The Twice Born Read Free

dried mud between her toes, making him wait, her eyes on the toy soldiers scattered about. Then she relented. “I heard my mother tell my father after I was in bed. They thought I was asleep. You’re going away to school, Huy. That’s really why you have to take a present to the god tomorrow. It’s so that he’ll look after you while you’re gone.” She glanced at him to see his reaction, but he just seemed puzzled.
    “School? You’re lying so that I’ll let you play with me, Ishat! Only rich boys go to school.”
    “It’s true. My mother said your uncle Ker is going to pay.”
    “Hapzefa is a servant and my mother says that she gossips.”
    “Gossip isn’t like lying!” Ishat responded hotly. “My mother doesn’t lie! Go and ask your father if you don’t believe me.” Deliberately she picked up a soldier. “Now you have to let me play. You promised.”
    Furious at being tricked, Huy could only nod dumbly. Not for the first time, he wished Ishat were a boy. Surely boys didn’t have to think up silly lies to get their own way. Snatching the toy out of her hand, he pinched her hard before throwing it back to her. “You can play, but only because I promised. Hapzefa loves me and you heard it wrong.”
    Ishat rubbed her arm. “No I didn’t. Now give me a general.”
    They played more or less amicably until Hapzefa called Huy to come in for the afternoon nap. At once Ishat disappeared in the direction of the orchard and Huy gathered up his men. He was tired but refused to admit it, and once washed and laid on his cot he only had time to consider calling out for a cup of water before he succumbed to the soporific quiet of the house.
    In the evening, while Huy played with his lentil stew, his mother told his father Hapu what gift he had decided to give to Khenti-kheti. The three of them were sitting on cushions around the low central table of sycamore wood Huy’s father had made. Mosquitoes had drifted in through the open door of the one room where the little family both ate and received their guests, and were whining above their heads. A long shaft of late sunlight lay across the beaten earth of the floor, its warm length reaching for Huy’s toes. He took a clove of roasted garlic, dropped it into his stew, and mashed it down with one finger, glancing sideways to see just how close the sun’s ray was. If he let it touch his skin, then that would mean he would be burned by his mother’s anger. Or his father’s. He eyed Hapu briefly. Hapu was watching him over the rim of his wine cup, both eyebrows raised.
    Huy bit into a piece of melon. “With my set of skittles he can play with the other gods if he gets lonely,” he announced.
    “Indeed,” his father said dryly. “I had no idea that the skittles held such a place of importance in your heart, Huy. The god will doubtless be impressed by your selflessness.” He swallowed and set his cup back on the table. Huy could smell the shedeh-wine, heavy and sweet, that his father made from his own pomegranates.
    “I expect he will,” Huy responded promptly. “Can I have some wine please, Father?”
    “Pass me your water and I’ll add a little,” Itu said, lifting the jug. “And wipe your mouth, Huy. You have melon juice all over your chin. Don’t you like the stew? If you finish it, you may have some fresh figs.”
    The sunlight had begun to fade only inches from Huy’s foot. Pushing away the dish of lentils, he emptied his cup, loving the sweet-tart tang of the wine. He rubbed his face with the square of linen by his hand and smiled at his mother. “Hapzefa has put a lot of coriander in the stew,” he remarked. “It makes my nose run. Figs will take the taste away.”
    His father sighed. “Itu, you indulge him too much,” he said as his wife pushed the figs across the table towards Huy. “And this matter of the gift is certainly the last straw. Huy, we have decided to send you to school.”
    “This is no way to tell him, Hapu!” Itu said