Year Two
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
They emerged from the tree like worms from the earth. More shadow than mass, they slithered out from between the groaning cracks in the trunk before making their way to the clearing. The roots of the tree were as thick around as horses, broad and gnarled, never touched by man and rarely even glimpsed by him. The creatures came out of those roots gradually at first, but as twilight dipped into evening, they arrived at a steadier pace, a slow drip that became a constant stream.
Where did they come from? Was the tree hollow inside to hold so many children? How deep down into the earth did the roots go? Was that where the creatures lived when shunning the cool green air of the forest? Were they made of mud or rock or wood, or were they flesh like me?
I had come so far, untold miles, to witness this rebirthing with my own eyes, though I had witnessed many oddities in Per Ramessu and Bubastis, and though I had struggled through the unknown territories swarming with painted strangers and curious animals. I had seen a woman swallow a cobra whole to no ill effect, watched a woman’s face melt like wax under the breath of an angel, and taken meals with men who claimed to be older than the sands of my home.
But this . . . It blackened my heart to see this, to see nothingness given shape, to see a tree, tall as any palace, act as fleshly woman and create life. Life that walked and breathed, each creature with a different face. They were not ugly, these creatures, but nor were they like any man I had seen before. Dark lines like tattoos covered their skin, though even in the dim light I could see that they were carved into the flesh, and carved deep. The creatures glistened and moved with unnatural grace, as if floating along the dewy grass.
Owls, horned and menacing, sat in the smaller trees around me, hooting in a low rhythm. All manner of snake and spider had come to watch, an army of glittering black eyes and scales. I noticed that it was a kind of music, frogs and crickets singing in concert, aided by the low moan of what sounded like a deer. The music echoed in my chest, ancient and primal, and I shivered, huddling beneath the fur I had scavenged along the trail from a fallen animal. The forest stank of new growth and suppurating rot, a rich earthen smell that seemed to pulse with its own life.
I wondered where my protector had gone, the beast man who had come with me from Egypt and guarded me through so much. But he was gone, and in the distance I heard an angry howl. Had they taken him? Was he in pain?
Life. Everything here was life, almost to suffocation, all things growing and expanding, spreading through the loam and the water with no civilization to curtail it. How lonely and cold it was, to be the only man for what felt like an eternity in every direction.
But I remained.
None emerging from the tree noticed me, though I made no attempt to make my presence secret. After all, I had been summoned here, sent by women with visions, guided in daylight by a winding Sky Snake that threaded its great, terrible body across the clouds. I’d listened and I’d followed, and crossed seas and mountains and valleys to this place. To the tree. To Father.
At last the tree slowed its creation, and all those it had made circled around it. The music of the forest grew louder, painfully loud, drumming in my chest like a fist striking harder and harder. I could do nothing but cower under my fur, feet wet with mud, and wait, watching as the tree opened once more, the great rift in its trunk sighing out one last figure.
Had I known true cold before? Had I known the face of real and evil magicks? No, this changed all. I was in the presence of something out of time, out of calculation, a being without a beginning and without end.
He was their king, and this, this was his court. My king. My Father. At once, all eyes turned to me, black as beetles and shining. All of them smiled, though I did not wish to know why. I felt suddenly hunted and knew this could be my death—those were not smiles of welcome but marks of insatiable hunger.
Father came toward me and the song grew softer, more like a chant, now with reedy, ghostly whispers chasing through the rhythm.
The words blossomed with sense as this forest king saw me and approached. He was taller than the others, with a sharp, jagged face, a trembling hand’s sketch of a human’s features. Nose of hawk, chin of lion, cheeks of sphynx, hair of ravens. His eyes, deepest black, danced with faint red pinpricks of light, and he wore moss, vine, and feathers, fashioned into a robe that floated out from his shoulders.
He reached toward me with fingers curved and sharp, and I knew that what I held in my arms, what I clutched protectively to my chest, would soon be his. The whispers! The whispers gnawed at my brain, making me weak and forgetful.
Why had I come? The nymphs had offered me sanctuary. This was not meant to be my end . . .
All Father of the Trees, All Father of the Trees, All Father of the Trees . . .
I could hear nothing but the whispers now, not even my own thoughts. If I survived this forest, I knew not if I would ever think another thought again.
“You have come so far to bring me this . . .” His voice was the very crack and creaking of branches in a storm, it was the rush of wind through leaves, the babble of water over stone. “To bring me her.”
Is it for you? Have I made a mistake? Perhaps it was made for no one. It must never be found!
Then his fingers touched the book clasped to my chest, and there was no power left in my body. The hundreds of black eyes hunting me had stolen my strength, and their chant had put me almost to sleep. He took it from me. He took it, and I failed.
“Sleep now, Bennu, one who has known hunger and exhaustion and fear. Sleep now, safe among the boughs. Your secrets are safe with me.”