Bakr Fahmy
Bakr Fahmy
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Bakr Fahmy
Thut-nefer continues sitting and thinking, grateful for
what he and his family had been graced with. Not just the
garden, their home, or their place and positions in society,
however humble; but for life itself.
Atum, God as the primal Creator, has created Maat, the
graceful, elegant order of this universe, reflects Thut-nefer, and
Maat functions always. With absolute accuracy and sublime
orchestration, the order and natural balance of things is maintained
throughout the universe . . . and I, we, are the better for it.
The thumping of heavy rope on a palm trunk not far from
him stirs Thut-nefer back into reality. He watches as the garden’s
overseer climbs up into a palm tree, agile as a vervet monkey.
The sun is slowly setting, casting a warm, orange glow on
the lotus pond and the palm grove behind it. A gentle breeze,
laden with aromatic scents, caresses the garden and all the life
in it.
Thut-nefer continues quietly observing. He watches the
overseer, who is busy pollinating the young date bundles, his figure
seeming like a dancing silhouette high among the branches.

and lowers the clay jug, which dangles at the end of a strong
pole, into the pond. Retrieving the water, he pours it into a
small ditch, allowing it to irrigate the neat rows of lettuce and
vegetables.
Eventually, Thut-nefer pulls at the rope of the shadouf
After repeating this several times, he walks down by the
papyrus thicket and sits down next to the lotus pond.
Leaning over to touch one of the lotus flowers, all of which
are tightly rolled up, Thut-nefer likens them in his mind to the majestic crown of the throne to the Black Earth, like the
pointed wigs on the tops of many women’s heads.
In their habitual manner, Thut-nefer thinks to himself, all
of these blossoms are softly waiting for sunrise, and their reunion
with their long, lost love.
A large frog, at the edge of the pond, stares at him,
unabashed. Not blinking, Thut-nefer stares back for a moment,
eye-to-eye, and then whispers to the frog.
‘‘I know you know, yet you can’t or won’t divulge anything;
because you have a lotus leaf stuffed down your throat. You are
the true, the real magician of the blue lotus.
Recite by magic and speak with effectiveness, in order to
cause the desired result: to reveal your secret to me.’’
He closes his eyes, falls silent for a moment and reflects.
The image of the fat frog lingers in his mind’s eye and engulfs
his spirit.
The blue lotus is here to protect us from our own foolhardiness
and to remind us that the sun rises each day. Each day is a miracle
in itself! Yes, man is his own worst enemy, simply by forgetting the
simple truths of this world.
Unexpectedly, the frog dives under a large leaf with a quiet
splash. Small ripples disturb the balance of the water on the
pond’s surface.
‘‘That’s all it can do, now, is to pull events with it,’’
Thut-nefer whispers hoarsely, his words dispersing with the
evening breeze.
‘‘Greetings, o’ Sesh,” the overseer nods respectfully, the
thick palm bark rope neatly coiled up and dangling on his
bare shoulder.
He quietly stands waiting for a reply. In his left hand he
holds his worn-out sandals, and in his right, a halfa grass bag
stuffed with dry pollen stems.
‘‘Greetings, Overseer,” Thut-nefer calmly replies. ‘‘How
are the trees and the land?”

for further reading:

https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus

 

