The Egyptian ran like a poem in motion, all fluid grace and freedom, the body of him sweating lightly beneath the warmth of the sun. He ran for the sheer joy of running. It was, he admitted, sweet Isis to his seventh soul. He loved the feel of powerful leg muscles bunching one against the other, pushing his body forward with effortless ease, and proud he was to be one of a rare breed of courier messengers who had no fear of distance or the loneliness of the desert runner.
Like a shower of golden coins carelessly thrown, centuries spilled down into thousands of years, and like melting honey, eased away memory of the First Kingdom, until knowledge of it was no more than a blur of mist shrouding an ancient river of time.
True, written records (glyphs) survived in quantity, but no one actually believed what was written. Indeed, both priest and scholar voiced words by rote with little or no understanding at all of what they were saying. Perhaps no one cared to believe a truth that no longer existed within the borders of Pharaonic Egypt.
Ancient records spoke at length of the incredible achievements accomplished during a 3,000 year era of peace, prosperity and the gathering of wisdoms from all the known lands. An age of collective spiritual achievement, of balance and harmony.
Such writings were, both priest and scholar agreed, no more than myths, a collection of improbable bedtime stories. And like the First Kingdom, the Brotherhood also slipped away into shadows of hiding, leaving no trace behind.
Sadly, the Secret of the stones had long been lost.
Though it is true to say, knowledge has a stubborn and at times peculiar way of persisting, of making itself known, despite all who may claim or wish otherwise.
Bernard Coyne
Southern France 1956
Nag Hammadi
EGYPT
Old Kingdom Papyrus pp No 1,043 (known as the Onuris Papyrus) from the private collection of Brigadier Sir Henry Tredlowe DSO (deceased).
The deceased estate sold by auction, April 1939.
Papyrus collection purchased by Marie St Ives.
Onuris of the Spear
Beneath a placid blue sky, heat smoked across the land like haze from a glowing fire. High above the shimmering desert a grey winged hawk circled lazily, bright button eyes alert for prey. Nothing moved in all that awful desolation of sand and heat and splintered rock. The desert had been empty forever with no lingering trace of eons ago lushness. It had all faded away, slowly changing even as the legendary Pobal Na Cloch had changed, until the hot ball of the sun seared away the last remaining vestige of verdancy, and only desert remained. Perhaps it had always been a desert.
Suddenly the grey winged hawk shifted, as black button eyes registered a moving shape trailing dust, silently poised, ready to plummet down like a strike of lightening towards its prey. And then the moving form shimmered man shape through the rising waves of heat.
A harsh scream of frustrated rage echoed through the air as the hawk wheeled away towards a distant mound of rocks, where sometimes unwary rodents and small slim bodied snakes fell prey to striking talons.
Heat pressed down from out the empty blue like a firm hand. Quiet it was, the very absence of sound lending an eerie, expectant feel to the air. The desert kills all unwaries, it always has and it always will. No one survives the savage land without knowledge of its breath, or crosses its smallest corner without offering up a prayer. And yet there are some few of humankind who revel in its care. A special breed of men who love to dance with the danger of it all, knowing always, they balance upon the edge of a knife, ever poised to gut unwaries.
Even so, it was an old tired land, full of ache and sorrow, ancient mysteries and odd enigmatic ruins that appeared and disappeared as dry dusty winds moved hills of sand in one direction and then another.
This day the winds had ceased to blow. Tawny gold grains of sand lay unmoving beneath an endless blister of pure shimmering blue. The sky and the desert were empty, except for a crazy circling hawk and the lone figure of a running man.
The Egyptian ran like a poem in motion, all fluid grace and freedom, the body of him sweating lightly beneath the warmth of the sun. He ran for the sheer joy of running. It was, he admitted, sweet Isis to his seventh soul. He loved the feel of powerful leg muscles bunching one against the other, pushing his body forward with effortless ease, and proud he was to be one of a rare breed of courier messengers who had no fear of distance or the loneliness of the desert runner.
As he sped across the sands he knew it was as close as he would ever come to experiencing the joyous freedom of flight. Breathing easy, heartbeat steady, the Egyptian ran on, seemingly unaffected by heat or thirst, the sound of leather sandals whispering across sand no more than a dry leaf rustle inside his head.
Unlike the regulation footwear worn by Pharaoh's legions, Onuris wore sandals made by master craftsmen, from the finest of leathers. Light, yet strong and supple with just enough thickness of sole to protect his feet from the blistering heat of the desert sands. Running kilt and a small thin bladed knife stuck in his waist band completed his dress. The Egyptian carried no food or water. Should he fall and injure himself, he would die, the knife was to help him on his way. Onuris thrived on the constant uneasy danger of it all.
Sadly, his mother died during his early youth. Grief stricken, his father followed soon after, leaving him alone in a world suddenly grown dark. Of course friends and relatives would have welcomed him into their homes and raised him as their own. Only Onuris did not want that. The death of his parents had left a hole in his heart and an ache in his belly. He didn't then know what he wanted. His young life was all a spin and fast falling down into nights of shiver silent sobbing.
Finally, with little thought given to reasoning why, one morning he walked to the great temple of Horus and asked to be taken in. He agreed to work as a temple cleaner come messenger boy in exchange for food and a place to sleep. The kindly priests also taught him to read and write.
Later, during his seventeenth year of life he left the temple and enlisted in the army. It was like coming home. Authority bothered him not at all and he actually thrived on the harsh training regime and the oftentimes less than adequate food. Both were in fact matters of complete indifference to him. During basic training he displayed a natural aptitude for both sword and shield causing one particular drill sergeant to recommend him for advanced weapons training.
So it was one lazy summer's afternoon that Onuris found himself standing, spear in hand, next to a grizzled veteran of countless border raids who said simply, 'On your mark lad, let's see what you can do.' The veteran pointed towards a distant straw filled figure of a charging warrior. 'Try lad,' his instructor said kindly, 'to throw this 'ere gut sticker as close to yon figure as yer can, an' if yer can't, well, we'll be after trying again now wont we.'
Onuris did much better than merely close. His spear punched completely through the straw figure's chest.
Startled, the grizzled NCO handed Onuris another spear and said softly, 'Try again lad.'
The second spear enlarged the hole in the target's chest as it punched completely through. Silently the NCO handed Onuris a third spear. It flew unerringly through the air, passing cleanly through the hole made by his first two strikes.
The veteran said with wonder in his voice, 'Blood and bones lad, blood and bones, no raw recruit has ever come close to hitting the bloody target, let alone placing three spears in the same bloody hole. Blood and bones,' he said with relish, 'you're a bloody caution lad, a bloody caution. My word on it. Now, let's be finding out what you can really do with this ere gut sticker. Easy now, and on your mark ---'
When Onuris felt the weight of the spear in his hand, he sensed it to be the one weapon for him. How he knew, he could not say, he simply knew, somewhere deep down inside.
