Year One
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
I began traveling by night to escape the scorch of the sun. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but the book felt easier to carry in the darkness. The strange men who had attacked Meti and Niyek did not find me that night as I hid in the bushes, and I did not see them again when I continued my journey north.
For five days my passage was slow but smooth. I avoided villages until I became desperate for food and drink, then stole what I needed come nightfall and skulked back into the wilds, sleeping under any rocky outcroppings I could find, sheltered by palm and samwa, huddled under a filched blanket. It was not comfortable or easy, but I was safe. I was safe until I made a terrible mistake.
I had wrongly assumed I had more time to reach the coast before the rainy season began. It was not so. A sudden downpour caught me unawares just as I reached the split in the Nile. Soaked and cold, I changed course away from the river and toward the nearest town. Giza would surely have safe houses with shelter and food; there I’d wait out the storm and dry off before pressing on to the sea. It had been five days since the glowing men came looking for the “writer”—by now they must have given up the search.
To assume such was foolish, but I was hungry and wet and tired, every bone and sinew aching from the weight of the book. And so I risked the streets of Giza, head down against the rain, just one of many men hurrying to get out of the damp. I found a safe house on the edge of town, not far from the abandoned stalls of a market. A few onions had been left behind on the ground, and I scooped them up for later out of habit.
The shelter, marked with the red-and-white-striped serpent near the door, was open to all. It was quiet inside, seemingly abandoned, but a few braziers burned low, the scent of incense floating thick on the air. It was a simple brick building in the style of a temple, an empty altar the feature of the main room, with a gathering place and a basket heaped high with offerings. In a shallow room beyond I found a kitchen, the remnants of an evening meal left uneaten but warm on the hearth. I should have considered that conundrum more carefully; I should not have been the fly so eager to tangle itself in the spider’s web. But hunger and cold make mincemeat of sense, and I dropped the satchel in the doorway, rushing forward to gobble up the bread and soup left there for seemingly no one at all.
I should have felt the twinge on the air. I should have sensed the imprint of death, the cool whispers of souls recently parted from their bodies. But I knew only the relief of a full belly and the promise of a warm bed away from the rain.
“Good work.” I heard the words emerge like a scrape on stone from the shadows behind me, and I froze, mouth still stuffed with food. The words were not for me. Whoever had made the abandoned feast was there now, watching, three young women in simple linen dresses all hugging each other, eyes wet with tears as they shivered and cowered.
I looked at the girls for only a moment, for a huge, hunchbacked figure lurked just outside the kitchen. I wondered where this thing could have been hiding, big as it was, its bulk wide enough to obscure the girls huddling in the temple. It was shaped vaguely like a woman, but cruder, as if hastily slapped together out of clay. Shreds of blue-and-white fabric clung to its shoulders, its skin the color of sun-bleached bones.
The satchel with the book lay between us, but I could not move. I had looked into the creature’s face, and the moment I saw what was there, my entire body became paralyzed not with fear but with evil magic. The cup of beer in my hand dropped to the floor, splattering us both. The creature lunged toward me, showing more of its terrible visage as it dipped into the light. It had but a small slot for a mouth, the entirety of its long face glittering with eyes. No, not eyes, I saw as it lumbered closer: wasps.
Mother protect me, I pleaded, staring down now what I knew was the bringer of my death. The wasp wings fluttered like eyelashes, all of them in unison, dozens of insects, striped and somehow allowing this thing to see. It stopped when it reached the satchel, hands opening and closing as if in childlike delight. Bending its massive frame, lank silver hair slipping over its forehead, the creature gave a gurgling laugh and put its hand on the satchel, then turned its face up toward me. My body went even more rigid as the wings of its eyes ceased fluttering, all of its attention on me.
“A hundred servants on a hundred hunts, and at last the writer is revealed.”
“Writer?” I whispered, mouth dry. “I am no writer. . . .”
“Silence.”