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,



Bakr Fahmy

This rope, each one cubit in length, had to be strong
enough to hold the weight of a bundle of ripe dates. The
young girls greet Thut-nefer shyly.
‘‘Your father is up in the trees?” Thut-nefer asks the
overseer’s daughter.
‘‘Yes, yes, in the lower garden by the lotus pond.”
He walks over to the stables and sees his baskets by the door.
He retrieves the eel that Nar had given him and rummages for
the sling that he had promised the boy.
‘‘I’ve got you the new sling, but I think I might just keep
it,” he teasingly calls out to the boy in the stable. Upon hearing
this, the youth bursts out in a flash. Thut-nefer tosses him the
finely plaited palm bark sling.
‘‘Make sure you keep the birds off our wheat.”
The boy unable to hold back his excitement, frantically
waves the sling above his head in a mock throw, eyes gleaming
like the rays of the sun on a bright morning.
‘‘Go and fetch the barber,” Thut-nefer calls to the boy,
as he walks towards the kitchen quarters, amidst the happy
giggles of the two young girls, now carefully watching the
antics of the boy as he runs out the doorway, the family dog
close on his heels.
Thut-nefer can’t help but smile. He thinks of the Was sceptre
that he should be earning soon, not unlike the boy’s sling.
The mistress of the house, hearing the commotion in the
courtyard, looks out the kitchen window, and sees her son
smiling as he approaches.
His unkempt attire horrifies her, though, and she
immediately orders someone to fetch water to the main house.
‘‘May a happy day be spent in your honour, Meryt-ra,”
Thut-nefer greets his mother respectfully, handing her the eel
wrapped in an old, dirty linen cloth.
Meryt-ra, mother of two sons, a priest and a scribe, frowns
at the eel and then at the young man standing before her.
‘‘What shall I do with you? And with this!” she exclaims
with disgust.
Thut-nefer answers back simply, ‘‘Cook it for our evening
meal, while it’s fresh.”
Meryt-ra was no simple woman. Being the first wife of the
supervisor of scribes at the royal residence, she knew when to
be stern and when to be humble.
‘‘These are hard times and every bit helps. Your brother
left for his duties at the temple last evening. If he finds out that
you brought fish home- . . .”
The young scribe’s mother does not finish the sentence,
preferring instead to order Thut-nefer to go to the main house
and wash up. She also refrains from giving him her usual
lecture about fish being unclean.
He quietly strolls through his mother’s well-kept garden,
taking in several deep breaths of the abundant jasmine so
tenderly cultivated there. Thut-nefer stops and closes his eyes
for a few moments, remembering the many hours he’d spent
there as a child, playing in the family garden.
Sitting down on a nearby stone bench, he ruminates on
this place, how he always felt at his best in this garden—secure,
happy and at one with nature.
Here, muses Thut-nefer, the cycle of the world is always
constant and in perfect balance; not only because of its great
beauty, its protecting shade, its exotic flowers, and its sweet,
delicious fruits, but also, because, like the Garden of Reeds
, it is
a natural haven, one which forever blesses all who enter into its
midst. Therefore, this garden continually deserves the care and
efforts of man.

for further reading:

https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus

 

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Bakr Fahmy
He thinks of Meryt-mi-hapi and her basket full of blue
lotuses, then smiles, wiping the perspiration off his brow with
his fore finger.
Thut-nefer wipes his hand on his linen kilt and strokes
the ptah amulet dangling around his neck, given to him by
Khentika, the master scribe, his teacher and mentor.
‘‘Live by the truth and the truth will live by you!” he
mutters to himself.
Isn’t that what he always said? Yes, indeed, a wise old man,
drowning in the muddy swamp with no one to hear him out,
already forgotten and not even dead.
The truth that comes alive! Raise your head high, close your mouth
to trap your tongue, and then enter the White Wall
, o’ Scribe.
Thut-nefer could tell he was getting closer to home now;
6
the path was getting wider and smoother. Stall after stall, selling
a variety of goods and vegetables, lines both sides of the lane.
Four women carrying fully loaded wicker baskets precariously
balanced on their heads block his path.
‘‘Make way!’’ Thut-nefer shouts at them over the din of
the stall vendors. They move slowly under the heavy burden,
causing the man behind Thut-nefer to lose patience.
‘‘Move, women!’’ he yells indignantly, as he hustles past,
brandishing his staff menacingly. Thut-nefer ignores him,
looking for the turn-off that would lead him towards his
family home.
Rather than using the main portal, Thut-nefer decides to enter
his family home through the side entrance, next to the stables
and servants’ quarters.
Knocking on the old wooden door, he hears a dog bark,
the shuffle of feet, and the painful creaking of the door, as it
opens wide.
A young boy steps out from behind the door and
immediately recognizes Thut-nefer, quickly hurries over and
takes hold of the donkey by the ear.
‘‘Where is your father, young man?” he asks gently. The
boy silently points his finger up to the sky, eyes twinkling.
‘‘Up in the palm trees,” the boy manages to spit out.
‘‘Good, good,” Thut-nefer replies. ‘‘Take the donkey to the
stable, undo the baskets, and feed him. I’ll be right over. When
you finish, run down to the corner and fetch me the barber.”
Thut-nefer steps inside and is happy to be back home. His
eyes follow the boy leading the donkey to the stables, where
his mother keeps the three cows and some goats.
Next to the stables, outside the servants’ quarters, sit two
young girls making thin rope, one end tied to their big toe and
the other firmly held in the palm of their hands, twirling the
rope as they add bits of coarse palm bark.

