agree. How does one pay homage to a god while yet another deity stands at one’s shoulder, eh, Amnet?”

“I would not presume to opine, my lord,” Amnet said. He bowed his shaven head against linen robes so white and gauzy they seemed close to glowing.

“Priests.” Set made a dismissive sound. “They are men, my brother. Half the time they don’t know whether to pray or fornicate.”

Osiris let loose a hearty peal of laughter, as much at the high priest’s chagrin as at the other god’s jibe. “Come now, Set. Manners, manners. Yes, they are men. Though not gods, they display special gifts, which we can only envy. Charity, if you’ll notice, is something men know from experience and we gods could wisely learn.”

Set stared at him, his eyes darkening. He was a god of storms, always forbidding, so Osiris counted the mood for little. The two looked remarkably alike. They wore similar kilts, but Set walked in sandals and was given more to jewelry. They claimed the same muscular build, the same hard but narrow face, with short-cropped black hair and rich brown eyes. Without Osiris’s easy mirth and Set’s smoldering brow, telling them apart would have proven a difficult task.

“So, O king,” Set said in a mocking voice, “what have you brought us this time? The natives so adore your gifts.”

Osiris slapped his brother’s shoulder. He grinned as he turned to the barge. His men had enacted a spectacular chaos as they offloaded their sovereign’s most extraordinary treasures. The priests so cringed in their prostrate poses that Osiris asked Amnet to command them erect. “I give you,” he said while the religious backed to the limits of the quay, “I give you the future of Abydos!”

“The future of Abydos” was an animal, a black mass of muscle and energy. It stood taller than a man, though it danced around so nervously and reared so much that it couldn’t honestly be said to stand at all. Its four mobile legs were lean, sinewy sticks. A long tail of hair whipped the beast’s flanks, complementing an ample mane along the animal’s thick neck. The head was conical, with alert, twitching ears, flaring nostrils, and intelligent, appraising eyes. It awed the priests, and terrified them. It was all they could do to stand their ground when three more monsters were forced from the barge.

Qebera, who captained Osiris’s guard, directed his men as they wrestled the animals along by ropes. “Hold tight there!” he shouted, and “Brace there on the right!” and “Watch those hooves!”

“Eh?” Osiris asked his brother. “What do you think?”

“How much will they eat?” Set said without expression.

Osiris burst into laughter again. He stepped toward the nearest of his four black cyclones and gripped its harness. The animal settled as if enchanted. “You never travel,” the king admonished Set. “Believe me, brother, there is more to this world than the banks of the Nile or your wild, killing desert.” He glanced around to Amnet, who watched the silenced beast with suspicion. “High priest, come closer.”

“As you command, my god and king,” but Amnet approached by only a fraction of a step.

“Come on, it won’t bite. Or, I think it won’t bite. Qebera, did they say if it would bite?”

The soldier stood more relaxed than Amnet. He had suffered the animal’s company for many long months, far too long to give it much notice. He pulled back the cloak and scarf arrangement that protected his face from the sun, revealing gray hair and a hard-edged face. “They said it might bite if threatened or annoyed, but it’s not given to bite as a habit.”

“That’s right. Thank-you, Qebera. So, Amnet, will you threaten or annoy my prize?”

“Never, sire,” the high priest proclaimed.

“Good. Then give him a pet. Right there, on the neck. Go ahead, I’ll vouch for his behavior.”

The priest smiled nervously. He put out his hand to arm’s length and barely touched the animal. The beast flinched, and muttered through fluttering lips. It watched Osiris with eyes that at once trusted and questioned, eyes more frank than a man’s. The priest gathered his courage, then pressed his hand along the animal’s neck. “He is warm, sire. I can feel his strength.”

“Yes,” Osiris nodded. “He is strong. How about you, Set? Care to welcome my newest friend?”

“No, thanks,” Set snorted, and folded his arms to his chest.

This prompted a chuckle from Osiris, and, inappropriately, from Qebera. Set marked the soldier with cutting eyes.