And so it proved to be.
During the weeks and months that followed, he changed rapidly, developing wide powerful shoulders and an easy swinging gait that was deceptively fast. Coupled with an ever increasing strength and skill, he became a deadly marksman, capable of hitting targets beyond the reach of any other spearman in his regiment.
Inevitably he became known as, Onuris of the Spear, and won many a bet for a certain grizzled veteran who delighted in saying, 'You're a bloody caution lad, you really are, my word on it.'
During his enlistment period, Onuris also discovered he loved to run. The rhythmic pound and feel of it all was like a flute to his senses. He won even more for a certain veteran who thought him to be a bloody caution.
And then, like all things in this world, his years of service came to an end. Nor did he choose to re-enlist, much to the disgust of a certain wealthy NCO.
Copper skin gleaming beneath the sun, arms and shoulders pumping, helping to propel him along. Sandaled feet skimming across the sand, powerful leg muscles bunching, relaxing, bunching. Somewhere a grey winged hawk screamed. The sound of it lonely and eerie as it echoed through the air.
The Egyptian would run and continue to run until he reached his destination or his heart ceased to beat, whichever came first. Not that he thought of death and certainly not his own. He knew what he could do and, secure in the certainty of his knowledge had nothing to prove. A faint smile creased his lips, 'Besides, this run would do little more than raise a thirst,' he reflected idly.
Onuris, Warrior of the Spear. Friend to Raman, commander of the Blue Crane Regiment, who even now fought the desert Nomarches (Robber Barons) far to the north and south of the sacred river Nile. Temple trained, Onuris could both read and write, not that he ever expected to do either, what warrior would. Besides, they were skills that occasioned much biting of nails and achy pains in the head. Let the world know, he was once heard to say, 'That I would rather write with my spear against anyone.' Some thought him a braggart, others knew he but stated a self evident truth.
However that may be, Onuris possessed a fine, lively intelligence and a rare trait that was as precious as it was rare, loyalty. Nor was his loyalty dependant upon gain. Indeed, it could not be bought, only given freely without need to ask. Once assured that whoever hired him was not engaged in nefarious activities, business or otherwise, Onuris offered loyalty that was both constant and as obdurate as stone.
Leaving the army, Onuris hired out to Al-Almek a prosperous merchant with interests in both Thebes and Memphis. Oddly, for all his rumoured wealth, or because of it, the merchant chose to live in Nag Hammadi, a small rural town situated along the banks of the Nile some distance from the nearest city. It was here, amongst a huddle of warehouses, slave quarters and various other buildings that Onuris lived and worked as a guard when not delivering messages, or small mysterious parcels concealed within course fibre wrappings.
An observant man, Onuris was intrigued from time to time by many a consignment arriving from distant lands, often from beyond the sea, that were immediately whisked away to Al-Almek's nearby house of scribes. From where, days later Onuris noted with interest, a flood of scrolls, tablets and thin copper sheets covered in strange forms of writing began to appear. It was always around that time that he began to run, delivering mysterious packages to men from all walks of life. Of course, his master, Al-Almek dealt in an enormous variety of goods. Scrolls, books and other such oddments forming a regular part of his business dealings and should not therefore have aroused any undue interest on the part of Onuris. Only, there always seemed to be an aura of secrecy surrounding any new arrival of books. And certainly, Onuris noted, such arrivals disappeared into the house of scribes with remarkable speed and efficiency. He could only conclude that such items were not only valuable but eagerly sought after by men of wealth and learning.
What Onuris did not then know, was that the few items offered for sale, were only copies, the originals being safely housed within a small, below ground library, to which only Al-Almek or his scribes had access. The library was not exactly a secret; it simply wasn't spoken of outside Al-Almek's circle of scribes. The steps leading down to a stout wooden door, gave no indication at all of the valuables stored within. Now and again, Al-Almek asked Onuris to stand guard outside the door whilst others laboured within, and he wondered about that, but not unduly so.
The merchant was a tough old man, with a sometimes foul mouth and sloppy way of dressing that helped to distract from the lively intelligence dancing behind his eyes. He said he was a merchant, he acted like one, therefore he was. Only his immediate intimates knew otherwise, but then, they also shared the secret of the temple, the Hidden Academy.
During Al-Almek's early youth, his father introduced him to the Brotherhood, explaining its ideals and the fundamental purpose behind its very existence. Al-Almeck listened politely but really, he couldn't care less, the very suggestion that an unknown enemy might one day invade Egypt simply to destroy knowledge was laughable. Only it wasn't, but he didn't know that.
And then his father failed to return from a distant trading venture. Finally, out of sheer desperation, Al-Almek sought out a friend of his father's, a priest of the Temple of Horus, and asked if he might know what fate had befallen his father's trading venture. The priest turned him away with kindly words and a vague murmured promise of help.
Unknown to Al-Almek, the priest, an initiate of the Brotherhood, was also concerned for his old friend's safety and had, the day of his visit sent a Guardian to retrace his old friend's route and find out, if he could, what had happened to him.
Weeks later the Guardian returned with news of the trader's death. 'The entire caravan,' he said, 'had been wiped out to a man by a band of desert marauders led by a dark skinned warrior with weirding fever yellow eyes.'
Learning of his father's death Al-Almek determined to follow in his footsteps, and soon became known as a ruthless trader. Oddly, having once laughed at his father's views and commitment to the Brotherhood, he now embraced the mysterious order whole heartedly.
Retaining contact with his father's old friend he accepted, now and again, commissions from the Brotherhood to carry and at times to locate if he could, a variety of lost or otherwise forgotten writings thought to be languishing on some distant bookseller's musty shelf. Gradually, and inevitably he became one with the Brotherhood and finally, learned the dreadful secret of The Darkness they swore oath to expose, and why of course the order remained hidden. Like others before him he read the works of the founder, Hermes Trismegistus, Thrice Greatest, and was never quite the same again.
Since first hiring the young spearman, Al-Almek had watched him grow from a brash, sometimes boastful warrior into a loyal and extremely valuable member of his tight knit trading group. He was, the merchant often thought, a gift from God, from Horus himself. That the young warrior could also read and write was an extra, unlooked for gift, although, Al-Almek mused ruefully, Onuris was rarely interested in using such gifts. Even so, the merchant had given much thought to inviting the young warrior to join the Brotherhood, or at the very least, suggest its existence to him.
Shadows lengthened as the fiery heat of the day gave way to the soft half light of dusk.
Al-Almek leaned back against the outer wall of his house with a sigh of relief. He was growing old and he knew it. His back ached and some days the sun's glare hammered against his eyes like invisible fists. A vagrant breeze swirled dust around his feet as he gazed off towards town. Its outline etched against a darkening vault of blue. Purple shadows began to gather in pools and lengthening fingers as the fiery disc of the sun slipped below the horizon.
