The Age of Ra

18. Anubis

The palace of the god of the dead is built of bones, high on a snowy mountain peak. Its gateway is formed from the ribcage of a whale. Its floors are tiled with human teeth, toe joints, and knuckles. Femurs and shins make up its walls, interleaved like brickwork. Its windows are framed with skulls and elephant tusks. Its towers are, literally, ivory towers.

Anubis dwells here, alone. Alone, he sits and broods, a dark presence at the heart of this white place.

Ra arrives with trepidation. It is never easy to predict what sort of mood his thrice-great-nephew will be in, but the safe bet is it won't be a good one. Added to that, Ra has a perennial dread of the realm of the dead. He spends half his time voyaging through its bleakest, blackest regions, and its lightlessness distresses and repels him. It is everything that he is not. He shines; it overshadows. He is filled with life; it is oppressive. He gives; it takes.

Anubis, on his throne, looks up and sombrely assesses his visitor. He squints somewhat, Ra's inherent radiance irksome to his gloom-adapted eyes.

''Great Ra,'' he says, and something in his tone of voice tells Ra that — miracle of miracles — Anubis is actually not displeased to see him. His mien is a few notches below its usual level of grimness. He is, by his own glum standards, almost jovial.

''He Who Belongs To The Cere-cloths,'' says Ra, ''I'm here to-''

''I know why you are here,'' says Anubis. ''I know of your self-appointed peace mission. We all do. Talk amongst the Pantheon has been about little else of late.''

''Then that spares me the effort of a lengthy explanation.''

''I confess I am slightly surprised you did not come to see me sooner.''

''Really?''

''I occupy a unique position,'' says Anubis. ''To all intents and purpose I am the son of Set and Nephthys. However, it's common knowledge that my real father is Osiris. My mother visited him in the night, he mistook her for Isis, and I am the bastard product of that adulterous union.''

''It has never been proven…''

''It has never been admitted, which is not the same thing. Osiris refuses to accept that he could have been so careless. My mother adamantly denies that she would seduce another woman's husband. Their efforts to cover up the whole sordid business are as strenuous as they are ludicrous. But dignity must be preserved at all costs, mustn't it?'' Anubis barks a laugh. ''Really, though, it's pathetic. How can Osiris not have known that he was lying with a woman other than his wife? Mind you, he has to say that. Otherwise Isis would doubtless see to it that he was going around with a pair of wooden balls to go with that wooden cock of his.''

''You blame him solely for the indiscretion? Surely Nephthys must bear some responsibility too.''

''Oh no, I blame her equally. She was no less guilty.''

''But my impression,'' says Ra, ''is that you don't hate your mother as much as you do Osiris.''

''Your impression would be erroneous. I hate her. I hate Osiris. I hate my adoptive father, dear old Set, who feigns not to be aware that I am not his blood son and yet still holds me at a distance. I hate all of them for their lies and their hypocrisy. I decry everything they stand for. And now you have come here to ask me to heal the rift between them, to act as the glue to reunite my true father and my adoptive father. Because, nominally, I belong to both Osiris and Set, I ought to be well placed to prick their consciences and bring them to the negotiating table. Am I not wrong? That's what you're after? That is the task you wish to enlist me to carry out?''

''You are not wrong,'' says Ra.

''So why did you not approach me earlier? You have spoken to Osiris and Isis and to the First Family. Why me now? Why was I not top of the list?''

''I…'' Ra hesitates. ''I would have solicited your aid sooner, had I not believed that I could discharge this mission on my own. I did not wish to burden anyone else.''

''But you have failed so far, and this is the next step, talking to me. An act of desperation, one might perhaps call it.''

''No.''

''How am I not supposed to feel second-rate, though? An afterthought?''

Anubis, thinks Ra, is sensitive when it comes to feeling wanted. Like many a child of dubious parentage he is insecure at heart, forever afraid of rejection. His brooding demeanour masks fragility. I must tread carefully.

''One avenue of approach has proved unsuccessful,'' he says. ''This fresh direction, which I was initially loath to take for fear of troubling you, may yet be the one that bears fruit.''