The girls behind the creature gasped and cried harder, but I could not make another sound. The beast’s command had stolen my voice away, my throat closing as if filling with sand. If only I could claw at my lips or scream for help or do anything but watch in mute terror as the beast neared, taking up the satchel and reaching its other hand toward me, slowly, slowly, wrapping its hot fingers around my neck. My eyes bulged, lungs desperate and empty, the crushing force of the beast and its fingers making sparks of light dance in front of my eyes.
Those horrible wasp eyes were nearer now, and I could hear a faint, droning hum . . . a hum from a bottomless pit. A deathly hum, a terrible hum . . .
“A new sun rises,” it hissed, drawing out the word, tongue flicking out to lick at a lipless mouth. “See darkness now as your sun sets.”
There was a crash and the girls screamed. Everything became dim and distant as I choked and lost the will to fight. Suddenly I was free, released from the creature’s merciless hold, and sliding to the floor. I felt the satchel underneath me as I fell, and covered it with my body as if I could somehow protect it that way.
I heard a trill like a pack of jackals laughing in my ear; there was hot, wet warmth on my face and then nothing, just the black embrace as I tumbled into oblivion.
When I opened my eyes again, the dark brick ceiling was above, a stuffed mattress below me. Each part of me protested as I sat up to find that I had been placed in a corner to rest, dawn breaking as the altar glowed softly with candles, ribbons of gray incense smoke rising in slow streams. The three girls in their simple dresses were cleaning the floor and walls with rags stained red through.
Pools of blood dotted with gore stretched across the floor toward me. In the middle of the room lay the body of the many-eyed creature, the wasps unmoving, for it was dead. Something or someone had torn its jaw completely open, and it hung down unnaturally, yellow teeth broken, the monster now giving an eternal scream.
I was too exhausted even to recoil, leaning back against the wall and breathing a sigh of relief when I noticed the satchel and my burden had been placed next to me on the mattress. My clothes, too, were covered in blood, an awful odor rising from the stains.
“You’re awake, that’s good.” A young man, naked from the waist up, emerged from the kitchen doorway. He was tall and well-formed, torso crisscrossed with old scars that cut lines through the fur on his chest. Stepping smoothly over the creature’s carcass, he came toward me, using his teeth to pull a bandage taut as he wrapped a gash on his right arm. “How is your throat, friend?”
“Are you lost, child?” I touched my neck, feeling the rawness in my voice.
The man paused, letting the bandage tail drop out of his mouth. He leaned back and laughed. The light from the altar made his dark brown skin look gold. I noticed then a pattern of tattoos on his arms and shoulders, rows and rows of formal hieroglyphs inked into his skin expertly as if by a scribe. “My feet are on the path. Do not worry, Bennu, I am here to look after you and take you the rest of the way.”
I sighed and said a silent prayer of thanks. He left and returned with a small cup in his hand; it was perfumed like flowers and goat’s milk, and hot as he handed it to me. Kneeling at my side, he waited until I had a steady grip on the cup.
“Drink that, it will ease the pain.”
He had a northerly accent, a proper one, as if he had been raised and educated in one of the noble houses of the upper kingdom. “Did Meryt and Chryseis send you?” I asked him.
“In a way. Drink.” His eyes were odd, not brown as I expected but a very deep purple. “You’re a hard boy to find, Bennu, and that is good. They’re looking everywhere; always now they are seeking, seeking. Our temples and safe houses from Buhen to Maydum have been raided. It was with the Mother’s luck that I found you when I did.”
“Raided?” At once, the tea, or whatever it was, calmed my burning throat. The pain in my back and feet eased, too, and I drank more, chasing the comfort. “Have the priests of the old gods sent their numbers against us?”
“No, this is something new,” he told me. “Something worse. These are creatures the likes of which we have never seen. They bow to someone called Roeh, who takes the guise of a farmer, though he is no simple peasant. More and more they appear from the east, these Nephilim and Adjudicators of Roeh.”
“And you?” I asked. “What do I call the man who slays beasts with wasps for eyes?”