For Further Reading:

https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus

 

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Bakr Fahmy
See, I have placed you on the path of God. The fate of a
man is placed on his shoulders on the day he is born. Now
go, before anyone sees you congregating with common cattle
poachers. In these times, even honest men are turned into
thieves.’’
The old herdsman nudges his head, and the young boy
disappears, only to re-appear a few moments later with the
scribe’s donkey. Taking hold of the rope around the beast’s
neck Thut-nefer fishes out his last jug of beer and sets it down
on the mat.
‘‘Greetings, my herdsman!’’ Thut-nefer answers, gazing at
the headman. ‘‘The blow that doesn’t break your back will
only strengthen you.’’
‘‘Greetings, o’ Scribe! You are a good man! May God bless
you with ankh, udja and seneb.”
Thut-nefer regretfully leaves the shade of the lady of the
sycamore and plunges into the intense afternoon sun.
He walks in silence for some time, allowing his thoughts
to settle down and his mind to become more still. He watches
an unkempt toddler being led by a very large cow proudly
carrying its vast horns.
The boy, distracted by a pair of hoopoe skirmishing over a
morsel of bread, drops his sling, stumbles and falls.
He lets go of the handmade rope tied to the cow’s ear.
Having lost its protégé, the cow instinctively slows down to
wait for the rope to go taut again. The boy, quickly retrieves
his sling, grabs hold of the rope and they both gather their
rhythmic momentum once more.
Thut-nefer chuckles to himself and intuitively strokes his
donkey’s mane . . . What a beautiful and caring beast. I wonder
who is taking care of whom? Are we taking care of our animals or
are they taking care of us? That’s a good question, he muses.
See, I have placed you on the path of God. The fate of a
man is placed on his shoulders on the day he is born. Now
go, before anyone sees you congregating with common cattle
poachers. In these times, even honest men are turned into
thieves.’’
The old herdsman nudges his head, and the young boy
disappears, only to re-appear a few moments later with the
scribe’s donkey. Taking hold of the rope around the beast’s
neck Thut-nefer fishes out his last jug of beer and sets it down
on the mat.
‘‘Greetings, my herdsman!’’ Thut-nefer answers, gazing at
the headman. ‘‘The blow that doesn’t break your back will
only strengthen you.’’
‘‘Greetings, o’ Scribe! You are a good man! May God bless
you with ankh, udja and seneb.”
Thut-nefer regretfully leaves the shade of the lady of the
sycamore and plunges into the intense afternoon sun.
He walks in silence for some time, allowing his thoughts
to settle down and his mind to become more still. He watches
an unkempt toddler being led by a very large cow proudly
carrying its vast horns.
The boy, distracted by a pair of hoopoe skirmishing over a
morsel of bread, drops his sling, stumbles and falls.
He lets go of the handmade rope tied to the cow’s ear.
Having lost its protégé, the cow instinctively slows down to
wait for the rope to go taut again. The boy, quickly retrieves
his sling, grabs hold of the rope and they both gather their
rhythmic momentum once more.
Thut-nefer chuckles to himself and intuitively strokes his
donkey’s mane . . . What a beautiful and caring beast. I wonder
who is taking care of whom? Are we taking care of our animals or
are they taking care of us? That’s a good question, he muses.
Abruptly, the dusty path along the irrigation ditch comes
to an end. Thut-nefer turns left and follows a larger canal that
leads to the outskirts of Men-nefer. Further down, along the
canal, he makes out a group of people causing a furor.
Too far to hear precisely what the raised angry voices are
saying, still, he sees men with their wooden hoes pointing
towards the canal and waving their arms above their heads.
Not paying attention to the uneven path, Thut-nefer’s
left foot slips out of his rush and papyrus sandal, causing him
to stumble. He stops momentarily, slides his foot back into
the sandal and looks up, just barely recognizing the figure of
a man, a stone’s throw away, standing shoulder deep in the
brown waters of the canal.
‘‘That man works for my neighbor! He’s the assistant
supervisor,’’ he comments to no one in particular.
Slowly, Thut-nefer starts walking again. His donkey
eagerly nudges him in his back and the master naturally picks
up the pace. Within moments, Thut-nefer approaches close
enough to hear the tirade of insults being hurled.
‘‘The evil-doer, throw him in the canal, and he will bring
back its slime!” shouts a short stout man, brandishing his
wooden hoe high above his head.
‘‘The members of your family ought to be gathered together
and be made to summon a crocodile!” bellows another, this
time directly at the figure standing in the water.
A chorus of approval breaks out among the crowd.
Sensing potential danger and home, and not wanting to break
its pace, the donkey nudges Thut-nefer in the back once again.
Firmly tugging at the rope around its neck, he slows down for
a moment to catch a glimpse of the culprit.
Back in the swamp, Thut-nefer thinks to himself. O’ Atum,
give us the strength and knowledge needed to trudge through this
quagmire. This man must have rerouted an irrigation ditch,
hoping to appropriate more water.