Al-Almek liked the dusk and that almost mystic glow of light that seemed to fill the air just before true night began. Had he done the right thing, he wondered, talking so openly to Onuris. Well, it was done now and he could not take his words back. Let him think on it for awhile, he thought, eyeing the silent young warrior beside him. Who, like he, gazed off into a distance of thought that was no doubt as haunted as his own. A cool whispering breeze blew in from the desert, touching him briefly before dying away into silence.
Al-Almek, with a trader's patience remained quiet and still, waiting for the silent warrior resting beside him to speak; he was prepared to wait all night if necessary. Besides, he liked to gaze up at the night sky, if only to reassure himself that heaven had not moved, its precise location confirmed by the naked eye.
Faint sounds of laughter spilled out from the town. Somewhere a cat howled, spitting angrily as it traced the scent of an intruder skulking on its patch. A door slammed, the flat thud of the sound merging with the gathering night. Here and there lamplight glowed like tiny yellow stars fallen to earth. The creak of a water bucket being drawn from a well and then silence, as the town settled into the comforting cool of a dark and moonless night.
Onuris sat as though carved from stone, wings of darkness gathering around him. He was not, he knew, a deep thinking man. He paid lip service to Ra and Horus and a host of other lesser gods simply because it was expected, and not from any strong belief that by doing so he would earn some obscure divine favour or protection from harm. He survived in the desert because he was good at surviving in the desert. Certainly his survival was not dependant upon the whim of some god no one had ever seen. At least he did not think so, but of course he could never be sure, and that was as deep as he was prepared to delve in such matters.
Sometimes, when not on duty, he wandered into town and spent the evening drinking sweet amber wine, invariably waking up the following morning beside some sultry beauty who had taken a fancy to him. True, he paid for the pleasure of her favours but then, why not. He was a distance runner who loved the solitude of his work, never in one place long enough to form a permanent attachment to anyone. Nor had he any desire to do so, preferring a simple uncomplicated life to the complexities of permanency. And if I die, he thought bleakly, there will be no widow to sorrow the passing of Onuris. No son or daughter to mourn a memory that would soon fade like smoke on the wind. And yet for all of that, the merchant's words had touched something buried deep within, sparking a vague, dreamlike memory he had not thought he possessed. It was more a feeling, he thought silently, than an actual memory, the old man's talk of blue had somehow stirred up. And what did he mean by Guardian for life? What was so important, Onuris pondered, to warrant such unremitting service?
Stars glittered high above his head like frosty shards of brilliant light. Cool winds ruffled his hair, as Onuris sat in silence, mulling over the merchant's words. What does he offer other than chance of a shortened life? And why not, Onuris smiled grimly, what else is there for me to do? I have no woman, no children, no house, all I own is myself. Why not indeed? Somewhere a bell chimed softly.
Turning towards Al-Almek he said with a smile, 'I accept old man, though for the life of me, I'm not at all sure what it is I'm accepting. Only, it feels right and that's about all I can say.'
Al-Almek beamed his pleasure.
From that night on, the life of Onuris changed dramatically.
Al-Almek sent the young warrior to the Temple of Horus, more specifically to the Hidden Academy, where he would learn of a darkness that had the form and face of a man with yellow eyes who, when he came to power, sought out and destroyed whatever depositories of knowledge he could find. His eyes are sometimes a weirding colour, he was told. He was also informed of the Brotherhood's continual search for lost, oftentimes legendary writings that most scholars outside the Brotherhood considered not to exist. But they do, he was told, and soon or late are found and if we be fortunate, sometimes mention of a trace of blue, is found amongst the old writings.
Later, Onuris discovered, a Trace of Blue, had something to do with a sort of spiritual wisdom mentioned briefly in the writing of Hermes Trismegistus, and also in a work by Thomas, who it is said once fought John the Destroyer during an earlier, mostly unrecorded age. 'John,' his tutor said, 'was a darkness with weirding eyes.'
The old priest assigned to instruct him said that blue was the most beneficial of colours, helping to lower pressure within the body caused by rising blood. It is also helpful to those who breathe with difficulty or sweat too much when days are cool. And of course, said the old priest, blue, as all men know is the colour of sweet spirit, the colour of God, the Maker, Lord of Perfect Knowledge.
Onuris wasn't at all sure what to think of the priest's talk of colours, but was wise and polite enough to refrain from voicing any lingering doubts he might have. He was not after all a deep thinking man. Intelligent yes, extremely so and he as a free person chose not to use it. His life was all he wished it to be, he was content to simply own himself and sometimes gift the earth his sweat. In his own way he was a sacred man of constant vow. When he ran desert trails he reaffirmed spirit's kinship with earth and all her subtle harmonies. Deep within his seventh soul he knew the Earth owned itself and for all the rapacious lusts of men claiming ownership of its flesh they could not change it otherwise. Onuris did not consider such thoughts profound. They were to him no more than obvious simple truths bereft of profundity and the clever manufactured complexities used by men spuriously justifying rape of the Mother to accumulate wealth. But then as Onuris once said, 'I am a simple man content with life. I own myself and I have touched the earth, it is enough for me I think.'
The young warrior's academic instruction became something of a blur as he strived valiantly to assimilate knowledge he considered to be the province of deep thinkers. His evident relief when told to return to the house of Al-Almek caused many a nearby priest to chuckle and smile knowingly.
Returning to the merchant's house Onuris was greeted by an instructor of a different kind. A small dark skinned man with bright black cherry eyes, who said he came from beyond the Southern Mountains to instruct him in the way of a secret art.
Four months later the small man said Onuris should continue training on his own. 'In the way of my teaching,' he said with a gleam in his eyes, as he turned on his heel and walked away.
Onuris never saw the strange, yet deadly little man again.
Weeks fell down into months that clicked away seasons, as the seriousness of Guardianship gradually dawned on Onuris, along with all its attendant responsibilities. To WHAT, he once thought with a sigh, have I given promise, and why did I do so? Now there's a thing, he chuckled softly to himself — WHY?
The library of Al-Almek was actually a Brotherhood storehouse, a way station for knowledge that when copied, only copies remained whilst the originals were sent on to other, more secret and secure locations.
Where security of the library and house of scribes was concerned, Al-Almek deferred to Onuris, saying, 'The responsibility rests entirely upon your shoulders my young friend. In thee we trust,' the merchant intoned softly.
As season followed season the Egyptian realised his personal belief or disbelief in the existence of something dark with strange eyes seeking out and destroying storehouses of knowledge was actually of no importance. Indeed the only way he could truly fulfil his obligation, was by assuming it was true , and that sooner or later an attempt would be made to destroy the entirety of Al-Almek's holding in Nag Hammadi.
Certainly, Onuris concluded, should such a one come, he would not come to rob, but to kill and destroy with fire and sword. Belatedly, Onuris realised he was but one man and suggested Al-Almek seriously consider hiring two or three local warriors as additional guards, under his command.
