Meero Isesi
Dec 14, 2015 0:48:20 GMT
Post by Aez on Dec 14, 2015 0:48:20 GMT
Meero is a tall, slim Turami woman, made only taller by her complex pattern of crimped, umber braids. Her lips and cheeks are full, but impassive; her narrow, dull ochre eyes expectantly following your every move. Her voice is clipped, calm, and considered; hesitant words sticking as they roll from her tongue. When she walks, her gait is delicate and considered - making hardly a sound as she slides off the balls of her feet. She stands stiffly and patiently, clasping her hands in front of her. Her copper toned fingers are cracked and discolored; faded along her palms and inkstained under her nails. The back of her right hand bears a white tattoo of interlocking blocks mounted with a basket.
M E E R O I S E S I
Crash of waves among
Whispering lines of white linen, fresh from the river
Flowing down the quill, the paper’s scars bleeding over into
The small of her back as she falls to the
Water heaves from her gasping
Throat warbles as the priestess stares into the scroll, painted eyebrows
Crashing down upon her thick hair
Strands askew, bent and bound, thickly wrapped
Over gaping teeth and a mouth full of coin
Spinning, shimmering, dancing out of reaching
Hands thrust up to obscured stars
“It has not been disturbed since the day of its creator”
Hacking, gasping at the smell of lye and dust
Feet churn the water as
She is struck by the boy’s squall
Roaring into her ears
Quivering as her tongue betrays her
As the jib slams into her
Elbow, dangling from its rotting, cracking spine
She clutches the jib and
Weeps
Salty tears
as she gasps for breath
amidst the raging storm around her.
As rain pounds her like Anhur’s fury, she can only grip the spar like a woman possessed. She fixes her eyes to the hidden stars and murmurs:
Khaibitu, I have not stolen.
Qesu, I have not told lies.
Taret, I have not eaten my heart.
Fenti, I have done no violence.
Usekh, I have not committed sin.
After four hours, the horakhty pierces the clouds and her chant ends.
The sky is cloudless. Meero is still flung over the jib, her limp arm wrapped in rope from the sails. She looks vacantly around. Still no sign of a priestess or slave or sailor or anyone at all. The only thing she can see is the unsightly blot on the horizon ahead; a large island that creeps ever closer as the current drives her, the spar, and the other flotsam inland. She numbly grips the jib tighter - her path has been chosen for her and she would never question it.Her pending arrival on the island fills her with dread.
Where can she go after she is brought to the island’s keeping?
How will she know what to do?
If only a priestess was beside her. Neith or Messit or even Kemaat. Meryetne Kemaat, surely balanced delicately on her stool, gazing out over Gheldaneth towards the Alamber Sea. In a month’s time, by the first of akhet, Kemaat will surely speak in soft words as a slave woman scrawls the trip's losses: the clumsy Chessentan galley, a priestess, dozens of jewels, thirty oarmen slaves, the opportunity to bring back iron, magic, and coin. Of course, she would also jot down the half dozen bound for auction, bound by oath.
She wonders if her fate would be captured as “safhat hem”. She wonders if her name would be scrawled there next to Pelkha or Patape or Tanoute. She wonders how much gold would be weighed against her name, how much her life had cost.
Meero brushes her salt-drenched hair out of her face, banishing such unproductive dreaming. All she needs to know is that her mistresses and the church were hurt dearly. The Nehebkau Hedj would be strained this year, with so much silver sleeping at the bottom of Asavir’s Channel. But it was not her fault. She had done as she was directed. Set or some other deity had flung an obstacle in her path, but she was signed and bound to find a master. The precepts had sent her to be sold on the Sword Coast - she did not dare question their plans. To do so would invite more isfet.
There was only one course open to her. To secure her place in the afterlife. To serve Nephthys and her precepts’ orders. The ma’at had made that clear to her. She would find her master on that island. She would find someone who would restore order to her life. She would serve him as loyally as she could. That was her only purpose.
After one journey of the sun through neuth, the spar beaches Meero on the eastern shore. She clambers to dry land, blistered hands aching and trembling. Pausing to wrap her muddied white skirts about her legs, she wrings her braids as best she can. Without looking back, she leaves the jib behind - striding inland toward whatever fate has in store for her.