For Further Reading:

https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus

 

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Bakr Fahmy
The scribe’s mind is as sharp as the ibis’s beak and can draw blood,
especially when it’s being provoked.
He laughs out loud, surprised at what he has just stated
aloud.
I must hide this, back into the hole under the palm trunk
beam. O’ Great One, men salute thee.
Thut-nefer nervously returns the scroll back to its secret
resting place. Once done and satisfied the precious scroll has
been concealed properly, he steps outside and pulls at the rope
around the donkey’s neck, wishing to quickly get a move on.
His pensive mood, though, hinders him from a quick
getaway, as he fumbles about, collecting his thoughts.
The song of the shepherd, now rising louder, penetrates
Thut-nefer’s subconscious, as he walks, still deep in thought,
along the path to the southern sycamore.
On both sides of the path, the emmer wheat, almost ripe,
glitters in the late afternoon sunshine. A sense of excitement at
the approaching harvest adds a light spring to his walk.
He hastily makes his way towards the majestic fig sycamore,
where both man and beast seek her soothing shade.
‘‘Greetings, O Sesh,” lisps the old lead herdsman, casually
leaning on his staff. His face, raw and parched, like a well-dried
sheet of papyrus, is deeply tanned from continual exposure to
the merciless Egyptian sun.
The old man’s toothless grin, also, stands out to Thut-nefer,
reminding him of his humble roots as a child, herding his own
family’s beasts.
Thut-nefer takes an immediate liking to this simple man.
‘‘You humble us with your presence, o’ Sesh. Rest your
weary limbs . . .” He points to the mat and the water jug.
Thut-nefer decides to accept this man’s hospitality,
leaving his donkey to the small boy, who suddenly appears
from nowhere.
‘‘Greetings, herdsman. What beautiful animals you slaughter.”
‘‘The Great One has been most generous this year,” lisps
the headman, looking up at the topmost branches of the
sycamore, to evade Thut-nefer’s inquisitive stare.
‘‘What? You slaughter your best animals before the King’s
cattle count? You know better! No slaughter should be done
until the count has been declared, otherwise how are we going
to know the exact numbers of all the animals!”
‘‘The Governor of Men-nefer has sent for six of my best
animals, to be brought to him before night fall,” the headman
interrupts quickly realizing the young man before him could
be a scribe and therefore easily aroused to suspicion.
He finally looks Thut-nefer in the eyes and moans, ‘‘My
herd . . . my herd!”
The man does not have to continue, for Thut-nefer reads
the sadness and the pain in his eyes only too well; and yet, he
also detects a glint of indomitable fury towards the injustice
being foisted upon him, an upright man.
‘‘Heb . . . to persevere” Thut-nefer whispers, letting his
fluid mind draw the hieroglyphic symbol of an ibis.
‘‘Let it be known that, indeed, men are like ibises. Squalor
is throughout the land, and there are none whose clothes are
white in these times. So be brave, noble herdsman, and stand
your ground. Heb!”
Thut-nefer’s eyes wander over to the two carcasses hanging
on the lowest branches of the sycamore. A man stands beneath
them, skilfully gutting the animals, removing their entrails,
which drop to the ground and are quickly retrieved by a young
boy.
‘‘Say your prayer, o Scribe,’’ rasps the old herdsman, now
gazing straight and deep into Thut-nefer’s eyes ‘‘under this
blessed tree. Let it come from deep inside your heart, like a
young calf calling for its mother.
For further reading:

