Kepi looked down at the beetle that crawled across her knuckles. The two spots on its back seemed to glow. And its head was tiny. She was pretty sure of what it was.
“Kepi! Again?”
Kepi’s eyes jumped to her mother, standing at the end of the bean row, and just as thin as a bean plant herself.
Mother glared at her. “Do I have to scold you every five minutes to keep you moving? Every job matters. The god Osiris watches as we do our fieldwork. He’s watching you. . . .”
Mother kept talking. Blah blah blah. Everything was sacred to her. That’s all she cared about, sacred this, sacred that. Who really knew when the god Osiris was watching? Kepi bet he never watched. At least not their family. And maybe fieldwork wasn’t on Kepi’s right path, anyway.
Besides, the afterlife was far away. But this beetle was here. And it was special—she could have bet on that. Kepi smiled.
“I see that smile! That’s the naughty smile of someone shirking her work.”
“I’m not shirking my work.”
“Silly,” came Nanu’s voice. Her round face poked up over a bean plant from the next row over. “You’re goofing off, little liar.”
“What’s that?” Mother now stood over Kepi. She leaned close and her long, thin nose almost touched Kepi’s shoulder. “A beetle! Kill it fast.”
Kepi instantly cradled her right hand to her chest and clapped her left hand over it. “It’s sacred.”
Mother pursed her lips.
Ha! That stopped her.
“Are you sure? Let’s be sure.”
Kepi opened her hands, and the beetle crawled up her left arm. She plucked it off and set it on its back in the dirt. The beetle’s stick legs worked the air furiously.
“See?” Kepi pointed at the shiny spot on its tummy. “It’s a click beetle.”
Just then the beetle arched its back and click! It flipped into the air so high, it hit Kepi between the eyes. It landed on its feet and scurried in among the bean vines.
Mother rubbed her hand over her mouth in worry. “It’s going to lay eggs.”
“Then there will be more beetles,” said Kepi happily.
“Idiot,” said Nanu. “Beetle larvae eat plant roots. We will have carried all those heavy water buckets for nothing.”
“Catch it quick,” said Mother.
“But it’s sacred, I told you. The goddess Nit protects it. Father says.”
At the mention of Kepi’s father, Mother’s face went soft. “Then don’t kill it. Catch it and take it far before you let it go.”
Kepi wouldn’t have killed the beetle anyway. She could never kill anything, no matter what Mother ordered. But she nodded obediently. “How far?”
“Beyond the fields. All of them.”
Kepi bowed her head so her mother couldn’t see her smile.
“No fair.” Nanu stood up and brushed her long pigtails back over her shoulders. “If she gets to go off on a walk, I get to rest till she comes back.”
“Carrying this beetle away from our crops isn’t resting,” said Mother.
“It’s a lot easier than lugging a water bucket.”
“I’ve been cursed with two shiftless daughters.” Mother shook her head ruefully. “How can your father and I ever count on you taking care of us in our old age if you act so lazy?”
Nanu kicked Kepi. Kepi leaped to her feet beside her older sister. Together they said, “You’re not old yet.” It was a practiced chorus. They’d said it dozens of times in the past two months. Since their father had come home injured, it seemed all Mother thought about was her old age.
Mother looked off, her lips pursed again. Then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, all right. Nanu, help me in the house till Kepi returns. Go now, Kepi. Catch that beetle. Remember, be careful not to hurt it. We mustn’t incur the wrath of the goddess. We have enough trouble. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your eyes lowered and move fast.” She walked back down the bean row.
Kepi looked around. “Little beetle, little beetle, where did you go?”
“You actually like that bug,” said Nanu in Kepi’s ear. “That makes you creepy.”
“If you don’t like bugs, why do you wear that bone amulet? It’s shaped like a scarab.”
“Scarabs are pretty. Click beetles are gross.” Nanu looked Kepi in the eye now, serious. “And you better really catch it and not just lie and say you did. We’re poor now that Father can’t plow the fields anymore. We need all our crops to pay the men who plowed for us. If we lose our land, it’ll be your fault.” She turned and followed Mother. Her copper bracelets clinked against one another as she walked. She stopped a moment, and without looking back, she shimmied both hands so that her bracelets sent up the most beautiful tinkling noise.
Kepi touched her own bare wrists, bare neck. She looked down at her bare ankles. Everyone else her age and even much younger wore jewelry constantly, no matter whether they were poor or rich. Father said that was one of the wonderful things about people in Egypt. But Kepi had the awful habit of losing things, so Mother had decided she should go without jewelry when she worked in the fields. It was unfair. Kepi didn’t try to lose things—it just happened.
And it was specially unfair because Kepi was the one who loved to make that tinkling noise, not Nanu. When Mother first said Kepi couldn’t wear jewelry in the fields, Kepi waited for moonlight, then prayed with all her heart to the goddess Hathor. She’d prayed, Please, great goddess Hathor, please make my mother change her mind and let me wear jewelry into the fields. Father said Hathor wore a wonderful necklace, a menat, that made the best noise when she danced—everyone loved that noise. Kepi wanted to sound like that; she wanted everyone to love the noise she made.
But the goddess Hathor was just like all the other gods; she didn’t listen to Kepi’s prayers. And Father never won against her mother. So Mother’s decree held: no jewelry in the fields for Kepi. She sighed.
Well, at least she had hair. Most girls her age had a shaved head. But when Nanu had become old enough to grow her hair, Kepi had begged Mother to let her, too. And after months of begging, she’d won.
And at least she didn’t go naked anymore. Her dress was a simple sheath that covered her from armpits to knees, with wide straps over the shoulders. She loved it.
Kepi fell to her knees, searching among the bean vines, lifting leaves gingerly. The new vines could snap if she was rough. She peeked at the underside of every leaf. How much damage could a single beetle do? Would her family really lose their land? No farmers in their village were rich, but at least they always had food. How would Kepi’s family feed themselves if they lost their land?
Kepi chewed on the tip of a lock of hair. She blew through her lips in worry, making a blubbery sound.
An idea came. Kepi made her lips firm and blew through them hard, right up at the bean vines. Then she sat back on her heels to listen. And—click! Yes, the noise came from a little to her right. Thank you, goddess Nit, prayed Kepi. Thank you for letting me find your beetle.
Ua. The noise wavered, like a voice under water. Kepi touched her ears and looked around, but she saw no one. That was strange. She had heard a noise for sure; she hadn’t just imagined it.
Mother had taught Kepi and Nanu to thank the gods for anything good that happened. She said the gods would do horrible things if you didn’t. Kepi didn’t like that idea. If you prayed to the gods, they might very well ignore you—she knew that too well. But if you didn’t thank the gods, they would punish you. What was fair about that? Still, Kepi gave thanks, even though she figured no one was listening.
But now she’d heard something. A word.
Or maybe it was nothing. A wind noise. Kepi shook her head and leaned over the beetle.