Not that it mattered, it was already too late. Indeed events concerning Onuris had been gathering momentum since the day of his birth. Not even his untimely death could now halt or sway things otherwise.
Onuris was edgy, taut and thrumming like a bow string though he couldn't say why. He trained harder, working his way through a series of complicated moves that looked deceptively easy to the untrained eye. His natural grace and balance adding a simple beauty to a weave of pattern that looked for all the world like the flowing movements of dance.
When not in training, he stalked around Al-Almek's compound, dark eyes alert for any signs of intrusion. Sometimes he simply stood, shading his eyes as he gazed out across the desert.
Something was wrong. He was sure of it, but he didn't know what. Unease flared deep down in his gut, aching the base of his spine with tension. Sleep became a hard won thing of short restless hours. He took to carrying his spear with him at all times, his obvious agitation and silent sombre moods inevitably filling those around him with similar feelings of unease.
Some nights he slept not at all, squatting like some graven image outside the door of the library, spear leaning against his shoulder. Now and again during such lonely silent vigils, he thought of his friend Raman and his long ago offer of a place amongst his beloved Blue Crane Regiments. Onuris had declined on the grounds that Raman's Blue Cranes had a bad habit of dying. He wondered now, and not for the first time, what the odds might be of him surviving to live out his final years in some sleepy old town like Nag Hammadi. Slim, he thought sourly, as he outwaited the moon down into its bed, slim to none at all I'm thinking. He would grin then and think of something else. Senses alert for any unusual sound or furtive, flicker of movement. For all his lack of sleep, the Egyptian enjoyed the nights. Cool they were, and empty, with only a weight of stars above.
And then, one night, a sense of foreboding swept through him like an imminent thunder clap of doom.
Onuris understood Guardianship was absolute. Against all odds he would live or die defending what he now accepted as a sacred trust. It was no longer a simple question of loyalty to Al-Almek or the Brotherhood. It was something else, something deep and abiding and that puzzled him. Not in a worrisome way, but in a now and then thought upon thing, as though he was never quite sure how it was he had come to feel and believe so deeply in the nature of his trust; which was, when he got right down to it more an act of faith than anything else. And yet the odd thing was he had never felt so alive, so full of conviction and ultimately, so purposeful and passionate about the way of it all. Nor was it a memory he could view inside his head. Indeed, all he had was a feeling, a sometime haunting sense of having given promise to a vague power, sensed but never seen, never actually visualised. The feel of it buried so deep it never fully surfaced, perhaps it never would, but the intuitive sense of the mysterious presence was there, it had always been there. Certainly it was not cellular, not hereditary, not genetic or anything else the priest scholars of Horus spoke of.
It was spiritual, a memory line yet untapped by many, other than mystics living beyond the Southern Mountains.
Of course Onuris did not know that, what with deep thinking being an exercise he viewed with casual indifference. That is not to say the Egyptian was unspiritual, indeed he was not. Traits of loyalty, trust, striving to do what was right, helping others rather than not helping others, were all signs of an ongoing process leading towards spiritual maturity. He simply failed to recognise that's what it was in relation to self. Nor did he know or even care that spiritual memory is not the same as mental memory, or experience, or straight line (linear) recall as the priests of Horus were want to call memory of Metempsychosis, the migration of a tenant (soul, spirit) from a worn out house of flesh to a new forming abode within the womb. He did not know that spiritual memory is rarely, if ever, visualised in the form of mental images, hence the reason why only mystics and some few others drank from the hidden well. It is this untapped memory that one day will be the saving of all humankind, unaware though most be of its very existence. Intuitive leaps of scholars and scientists, the unlooked for breakthroughs in research, sudden insights and a host of other things all stem directly or indirectly from spirit's store of memory without need of belief, or even an implied knowing, or vague awareness of its existence. As for Onuris he couldn't care less one way or the other. Only, there was a feel, an inner sensing of something. Well, he mused pensively, he would think on it one day, when he was older and had gotten more of a feel for such things, if I live that long, he thought sourly.
The Egyptian continued to prowl round and about the compound like a stalking cat. Finally convincing Al-Almek to send the last of the originals contained within the library on to other more secret locations, leaving only copies even unto the small baked clay tablets covered in wedge shaped script (cuneiform) behind.
When the last camel train filed away along the dust road leading south, Onuris sighed with relief. Even so, his unease of the past few days had not faded, if anything, it had begun to coil inside his gut like some intrusive tightening hand and he was warrior enough to heed its warning.
Onuris, of whose spirit it is written, retained memory of an ancient promise to ward against a dark returning foe. Onuris who gave unyielding loyalty without ever questioning why, tramped across the dusty compound as the last camel disappeared over the horizon's rim, heading towards the sunken library for a final reassuring look around. Desert heat pressed in around him like the devil's own breath. His head and chest ached and that was unusual, he could run for hours through such heat. Why now, he wondered, why should the desert heat bother me now? Is it a warning, he thought suddenly, footsteps slowing as he looked around, nothing moved, just sand and buildings baking in the heat. He shrugged the feeling aside as he entered the relative coolness of the library's silent throat.
For all his disinterest in written knowledge, Onuris enjoyed the quiet comfortable atmosphere within the library, now and again sitting for a while alongside a huge wooden table dominating the centre of the low roofed building, simply listening to the sound of distant voices drifting in on the slow moving air. Occasionally a stray shaft of sunlight speared in through the open door, like a soft glowing finger of gold pointing the way to heaven. He sat, gazing idly around; wondering in an absent minded sort of way what the scribes would do now their copying was all done. Study, I shouldn't wonder, he mused silently.
Suddenly his reverie was shattered by the sound of a single ululating shriek of pure terror. He leapt to his feet as the scream sobbed down to a terrible choking cry and then abruptly stopped. Ominous silence filled the air as Onuris clawed his way towards the open door. I should have known, he howled silently, I should have known.
The day was hot, full of late afternoon sunlight with power enough to ache the eyes. Old heat hung on the unmoving air like an out breath from a baker's oven. Dust motes floated, golden and shiny, spiralling lazily upwards towards the sun. As the day began to wane the sky softened, harsh brittle blue fading into a pale, hazy, milk blue light. Sometimes we are prisoners of our eyes, and all we perceive is aching regret and want, from behind adamant walls built of careless neglect. So it is written in the legendary Book Of Insights.
The Destroyers came suddenly, flowing in from the desert like some liquid heat mirage of disbelief. The deadly troop attacked in silence, cutting down anyone standing in their way as they spread out through the compound.
It was Al-Almek who cried out warning. His shriek of terror, as cold eyed warriors hacked his flesh, alerting Onuris to the killers' silent attack.
Onuris did not know that all the days of his life had been but steps leading towards this moment. And, like the fourteen steps buried beneath the walls of the City of Origins, they lead somewhere.