https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus

 

https://www.facebook.com/Bakr-Fahmy-101272130039278/




Bakr Fahmy
In the faint distance, Thut-nefer hears the song of a lonely
shepherd, coming from the direction of an old pockmarked
fig sycamore he’d climbed as a child.
‘‘It’s time to return to the human swamp,” he calls out to
the donkey and bends over to retrieve two lotus flowers that
had fallen out of Meryt-mi-hapi’s basket.
The scent of the blue lotus overpowers his senses, and
sends his emotions reeling.
‘‘Mer,” he whispers . . . “love.” He lets his mind draw the
hoe, the hieroglyphic sign for love, in his best possible script.
Yes, he thinks to himself, I must pass by the fig sycamore and
say a prayer.
‘‘Back to the human swamp!” he calls out again, this time
to the universe while taking a deep breath of the blossom.
He enters the hut and collects all his belongings, hurriedly
throwing them into the two baskets that make up the donkey’s
rig.
Above the doorway, just below the palm trunk beam,
Thut-nefer notices, for the first time, a small, circular crack
in the mud plaster. He picks up his walking staff and knocks
lightly on the wall, until the mud plaster falls away, revealing a
small round hole, just big enough to fit a large fist.
Slowly inserting his hand, he feels the thin edges of
something familiar. Opening his hand wider and reaching
further back into the hole, he grasps the object and begins
pulling it out. As he gets it in front of his eyes, he sees he
has retrieved a papyrus scroll. He dusts it carefully using the
bottom of his kilt.
Sitting down cross-legged on the ground, Thut-nefer
unrolls the scroll and begins to read, his lips silently twitching
in anticipation.
‘‘A title deed! Great Atum! You reveal what is hidden!’’
he exclaims out loud and reads on. ‘‘A title deed, issued to
Neferefre—my father—for a parcel of property in the nome of
Men-nefer.
And, it’s officially approved with the King’s seal!.’’
The governor must have confiscated the entire property when
5
Father died without having the title deed in his possession. Even
the swine-herders have more pride than this thief who calls himself
governor, he contemplates excitedly.
Thut-nefer’s mind reels with wild thoughts about what he
has just discovered.
Nefer knew of this place, and what’s more, he must have
actually come here and hid this deed under their very noses.
‘‘O Neferefre,” he exclaims, looking up at the neat row of
palm branches that make up the ceiling of the mud hut, ‘‘scribe
of the palace of the King of Men-nefer. A great injustice has
been committed after your death, and yet you foresaw the evil
and managed to hide this title deed away from your enemies
in this unobtrusive mud hut.’’
Thut-nefer quietly chuckles to himself, lowering his gaze.
The beak of the ibis is the finger of the scribe. Take care not to
distress it, he muses. Yes, indeed, these old proverbs ring so true.
For Further reading:
https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus

