HATATCHA.
The mountains of Abu Fedah consist of a low range about twelve miles
long and from two to three hundred feet in height. These hills are
wedge-shaped, and from a narrow, uneven ridge at the summit the sides
slope downward at a sharp angle on either side, affording little
apparent foothold to one who might essay to climb the steeps. At the
south end are pits wherein were found numbers of mummified crocodiles,
proving that these reptiles were formerly worshipped by the natives of
Al-Kusiyeh, which is the ancient city of Qes of the hieroglyphic texts,
and was afterward called Cusae by the Greeks. It was, in its prime, the
capital of the fourteenth nome or province of Upper Egypt, and a
favorite winter abode of the kings of the Middle Empire. The modern
village, as before explained, lies a mile or two from the Nile bank, in
a fertile valley watered by bubbling springs. The inhabitants are mostly
Arabs, or a mixture of the Arab blood with that of the native fellaheen,
which last, in common with the Copts, are direct descendants of the
ancient Egyptians.
The early Egyptologists expected to find important tombs secreted in the
limestone cliffs of Gebel Abu Fedah; but careful search only revealed
the mummy crocodile pits and a few scattering and uninteresting
cavities roughly hewn in the rocks, which might have contained mummies
at one time, but had been rifled of their contents ages ago. The few
inscriptions remaining in these rock tombs indicated that they were the
burial places of ordinary citizens of Qes, and such cavities as were
observed all faced the Nile. The opposite slopes of the mountains,
facing the east, seemed never to have been utilized for tombs, fond as
the Egyptians were of such opportunities to inter their dead in rocky
places, above the reach of jackals or marauders.
Kāra skirted the south end of the mountain and passed around the edge of
a bleak gray cliff. Here, close against the overhanging sandstone, was
clustered a nest of wretched hovels, built partially of loose fragments
of rock and partly of Nile mud baked in the sun. The place was called
Fedah by the natives, and its scant dozen of inhabitants were those of
pure Egyptian lineage, who refused to mingle with the natives of
Al-Kusiyeh.
The most substantial of the dwellings was that occupied by Hatatcha and
her grandson. It had been built against a hollow or cave of the
mountain, so that the cane roof projected only a few feet beyond the
cliff. A rude attempt on the part of the builders to make the front wall
symmetrical was indicated by the fact that the stones bore quarry marks,
and at the entrance arch, which had never been supplied with a door, but
was half concealed by a woven mat, the stones were fully four feet in
thickness.
The other huts, ranged beside and before this one, were far less
imposing in construction; but all had the appearance of great antiquity,
and those at the north and south edges of the huddle were unoccupied and
more or less ruined and neglected. Tradition said that Fedah, in spite
of its modern Arabic name, was as old as ancient Qes, and there was no
reason to doubt the statement. Its location was admirable in summer, for
the mountain shaded it during the long hot afternoons; but around it was
nothing but sand and rock, and the desert stretched in front as far as
the borders of Al-Kusiyeh.
Kāra, entering the short and narrow street between the hovels, pushed a
goat from his path and proceeded calmly toward his dwelling. As he
entered its one room, he paused to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to
the gloom and then gazed around with an expression of mild surprise.
In one corner, upon a bed of dried rushes, lay the form of an old woman.
Her single black cotton garment was open at the throat, displaying a
wrinkled, shrunken bosom that rose and fell spasmodically, as if the hag
breathed with great effort. Her eyes were closed and the scant, tousled
locks of fine gray hair surrounding her face gave it a weird and
witch-like expression. In spite of her age and the clime in which she ad
lived, Hatatcha’s skin was almost as white as that of Europeans, its
tint being so delicate as to be scarcely noticeable.
Upon a short wooden bench beside the rushes sat a girl with a palm
branch, which she swayed back and forth to keep the flies from settling
upon Hatatcha’s face. She was, perhaps, fifteen years of age, but as
fully matured in form as an English girl of twenty-five. Her face was
remarkably handsome from the standpoint of regularity of contour, but
its absolute lack of expression would render it uninviting to a
connoisseur of beauty. Her dark eyes were magnificent, and seemed to
have depths which were disappointing when you probed them. She wore the
conventional black gown, or tunic, but because of the heat had allowed
it to slip down to her waist, leaving her shoulders and breasts bare.
After a long and thoughtful look at his grandmother, Kāra sat down
beside the girl and put his arm around her, drawing her close to his
body. She neither resented the caress nor responded to it, but yielded
herself inertly to the embrace while she continued to sway the palm
branch with her free right arm.
“Ah, my Nephthys,” said the man, lightly, in the Coptic tongue, “is our
Hatatcha in the grip of the devils again?”
The girl made no reply, but at the sound of Kāra’s voice the old woman
opened her great eyes and gazed for an instant steadfastly upon her
grandson. Her hands, which had been nervously clutching her robe, were
raised in supplication, and she said in English, in a weak, hoarse
voice:
“The draught, Kāra! Be quick!”
The man hesitated, but released the girl and stood up.
“It is the last, my Hatatcha. You know that no more can be procured,” he
said, in protest.
“I shall need no more,” she answered, with much difficulty. “It is the
last time. Be quick, Kāra!” Her voice died away in an odd gurgle, and
her chest fluttered as if the breath was about to leave it.
