The Spirit Well

The Nile flowed on without so much as a ripple beneath the barges carrying the priests of Amun back to Niwet-Amun and the temple. Though the sun blazed high in the clear Egyptian sky and life along the river continued serene and quiet as always, Benedict’s small world was shaken to the very core. He looked upon the lush green banks sliding silently by, and all he saw was desolation. In his mind, moment by moment, he relived the riot in Akhenaten’s Holy City; he heard the angry cries and saw the stones striking the priests, striking his father.

Refusing to leave his injured father’s bedside, he sat in misery, rarely stirring, filled with dread and fear, while a succession of ministering priests came and went.

“I will not swear falsely,” Anen told him. “Your father’s injury is very grave.”

Benedict turned anxious, uncomprehending eyes upon the priest.

“But know you,” Anen continued, “our skills are great, and every possible remedy will be availed for him. Take courage in this knowledge.” He placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “On this, I have made my vow. In the name of Amun, it shall be.”

Unable to understand the language of those around him, Benedict derived little comfort from this assurance. Still, he heard the sound of hope in the priest’s voice and felt his encouragement in the gentle touch. He did take courage, and he prayed as he had never prayed before, using the only prayer he knew well, and saying it over and over until it became only Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . . Amen.

It took two days for the barge to sail upriver to Amun’s Holy City; by the time they reached the temple, Arthur had rallied somewhat. He was able to sit up and take a little water and, though the priests were reluctant to give him too much food, they allowed him a little of the flat bread sprinkled with salt. Benedict was relieved and took this as a good sign.

Upon arrival at Niwet-Amun, a cadre of servants carried Arthur’s pallet from the dock to the House of Wholeness and Healing, a large square structure occupying the eastern quarter of the temple compound. There the injured man was placed on a low bed in a cool, dark room to be watched night and day. The temple physicians busied themselves with a thorough examination of the livid wound, which had swollen the entire left side of Arthur’s head. Arthur endured their gentle probing, groaning and grinding his teeth.

“You’re going to be all right,” Benedict assured him.

When the physicians finished, Arthur sank back into a deep sleep and did not awaken again until sunset. “Water,” he said, his voice a croaking whisper.

The priests in attendance did not know what he said, so Benedict repeated it and mimed drinking from a cup. One of the younger physicians poured a shallow bowl of water infused with honey and herbs.

“Here, drink this,” Benedict said, bending near. “How do you feel?”

“Hurts,” whispered Arthur. “Inside . . . it hurts.” He made to turn his head, but the effort defeated him. “Where are we?”

“We are back in the temple. There are doctors here. They are taking care of you,” Benedict told him. “They are going to make you well. You’re going to be all right.”

“Good.” Arthur offered the bare hint of a nod. “Well done, son.”

The young physician offered the cup once more, and Arthur was given a little more to drink. After taking a few sips, he tried to sit up. The movement brought him pain, and he lay back, panting with the effort.

“Just rest now,” Benedict told him. “They will take care of you.”

Arthur slept then and awoke in the night complaining about the noise in his ears. Benedict tried to convey to the priest in attendance what his father was saying; he pulled on his ears and made a sound like the buzzing of angry bees. The doctor nodded and hurried away, returning with two senior physicians. He pointed to Benedict and gestured for him to perform the pantomime again, which he did. The elder doctors nodded, and one of them stepped close to the patient; holding his hand before Arthur’s face, he clicked his fingers. When this failed to elicit a response, he clapped his hands—first in front of his face, and then next to his ear.

Arthur’s eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes.

“Did you hear that?” asked Benedict. When his father did not reply, he asked again, more loudly.

“Ah . . . yes . . . I heard.” He opened his mouth and swallowed. “.. . Mouth is dry.”

Benedict took up the cup of honey water and, gently raising his father’s injured head, gave him another drink. Arthur seemed to relax somewhat; he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. The next time he awoke, he called out for Benedict who, asleep beside him, rose and bent near. “I am here, Father,” he said. “What do you need?”

Arthur raised a trembling hand and pawed the air. “I can’t see you,” he gasped. “I can’t see.”

Benedict took his hand and held it. “I am here.”

“My eyes . . . I can’t see.”

The young physician, hearing the exchange, appeared, and Benedict explained as best he could what his father had said. The night doctor ran to fetch the two senior physicians, and they examined Arthur, carefully lifting his head and feeling the massive discoloured lump and gazing long into the injured man’s left eye using a candle and disk of polished bronze.

They exchanged a few words over their patient, then sent the younger one away. He returned a short time later with Anen, and the three held close consultation for a moment. Then Anen nodded and turned to Benedict.

“What is wrong?” said the young man. “What does it mean?”

“I am sorry,” Anen said, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “There is bleeding inside his head. It is making a swelling and a pressure in the brain.”

Benedict did not understand a word of what he was being told, but he understood the priest’s grave tone. “He’s going to be well, isn’t he? He’s going to get better.”

“We must open his skull to let out some of the blood and relieve the pressure.”

“What are you saying?” demanded Benedict, frustrated at not being able to comprehend the priest. “I don’t understand.”

