‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,’ commented John Wall. ‘All ye lands!’
‘Slaves started escaping,’ continued Zephaniah. ‘And there was a song. Follow the drinking gourd. That’s what they call the Little Bear. In the Little Bear is Polaris, the North Star. If you follow Polaris you will go north. They were secret songs, carrying secret information. I was interested. I hadn’t been interested in anything, not for the longest time. I meant no harm, you see that?’
He sat up a little, dislodging his wraps. John Wall tucked them back over his naked shoulder. Zephaniah was thin, like most Southerners in these parlous days, with wild blue eyes and a thatch of dark blond hair. John Wall found him Heavenly fair. His fingers lingered on the bare skin, which felt like silk.
‘I know thee meant no harm, Zephaniah,’ he said quietly.
‘And I hope I have done no harm. I told no one. No one will notice that I am missing, if you feel you have to beat me over the head with that skillet and sink me in the Missouri.’
John Wall choked ‘God have mercy!’ and Zephaniah chuckled.
‘It was women, you see, no one listens to the songs of women working at the well, at the washtub, and they’re everywhere on an estate, fetching and carrying. They were saying, ‘The river ends between two hills/follow the drinking gourd/ there’s another river on the other side/ follow the drinking gourd: the old man’s coming to bring you to freedom, follow the drinking gourd.’ So I thought it might be the Missouri. I came north, walking, slowly, so as not to miss any clues. And then I saw the footprints. One left foot, one peg foot, just like the song. And they led me here. To you, my John Wall.’
‘He was called Peg Leg Joe. This is his house,’ said John. ‘One of us has been here ever since he died. I make the marks with a staff. I must take the biscuits out, and then we shall eat. I am so glad to have someone to talk to, my friend. I feel that God has sent thee to comfort me in my solitude.’
‘And you, in mine,’ replied the soldier. ‘I had not realised just how lonely I was.’
They said grace in perfect harmony.
The stew was rich and the gravy, sopped up by the biscuits, delicious. John Wall talked easily about his own city, Pennsylvania, and about recitals he had heard. Zephaniah told him about great orchestras he had heard in London.
‘So was it only that song?’ asked John, still curious. That gave thee the answer to thy question?’
‘No, it was all of them,’ said Zephaniah. ‘Steal away... Deep river – that’s it, out there, I can hear it gurgling, the Jordan – as I thought about it, all the songs I knew were about leaving. Going not to Canaan, but to Canada. Wade in the water, children, to cover your scent from the bloodhounds. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot – the escape is prepared. And so they leave,’ said Zephaniah.
‘Yes, they leave,’ agreed John Wall.’ I send them on, to other depots, other refuges.’
‘And this war will go on until the South is destroyed, and eventually the slaves will be free,’ he said from his cocoon of quilts. ‘And then what will you do, John Wall?’
‘I have a taste for country life, now,’ said John. ‘I will find a small farm, perhaps. Until then, I will stay here.’
‘And, if you want me, I will stay with you,’ said Zephaniah, leaning up out of the wrappings to kiss John Wall on the cheek. John unwrapped him a little and lay down beside him, returning the kiss.
‘Because of the flesh?’ he asked quietly, holding the crippled soldier close in his arms.
‘Because of you, and because we will never be forgiven.’ said Zephaniah. ‘And perhaps I can atone a little. Kiss me again? May I stay with you?’
‘Thee were sent by God,’ said John, ‘to lie with me and solace my loneliness. I love thee.’
‘And I love thee,’ said Zephaniah. The sweet warmth of his Quaker was soothing and arousing his body. Before he lost control, he kissed John again and said, ‘And I have an occupation for which I am uniquely fitted, to further our cause.’
‘And that is?’ asked John, nuzzling his neck.
‘I am the replacement for Peg Leg Joe.’ said Zephaniah triumphantly.
‘I said thee were sent by God,’ replied the Quaker.
KHEPERREN AND PTAH-HOTEP
Egypt 1920
Sweating in the desert all day meant that when the night came with its deep cold, Pierre Duclos settled happily into his routine of a brief wash in water warmed by the sun, a final glass of cognac from his secret cache, and a luxurious roll into his blankets. The Valley of the Kings was a baking scree of rocks too hot to touch during the day. At night the geology gave back its heat, and his little tent was pleasantly warm. His tent mate Sergeant Ciaran Paterson had not come in, doubtless carousing with the diggers. He would tumble in, late and intoxicated by kif, and Pierre would call him crapaud, a sot, and put him to bed. And Ciaran would demand a kiss, putting up his face like a child. And lately Pierre had kissed him. And enjoyed it far too much. It was no longer a jest between comrades, that goodnight kiss. Pierre had no idea what he was going to do about it, if anything, but his dreams, of late, had been heated and unclear, leaving him to awake sticky and puzzled. Paterson was stocky, rather sunburned and rough, with a massive scar from some native battle on his chest. Nothing like the scented, epicene youths of the Egyptian brothels which Pierre had visited when he first arrived. Paterson was one of Howard’s British soldiers, hired to secure the camp and the dig. He was upright and honest and would probably fell Pierre with the butt of that Lee Enfield if he made an approach to him. Yet he leaned into that one kiss, opening his mouth, offering himself to be explored.
And he was unaccountably desirable. Pierre shut his eyes resolutely and began to recite Arabic words in his head to disconnect his mind and sleep. But all the words he could remember were affectionate, Light of my eyes. My heart. My life. My friend...
Then he was abruptly asleep and dreaming. He rose on hawk’s wings into the sky, over the Valley of Kings, and flew until he settled on a red sandstone ledge near the main gate. There were hieroglyphs there, ancient graffiti. He read a complaint about how much the labourers ate, especially in garlic and radishes. He read a home hint about repelling rats with a plaster plug of cat fur. He looked to the cliffs and saw a tomb opening, and a man at the door, embracing another man.
Then he was back in his own body. There was a weight on his chest. The voice of a goddess, a dark and powerful female voice said, ‘Swear by all the Gods to find the tomb of Ptah-Hotep, and you shall have your heart’s desire.’
‘What?’ he blurred, trying to stay in the dream, feeling his body awakening.
‘Promise!’ urged the voice, and he said, ‘I promise,’ and then awoke.
There was indeed a weight on his chest. It was a black cat, scrawny, underfed and dusty. She reposed on his pyjamas as though by right. He sat up and she slid down to his lap, opened her green eyes, and looked into his.
He had never seen such a self-aware glance from an animal. Goddess. Right. Heart’s desire. Tomb. And this cat was her avatar, here to make sure that he did as he was bid.
He had better feed her, then. He called for bread and cheese, and a dish of the labourer’s broth. Cooled, the cat found it acceptable. She also ate most of his cheese, drank her fill of the fresh water, and fell asleep on his bunk.
‘Will you stay here, Oh Basht, Slaughterer of the Fiends of Evening, Lady of the Cunning Word, Keeper of the Door?’ he asked. She licked a paw in assent. She had a regal presence.
Ciaran woke, groaned, and noticed her.
‘Oh, no, cats as well as morning?’ he groaned.
‘Si