Kāra, watching her curiously, as a dog might, was impressed by the
symptoms. He turned to Nephthys.
“Go out,” he commanded, in Coptic, and the girl arose and passed under
the arch.
Then he went to a part of the wall and removed a loose stone, displaying
a secret cavity. From this he took a small vase, smooth and black, which
had a stopper of dull metal. Carrying it to Hatatcha, he knelt down,
removed the stopper and placed the neck of the vase to her lips. The
delicate, talon-like fingers clutched the vessel eagerly and the woman
drank, while Kāra followed the course of the liquid down her gullet by
watching her skinny throat.
When it was done, he carried the empty vase back to the crypt and
replaced the loose stone. Then he returned to the bedside and sat down
upon the bench. A bowl containing some bits of bread stood near. He
stooped and caught a piece in his fingers, munching it between his
strong teeth while he stared down upon Hatatcha’s motionless form.
It was quite dark in the room by this time, for twilights are short in
Egypt. But the pupils of the man’s eyes expanded like those of a cat,
and he could follow the slow rise and fall of the woman’s chest and
knew she was again breathing easily.
An hour passed, during which Kāra moved but once, to drink from a jar
standing in the opposite corner. Hatatcha’s condition disturbed him. If
she died, he would be at a loss what to do. Unused to work and without
resource of any sort, life would become a burden to him. He was,
moreover, accustomed to be led by the strong old woman in all things,
and she had been the provider during all the twenty-three years of his
life. Kāra had been trained to think deeply upon many subjects, but here
was one which had never occurred to him before because Hatatcha had
never discussed it, and the matter of her death was until lately a thing
that did not need to be considered. But her condition was serious
to-night, and the precious life-giving elixir was gone to the last drop.
All the people around Abu Fedah deferred to Hatatcha, because she
claimed, with some show of reason, to be of royal descent. But they did
not know the story of Ahtka-Rā, and her escapades in London years ago
were all unsuspected by them. Hatatcha only confided such things to
Kāra, and he would never dare breathe them to any except the Englishman,
from whose lips the tales would never be liable to return.
But there was a great deal that Kāra himself did not know, and he
realized this as he gazed uneasily upon his sick grandparent. She ought
to tell him where the coins and jewels had come from, and if there were
any left. He would need some trifles of that sort when she was gone.
And the matter of her funeral--she had expressed strange desires, at
times, regarding the disposition of her body after death. How was he to
find means to carry out such desires?
A voice, low and clear, fell upon his ear and made him start. Hatatcha’s
big eyes were open and he caught their sparkle even in the darkness.
“Come nearer,” she said.
He dropped upon the floor at her side and sat cross-legged near her
head, bending over to catch her slightest whisper. She spoke in English
to him.
“Anubis calls me, my son, and I must join his kingdom. My years are not
great, but they have worn out my body with love and hatreds and plans of
vengeance. You are my successor, and the inheritor of my treasures and
my revenge and hates. The time is come when you must repay my care and
perform a mission for which I have trained you since childhood. Promise
me that you will fulfil my every wish to the letter!”
“Of necessity, Hatatcha,” he responded, calmly. “Are you not my
grandmother?”
She remained silent a moment.
“You are cold, and selfish and cruel,” she resumed, her tone hardening,
“and I have made you so. You are intelligent, and fearless, and strong.
It is due to my training. Listen, then! Once I was young and beautiful
and loving, and when I faced the world it fell at my feet in adoration.
But one who claimed to be a man crushed all the joy and love from my
heart, and left me desolate and broken. Like a spurned hind, I crept
from the glare of palaces back to my mud hut, bearing my child in my
arms, and here I mourned and suffered for years and found no comfort.
Then the love that had destroyed my peace fell away, and in its place
Set planted the seeds of vengeance. These I have cherished, and lo! a
tree has sprouted and grown, of which you, my son, are the stalwart
trunk. The fruit has been long maturing, but it is now ripe. Presently
you, too, will face the world; but as a man--not like the weak woman I
was--and you will accomplish my revenge. Is it not so, my Kāra?”
“If you say it, my Hatatcha, it is so,” he answered. But he wondered.
“Then pay close attention to my words,” she continued, “and store them
carefully in your mind, that nothing shall be forgotten when it is
needed to assist you. I will explain all things while I have the
strength of the elixir, for when it leaves me my breath will go with it,
and then your labors will begin.”
Kāra leaned still lower. For once his heart beat faster than was its
custom, and he felt a thrill of excitement pervading his entire being.
The climax in his life had at last arrived, and he was about to discover
what things he was destined to accomplish in the great unknown world.
Hour after hour Hatatcha’s low voice continued to instruct her grandson.
Occasionally she would question him, to be sure that he understood, and
several names she made him repeat many times, until they were indelibly
impressed upon his memory.
At last she took the forefinger of his right hand and with it made a
mystic sign upon her naked breast, making him repeat after her a
dreadful oath to obey her instructions in every way and keep forever
certain grave secrets.
Then she fell back and lay still.
Daybreak came in time, and a streak of light crept under the arch and
touched the group in the corner.
The aged hag, filthy and unkempt, lay dead upon her couch of rushes, and
beside her sat Kāra, his face immobile, his eyes staring fixedly at the
opposite wall.
He was thinking.