Onuris raced towards the open door with Al-Almek's terror laded shriek ringing in his ears. Gripping a light throwing spear in one hand and the bronze wired shaft of his beloved fighting spear in the other, he burst through the door, bright, late afternoon sunlight momentarily blinding him. Cursing, he squinted through the glare and then, between one heartbeat and the next his vision cleared, to reveal a loose group of strange garbed warriors ghosting towards him, short, wide bladed stabbing swords glinting in the sun.
With a muttered oath, Onuris casually launched his throwing spear with a deft flick of the wrist, hurling the deadly bolt towards the attacking troop without apparent aim. Only, Onuris had never thrown a spear in his life without knowing precisely where it would strike. Such was the magic of his skill, it looked for all the world as though the leading attacker had deliberately stepped in front of the speeding shaft, inviting its long glittering needle point into his heart. As the spearhead punched through, the force of the blow hurled the attacker backwards, eyes glazing in death before his body hit the ground. His companions didn't even slow or spare a passing glance for their fallen comrade.
Cold, empty eyes surveyed Onuris dispassionately as the invaders closed in, lips drawn back in silent snarls, exposing stained yellow teeth gleaming faintly against dark, plum coloured skin.
Onuris leapt towards them, eyes flashing, a faint mocking smile creasing his face. For this he was trained. For this I was born, he exulted, warrior blood coursing through him like strong, heady wine, as he drove his spear through the chest of a luckless warrior. With a practiced twist of his wrists he forced the dying man down, driving his knee up to smash the body back as he pulled the war spear free.
Spinning, Onuris feinted right and then, with the speed of a striking cobra, struck left as warriors closed in around him, whirling he slashed the razor sharp spear head across the eyes of one, sinking it deep into the throat of another.
Speed, he thought silently, speed. Whirling his spear like a fighting staff, he moved in, allowing the enemy no time to coordinate their moves. Onuris smiled grimly, as he flowed like water, moving so fast, by the time eyes registered his intent, it was too late.
Professional warriors rarely used the heavy war spear as a close quarter weapon, and yet in the hands of a gifted master, it is a lethal, devastating weapon that few would willingly face, and of all Egypt's fighting men, only Onuris was known as Onuris of the Spear. Only he could deliver the legendary triple strike, and survive.
All weapons are designed to kill and none more so than the one Onuris held in his hands, the cruel beauty of its flat metalled blade, sharp as a butcher's knife. The shaft crafted from ironwood, thick and bound with bronze wire slender as cotton threads. An iron socket butted the deadly weapon, the iron hammered onto the butt whilst the metal glowed hot from the forge. Shrinking as it cooled, the metal gripped the wood tight like a hungry hyena. A short iron spike was then welded to the base of the socket, needle sharp and slender, adding a vicious deadly sting to the weapon.
As Onuris flowed through the pattern, his movements lured three remaining swordsmen in close and closer still and then he struck in a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow. Stabbing forwards, reverse strike flowing smoothly into a short, savage upward blow delivered with the wire bound shaft. The three blows, delivered with baffling speed and timing, flowed as one.
Three dark skins fell without a sound. One stabbed through the heart, another spiked through the eye, the slender needle driving in at a slight angle, piercing the brain. The third blow delivered by the shaft held horizontally, struck under the jaw driving the head back with such force, the dark skin's neck snapped like a dry twig. Stepping away from the cooling bodies, Onuris gazed swiftly around the compound. His blood ran cold. He could see only enemies.
'It's alone I am,' he breathed out softly. He looked up then, the quiet eyes of him taking in a wide expanse of pure blue, deepening now as the waning day filled the air with thickening red gold light. He breathed in deeply. 'Today is a good day to die,' he said without regret, the sound of his voice drifting away on the air like butterfly wings.
A smell of burning reached him. Lowering his eyes he gazed ahead, smoke poured out from Al-Almek's house in dark greasy coils, unmoving forms lay scattered around its walls. Even as he watched, outbuildings burst into flame. Beyond the compound, the town of Nag Hammadi was ominously quiet and still, the road running through its centre devoid of any sign of life. Clearing his throat, Onuris spat into the dust, cursing softly, knowing men cowered behind locked doors whilst others died. He was indeed alone. The invaders had killed Al-Almek, the scribes, everyone. The townsfolk he knew would assume that if they did not fight in aid of Al-Almek, they would be left alone. That the merchant and his people were the main source of the town's income influenced them not at all. Only later would they realise the cost of inaction. True, they were not soldiers, but then, sometimes you must be prepared to fight should you wish to keep what you have or simply to maintain an acceptable way of life.
A roar and crackle of hungry flames filled the air as walls caved in, sending up showers of sparks midst billowing clouds of smoke.
Something stirred beyond the burning building; Onuris shading his eyes could see dark manlike figures walking towards him, outlines dancing and wraithlike, distorted by waves of shimmering heat.
Something coiled in his gut, something hot and angry and as ancient as life itself. Throwing back his head, Onuris screamed out a savage cry, the defiant sound of a lone warrior standing unafraid in the face of fearful odds. The bull roar of his voice rose above the crackle of feeding flames like an affirmation. Here, it shrieked to his enemies, I am here, waiting, I be Onuris, Onuris of the Spear and the death of you all, strength coursed through him as though the Mother beneath his feet flowed strength to the endangered child of her womb.
Dark skins emerged from out the heat waves, shimmering outlines becoming all too real and solid, faces tight with murderous, dark intent.
Catching sight of the lone figure standing before the library, spear in hand, the Dark Ones, hefting swords, quickened their pace.
Onuris began to count and then gave up with a shake of his head. It really did not matter how many there were. He was exactly where he should be, and that was all there was to it.
Suddenly his mind cleared, resolve poured through him. His heart leapt, pounding against the wall of his chest. Powerful arm muscles bunched in readiness, belly taut and hollow. Battle light flared behind his eyes, and then, Onuris of the Spear lunged forward, bounding across the compound towards the enemy like a stone from a sling.
'They will always be your enemies,' something whispered way back inside his head.
The speed and ferocity of the crazy Egyptian's attack momentarily stunned the advancing warriors, who barely managed to raise their blades before Onuris exploded amongst them, striking right and left wreaking bloody havoc. Heat waves fanned out from the nearby burning building, washing over the struggling group with searing breath. Onuris danced amongst the enemy as smoke billowed up, staining the sky with dark accusing fingers. Sand whispered beneath his feet. Sweating bodies pressed close, hacking and stabbing. The Egyptian's spear flicked out like a serpent's tongue, the spiked butt driving through flesh a split second before the deadly spearhead found its mark. Warriors fell, only to be replaced by others.
Too many, Onuris cried silently, as he stabbed, feinted and stabbed again. A score of small wounds oozed blood as he whirled, dervish like, spattering the enemy with shiny ruby droplets. Warriors screamed, dying even as they fell, others groaning with pain as they stumbled away nursing broken bones.
