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Authors: Esther Friesner
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amused by my wild gratitude.
I’ve given you nothing. You are who and what you are, and if that means you must be She-who-writes, not even the greatest spell in my power can change it
.
I woke from my dream with Bit-Bit shaking me, then laughing when I turned my face to her. “Oh, Nefertiti, you’ve got
squiggles!
” she exclaimed, pointing. I raised my hand to my cheek and discovered that the carvings on the base of Isis’s image had left their mark on my skin.
I never did find out which words had marked me. The impressions faded before it was time to join Father and Mery for breakfast, but my memory of that vision of Isis never did. In the seasons that followed, I learned that the goddess spoke the truth: I was who and what I was, and that person was She-who-writes.
Whenever I left our house to accompany Father or Mery to the marketplaces or the temples, words were everywhere and I read them all. I couldn’t help it. Without Henenu’s lessons, I was famished for things to read. As for writing, I no longer had my practice tablet, but as long as Ihad a twig or a bit of dried reed and a patch of ground, I did my best to trace what I’d read that day, relying on my memory. I always stole away to some deserted corner of our garden, even hiding from Bit-Bit so that I could concentrate completely on my beloved work. When I had no new lines to practice, I began making up my own. I got Father to tell me tales of his early life as a soldier in Pharaoh’s army, and I did my best to write them in the dust. The same happened with every housekeeping lesson Mery taught me, although I was often frustrated because I didn’t know how to write all of the words. I even made up stories of my own. I wrote them down, learned them by heart, wiped them away, then crept out of hiding to share them with Bit-Bit.
Father and Mery smiled proudly when Bit-Bit ran to tell them: “Nefertiti knows the
best
stories!” No one suspected that my stories were so good because I’d practiced “telling” them over and over in writing before I recited them to my sister. Bit-Bit also bragged about my stories to her friends, and soon I was very popular. Everyone wanted to hear the tale of the Cat Who Thought She Was a Falcon or the story of the Cursed Prince and the Clever Maiden. I enjoyed the attention so much that I would have told my stories from dawn to dusk and beyond, though my throat became sore and my lips as dry as the Red Land.
Luckily I had Bit-Bit to look out for me. When it came time for storytelling sessions with her friends, my little sister appointed herself my keeper. She was the one who declared when I was done for the day. “Enough is enough for now. Nefertiti and I have
other
things to do,” she’d say,looking so businesslike and self-important that I nearly burst out laughing. “We have to go practice our dancing.”
Dancing! I loved it nearly as much as I loved reading, writing, and making my stories. When I danced, I felt free. I didn’t need to hide what I was trying to accomplish or worry about what Father would say if he found me creating a new pattern of steps, a new way of moving my arms, a new song. And so I reached my thirteenth year with my feet on two different paths—one I could follow openly, one that had to cling to the shadows—both that I loved with all my heart.
That year, shortly before the great Festival of the Inundation, my father invited the high priest of Isis to dine with us. He told the family about it five days before, so that Mery would have time to place a lavish dinner before our honored guest.
“The priest of Isis?” I was astonished. “Father, you’ve never invited any priest here before.”
“And with luck, I’ll never have to do so again,” Father muttered. “But it’s not my choice. Pharaoh wants me to begin looking into how the different priesthoods use the gifts they’re given by the people.”
“Why?” Bit-Bit piped up.
“Because that’s Father job,” I told her
I’ve given you nothing. You are who and what you are, and if that means you must be She-who-writes, not even the greatest spell in my power can change it
.
I woke from my dream with Bit-Bit shaking me, then laughing when I turned my face to her. “Oh, Nefertiti, you’ve got
squiggles!
” she exclaimed, pointing. I raised my hand to my cheek and discovered that the carvings on the base of Isis’s image had left their mark on my skin.
I never did find out which words had marked me. The impressions faded before it was time to join Father and Mery for breakfast, but my memory of that vision of Isis never did. In the seasons that followed, I learned that the goddess spoke the truth: I was who and what I was, and that person was She-who-writes.
Whenever I left our house to accompany Father or Mery to the marketplaces or the temples, words were everywhere and I read them all. I couldn’t help it. Without Henenu’s lessons, I was famished for things to read. As for writing, I no longer had my practice tablet, but as long as Ihad a twig or a bit of dried reed and a patch of ground, I did my best to trace what I’d read that day, relying on my memory. I always stole away to some deserted corner of our garden, even hiding from Bit-Bit so that I could concentrate completely on my beloved work. When I had no new lines to practice, I began making up my own. I got Father to tell me tales of his early life as a soldier in Pharaoh’s army, and I did my best to write them in the dust. The same happened with every housekeeping lesson Mery taught me, although I was often frustrated because I didn’t know how to write all of the words. I even made up stories of my own. I wrote them down, learned them by heart, wiped them away, then crept out of hiding to share them with Bit-Bit.
Father and Mery smiled proudly when Bit-Bit ran to tell them: “Nefertiti knows the
best
stories!” No one suspected that my stories were so good because I’d practiced “telling” them over and over in writing before I recited them to my sister. Bit-Bit also bragged about my stories to her friends, and soon I was very popular. Everyone wanted to hear the tale of the Cat Who Thought She Was a Falcon or the story of the Cursed Prince and the Clever Maiden. I enjoyed the attention so much that I would have told my stories from dawn to dusk and beyond, though my throat became sore and my lips as dry as the Red Land.
Luckily I had Bit-Bit to look out for me. When it came time for storytelling sessions with her friends, my little sister appointed herself my keeper. She was the one who declared when I was done for the day. “Enough is enough for now. Nefertiti and I have
other
things to do,” she’d say,looking so businesslike and self-important that I nearly burst out laughing. “We have to go practice our dancing.”
Dancing! I loved it nearly as much as I loved reading, writing, and making my stories. When I danced, I felt free. I didn’t need to hide what I was trying to accomplish or worry about what Father would say if he found me creating a new pattern of steps, a new way of moving my arms, a new song. And so I reached my thirteenth year with my feet on two different paths—one I could follow openly, one that had to cling to the shadows—both that I loved with all my heart.
That year, shortly before the great Festival of the Inundation, my father invited the high priest of Isis to dine with us. He told the family about it five days before, so that Mery would have time to place a lavish dinner before our honored guest.
“The priest of Isis?” I was astonished. “Father, you’ve never invited any priest here before.”
“And with luck, I’ll never have to do so again,” Father muttered. “But it’s not my choice. Pharaoh wants me to begin looking into how the different priesthoods use the gifts they’re given by the people.”
“Why?” Bit-Bit piped up.
“Because that’s Father job,” I told her
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