Moon of Israel: A Tale of the ExodusHaggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)
History
Moon of Israel: A Tale of the Exodus
Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)
Exodus, The -- Fiction; Jews -- History -- To 70 A.D. -- Fiction
I answered No, he was also engaged.
“In nursing his own soul, studying the eyes of the lady Merapi, the
smile of his infant, the wisdom of the scribe Ana, and the attributes
of the hundred and one gods that are known to him, including that of
Israel, I suppose,” said the familiar voice, adding, “Then can I
see this scribe Ana, who I understand, being lucky, holds himself
learned.”
Now, angered at the scoffing of this stranger (though all the time I
felt that he was none), I answered that the scribe Ana was striving to
mend his luck by the pursuit of the goddess of learning in his study.
“Let him pursue,” mocked the stranger, “since she is the only
woman that he is ever likely to catch. Yet it is true that once one
caught him. If you are of his acquaintance ask him of his talk with her
in the avenue of the Sphinxes outside the great temple at Thebes and of
what it cost him in gold and tears.”
Hearing this I put my hand to my forehead and rubbed my eyes, thinking
that I must have fallen into a dream there in the sunshine. When I
lifted it again all was the same as before. There stood the sentry,
indifferent to that which had no interest for him; the cock that had
moulted its tail still scratched in the dirt; the crested hoopoe still
sat spreading its wings on the head of one of the two great statues of
Rameses which watched the gate; a water-seller in the distance still
cried his wares, but the stranger was gone. Then I knew that I had been
dreaming and turned to go also, to find myself face to face with him.
“Man,” I said, indignantly, “how in the name of Ptah and all
his priests did you pass a sentry and through that gate without my
seeing you?”
“Do not trouble yourself with a new problem when already you have so
many to perplex you, friend Ana. Say, have you yet solved that of how a
rod like this turned itself into a snake in your hand?” and he threw
back his hood, revealing the shaved head and the glowing eyes of the
Kherheb Ki.
“No, I have not,” I answered, “and I thank you,” for
here he proffered me the staff, “but I will not try the trick again.
Next time the beast might bite. Well, Ki, as you can pass in here
without my leave, why do you ask it? In short, what do you want with
me, now that those Hebrew prophets have put you on your back?”
“Hush, Ana. Never grow angry, it wastes strength, of which we have so
little to spare, for you know, being so wise, or perhaps you do not
know, that at birth the gods give us a certain store of it, and when
that is used we die and have to go elsewhere to fetch more. At this
rate your life will be short, Ana, for you squander it in emotions.”
“What do you want?” I repeated, being too angry to dispute with him.
“I want to find an answer to the question you asked so roughly: Why
the Hebrew prophets have, as you say, put me on my back?”
“Not being a magician, as you pretend you are, I can give you none,
Ki.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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