Osiris raised his voice to include the gathered crowd. “This fine animal is a gift from Ur, a kingdom far to the east. So are all its like. They call it a ‘horse’ and it offers its masters far more than beauty, spirit, and strength. The people of Ur use these ‘horses’ as pack animals, to pull plows, even carts filled with people and possessions. The nobles of Ur actually ride the beasts, for transportation and for sport!”
“Ride?” Set scoffed. “Ha! With those skinny legs and that hard back? Please, brother, you exaggerate!”

“The mortal animals of this earth still hold surprises for gods,” Osiris intoned with mock gravity. “We gods are what we are, yet mortals strive to whatever they might be. This horse does the work of oxen, camels, and whole teams of men. Yet it isn't as dim-witted as an ox, as obstreperous as a camel, or as free-minded as a man. It could be a great companion -- no, a comrade -- to Abydans and...” He returned his attention to the full assembly. “...that is why I brought one male and three females, that we might breed these animals to give some ease to our people!”

The assembled men whistled and cheered. The soldiers drew their flint knives and shook them high overhead.

“But, that isn't all we bring,” Osiris called, quieting the crowd. “No, if all we brought were animals prone to devouring hay, then we would do no chore worth praising. We also bring food, seeds of the most succulent marvels of Ur. Juicy orbs called oranges, like sugar plucked from trees, and red fruits of the vine like bags of meat and water. We also bring you cousins to our emmer that we can cross for variety.” He paused, pleased with his bounty. “Well? Have we served Abydos, my people?”

Their acclaim deafened. Osiris grabbed Amnet and Qebera in a brusque hug. “My friends,” he shouted through the din, “let’s store it all in the temple and head into the city. I’ve been away from my queen too long.”

#

The procession was unpretentious considering the king at its heart. Osiris walked the river promenade with a wooden smile and a randomly waving arm, the obligatory monarch on parade. The high priest and two assistants forged ahead, clearing the crowd from the street and tossing out flower petals by the handful. Qebera walked to Osiris’s left and a slight pace behind. Set strolled to his brother’s right, paying the humans as much mind as he would to weeds on the roadside. Eight of Qebera’s men followed, restraining the four horses. Osiris had opted to stable the beasts at the palace, where he could visit them at a whim. They made quite a stir among the noble spectators.

The east bank was reserved for temples, the king’s residence, and the homes and pleasure gardens of the rich. No staples grew on the bank. Palm and acacia branches waved overhead while grass, reeds, and flowers colored the brown earth. The mudbrick outer wall of the temple, and then the royal residence, displayed monumental paintings of Osiris and his triumphs. There was Osiris bringing emmer to the people, Osiris organizing the first city government, Osiris presiding over the creation of law. Before these the nobles pressed, welcoming their king. The upper crust of Abydan society shone even brighter than the artwork behind them, displayed as they were in their finest linens. They cheered, shouted and prayed as feverishly as the poor, their shouts rising to such a cacophony that voices became a muddled roar.

“The year’s harvest was good, I see,” Osiris said to Qebera. “Fat Unas the architect needs to loosen the tucks in his tunic.”

“Unas needs to tighten his resolve against frequent snacks,” Qebera said with a huff.

“Oh, I forgot,” the king continued, his tone sympathetic. “You aren’t of this bunch, old friend. Well, the torture lasts only a few minutes more, then it’s across to the west bank and your family. You’ll take my launch. I’ll have it prepared as soon as we reach the gate.”

“My thanks, lord. I miss my family greatly.”

Set groaned against the sentiment. “Rubbish. Animals with family.”

“It’s family that sustains them,” Osiris chided. “Without family, they would be animals. Without that and the balance of Ma’at.”

“And without agriculture, government and science, which you brought them. You coddle them, brother. They’re like dogs dressed in robes. I liked it better when they cowered in caves.”

Osiris maintained his frozen smile, but sighed at Set’s hostility. “Respect them, brother. They're reflections of us. They're the fallen tears of Ra, after all.”