He smirked and smoothed scarred hands back over his forehead and hair, which was black and had been braided neatly, close to the scalp. “Khent,” he said, bowing his head gracefully. His sharp chin and nose reminded me of statuary. “There will be time for introductions later, Bennu. For now, you must rest and regain your strength. We leave in three hours, for the task is urgent and we have very far to go.”
As I toiled away at my translations in the cellar, the house exploded into commotion above.
The men had returned from their time at the spring, Amelia’s note was discovered, and every room in Coldthistle House seemed to be filled with Mason Breen’s demented wailing and his father’s thundering shouts. Even through layers of wood and brick and carpet I could tell two camps were emerging—Mason was beside himself with anguish and organizing a search. Mr. Breen, on the other hand, was lobbying to forget the whole business and press on to London.
Nobody would leave, I knew that much, but I hoped they would soon scatter to the woods to look for Amelia and leave us in peace. With any luck, the odious Mr. Breen and the wolf creature with the purple eyes would meet and solve one problem handily.
On second thought, I did not hope for the monster’s return. No, I prayed that it was far, far away, so frightened by Finch’s blinding light that it decided to leave us alone forever. Though it was musty and a bit dark, I welcomed the solitude of the underground library. There had been more than enough excitement for one morning, and I was beginning to worry that one week would not be nearly enough time to finish the translation for Mr. Morningside.
“At least,” I muttered to myself, dashing off the period on a finished entry, “the material is never dull.”
I found myself being absorbed into this boy Bennu’s adventures. Mr. Morningside’s interest in the journal was also becoming clearer the more I read—there were mentions here and there of Adjudicators, and I could only assume that Bennu had been party to some ancient and apparently still standing grudge. Finch had mentioned war and struggle, and I had to wonder if this journal contained secrets about Mr. Morningside’s enemies that he would find valuable. I still had no earthly idea how it all related to his trial, or how he had known the journal was important in the first place, but the only way forward was through.
My eyes had begun to tire from working steadily away with nothing but a few blue-flamed candles to keep me company. Hours had passed, and the house above had become quieter as the men scattered to search for Amelia. She was probably already on her way to Derridon in a cart, off to have a visit with Chijioke and Giles St. Giles, presently to find her soul residing in an enchanted pigeon.
“I hope they choose a vulture,” I said, pushing back from the desk and standing. A bit of exercise would put me to rights, so I made rounds of the room, shaking out my cramped fingers as I perused the odd bits and bobs hidden away here by Mr. Morningside.
I could have spent entire weeks poking my nose into every corner of that place. There were books in languages I had never seen before, and jars filled with a liquid that shied away and sloshed to the far end of the container when I neared. He had seen fit to save an entire massive tome filled with nothing but pressed thistles. I wandered past the fireplace and approached the corner of the library not far from the door. Again, I saw the painting of four figures leaning against the shelves, and I approached, gingerly, as if by some magic the people painted there could see me on the other side of the canvas.
Leaning down, I found the picture had been partially covered by a dust cloth, an old white brocade thing that hung down in a dramatic swoop. I pinched the edge of the fabric and lifted it up, studying the painting and its strange subjects. There were three men and one woman. The woman was dressed in what looked like the drapey garments seen on Roman statues. She was exquisitely beautiful, garbed all in bright magenta; there was even a slight pink tinge to her skin. The man beside her was standing rather close, as if they were familiar, perhaps husband and wife or brother and sister. He wore a big black cape that covered most of his body, and he also wore a mask made of wood, covered in twisting vines that described the eyes and mouth.
The other two men were apart, one standing and the other seated on a low ivory sofa. I could not make out much of the standing man, for though his face had been painted, it lacked any kind of features. It was just a blank swath of flesh, with no eyes or mouth or nose. Horrible to behold, I thought, cringing. A man should have a face, and a painted man with no face should not be able to fill a girl with such pointed unease. Seated near the faceless person was an elderly person, of jolly complexion and plump. He quite distinctly resembled the shepherd that had taken me in when I tried to run from Coldthistle House. And while he had treated me with kindness then, looking at this re-creation of him made the flesh creep across my skin. It was not a benign smile he showed, but a hungry one, the glint in his eyes tipped ever so slightly with madness.