Anen gestured to the young physician, who came forward and offered his own head for examination. Anen proceeded to demonstrate what he was talking about by way of indicating on the young man’s head what he intended. He drew a small circle on his subject’s scalp, then lifted it away and proceeded to tap and pick at the centre of the imaginary circle.

“You are going to open my father’s skull?” wondered Benedict, aghast at the very idea.

Anen caught the disbelief in the youth’s tone and shocked expression. He sought to reassure him. “It is dangerous, truly. All such procedures carry great risk. Yet this treatment is well established among us, and our physicians are skilled in its application.” He gazed intently at Benedict. “We must begin at once.”

Benedict could only nod helplessly. He gazed at his father’s inert form. “Do what you must.”

Anen led the youth to his father’s bedside and with a gentle touch roused the suffering man. “We will treat you, my friend, using a special procedure. I have every confidence in its success, but if you have anything to say to your son, you should speak now.”

Arthur understood what Benedict did not. He stretched out his hand to his son and gripped it hard. “I am not afraid,” he whispered.

“They are going to make you better,” insisted Benedict, clasping his father’s hand tight in both his own. “Do you hear? They are going to make you well again.”

“I love you, son,” replied Arthur. “Take care of your mother. Tell her I . . . I am sorry.”

Anen, stepping near, took Benedict by the arm and drew him away. “We must begin at once if we are to save him.”

The senior priest clapped his hands, and four physicians appeared. They wore white linen robes and small white caps, and each carried a tray of instruments, jars, and vials. Temple servants scurried behind them with stands on which to place the trays; other servants brought torches on high stands, which they placed around the bed. Still others appeared bearing basins of water and piles of folded cloths.

They went straight to work. While one of the priest physicians shaved the left side of Arthur’s head, one administered a tincture of herbs mixed with opium, and a third undressed him. His shirt had to be cut off; the priest applied the scissors, pulling the cloth away in strips to reveal a torso decorated with bright blue tattoos—all in the same neat hand, all of them utterly incomprehensible symbols. When the last shreds of his shirt had been removed, the priest spread cloths under Arthur’s head and shoulders and washed his neck, shoulders, and chest; while all this was going on, the fourth priest prepared the instruments, rinsing them in a special mixture of distilled vinegar.

When everything was ready and in order, Anen gestured to one of the attendant servants, who turned to Benedict, bowed low, and, taking him by the hand, led him to a far corner of the room where the youth could watch but would not interfere. Then, at a nod from Anen, the operation began.

The foremost of the priest physicians knelt down beside the bed and took up a small knife with an obsidian blade; he clicked his fingers before Arthur’s eyes, then tapped him lightly on the cheek— raising no response. Then with quick, decisive strokes he applied the blade and cut into the scalp around the discoloured lump above the left eye—once, twice, and again. Blood flowed freely from the deep cut. Instantly, wet cloths were applied that had been soaked in some astringent solution, because the gush of blood ceased almost at once. The physician made another quick incision and then pulled back the flap of scalp to reveal a black clot of blood and tissue with white bone beneath. A cloying, sweet smell wafted into the room.

While the first physician held back the flap with a little bronze prong, a second moved swiftly forward with a pair of long, golden tweezers and began picking out bits of clot and dead flesh. When the area was clean, he turned his attention to tweezing out fragments of crushed bone and dropping them into a small silver bowl.

Anen stood by, arms folded across his chest, supervising the procedure. When the priest finished removing the splinters of bone, Anen motioned to the third priest—a short, stocky man with a shaved head and round, cherubic face—who stepped to the bedside and took up a bronze instrument that to Benedict resembled a carpenter’s auger. As the first priest carefully held back the flap of scalp he had freed, the auger was applied to the freshly scoured bone.

The fourth priest moved in to steady the patient’s head, and Benedict heard a sound like that of a millstone grinding corn. Unable to watch, he turned his face and looked away. The grisly sound seemed to go on and on, and when it finished, Benedict glanced around to see that a neat round hole had been bored in his father’s skull. In the centre of the hole was a ghastly clot of blood glistening red-black and virulent. Anen turned and offered Benedict a knowing smile to tell him that all was going well.

The stocky priest stepped back from his work, and another moved into his place. Taking up a tiny golden knife, the physician began gently scraping at the clot, cutting it away, pausing now and then to dab away the blood oozing from the fresh wound and to remove the scrapings and rinse his blade in a bowl of vinegar solution. It was soon finished, and the golden tweezers applied once more to remove every last fragment, sliver, and fleck of broken bone. Greyish pink flesh glistened through the hole.

Anen stepped forward then; the other priests stood back to allow him to examine their work. He bent close, and with the most delicate touch probed the neat incision and felt the smooth edges of bone. He inspected the wound and spoke to his fellow priests. They held close consultation for a moment, whereupon Anen crossed the room to join Benedict.

“There has been much bleeding beneath the bone,” the priest said, willing the youth to understand. “The bleeding is stopped and pressure is relieved. Now we can but watch and wait.”

Benedict heard in the priest’s tone a note of reassurance and clung to it. “Thank you.”