''For fear of troubling me?'' Anubis's grin looks very much like a baring of fangs. ''Or for fear of me?''

''O Chief Of The Necropolis, Lord Of The Hallowed Lands, He Who Stands Guard At The Head Of The Bier…''

This litany of epithets is begun by Ra on a note of protest. Then he realises he is not being honest, and did not Anubis just now state his abhorrence of dishonesty in all its forms?

So, with humble straightforwardness, he says, ''Yes, I do fear you. I cannot deny it. I wish it were otherwise, but it isn't. I am the sun, light, life, and you — you are not.''

Anubis nods, approving of Ra's plain speaking. ''We cannot all be alike, or sympathetic to one another. It would be boring and absurd if we were. But alas, Great Ra, for all your most welcome frankness, I'm afraid I must decline your invitation to help. And before you remonstrate, let me explain my reasons why. Come.''

They go to a balcony high in the palace, from which vantage point nearly all of the realm of the dead lies visible before them. Iaru, the Field of Reeds, stretches as far as the eye can see, an endless glittering green expanse beneath a low, thunder-purple sky. The souls of the dead are hard at work down there, ankle-deep in the marshy water, million upon million of them. Bent-backed, they plant and sow. They wield hoe and scythe. They reap and gather. Some of them sing toil-songs in thin, high voices. The sound drifts up to Ra's ears like the warbling of birds in a far-off forest, and it speaks of contentment and certainty. For all eternity the dead will labour here among these reed-beds. For all eternity they will watch seeds grow to shoots and the shoots become crops to be harvested, and they will never tire of the endless repetition of the process. For the dead, the cycle of life will never lose its fascination.

''What do you see?'' Anubis asks.

''You know what I see. Your realm. Your subjects. The ever-growing ranks of mortal souls.''

''Ever-growing,'' says Anubis, seizing on the word. ''Indeed. With each new arrival my kingdom expands and is augmented. Moment by moment, Iaru gets larger. Its bounds increase and so does my power and influence. I am the lord of all this. Do you not understand what that means?''

Ra looks blank, deliberately.

''You don't, do you? Neither did my real father. Osiris had the chance to be ruler of the dead. If Isis had not resurrected him and breathed life back into him, he would be here now, at my side if not in my stead. He still insists he is god of the netherworld or some such, but it's an honorary title at best. He claims some form of authority here, but in truth he has none. For him, the soft comforts of wife and hearth and bed are far preferable. Osiris is a sensualist. The solitude and austerity of this existence, which I find congenial, he would find unbearable. Little does he realise what he has passed up.''

Anubis gazes out over Iaru, a tiny spark appearing in each of his black, black eyes.

''When it comes down to it,'' he says, ''there is only death. Death is all that is and all that ever will be. In their lives, mortals struggle and compete, but when it's over they all of them wind up here, the same, united in co-operation, subject to me. I am here for them, after their bodies have crumbled and failed. And like their bodies, the world they live in is frail and finite. It will not continue to support them forever. They ruin it and ravage it, and a day will come when it will no longer be habitable. Centuries from now, perhaps millennia, the human race will dwindle and sputter out like a spent candle. So then which of us gods will still be around, as the dregs of mankind breathe their last and expire? Which of us will still have any power? Who among the Pantheon will remain, once mortals become extinct?''

Rhetorical questions, but Ra supplies the answer nonetheless. ''You, O Anubis.''

''I,'' intones the dark god. ''Precisely. I, and only I. The rest of you will be long gone while I continue to preside over the eternal dead. And thus I will endure, until the stars wink out and the very last trace of heat ebbs from the cosmos and there is nothing but eternal icy nothingness. Here, in my realm of souls, I will outlast you all. You may burn brightly now, great Ra, but you cannot burn forever, whereas I in all my coldness and restraint have countless eons ahead of me.''

''So you do not care, is that what you're telling me?'' says Ra. ''You do not care about family or happiness or peace in the world?''

