Scroll of Saqqara(202)

Khaemwaset reached to the far side of the desk and grasped his knife. It was of ivory made only for him at his final initiation, for his use alone, and on its blade was carved the likeness of Thoth, his patron. Patron no longer, he thought grimly. Thoth was Nenefer’s lord also, but Set is stronger, Set is wilder, Set will chew them up in his sharp white fangs and spit them out like so much offal.

With the point of the knife he carved their names into the heads of the dolls, one name for each. “Bind them separately with that black thread,” he ordered, and Kasa did so. Placing them on the papyrus, Khaemwaset stood back.

“A spell for having power over the fate of Nenefer-ka-Ptah, Ahura and Merhu, in this world and the next,” he chanted, paying intense attention to the rhythm and pitch of his words. Four times he repeated them, then he began. “I am a Great One, the son of a Great One, I am a flame, the son of a flame, to whom was given his head after it had been cut off. But the heads of these, my enemies, shall be cut off forever. They shall not be knit together, for I am Set, Lord of their suffering.” He paused for the next onslaught, and as he did so his concentration became total. Power slid to his tongue and confidence to his body. “They shall become corrupt, they shall have worms, they shall be distended, they shall stink. They will decay, they will become putrid. They will not exist, they will not be strong, their viscera will be destroyed, their eyes will rot, their ears will not hear, their tongues will not speak, their hair will be cut off. Their corpses are not permanent. They will perish in this land forever, for I am Set, Lord of the gods.”

Now they were tangled in the web of magic, the three of them. Still living, yet no longer able, even if they wished, to struggle away from the fate awaiting them. But destroying their bodies was not enough. Khaemwaset knew that as long as there was a chance that their kas survived he was not safe. He must obliterate them entirely, and the only way to do that was to change their names. A name was a sacred thing. If a name survived the gods could find you, recognize you, welcome you into their eternal presence, and perhaps even grant you the gift of a return to your body. Sternly, Khaemwaset repressed the shudder that thought had caused. He must not falter now. He must not think, he must not imagine, and above all, he must not fear.

He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. “I am Set, whose vengeance is just,” he croaked. “From the name Nenefer-ka-Ptah I remove the name of the god Ptah, creator of the world, so that his power may not imbue this enemy with strength. From the name Ahura I remove the name of the god Ra, glorious sun, so that his power may not imbue this enemy with strength. From the name Merhu I remove the name of the god Hu, the Divine Utterance and the Tongue of Ptah, so that his power may not imbue this enemy with strength. Now I will change the names, thus. Ptahhates-him, Ra-will-burn-her, Hu-will-lay-a-curse. The positive has become the negative, and the negative will become annihilation. Die the second death! Die die die!” He approached the figures and the papyrus on the table, but at that moment there came a soft knocking on the door.

“Khaemwaset, I know you are in there. What are you doing?” It was Tbubui.

Khaemwaset froze, and Kasa gave a little cry. Khaemwaset rounded on him fiercely, grimacing him into silence, terrified that he would break the spell now, at this crucial moment. Kasa gulped and nodded.

“You are trying to weave a spell, aren’t you, my dearest?” her voice came, muffled by the wood. Khaemwaset heard her fingernails scrape across the door. “Give it up. Give me a chance to make you even happier. I can satisfy you as can no other woman, Khaemwaset. Will it be so bad? I only want to live, I only want what everyone wants. Am I to be blamed for that?” Her voice had risen and Khaemwaset, listening in a sudden agony, recognized the beginnings of hysteria. He did not move. “I knew what you were doing the moment I opened my eyes and you were gone,” she went on loudly. “I sensed it. I could feel it. You are trying to get rid of us. Oh, cruel Khaemwaset! But your efforts will be fruitless. Thoth has abandoned you. Your words will have no power. Thoth …” Her sound trailed away and both men watched the door, hearing her furtive movements as she tried the lock. All at once they ceased. Khaemwaset could almost see her thinking on the other side, her sleeping robe flung loosely about her, her hair dishevelled, her body crouched. “Not Thoth,” she resumed faintly. “Of course not. It is Set, isn’t it? Set, your father’s totem. Set, whose red hair runs in your family. O gods.” All at once there was a flurry of blows against the door and she began to scream. “Khaemwaset! I love you! I adore you! Do not do this, please! I am terrified. Let me live!”