“They’re vermin,” Set insisted, then grunted dismissal. “But, I don’t want to argue. You're newly home, and you're my ... family.”

“Ah! See, you’re catching on.”

“I’d like to discuss some trade issues with you. When might we meet for business?”

“My business is only with Isis for now. Perhaps in a day or two...”

“I’ll put something together, maybe a mix of business and pleasure...” Set’s voice trailed off and he came to a stop.

Osiris faltered and dropped his smile. He had been watching the crowd to his left, and was surprised by his brother’s distraction and the sudden collapse of the nobles’ adulation. He turned to follow their discomfited stares.

A man blocked the road ahead. He sat atop a mangy camel, cud juice greasing its jowls. Pans, poles, and bags hung at the animal’s flanks, and its rider sat astride a thick saddle sheathed in black. He was covered in careworn brown and black wools, as hidden from the sun as any in Qebera’s guard. He gripped the reins in a casual manner, an ivory and wood longbow held loosely in his free hand. He stared at Osiris, but gave no greeting.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Osiris stepped forward, pressing through the vanguard of priests to reach the lone rider. He nonchalantly grasped the camel’s rope harness and ignored the beast’s bellicose honk.

“Djafa Seniram, what brings you to Abydos? All is well with your Bedouin brothers, I hope?”

The man nodded. His eyes cut through a slit in his layered clothing. “All is well,” he said in the thick accent of his nomadic people. His arm jerked, holding out the bow. “A gift. A payment. We are indebted to your lady.”

Osiris took the bow. He examined it politely. “Very fine work, Djafa Seniram. It’s also very old. A family relic, I assume.” He sought the rider’s eyes. “My queen has earned this gift?”

“Yes. We Bedouin worship no gods, but we pay our debts.”

“You are welcome into our fold, Djafa Seniram.”

The rider snorted, then looked down the road as if ready to leave. “Your god Ra, the one of the sun, he kills our people. We await our own god, the one and true.”

Osiris watched the man’s hard profile. He was glad Set had not approached. This nomad would have incensed the god of storms, not a good move for one who wandered the vast, wild desert, the very cradle of storms. After a moment, Osiris nodded, tapped the camel’s head, and released its harness.

“Thank-you for the gift, Djafa Seniram. It will find a place of honor in my home.”

The Bedouin said nothing. He snapped his camel’s reins, turning it to amble up the road. The assembled masses watched him leave. After a while, far past the palace wall, he turned off the road, and vanished.

#

The king’s retainers met him at the palace gate. They were full of reports on household affairs, reports of requests for audiences, reports of requests for divine intercessions. Osiris ignored them except for ordering the launch for Qebera and directing accommodations for the horses. He wanted no part of bureaucrats just then; they weren’t his impression of home. He marched away from them, across the wide courtyard, past bowing servants, and through the main hall with its lofty stone ceiling and the double row of palm columns holding it up. He left this public chamber for the interior gardens, then turned left along the path to the queen’s apartments. There the retainers broke off their pursuit, finally getting the point.

Osiris flung open the cedar doors to the queen’s suite and stepped into a large central hall, modestly furnished. A few divans of woven rushes stood upon the hard gypsum floor along with a plethora of rugs and a brazier unused in the summer heat. Light filtered in through narrow barred rectangles near the high ceiling, dimly illuminating yellow walls and their graceful floral decor. Three dark doorways interrupted those walls, bare but for the blue frames painted about their edges. A single lamp augmented the windows, a clay bowl containing a linen wick steeped in oil. It flickered near the back of the hall, close to the private rooms. Together, windows and lamp revealed a deserted chamber.

Osiris smiled, and closed the doors behind him. He dropped the Bedouin bow on a low, ornate table, then took up the oil lamp and marched back to his wife’s bedroom.

No one met him there.

Nonplussed, he returned to the main hall. He checked a few guest rooms on the way, and found them unused. “Isis!” he called. “Where are you, goddess? Your husband is home!”

No answer.