The sun was a swollen red ball casting a lurid glow over the uneven battle, lending an eerie unnatural light to the air.
Vultures circled lazily, not caring who might win or lose knowing they would be the ultimate victors.
Oddly, none of the dark skins tried for the library, intent only on destroying the Egyptian, almost as if they were afraid to leave him alive.
The Egyptian wanted to sing but had not enough moisture left in his mouth to ease the papery dryness of his throat.
Of course it could not continue. Onuris knew not even a god could prevail for long against the combined might of almost equals. As he fought, Onuris felt distant from his body. The battle unreal and far away, screaming voices like drifty echoes from out of a strange yet vaguely familiar far away place that yet seemed as close to him as the land his body walked. And then something would drag at him like a heavy weight, stretching, pulling, and tearing at the very fabric of his soul.
'Oath's blood,' he cursed in desperation, shaking his head to clear it of the weirding weave and pull.
An agony of cold fire sliced the flesh of his left arm grating against bone.
He ignored it.
Catching a down swinging blade on the wire bound shaft of his spear, knee driving up into the groin, spear blade red and shiny, slashing, stabbing and then, something heavy smashed against the base of the Egyptian's spine. Pain flared, bursting inside his head like white fire, driving the breath out of him. Stunned, he stumbled forward and down, a swinging boot smashed into his face. Dazed, he lunged to his feet and whirled, blood spewing from a broken mouth. Swaying, he faced all that remained of the invaders. At least all he could see.
Two lean vicious looking warriors gazed at him through cold dispassionate eyes. The taller of the two held a short sword, the blade of it slick and shiny with blood. A cruel smile hovered around the corners of his mouth.
'You are dead Egyptian,' he hissed, 'only you're too stupid to know it.' The warrior began to circle Onuris warily, 'Now I take your head,' he growled.
Onuris spat at his feet, eyes widening in surprise as pain flared like burning oil inside his chest. Vision wavered in and out, the way it does sometimes when taken by too much wine. He shook his head, like a dazed, exhausted bull, unsure of what was happening, scattering glittering jewels of blood through the air.
I should have joined Raman's Blue Cranes after all, he thought tiredly as he tried to grin through his broken mouth and failed. Live coals smouldered inside his lungs with every breath.
Sometimes it be an effort just to hold onto life, he thought in a random vague sort of way.
'It is a fine day to be dying do you think?'
He staggered, almost dropping the heavy war spear.
The circling warrior snarled like a cat.
'I think it is,' husked Onuris, 'and will you hold me Mother, will you hold me when I fall?'
Pain boiled up filling the whole of his chest scalding his throat with bile. He ground his spear; head hanging low, wheezing, coughing, trying to draw breath. Ropes of blood hung from his mouth. Strength leaked away. 'Tired,' he mumbled, 'so tired.' Slowly, slowly, he raised his head, broken mouth working, 'is --- a -- good --- day -- to -- die,' he stammered in a dazed voice. 'Mother, will you hold me when I fall?'
And then, like wind shredding clouds, the grey fog inside his head cleared away.
He looked down at the seeping wound in his chest.
He ran me through, Onuris thought in wonder; the scabby whoreson ran me through the back.
Hot winds fanned his face. Dust and ashes mixed with the stench of death filled the air. Looking beyond the circling warrior and his companion, all he could see were smoking ruins and dark unmoving shapes, robes flapping as dry winds swept across the ground.
The circling warrior began to close in, signalling his companion to do the same. Cautious he was and none too sure the Egyptian might still have some fight left in him. For all the dark skin's words, he did not intend to die this close to final victory over the crazy Egyptian.
Behind them all the clay tiled roof of the sunken library glowed a dull red brown in the waning light of an uncaring day, copied treasures stacked neatly on stout wooden shelves. The open door a shadowed mouth, gaping midst walls of weathered, sun dried bricks. Like an invitation it was, that no one had yet accepted.
Onuris reasoned that if he could kill the two remaining warriors before the last breath of life leaked out of him, he would at least have saved something for those of the Brotherhood who would surely come.
Reasoning is a fine thing, and has little to do with chance or fancy and yet is often a compound of both. It is the unexpected, the obvious yet unlooked for bit and piece of something that all too often defeats with ease the most complex reasoning.
And then the circling warriors came in reach of the Egyptian's spear. With a silent cry and rush of will, Onuris moved. Dismay coursed through him, his belly heaved as white-hot claws of pain ripped through his chest, exploding inside his head in a burst of fiery stars. 'Weak, weak and slow,' he howled, realising too late strength leached out with blood, and the terrible enervating pain of wounds drained away more with every breath and motion of life.
It is given to some to bear awful wounds and yet create strength enough from power of will alone, to continue. It is a spiritual thing this power of will, a surging creation of spirit, though it is true , it cannot be maintained overlong, else the bright energy of it all still the heart its beating. Unless that is, such energy has immediate focus and use. The Temple, though aware of its now and again physical manifestation has little to say concerning the how of its creation, admitting only to knowing that now and again some do tap into a mysterious strength during a brief time of need. Of course, a kindly priest of the Temple once explained to Onuris, a somewhat lower or weaker level of that same spirit strength can be maintained for many years, helping to sustain a body that otherwise might die untimely from incurable illness or the debilitating onslaught of ceaseless pain.
Onuris had absolutely no idea what the priest was talking about, but then, he had never given much thought to how it was he could run through days of dusty heat covering a length of distance many considered to be impossible. It is a thing of the spirit and has little to do with religion, but then, religion is often misunderstood and sadly, at times, grossly misrepresented.
The imperative of spirit is to seek, he was told, all else be no more than dross and drift weighting thee down. When Onuris asked, how does the spirit know what to seek? He was told; only you can ever know that. To come to knowing, first you must seek, and thereby gain insight and knowledge of spirit's memory and wisdom.
Which was about as clear as mud to Onuris and made no sense at all. He was, he often thought during such talks, thankful to be no more than a simple warrior. Only he wasn't, and that was a sad regret he never recognised.
Weak and growing weaker with every heartbeat pumping the bright red life out of him, legs all a tremble he was still a dangerous warrior in possession of a singularly deadly skill. Broken thoughts thrummed, skittering around inside his head like dice in a bone cup.
MOVE; FINISH IT; NOW. Slow, weak can't breathe, MOVE; GUARDIAN, TRUST. GAUNT THING; YELLOW EYES. WHERE, WHERE, MOVE NOW.
Onuris tightened his will, he was a Guardian, and he would not fail. Without quite knowing how, he gathered energy like a faint blue mist pouring through him, overriding pain and weakness, firming trembling muscles. A feel of renewed strength literally filled him, until his body felt too small and weak to contain its rampant flow. Even so, he wasn't fool enough to think he could maintain it for more than a few heartbeats, it will be enough, he thought bleakly, it has to be.
