A Move by the Maker The palace entrance Ebony long boned fingers clasped the clear blue obsidian stone to twist upwards from the small clay pot of black Kohl, to grace the edges of her deep emerald blazing eyes with a prominent dark gleam. The smear stretched to the very sides of her face. Men would drop their papyrus baskets on orange chalk dust outside when she swam through the white linen masse of the keroche. Sporadic joyful outbursts of song would announce the arrival and passing of her magnificent eye. And she couldn't love its attention more. The stone, used as currency as well as the tool for applying her extenuated features, revelled her elation by representing the wealth of her beauty. Golden sun reached to stroke her bare feet coated in minute silver chains, calling her walk into the streets. Musical days in the blanhansda open. Sweeping rainbow covers of bartering exchangers screeched to billow in the heavy soft breaks of heat that sent a rush of desert spirit through her thrilling breath. Candlesticks glittered except wouldn't be needed till the purple heaven of eve. So now she streamed along out the palaces cool reverence, under the blasting bareness of the roads wild horned animals roamed. Exhilarating commotion of buying and selling wandered her mind every time she emerged. It was an unappreciated exciting world to her tended one. More of a strain to preserve existence to the players. But at least they weren't slaves. Keramptah had accepted her fate a long time ago. Circling the evereaching stone pillar with the palm of a very sexual hand, this ritual everyday succumbed a sparkling mind to the nearing time for sacrifice. Held by a tradition that stretched Years, the eldest daughter, first princess of empirical glorious Egypt, born the 17th of Jorne, Abes. 'I must be the only person in the world right now, who the God's have revealed an indisputable death date to' she thought. And felt special for that. Stretching under jostling bells, she bowed a river of long silk hairs that whispered at the tips on marble, whilst clicked each backbone in succession from the base. Her arms wrapped lovingly behind kneecaps. Having to laugh at what curious effect she had on Glorian the guard, his electrocuted approach suited the grand charisma of the most powerful palace in the world. Amusement wracked her warm blood, letting him speak in those assuredly confused tones while her filling head drunk under the arch of supple legs, nodded involuntarily in an agreeing style. Without hearing a word amongst the swimming of fluids he had gone already, wary at each splintering step of his duties to the Pharaoh. ‘My dad?’ she spoke. The 17 Years were not convincing. Perceiving out over the dusty thrown market she wondered at the world, too comical a place, so many ones gathering to sell their useless artefacts. Beagled eyed relic or garish painted bangle. Her family were strung out in separated quarters, forever following each others orders, those were supposed to come from the currently aspired God. This breezy year it was Ptah, god of creation and that banker, rebirth. Looking around, she would always realise her shortened time on the place. Another thing her heart knew was that when death came to ease her spine she’d just carry on exploring. She loved everything here. Except the palace was a trap to her mind that wanted more than anything to be free. She sighed slowly before the decision was made that melancholy breath outtake would be the last of that type ever. Her inner Dragon, Sorfia spread her wings in their fabulous metallic colours and swept them over the busy streets. One downwards push of those whooping great scales and she was lifted to soar high and mightily above. The guard Glorian was smart from day one. He knew what power meant, he was intimate with wealth and disease, they were his conjoined twin. As a child his mother was sick and wretched with boiling gross fever. Eventually she spluttered her last bloody profanations and yoked at him with a bleached choke; ‘Take this name and secure it God’s glory. Make sure he knows your name Son.’ The illness spread. Every will of his was bent by God. Any ruling custom he obeyed; The first being one terrifying journey to the patrician’s, having his balls cut off by an everlasting ‘crunch’ from searing glad blades. He followed God, and it had served him well in greying thin age, he’d become the Guardian of the Great Sacrifice of Red Serpents reign. The authority made him feel correct and effective. He did not waste his time. Except of course. There was a secret almost spilling in him. He loved the vision more than he should do. And sometimes in secret he would wonder if God deserved to take her. The palace entrance Cantering races to set up first stall, spurred furious shaking of gold fisted arms. Thundering to halt at her vision, a common block wood cart bouldered with coal, winced in the sun. Restless to move it shuddered, jolting the boy who leaned spontaneously upon it’s hidden maroon colours. He was covered in soot. Keramptah remembered herself and stood elongated with a fervent smile, to spin back for whatever convention Glorian had summoned her, and she held the thought; that boys eyes were so…Inviting! The regalities wouldn’t touch his bright beckoning, besides her head was spinning whirlpools scattered with bulbous swimming creatures. Swallowed by the grandiose box again, swirling red tendons gathered bones through a vast celinged space to the hall. Her nodding eyes flickered, sending Butterflies in wavy crimson blues to all seated. Their silent prayer positions didn’t hide the gaping stares. A mass of peeking eyes reflected each other in a sea of linen. Incest Through more than one steep wall of creamed marble and stone, Uncle Neferkare was showing his affection for cousin Mehykhati. Where below, sorts rushed and made their daily bread, up in the realms of many layered fluid curtains and priceless spun sequined covers; Pores tingled open to the mingling effervescence of salty rivers flowing. Being licked, though some weeped. Neferkare statuesquely drew a heavy sword from the casket with singing zest, it proudly slotted into place across his unimpressive frame, shrunken by the groaning bedroom door. ‘This magnificent monument, our home!’ he beamed spread arms that met her single hand, reducing him from worthy embrace as it redirected to the hall, ‘After you, Uncle’
The Great Hall Being so esteemed she had never denied a greater evolution, unlike mother. The grand ornament had a fine way of denying speech, an impenetrable mystery to Keramptah from her place on the Royal Combart. Instead she had to fantasise; ‘If I touched her...would she crumble like ashes? Would the paint burst into flashing striped flames and send a gurgling scream up with the hissing smoke?!’ This marvel was interrupted by a bellowing verbalation; ‘Under council of Tpyge. The 19th of Schemu, Red Serpent. Under law of the Pharaoh family Tepemkau. The state of Egypt calls the first order of this day, The commission of slaves for the second pyramid of Sirius. Co-currently the execution of traitors to the Pharaoh, so condemned the 18th of Arome, Red Serpent’ The formalities continue. Heavily, her thought. ‘Always the best start to a day’, relished one ogerous formation, brandishing his scathing instrument for drawing fatalic flesh wounds. He stank. Keramptah felt glad of her untouchablity. The conundrum hushedly built, ensued of the days beginning. Officials with drone accuracy cleared the valley of the hall, blasting acre tall doors with chatting ease, strengthened limbs pushed with a slow thumping force. Royalty at the head, Keramptah smiled to her sister, as the Pharaoh was swarmed to his eternal ‘plans’, the Queen followed, scribbling to stumbling out held paper at her affairs. Without doubt some new arrangements for her tomb. Keramptah impassively processed her mother’s movement across the marble. The dripping clothes possibly evoked feminine curving spurls, but the precious stones looked aching. ‘Her bones are already dust’ offered Sponnesies, with an elegant enamel shining. An insane understanding flowed between the sisters, and fleetingly lifted the heaviness. An ordered bustle of structure eneveloped the floor but the ants had no hope of conquering the space risen tremendously above, where impossible decor taunted. Letting her head fly back she imagined scoping those terrains with a rope and bask. She compared the thought of mountaineering the top, a sky-blue marble carved, half open eye, as a lonesome triumph, to having shared the climb with that soot-smeared boy. Laughter escaped a tilted neck and quivered lightly in the air, found telling her sister… ‘Except I’m sure we’d take a different route!’ As her gaze drifted to an impression of shading trees. Un countable, scores of men, their ribbed professions extending to calloused stumps, signed names at her front. With one life marked in feather tipped jogging, the blue stains scrawled snaking curls to own their labouring days. Each face rose to her own, thousands of trooping slaves, morphfical in design imprinted her mind with their same unspoken regard for the vision. A girl watching time pass by. Distanced, cries for ‘Mercy!’ were swiped by fatal reverberating blows. This procedure supposed to be more discreet, produced a barbaric event, encouraging religious fervour throughout the ranks. It was a sickening reminder. The morning hazed in a wash of bright marble, darkened skin coming close to remove itself with a quickening efficiency. Every echoed cry rang amidst the shuffling feet; with immediacy it made her stifled and creeping like a rusting timekeeper dwindling it’s chimes into chokes. Gasping in haste she recalled the vision. Kafele street walks~Jarha conversation Sauntering flute tunes into the breeze, his soft hair flew and tickled. Dogs were running around in happy turns, following his heel and trusting him with an absolute recognition. The music spun and weaved with dizzy fortune. He could not believe his luck today. Seeing the Princess, was spectacle enough; and she smiled at me! This common brace of skeleton wrapped in clay, this lonesome tuneful wanderer of ways. I’m just a boy, He thought. Just a boy under the wind, part of the stream, made of the sun and lost from home. Why would she notice that? He took some small dancing steps and smiled at the sun. Perhaps she has an eye for the travelling soul, He thought. Except for his thoughts were in the style of an opening book, each one expanded immediately into impenetrable mystery…and kept his magical vision growing ever larger, like a wobbling merge of blood pumping into always-bigger spaces. Like water flowing to the largest point. Or his arms extending in embrace. This was the way and the reason he could withstand gruelling work in the furnaces, employment for the lowest class of Egypt. The others didn’t know his heart was as free as the flying flocks of the world. Perhaps though his always-singing flute was some mysterious indication. Excellent sorcerers of music came and went sparingly. So luckily for him his talent lay mostly unrecognised, therefore he could be spent being marvellous, with anybody free to choose whether they’d recognise his untimely tune. This was the truth; far from arrogant or important, he was the lowest of the low, a coal shoveller, arduously working his days and melodiously spending his evenings. With no fear of death, he knew he was going to meet the maker of his music, and he loved Keramptah, she had seen him. She had seen that. Carrying coal he knew that she would come to find him. ‘She’s seen the light in my eyes’, he was explaining to his friend and coal deliverer, Jarha. They’d been friends for years. Working the same way and each diligent in their own approach to loving life. Jarha wasn’t an academic man, rather he loved the outdoors and it’s direct socialism. Kafele on the other broad knuckled hand was too inspired to study philosophy. He was it! That made them the best of friends so they would laugh heartily together, absolutely and always finding themselves within each other’s company. That pure bloody saying of their true ways. Every time they greeted the two blossomed into an unending joy of earthly discovery, transmuting to the heavenly scent of brotherhood rainpour they both fed from. ‘Oh right’ Jarha was nodding with sincerity, but had to admit that this boy was a fluent tripper and anyway he couldn’t respond to things he didn’t understand. ‘She saw me Jarha, she‘s coming to me, and I know it.’ He persisted with passion as he took the coal in dragging crashes to the furnace. ‘Look mate, ‘ said Jarha. ‘She’s the Princess, I love your stories brother, but this one is getting weary’ He sighed and shook the coal from his shoulders in slight exasperation. ‘We’re just ground workers, we take the dirt from the roads and burn it. That’s what we do. I go home at sundown every day and work the land outside my house. I see my family and I sleep. Here I am today right? There isn’t no princess coming for me.’ And he shrugged himself in that accepting way, paused on the shovel. Jarha couldn’t explain to this boy, his dreams were only that. He didn’t have the heart to pull at the extravagant tapestry. He had to admire the boy’s spirit for never being defeated, but he lived in a fantasy world. And sometimes, that was simply annoying. ‘Yes but Jarha….’ he began while to steal the shovel playfully and kept thrusting road dust with it in enviable vigour. ‘You know…she really is coming for me!!’