Bakr Fahmy
Around her neck dangles a necklace made of turquoise
faience, matching the brilliant colour of the Egyptian sky. In
deep contrast, her big black eyes, carefully made-up with kohl,
shine like finely polished basalt.
‘‘Greetings, o’ Sesh,’’ she chirps gaily, happy to see him.
Her brother helps her lower the basket to the ground, as he
hurriedly rummages through the contents and fishes out his
lunch bundle.
She grabs it from him, walks over to a shady spot under
the lone palm tree and starts to prepare the meal of salted
dried fish, cucumbers and bread.
‘‘Your mother, o’ Sesh, kindly took me to the House
of Life
yesterday before sunset,” Mery-mi-hapi comments
haphazardly while watching the men eat, ‘‘and she begs you to
come home immediately.”
4
‘‘Oh, yes,” Thut-nefer manages to reply between
mouthfuls, ‘‘and why did you go to the House of Life?”
‘‘All girls my age have an amulet necklace to keep the evil
eye away!’’ Meryt-mi-hapi counters evasively, her gaze carefully
lowered. She raises both hands and strokes her turquoise
necklace lovingly.
Nar coughs sarcastically and puts a mock grimace across
his face.
Laughing heartily, he blurts out, ‘‘Really, Meryt, you
expect us to believe that! More like you’re looking to open up
a house.’’
Meryt-mi-hapi gives her brother a piercing look, her black
eyes digging deep into her brother’s, causing him to fall silent.
‘‘My brother doesn’t understand,’’ she complains reproachfully,
standing her ground. ‘‘You see, here . . .”
Thut-nefer looks up at the young girl, shyly twirling
between her thumb and forefinger, a necklace composed of
multi-colored faience beads, interspersed with seven blue
carved faience amulets, each representing a deity.
‘‘And so . . . you were given something to add to your
already bountiful beauty.’’ Thut-nefer quietly gasps, as he sees
the young girl blush, her cheeks turning into the color of a fine
carnelian stone.
‘‘What did you learn about each of those stones?” he adds
quickly, hoping to allow her to regain her composure.
Picking one up from the rest, she replies coolly, ‘‘This one
depicts Isis, wearing the solar horned disc crown and nursing
Horus as a child.”
Holding the stone next to it, she continues, ‘‘Bastet,
daughter of the sun god, represented as a benevolent cat
goddess. Then, there’s Nefertum, god of the primeval lotus
blossom, the image of perfection, followed by Ptah, the creator
god of Memphis.”
Meryt-mi-hapi gazes for a moment into the eyes of her
brother’s friend, eliciting an affectionate smile from him. She
continues, ‘‘Sekhmet, the lioness, who can both cause and cure
diseases, is on this stone.”
She fingers yet another of the stones on her necklace.
‘‘Thoth, the baboon, the god who inspires wisdom,
is symbolized by this one, and Taweret, the hippopotamus,
goddess of fertility, is this one. She protects everyone involved
in childbirth.”
Letting go of the necklace, she looks to see how both men
are responding to her description.
‘‘Good, Meryt-mi-hapi, good,” Thut-nefer encourages
her, delighted by the young girl’s awareness. ‘‘That’s a very powerful combination. I truly hope it keeps the evil away from
your path.”
A hedgehog scuttles out from behind the mud hut, and
darts between the donkey’s legs, straight for the nearest bush.
The donkey, indignant, snorts loudly, and they all break out
laughing.
‘‘You see, Meryt-mi-hapi, you are blessed!” Thut-nefer
guffaws, acknowledging the hilarity of the situation.
Turning to Nar, Thut-nefer smiles and continues, ‘‘I have
further errands to do before nightfall, so must bid you both
farewell. It was good to spend some time with you!” Both his
friends nod and give Thut-nefer a heartfelt embrace.
‘‘I, too, must finish several tasks,” answers Nar, ‘‘and so I
say good-bye to you, as well, o’ Sesh.”
Within moments, the two siblings disappear behind a row
of castor oil trees growing along the canal.

For Further reading:
 https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus
Bakr Fahmy
Nar solemnly obeys. Thut-nefer sits down cross-legged in
front of the stone slab, and fishes out a rolled up papyrus scroll
from amongst his things.
He slowly unrolls the papyrus, waiting for Nar to finish
sprinkling the ground with water. The incense smoke begins
to unfurl itself in wispy plumes in the rays of light coming
through the door. Soon, the room is enveloped in a thick,
aromatic cloud.
Thut-nefer takes a deep breath of the sweet scent and
begins to read aloud, steady and rhythmic, almost melodious.
‘‘A voice is raised in the northern sky, and wailing is heard
in the marsh land, because of the voice summoning the blessed
one.
I am raised up to the place where Ma ‘at is. I have flown
up to them as a swallow, like Thoth; I cackle to them as a
goose.

He repeats, again and again, the same verse, until he breaks
2
into a chant. Nar stands behind Thut-nefer, mesmerized by
the words, unable to move.
His eyes shine with excitement, mirroring the incredible
love in his heart for this young scribe’s chanting. Suddenly,
Thut-nefer falls silent. Nothing moves, but the incense smoke
dancing in the rays of the sun. Slowly, it winds its way down
and out, being sucked through the opening at the base of the
door—liberated at last, it vanishes and becomes one with the
outside world.
The hut begins to clear of the smoky incense, and
Thut-nefer begins to read again:
‘‘I am he who rises and lights up wall after wall, each
thing in succession. There will not be a day that lacks its owed
illumination. Pass on, o’ creatures, pass on, o’ world! Listen!
I have ordered you to! I am the cosmic blue lotus that rose
shining from Nun’s black primordial waters, and my mother
is Nut, the night sky!
O, you who made me, I have arrived! I am the great ruler
of yesterday! The power of command is in my hand!