He lunged, striking out with short jabbing motions.
The two dark warriors backed away, swords gleaming in the lurid glow of the descending sun, desperately trying to breach the Egyptian's tight defence as he continued to drive them back.
Bands of fire and ice wrapped around his chest, tightening with every breath, his back, a bleeding wound of ragged flesh with a dark puckered eye where the blade had run him through. Even so, he refused to fall, refused to allow pain and creeping lethargy to defeat him.
Later, he thought soundlessly, when my work is done, then Mother, will you hold me when I fall?
His head was a bright ache of inner pain, the like of which he had never known before. It starred his vision, gagged his throat and churned his guts to water. 'Not yet,' he breathed, 'not yet.'
Something cool gathered inside him, as though in answer to an imperative of spirit, as old as the universe and as beautiful. It was there when the universe began, flowing out, riding the ravening energies of that first creative explosion some do call a singularity. And yet, the observer is always observed, or so it is written in the ancient Book of Insights. Not that Onuris would care even if he knew. He was a Guardian, and for him it was enough.
Beneath a curve of sky smeared with crimson and gold, Onuris slipped into a final pattern, knowing he would live or die with no in between surrender.
Smoky, cooling air coated the inside of his mouth with a taste of charred flesh and ash.
Far and away beyond sight, a crazy grey winged hawk circled aimlessly. Vultures landed with heavy thumps, ignoring the living, they began to feast as Onuris drove two dark warriors like sheep. And then a grunt of pain exploding out his mouth, he suddenly reversed his spear, driving the deadly spiked butt forward with incredible speed, needle point punching neatly through his opponent's heart. Only it wasn't fast enough. Time for the Egyptian had ceased to flow. Onuris stiffened; his eyes opening wide in shock, as he felt metal slide deep into his unprotected side, hot it was and searing like ice.
A grim parody of a smile creased his broken mouth.
Before the remaining warrior could free his sword, Onuris spun, the weight and twisting motion of his body, combining to pull the sword out of the surprised dark warrior's hand, the blade of it grating against ribs as with a casual flick of the wrist he slashed open the dark one's throat.
The stricken warrior staggered, eyes wild and staring, hands clasped around torn throat as blood sprayed the air.
Mouth agape in a silent scream, Onuris sank to his knees, head hanging low, almost touching the sand. His enemies were dead and he still lived, for how long he had no idea.
Spirit strength has nothing to do with magic, chance or fancy. Mystics of the East and South know the way of its birthing, Onuris did not. It came and now it was gone, leaving him gasping and weary like unto nothing he had ever known.
Stomach dry heaving, he grasped the sword hilt in an underhand grip with his left hand and pulled. An involuntary cry of agony tearing out his throat as the blade reluctantly slipped free. 'Blood and balls,' he whispered, 'blood and balls.' Sweat coursed down his face, the salt of it stinging broken lips. Spots of light spun and danced behind his eyes. His head felt empty, his body far away as though it belonged to someone else. His stomach heaved as he cried out in a weak, almost inaudible voice that fluttered around his mouth like a captive bird.
To live or die, he really couldn't decide, the effort of decision requiring strength he no longer had.
I'll sleep on it, he thought with a mumbling sigh as he slowly keeled over and then. Suddenly, shockingly, a taunting voice rang about his head, and he knew he had failed.
'Look at me Egyptian.'
Against his will, Onuris felt his head move until he found himself staring up into a pair of weirding eyes. Cloudy they were, like tainted smoke shot through with flecks of yellow.
Surprisingly, at that moment, Onuris felt a questing tendril of strength return to flaccid muscle. With groaning effort he forced protesting limbs to obey, until finally he stood, swaying, giddy and faint from a lethal combination of pain, shock and blood loss. Bathed in silent waning sunlight he looked towards his enemy.
A tall, lean raggedy looking man, face darkened by long exposure to the sun, smoky yellow eyes full of a mocking half light, thin lips twisted in a sneer.
With an effort that cost him dear, Onuris straightened up. Even so, the raggedy man towered above him.
Onuris knew he was going to die. Only how remained to be decided. His heart stuttered and jumped against the wall of his chest as though trying to break free. He locked pain away, struggling silently to control torn, trembling muscles. Wounds oozed dark, rich blood like staining tears as the whole of his life wound down to no more than an uneven rhythmic measure of heartbeats.
He was exactly where he should be.
Gathering spittle, the Egyptian swallowed, moistening the dry sand feel of his aching throat. He tried to grin and failed. Cursing softly, he said in a hoarse rasping voice, 'Missed one did I? Well, you come not too late.'
The tall man eyed him coldly, 'Know you not who I am?' he said harshly.
'Aye,' answered Onuris, 'I know you,' cracked lips moved in a smile breaking crusting blood, 'you're the arse end of a she goat stuffed with dung.'
Onuris never saw the blow that hurled him backwards, only an exploding sheet of red white fire inside his head as he hit the ground with stunning force. Pain searing through his chest, he gagged, unable to cry out or even move.
'Get up,' hissed the dark man savagely, face livid with fury. 'Get up,' he repeated.
Breathing deep, hands clenched into fists Onuris staggered to his feet, head ringing like a bronze temple bell.
With an evil smile the dark man reached out gripping the Egyptian by the throat almost lifting the smaller man off his feet. He growled, 'You alone remain alive little man and you have failed.' The dark man's eyes glowed with unholy light, 'you failed,' he hissed savagely, 'you and your kind will always fail, you are weak,' he continued, 'weak and pissy like your god.'
Onuris struggled helplessly as the tall man's crushing grip tightened around his throat.
'First I destroy your house of books, and then I will kill you. You failed you weak little man, you failed,' he laughed with a sound like stone grating against stone. 'You will always fail.' The dark man began to shake him like a cat shaking a rat.
Onuris' eyes bulged as he tried to breathe; hands scrabbled and tore at the dark man's wrists. His mouth filled with blood. Working it with his tongue, he spat a bloody gob of phlegm into the dark man's burning eye. The tall man recoiled and then with an animalistic howl of rage he flung Onuris aside like a broken doll, the easy strength of him frightening.
Onuris sprawled in a heap. Agony lanced through him like broken glass, dragging a cry of anguished pain from out his mouth.
Dark man laughed scornfully as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. 'You will suffer for that Egyptian, before you die, you will suffer agonies and beg me to kill you.' He looked down at the still form of Onuris, arms twisted like broken sticks, wounds, blood sticky, crusting, coated with sand. 'Don't run away little man,' he cackled gleefully. Turning on his heel, yellow eyes fever bright, the tall man ignoring the unmoving Egyptian strode off towards the library. He thought not at all of the deaths of his own soldiers. Indeed, why should he? There were always more to be found, eager to follow anyone who allowed them freedom to satisfy dark unwholesome desires and sick cravings, there would always be more, sad testimony to civilisation perhaps.