Anen squeezed the young man’s shoulder, then returned to supervise the binding of the wound. A small disk of gold was washed in the vinegar solution and then applied to the naked skull. Working with deft efficiency, the priests closed the wound, replacing the scalp and sewing the edges back together; they then wrapped strips of clean linen around and around the patient’s head. When they finished, Arthur’s head was swathed in a turban. All four doctors stepped back, bowed to the patient and to Anen, then took up their trays and instruments and departed, leaving one behind to watch the patient. Anen released Benedict to approach his father once more.

Despite the ordeal just endured, his father seemed to rest peacefully. His breathing, though shallow, was regular and even. Benedict took this as a good sign. He settled onto his bedside stool to resume his vigil.

Sometime before morning there arose a commotion out in the temple courtyard. Benedict, dozing on his chair, awoke to the sound of raised voices and running feet. Glancing around, he saw that the priest keeping vigil was gone. He went to the door of the Healing House and looked out. Priests with torches were running here and there; they seemed to be barring the gates. No sooner was this accomplished then they raced away, and the courtyard grew quiet once more.

Benedict returned to his father’s room. Taking up a lamp, he moved to the bed and examined his father. Although it was difficult to tell, he sensed a change: his father seemed to rest more peacefully, the lines of tension in his face relaxed, his features composed. Benedict turned to replace the lamp on the stand and heard a faint clicking sound. Looking back, he saw his father’s mouth move, but no sound emerged.

He leaned close once more. “I am here, Father. What is it?”

Again the dry lips moved, and Benedict heard the merest ghost of a breath utter a word.

“I did not hear you, Father. Say it again.”

The voice, rising to a hoarse whisper, repeated the words. “The Spirit . . . Well . . . ” Arthur sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the bed.

“What? Father, tell me again.” Benedict stared at his father, fear twisting his gut into a knot. “What did you say?”

Receiving no response, Benedict leaned closer. “Father, I can’t hear you.” He put a tentative hand on his father’s shoulder and jostled him in an attempt to keep him awake just a little longer. “Please, tell me—what did you say?”

“The . . . Spirit Well . . . ” The words came out as a moan. With the last of his strength, Arthur moved his hand to his chest. Benedict observed where the hand came to rest. “I have . . . marked it,” he gasped, his voice trailing into silence.

Benedict gazed at the tattooed symbols on his father’s chest—the familiar spray of curious emblems he was only just beginning to learn how to navigate. He shook his father’s shoulder again.

There was no response.

“Father!” Benedict, growing frantic, shouted. “Please! I don’t understand what you mean.”

Turning from the bed, he ran to the door and called for help. The priest assigned to bedside duty reappeared almost at once. Hurrying across the yard, he bowed to Benedict, then pushed past him and moved quickly to kneel beside the bed, placing a hand on Arthur’s chest. He put his ear close to his patient’s nose and mouth, and paused as if listening.

“He was just—” began Benedict.

The physician raised a palm for silence and then placed his fingertips against Arthur’s neck. Rising, he retrieved a small rectangle of polished bronze from his tray of instruments and held it beneath the stricken man’s nose.

Benedict, his heart in his throat, knew what this meant. Dreading what he would see, yet unable to look away, he stared with growing apprehension as the physician turned the little square of bronze towards him. There was not the slightest smudge of fog or moisture on the polished surface. His father was no longer breathing.

The physician shook his head, then stood and, raising his palms shoulder high, bent at the waist and began chanting in a low, droning voice.

Benedict slumped back against the wall, his eyes on his father’s body. “No. It cannot be,” he murmured, pounding his fist against the wall. “He was just talking to me. He cannot be de—” The boy refused to say the word.

Rushing to the bed, Benedict threw himself down upon his father’s body. There was no movement, no resistance. He clasped his father’s face in his hands and was surprised to feel the warmth there. “Don’t leave me.” His voice cracked. “Please . . . don’t leave me.”

Strong hands gripped the young man’s arms and pulled him away. Upon release, Arthur’s head rolled to one side. Benedict shook off the priest’s hands and struggled forward once more. “I think he’s unconscious,” he insisted. “We should try to wake him.”

The priest said something to him and shook his head, then went back to his chanting.

An almighty walloping thump sounded in the courtyard—something had crashed into the temple gates. Benedict turned towards the sound, and a servant burst into the room; the servant took one look at the praying priest and disappeared again. Benedict, sinking under the weight of grief rising within him, clasped his hands and began to pray as well. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed as he had never prayed in his life.

The next thing he knew Anen was standing before him, his expression grim, sadness filling his dark eyes. The priest gestured to the body of his friend and said something Benedict could not understand. The young man shook his head, whereupon Anen took him by the hand and led him to the bed. Placing the young man’s hand against his father’s body, he held it there. The flesh was cooler now.

Anen spoke again, his voice gentle with sorrow. “We tried to heal him, but it was not to be. His soul has entered the House of the Dead and has begun the journey into the afterlife.” He pointed to the body in the bed and seemed to expect a response.

Benedict gazed upon that inert form. The transformation had begun; the animated presence he had known all his life was no longer there. All that was left was a shell, a rather sad and damaged husk. The man he knew and loved was gone.