Thut-nefer ties the final knot on the last ibis. He closes his
eyes for a moment to relieve the strain, slowly reopens them,
and lovingly looks at his work. He slowly nods in satisfaction.
Nar, catching the cue, hands him two small pots of ready
mixed pigments, each with its own reed pen. With a steady
hand, Thut-nefer paints in eyes, beak and some feathers.
‘‘How’s that?” he half murmurs to himself. Now, don’t
move them until they’re dry, Nar.”
‘‘You have improved greatly, o’ Sesh! You are a real master!
Your hand is straight and your heart pure.” He pauses and
turns his head toward the door.
‘‘I think I hear somebody coming- . . .”
Not waiting to finish the sentence Nar nervously leaps
through the small doorway, leaving Thut-nefer to pack away
all the tools. Outside he hears two voices talking excitedly, and
then a burst of laughter.
‘‘It’s my sister, Meryt-mi-hapi,” Nar calls from outside. ‘‘She
wishes to greet you, o’ Sesh. She has brought my midday meal.”
Thut-nefer, relieved, steps out through the door, slightly
stooping, so as not to bump his head. Once outside, he
straightens himself, and looks at the sun high up in the
cloudless sky, realizing that he has spent most of the morning
in his mud hut.
Meryt-mi-hapi approaches shyly, wearing a dress made
of coarse linen. She is bare footed, and carefully balancing a
wicker basket full of lotus flowers on her head.
For Further reading:
 https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus — See more at: https://scriggler.com/DetailPost/Story/50193#sthash.KzweNDfR.dpuf



Bakr Fahmy
Staring at it with disgust, he let’s fly a curse under his
breath. Only a few jumbled words reach Thut-nefer’s ears,
while he tentatively bends over to examine the ruptured
mummy.
‘‘It’s a fake,” Thut-nefer declares, wide-eyed, yet unimpressed.
‘‘I could see that right away. There’s nothing but a feather, a
broken bone, and a palm branch.’’
He glares straight into Nar’s eyes, who returns the look
with a glint in his own eyes.
Thut-nefer, catching on to his friend’s drift, announces
curtly, ‘‘I won’t revert to these kind of abominations!”
‘‘It’s cheaper to make, and we can get more for them,” Nar
replies offhandedly, trying to appeal to Thut-nefer’s common
sense.
‘‘Bend with the wind, as the reeds do.”
Displeasure, tainted with disgust, creeps across Thut-nefer’s
face.
‘‘I won’t do it, and that’s final! I’ve got four more mummies
to wrap and that’ll be the end of my supply of ingredients.”
Sensing Thut-nefer’s displeasure, Nar shrugs his shoulders,
deciding not to pursue the matter any further. He hastily
adds, ‘‘We’ve got two large vessels of festival spice I traded the
mummies for, from the people of the oasis. Seeing it’s harvest
season soon, we should store them until then.”
‘‘Good . . . good. I’m not going to hunt ibis today. If you
help me, we can finish wrapping those four mummies and you
can take them with you. I’m going to be busy in the coming
days with the cattle count. My mother has sent you some date
cakes, so you’d better collect them now.”
‘‘Your mother is the truth that makes alive,” Nar blurts out.
‘‘May the great God bless her with ankh, seneb and udja!”
Thut-nefer interrupts him quickly before he can begin one
of his typically lengthy monologues of gratitude and praise.
‘‘Let’s go, fisherman!” he barks out impatiently, moving
out back toward his mud hut, unwilling to wait for Nar.
* * *
Gently strolling up to his donkey, Thut-nefer unties
the palm bark rope from around its front legs, and gives it
an affectionate scratch on the nose. The donkey, sensing its
master’s will, acknowledges it with a short snort, then trots
over to the irrigation ditch to drink.
Nar scrapes through the ashes of the previous night’s fire,
hoping to find an ember to rekindle it again.
Thut-nefer steps into the mud hut and pauses for a
moment, allowing his eyes to acclimate. Standing in the
rudimentary workspace he’d spent countless hours in before,
he takes in the familiar surroundings: the sweet scent of the
myrrh and frankincense resin, a stone slab, three large jars, and
a number of reed baskets of different size and shape.
Four birds lay on the stone slab, ready to be embalmed.
The linen had been cut into strips of one cubit in length, and
lay in a basket on the ground.
Everything’s ready, now, for the final step in the embalming
process, Thut-nefer affirms to himself.
He checks the jars filled with frankincense and myrrh, and
then the one full of natron salt, while waiting for Nar to bring
the clay incense burner he was loading with hot coals.
Nar steps into the doorway, temporarily blocking the
sunlight from outside and casting a shadow over the stone
slab. He reaches over and hands the burner to Thut-nefer, who
carefully places it next to the stone.
‘‘Get the incense balls from the small basket, put some on
the coals, and sprinkle the ground with water and natron,” he
orders.
For Further reading:
 https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus — See more at: https://scriggler.com/DetailPost/Story/50193#sthash.KzweNDfR.dpuf