He poked his head into the spinning room. Except for the loom, the spinning wheel, and the queen’s collection of ivory and ebony flax cards, the room stood empty. He walked back to the pantry, but found it bare, as always. Gods required no food; they ate only for pleasure, their treats brought in from the palace kitchen. Osiris pursed his lips, no longer wondering at his wife’s coy game. He wondered instead if she were home at all.

And where were the servants, those priestesses who followed Isis everywhere?

“Oh, don’t give up so easily,” a voice whispered from within his head.

Osiris cocked an ear to follow the tug in his mind, and smiled when he realized where it coaxed him. He moved across the central hall and stopped at the alcove into the queen’s bath chamber, that spacious enclosure with the smooth bed of stone surrounded by magnificent murals of the residing earth goddess. Along those walls, she reveled in her command of the forces of life, growth and procreation. The bath chamber was a room as much for seduction as for hygiene.

“I love you,” Osiris heard in his head. He stepped as if compelled into the bath chamber, the lamp held up away from his eyes.

The goddess kneeled on the bathing stone, her long black hair bundled high and held in place by bone pins, the only thing she wore. A linen-draped priestess stood just beside the stone, holding a towel as an offering to her queen. About the stone stood the bath water jars and the sponges used to reverently cleanse the most perfect body on earth. Oil lamps flickered in the corners, illuminating the exquisitely posed scene in golden, wavering light.

Isis looked her husband up and down, her eyes sparking with mirth and watery light. Her voice, however, was distant.

“Impertinence,” she said. “Has no one taught you to knock?”

Osiris said nothing. His breath had escaped him.

In a fluid movement, Isis rose to her feet. She turned to her retainer. “Leave us,” she commanded. “This impertinent slave will serve me.”

The woman left unnoticed. Osiris saw only the splendid, unblemished perfection of his wife. He ached to touch her brown skin, to feel the hint of muscle that showed beneath her softness, to caress her full, proudly firm breasts. His eyes traced the flowing curves of her hips, the slight -- perfect -- roundness of her belly. It contoured toward that arousing black triangle from which beads of water sparkled like jewels. A body of power, Osiris thought, full of sensual promise.

Then he realized he stood close to her, and blinked. She had mesmerized him again, this goddess, with her consuming, seductive presence. Osiris reached for her, wanting to explore that wonderful flesh.

She stopped him with a glance to his hand, then slowly raised her eyes to his. “Towel me,” she ordered.

Osiris stooped for the towel the priestess had dropped. “Yes, my love and queen,” he intoned with mock reverence. “Whatever you desire, I must provide.”

Isis stepped down from the stone and onto the hard gypsum floor. “I hear impertinence even now, you slave. Why do you mock me? Do you not realize I am your goddess and queen?”

Osiris eased the towel against her neck and shoulders, moving steadily lower. “Oh, yes,” he said. “You are my goddess; I certainly realize that.” He moved the towel slowly about the mounds of her breasts, squeezing gently. After a few moments of such teasing strokes, he attended her nipples, but only with the barest touch of linen. She lost her pretense at majesty then, and moaned. Her nipples strained erect. Well, Osiris thought, his mouth dry for her, how better to arouse the mother goddess if not through her life-giving breasts?

“I’ve missed you so much,” Isis said in ecstatic snatches of breath.

“But no more,” her husband promised. He dropped the towel, and took her in his arms.

She found no difficulty disposing of his kilt.

[Stephan Loy]

Here's a thought to any following along. There's no reason I can think of why this forum, The First 50, need center only around my stuff. Why not put up your own first 50 and call it just that to make it easy to find. Get some critical commentary and advice. I'd recommend the first fifty or so pages sliced into bite-sized chunks, plus or even preceded by any associated business correspondence, like the query letter.

Or, leave a link to your work here in the comments so that I and others might find it and offer critique. Critique, after all, is the only substance we can offer one another, and it's the most valuable. What say?

[Stephan Loy]

Thanks James and Rich for your comments (one set in person, the other through email). That's very encouraging. Also, thanks James for the links you gave me to several literary agents. I'll be making use of those very soon. Wish me luck!