“Ghastly, isn’t it? Not the sort of thing you want hanging in the front hall.”
I leapt back, frightened, hands flailing out in front of me instinctually. Mr. Morningside had entered on silent feet, watching me from the door with his arms crossed over his dark, striped coat.
“Hard at work, are we?” he added with a laugh.
“My hand needed a rest,” I replied with a weak shrug. “But I completed more entries for you.”
“Ah! Good news at last!” He strode merrily to the desk, leaning over it to inspect my work. He paged through the translations, humming with appreciation. “Fine job, Louisa, a very fine job. I almost feel rotten for teasing you.”
“Indeed,” I said, sarcastic. “How did Amelia’s betrothed take the news?”
Mr. Morningside puffed out his lips like a horse neighing and shook his head, still reading over my work. “Not well, as one might expect, but no punches were thrown, thank goodness. It’s a nasty business, what we do, but we can and should keep it civil if at all possible.”
I said nothing, knowing I’d only come out with more cheek.
“Don’t feel bad for Mason, Louisa. He isn’t here because of his charitable works.”
“I know that,” I said testily. “I don’t think anything about him at all.”
“Good. What do you think of it?”
“Sorry?” His head was still low over the pages, eyes scanning quickly.
With a grin, Mr. Morningside flicked his head to the left and back, and I realized with some trepidation that he meant the painting. “The art. You seemed quite taken with it a moment ago.”
I blushed, hating that he had caught me snooping. “Who are they? I recognize the shepherd, but who are the others?”
“Relics, all of them,” he said flatly. “Remnants of a bygone era.”
For a moment I stared at him, trying to pierce through that breezy smile to the man behind it. “The faceless one is you, isn’t it?”
At last he looked up from the pages, and I almost wished he had not. I recognized it for what it was—a predator reassessing its prey, as if the doe had fought back and charged the hunter.
“What an interesting opinion,” he purred.
“It isn’t an opinion. The portraits outside your office . . . those are all you, aren’t they? You appear differently to everyone. You’re an old man to Poppy and something else to Mrs. Haylam, though I don’t know what,” I replied, sticking out my chin. I turned and pointed at the painting. “That’s you and that’s the shepherd. Who are the other two?”
Mr. Morningside appraised me closely for another moment and then shuffled the papers in his hands, putting them in a neat stack on the desk. With the air of a teacher bored to death of his student, he crossed to the painting and lifted the dust cover off it.
“They were mentors, of a sort,” he explained. He, too, seemed drawn to the painting, staring at it as I had earlier. “I never knew them well, not like the shepherd knew them. Back then I was very young, hardly more than an idea made manifest.” He put back the cover rather roughly and strode toward me, taking up the translations and glaring at me down the length of his nose. “It doesn’t matter, Louisa; they’re gone.”
“Gone? Do you mean they’re dead?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You cannot kill a god, girl, only convince it that continuing to exist is folly.”
I wanted to know more, so much more, and I tried to choose my next question thoughtfully, for I knew he would do everything he could to dance around a direct answer. Before I could say another word, Mr. Morningside winced, gathering up the papers and holding them close to his chest as if he were suffering a sudden pang. His face became tinged with green, like a man on the verge of sickness.
“Blast it all, he’s here,” he muttered, drawing in a deep breath through his teeth.
“Who?” I asked, following him to the door.
“Shepherd,” Mr. Morningside growled. He looked at me with pity then, or perhaps sorrow. With his eyes softened that way, he almost appeared sympathetic. It was hard to imagine anything ruffling the Devil, but clearly—clearly—I saw fear in his gaze. “I suppose we must hurry, Louisa; my trial is about to begin.”