Bakr Fahmy

 ‘‘Let’s go, fisherman!” he barks out impatiently, moving
out back toward his mud hut, unwilling to wait for Nar.
* * *
Gently strolling up to his donkey, Thut-nefer unties
the palm bark rope from around its front legs, and gives it
an affectionate scratch on the nose. The donkey, sensing its
master’s will, acknowledges it with a short snort, then trots
over to the irrigation ditch to drink.
Nar scrapes through the ashes of the previous night’s fire,
hoping to find an ember to rekindle it again.
Thut-nefer steps into the mud hut and pauses for a
moment, allowing his eyes to acclimate. Standing in the
rudimentary workspace he’d spent countless hours in before,
he takes in the familiar surroundings: the sweet scent of the
myrrh and frankincense resin, a stone slab, three large jars, and
a number of reed baskets of different size and shape.
Four birds lay on the stone slab, ready to be embalmed.
The linen had been cut into strips of one cubit in length, and
lay in a basket on the ground.
Everything’s ready, now, for the final step in the embalming
process, Thut-nefer affirms to himself.
He checks the jars filled with frankincense and myrrh, and
then the one full of natron salt, while waiting for Nar to bring
the clay incense burner he was loading with hot coals.
Nar steps into the doorway, temporarily blocking the
sunlight from outside and casting a shadow over the stone
slab. He reaches over and hands the burner to Thut-nefer, who
carefully places it next to the stone.
‘‘Get the incense balls from the small basket, put some on
the coals, and sprinkle the ground with water and natron,” he
orders. Nar solemnly obeys. Thut-nefer sits down cross-legged in
front of the stone slab, and fishes out a rolled up papyrus scroll
from amongst his things.
He slowly unrolls the papyrus, waiting for Nar to finish
sprinkling the ground with water. The incense smoke begins
to unfurl itself in wispy plumes in the rays of light coming
through the door. Soon, the room is enveloped in a thick,
aromatic cloud.
Thut-nefer takes a deep breath of the sweet scent and
begins to read aloud, steady and rhythmic, almost melodious.
‘‘A voice is raised in the northern sky, and wailing is heard
in the marsh land, because of the voice summoning the blessed
one.
I am raised up to the place where Ma ‘at is. I have flown
up to them as a swallow, like Thoth; I cackle to them as a
goose.

He repeats, again and again, the same verse, until he breaks
2
into a chant. Nar stands behind Thut-nefer, mesmerized by
the words, unable to move.
His eyes shine with excitement, mirroring the incredible
love in his heart for this young scribe’s chanting. Suddenly,
Thut-nefer falls silent. Nothing moves, but the incense smoke
dancing in the rays of the sun. Slowly, it winds its way down
and out, being sucked through the opening at the base of the
door—liberated at last, it vanishes and becomes one with the
outside world.
The hut begins to clear of the smoky incense, and
Thut-nefer begins to read again:
‘‘I am he who rises and lights up wall after wall, each
thing in succession. There will not be a day that lacks its owed
illumination. Pass on, o’ creatures, pass on, o’ world! Listen! I have ordered you to! I am the cosmic blue lotus that rose
shining from Nun’s black primordial waters, and my mother
is Nut, the night sky!
O, you who made me, I have arrived! I am the great ruler
of yesterday! The power of command is in my hand!"

For Further Reading:

https://www.amazon.com/The-Scribe-Lotus-Bakr-Fahmy/dp/1477242880/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385037687&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Scribe+and+the+Lotus