Onuris stirred. The light had begun to fade, or was it his vision, he wasn't sure. Spirit strength was all used up, or almost so. Tendrils, like fingers of river mist yet remained. He gave no thought to pain or death or imminent torture. The bone of his head resounding with a single thought, the evil one must be stopped. A trace of blue swam behind his eyes. He shook his head to clear it and wished he hadn't. A sense of blue remained, yet oddly his vision cleared. One chance and only one remained.
He began to struggle slowly to his feet, fingers groping towards his fallen war spear laying nearby. The flat wicked blade covered in gore. Fading sunlight bathed the terrible arena of death in a soft warm glow of pale apricot light as he finally lurched upright grasping his beloved spear. The Dark Man, not far away, oblivious to the danger behind him, and that too was odd. Perhaps it had something to do with —? Drifting thoughts faded away.
One chance remained, and only one, he thought hollowly. Swiftly calculating distance he breathed in and out slowly, rhythmically, an easy throw.
He was calm now, at ease with death. It would be over in moments and then he could finally sink down into that other warm, comfortable place waiting for him just beyond vision. He thought belatedly that he should have paid more attention to Egypt's gods. Not that it mattered, at least not now. Death paid all in one easy payment, a final reckoning of balance.
Whoever you watching ones are, watch me now, he whispered. Let my actions speak for me. Witness thou, my balance of truth.
His agony coalesced into a ball of fire, like a distant star waiting to fall down inside his chest. Time ceased to flow, for the Egyptian there was only NOW, a single moment stretching towards eternity. The world ceased to breathe as he prepared to throw, fading sunlight echoing the sob of his broken body as he forced flesh and bone to obey his will.
'Do it,' an inner voice urged, 'do it, and DO IT NOW.'
The Egyptian's right arm swept up and back, his left held out for balance as he swivelled his body in one fluid motion, hips synchronised with shoulder, shoulder with arm, as he whipped his upper torso round and forwards, left foot stamping down, adding additional speed and power to his throwing arm. And then it was gone. The beautiful curve and poise of the athlete falling down into a tattered pain racked body. He swayed on his feet, lips parting in a curious half smile as he willed the lethal missile on towards its target, and then I will sleep, he thought slowly, perhaps I will sleep forever.
The deadly spear left his hand like a captive bird, soaring, arcing up towards freedom. The spear head gleaming like a piece of broken light as it cut through the outflung rays of a fading desert sunset before finally plunging down towards earth.
A beautiful throw Onuris thought humbly, following the missile's arc with a critical eye. The finest I have ever made. His head felt hollow, as though he stood outside looking in. Moisture leaked from his eyes.
Suddenly, as the fiery star within began to burn down through his chest his back arched as waves of agony coursed through him like liquid glass. Breathing hoarsely, body all a tremble, stubbornly refusing to buckle beneath the weight of his wounds, he willed the spear on towards its target, mentally lofting the weapon through a graceful sweeping arc. 'Fly,' he whispered, 'fly little bird and strike with thy beak of iron.’
Perhaps it was the intensity of the Egyptian's gaze reinforced by will that finally alerted the Dark Man to imminent danger. Who can say? Yet certainly it is true that long and long ago, Philos and his friend Academus, speculated from time to time on what the unseen emission might be that obviously flowed out though the eyes. Fragments of their written theories concerning invisible particles (Physics) remain to this day.
Sensing something wrong, the Knowledge Killer, spun round like a cat, yellow eyes hardening as he stared towards the Egyptian, swaying on his feet, eyes glassy, a foolish half smile cracking his mouth.
There was an instant, as the sky began to darken, when, within the space of one heartbeat and the next the Dark Warrior realised he had lost, and the Guardian he had contemptuously brushed aside, had won.
'NOOOO,' he screamed as an arc of light plunged down from the sky and split his heart, driving through his chest, the heavy war spear impaled him to the ground.
'Not now, not yet,' he whispered, 'you promised --.' The light in his eyes winked out.
A sudden errant wind blew a dusting of sand over the lifeless form, falling away into silence with a dry rustling sigh.
The Egyptian hadn't won. He simply had not failed.
Onuris of the Spear fell to his knees, blood and tears streaming down his face; eye blind and weeping from the pain of wounds that all but ripped the soul out of his body. His throat ached for the taste and feel of cool, sweet water. Trembling uncontrollably he fell face down on the sands, fingers scrabbling uselessly. No strength, no strength left at all, he thought tiredly as he began to drift away. Should have joined Raman's bloody Blue Cranes, should have, should have --- don't want to die alone --- .
He tried to move but nothing worked any more. Should have --- should have joined Raman's bloody Blue Cranes. A misting of blue began to fill his head. Like an ocean it was, incredibly calm and peaceful. He danced above its surface like an unfettered summer wind, spinning, whirling, drifting away on its breath like the soundless flight of a golden autumn leaf whose only memory is of dancing in the sun for awhile.
The last hour of all that awful day was quiet and heavy with the stench and smoky fires of death.
Long shadows swept over the smouldering compound, gliding in to land with a gentle thump and rustle of dry, dusty feathers. Snake necked vultures with glittering eyes tore away strips and bits and pieces of cooling flesh, gobbling meat down like starving penitents.
Later, as dusk began to cover the sands with purple shadows, men from the nearby town of Nag Hammadi, ventured cautiously into the compound, silently skirting the still smouldering ruins of the house and outbuildings of Al-Almek the merchant; finally, reassured no one remained alive, they chased the gorging vultures away and began to strip the dead of clothes and valuables, throwing the naked bodies into the smouldering ruins. Plundering the library as a matter of course and then, knowing mere possession of the library's contents would betray and brand them all as thieves and despoilers of the dead, townsmen threw looted books and small baked clay tablets away, simply dumping them in the sands beyond the compound. One or two hid scrolls of papyrus inside clay jars and buried them. Intending to return, when it was safe, to dig them up and sell what they could, to unscrupulous dealers in such oddities. No one did, return that is. Certainly no one from Nag Hammadi dared venture near the cursed place.
In time, the Place of Books was forgotten, as the ruins slowly disappeared beneath drifting, wind blown sand, burying secrets; secrets that no one would discover for centuries to come.
Oddly papyrus number PP1,043 ends with a footnote that reads :—
Onuris of the Spear survived terrible wounds and continued to serve the HIDDEN ONES, Guardian to him a sacred trust. It is said, the Hidden Ones sent him East and South. What became of him, only the Hidden Ones know. Only the Hidden Ones hold full record of his life. Stories and legends of Onuris of the Spear live on (I ?) record here all (I ?) know.
Footnote unsigned.
Let yourself take on a sexy adventurous read, walk on the sensual dark side of human adventure through the shadows of your mind. And, challenge your senses of the normal versus the paranormal, and the abnormal. Accept the quest, get onboard and disco