''Why? Why should I? Eventually, in time, I will have no family left. Happiness is a fleeting emotion and, in my judgement, overrated. As for peace in the world, it is a figment, an illusion, a desert mirage. Unattainable. Humans fight. It is what they do. What they do best, moreover. Even if by some miracle you were able to stop the Pantheon's quarrelling, humans would simply find other justifications to hate and kill one another. There would still be wars, waged for reasons of money, philosophy, skin colour, territorial gain, any or all of these.''

''Perhaps the wars would not be so intense, or so continuous. Perhaps there would be periods of relative calm. Lulls in the bloodshed.''

''I doubt it.''

Ra tries a fresh tack. ''So you will not intercede between Osiris and Set, and you do not see the point in peace,'' he says. ''At the very least, would you consider looking a little more kindly on your fellow gods? I know you hate all of us-''

''Not all, Ra. You, for example, I am merely indifferent to.''

From Anubis, this is tantamount to a declaration of love.

''I'm honoured,'' says Ra. ''Still, what I'm asking is-''

''Could I try not to resent my relatives quite so much?''

''I'd be happy if you could manage it with even just one of them.''

''Which one, though? Not Osiris, the hypocrite. Not Isis or Nephthys, those deceitful shrews. Horus? Huh. There's nothing to Horus. He's hollow, a thing of bluff and bluster. And as for those wretched children of his…'' Anubis mimes a shudder.

''That leaves one person. Set.''

''Him?'' The god of the dead sneers, and his teeth are many and they are sharp. '''Daddy'? Him I would find it hardest of all not to dislike.''

''You're similar in many ways.''

''That would be why, then. Ever heard of magnets? Aligned alike, we repel each other.''

Ra heaves a sigh. His third attempt to bring about a change of mood within the Pantheon, his third failure. It's useless. It really does seem that his quest is futile. Perhaps he should simply give up. Doubtless that's what Thoth would counsel. Maat too. Wisdom is knowing when you're defeated.

Then Anubis says, ''Try not to be so downcast.''

''Is it that obvious?''

''Your light has dimmed. I can almost bear to look directly at you. You're aware, aren't you, that unusual events are occurring on earth?''

''I've been somewhat preoccupied. What events are these? Tell me.''

''In the place they call Freegypt. Look there. What do you see?''

Ra is the sun, the ever-open eye. Ra gazes down in rays and beams, and the world lies spread out below him, laid bare, and he sees into every corner of it. He focuses his attention on Freegypt, where no member of the Pantheon holds sway, the land where their worship arose and where by mutual agreement they leave no tread. A birthplace for all, a home to none. The empty nest. The tiny speck of territory that reminds them of their origins and of how far they have come.

Freegypt's entire history, its recent past, what has happened there during the last few days — in an instant Ra perceives it all. He takes it all in. He observes and comprehends.

''Ha,'' he says. ''Ho. Interesting.''

''Is it not?'' says Anubis. ''A small but significant shift in the status quo. I only noticed it myself when a handful of Freegyptian souls appeared in Iaru. Unbelievers always make their presence felt when they come here. They just aren't expecting it. I sense their startlement — like an itch in my extremities — though it soon subsides as they adjust and fall to work alongside their fellow dead. These ones, however, were killed by Nephthysians. They bore the mark of Nephthys's ba on them, which naturally made me curious. Investigating, I learned the whys and wherefores of their dying, and that led me to discover the desecration of temples belonging to Wepwawet, Sobek and others, and thence to the existence of this man calling himself the Lightbringer.''

''The Lightbringer,'' Ra says. He frowns, pensively. ''Yes. I can discern very little about him. I can hardly see him at all, in fact. There is something about him, a — a kind of pearlescent aura. It shifts and shimmers, like fog. He disguises himself. How?''

''This troubles you.''

''Of course it troubles me. As does his chosen name. Am I not the one who brings light?''

''There is an element of hubris there, I agree. Perhaps of challenge too.''

''The situation,'' Ra says, ''merits further enquiry. Thank you, Anubis. This hasn't been a wasted trip after all.''

''I am, O Ra, indifferent to you, remember?''

''And I feel the same way about you, Anubis,'' Ra says, with warmth.