In the early hours of the day, a man of middle years trudged over rock and sand, a large bundle slung over his shoulder, sweat making lines through the dust on his face. As he approached a small rise, he noticed an older man sitting on the ground, drawing lines in the sand with the end of a short stick. This man looked up, and hailed the burden carrier with a raised hand and dry voice.
“Hello my Canaanite friend. May your journey home be possible.”
“Hello my Nubian friend,” replied the other. “May your revolts be successful.”
The old man scratched the top of his foot with the stick, then continued his lines in the sand. The other brushed his sleeve across his forehead, and then spoke.
“May I sit on this small rise in your company for a short time? For my burden is heavy, and my back resents the load.”
“You are welcome to sit, my friend. Perhaps you will tell me of your travels, and why you carry such a burden.”
The young man swung his bundle off his shoulder, letting it down on the ground quickly, but with care. The contents clunked and rattled as they adjusted to the movement. He sat down with a grunt.
“Many thanks, my friend. May you find pleasant shade this evening, for your welcome.”
“My only shade is my house, my friend, and my wife takes care that it should not be pleasant. But I thank you. May your burden be less tiresome.”
The young man gave a nod. “Would that it could be so. But the weight lies not only on my back, but on my heart. In the bundle are treasures from my household. I walk this way that I might find a quiet place to bury them.”
The old man raised an eyebrow, and turned his glance to the bundle on the ground between them. He absentmindedly poked at his foot with the stick.
“Surely you do not bury wealth, my Canaanite friend?”
“Only the wealth of my soul, my Nubian friend. In this bundle are my household gods, the protectors of my shade, now to protect no longer. Have you not heard news, my friend?”
The old man pursed his lips, tugged on his left earlobe. “If it is recent, I have not heard. I spend my days on this rock, where there is no shade, and also no wife. Tell me of this news.”
“Word has spread. The Pharaoh Akhenaton–” He paused as both men turned their heads and spat onto the ground “–is enamored of but one god, Aton. It is said that all others are being destroyed, and they are now taboo among all peoples. There is only Aton, and all other deities must succumb to his awesome presence, and be swept away.”
“Ah, and so you are doing the sweeping.”
The younger man nodded. “I will remember the spot of burial, and perhaps things will change, and my gods will adorn my house once more.”
The older man lowered his eyelids a fraction. “I sense hope in you, a rare quality. Have you perhaps more to tell?”
The young man opened his mouth to answer, and then cursed under his breath. “An Egyptian approaches, silence.”
The older man made lines in the sand with his stick, watching the Egyptian. His sudden loud voice made the younger man startle slightly. “No no, my friend, my love and reverence for Aton surpasses that even of yours, in all your piety.”
The Egyptian turned his head.
The young man answered quickly: “I must dispute your claim, my friend. Praise for Aton is on my lips when I close my eyes to sleep, and there still when I wake at his transfigured presence in the morning.”
The Egyptian slowed his walk.
“But,” continued the older man, “I say prayers to my King, my lord, my pantheon, my Sun-god, seven times seven times as often as I draw breath. My admiration is as deep as the sea.”
The Egyptian glanced behind him.
“See this sand, the little individual pieces,” replied the younger, “if one could count how many hymns I have written in reverence to Aton, they would be more numerous than all the sand in all of Egypt. For my love for Aton–”
The Egyptian spat on the ground, and continued walking, past the rise, away out of sight.
The older man rubbed his chin. “A most interesting response.”
The younger man kept his eyes on the place where he had last seen the Egyptian. “Will you revolt soon?”
“Perhaps,” the older replied. “Perhaps. A band of men, my son included, has already begun travel to Jerusalem, to see what can be seen. They shall pilfer. There was bold talk of attacking the house of the Prince himself, we shall see what comes of it when they return.”
“Have you no fear of a reaction from the Pharaoh?” Both men turned and spat.
“There is always risk. It shall not deter us. I feel at this time the risk perhaps is smaller than at other times.”
The younger man nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. He seems preoccupied with his one god, and has built a city where he might worship both day and night. Well,” he stood up with a grunt, brushed sand off his backside, and bent to pick up his bundle. “I thank you, my Nubian friend, for your company on this rock.”
“It does not move, my Canaanite friend, and neither do I. You are welcome to return if you are in need of rest.”
“My thanks. Perhaps when I am finished with my digging and walk back this way, I will sit for awhile longer.”
You are so good at writing dialogue, I could read this for pages and pages, as long as it would go. It’s a shame the conversation ended.
I’m glad you liked it. Thanks!