disappearing into the depths. Pink foam swirls on red water, and on earth the sky is stained with these colours.
Set swims back to the Solar Barque and his great-great-uncle reaches down to helps him aboard. Their gazes meet. Set's eyes are bright red, even brighter and redder than the blood he has just spilled. Ra's eyes are mismatched. The right is a lambent amber yellow, the left a pale pearly grey. This is a distinctive coloration he shares with many of his descendants - Osiris, Isis, Hathor, Horus, the ones he trusts most, the ones he is inclined to favour.
When Set looks into his great-great-uncle's eyes, it is a tangible reminder of his outcast status. He knows he will never be well loved by the senior god of the pantheon. He knows he will always be apart and different.
Ra knows it too, and is saddened. The first saddening of today. The first of many.
''Well fought,'' says Ra.
Set shrugs. ''How much longer must this farce continue? How many more times do I have to slay that thing before you decide I've made amends?''
''For what you did to your brother? Your sentence is not nearly served, Set.''
The two gods go their separate ways, and the barque sails on.
Soon a group of elder gods appear on deck: Sobek, Khnum, Ptah, Neith. Of these, only Neith has any vigour and vitality. She marches forward to hail her son.
''Ra,'' she says, her bows, arrows, and shield clanking. ''How goes it?''
''You are strong in the world, mother,'' says Ra. ''So am I.''
''As long as those great-great-nephews and nieces of yours bicker, I will prosper,'' says the goddess of war. Her jaw has a mannish jut to it. Her hair is tightly braided and tied back so that there is no chance it will ever distract her by flapping in her face.
''Their bickering has a purpose beyond simple rivalry,'' Ra replies. ''They must be worshipped, and worship requires sacrifice. The people of the world need to prove themselves worthy of the divine blessings they are given. The surrender of their mortal lives is that proof, and conflict supplies a convenient means of their dying.'' Ra says these words, but he isn't sure he believes them. Not any more.
''Am I complaining?'' Neith's laughter rattles her armaments. ''Of course not. I am flushed with power, unlike those pale shadows back there whom I have to spend most of my time with.''
The other three elder gods shuffle their feet and look ashamed. They are ghosts of their former selves, sallow and emaciated. It is hard to imagine them ever having received the adoration of humans, ever imbibing the blood of slaughtered beasts and glowing with the flames of the ritual pyres lit in their names. Their ba is all but non-existent. They linger feebly, clinging to the lees of their lives, with little to say for themselves and less to do.
And Ra feels a tiny pang, his second saddening of the day.
For, looking at these four, he knows that even gods may fade.
Even gods may die.
Now come his nephew and niece, Shu of the air and Tefnut of the rain, to pay their respects. Shu is an absent-minded sort. He would never remember to visit the barque if Tefnut did not drive him to do so.
These married siblings are joined by their children, Geb of the earth and Nut of the sky, also married.
All four of them, the First Family, make their obeisance to Ra. ''As the children and grandchildren of Atum,'' they say, ''from whose swirling chaos the universe was born, we salute you, O Sun God, Ruler of the Ennead.''
''Big Chief Blazing Shorts,'' adds coarse-mannered Geb. His sister-wife digs an elbow in his ribs.
Ra laughs off the jibe, but inwardly laments Geb's insolence.
Thus, bit by bit, is his morning's happiness whittled.
There are other visitors to the Solar Barque during the course of the day. Minor members of the pantheon, lesser gods, a few demons. Ra receives them all civilly, as a ruler must. They are offered hospitality - sweetmeats and wine. There is idle chat. These duties bore Ra and tire him, but he tries not to
Set swims back to the Solar Barque and his great-great-uncle reaches down to helps him aboard. Their gazes meet. Set's eyes are bright red, even brighter and redder than the blood he has just spilled. Ra's eyes are mismatched. The right is a lambent amber yellow, the left a pale pearly grey. This is a distinctive coloration he shares with many of his descendants - Osiris, Isis, Hathor, Horus, the ones he trusts most, the ones he is inclined to favour.
When Set looks into his great-great-uncle's eyes, it is a tangible reminder of his outcast status. He knows he will never be well loved by the senior god of the pantheon. He knows he will always be apart and different.
Ra knows it too, and is saddened. The first saddening of today. The first of many.
''Well fought,'' says Ra.
Set shrugs. ''How much longer must this farce continue? How many more times do I have to slay that thing before you decide I've made amends?''
''For what you did to your brother? Your sentence is not nearly served, Set.''
The two gods go their separate ways, and the barque sails on.
Soon a group of elder gods appear on deck: Sobek, Khnum, Ptah, Neith. Of these, only Neith has any vigour and vitality. She marches forward to hail her son.
''Ra,'' she says, her bows, arrows, and shield clanking. ''How goes it?''
''You are strong in the world, mother,'' says Ra. ''So am I.''
''As long as those great-great-nephews and nieces of yours bicker, I will prosper,'' says the goddess of war. Her jaw has a mannish jut to it. Her hair is tightly braided and tied back so that there is no chance it will ever distract her by flapping in her face.
''Their bickering has a purpose beyond simple rivalry,'' Ra replies. ''They must be worshipped, and worship requires sacrifice. The people of the world need to prove themselves worthy of the divine blessings they are given. The surrender of their mortal lives is that proof, and conflict supplies a convenient means of their dying.'' Ra says these words, but he isn't sure he believes them. Not any more.
''Am I complaining?'' Neith's laughter rattles her armaments. ''Of course not. I am flushed with power, unlike those pale shadows back there whom I have to spend most of my time with.''
The other three elder gods shuffle their feet and look ashamed. They are ghosts of their former selves, sallow and emaciated. It is hard to imagine them ever having received the adoration of humans, ever imbibing the blood of slaughtered beasts and glowing with the flames of the ritual pyres lit in their names. Their ba is all but non-existent. They linger feebly, clinging to the lees of their lives, with little to say for themselves and less to do.
And Ra feels a tiny pang, his second saddening of the day.
For, looking at these four, he knows that even gods may fade.
Even gods may die.
Now come his nephew and niece, Shu of the air and Tefnut of the rain, to pay their respects. Shu is an absent-minded sort. He would never remember to visit the barque if Tefnut did not drive him to do so.
These married siblings are joined by their children, Geb of the earth and Nut of the sky, also married.
All four of them, the First Family, make their obeisance to Ra. ''As the children and grandchildren of Atum,'' they say, ''from whose swirling chaos the universe was born, we salute you, O Sun God, Ruler of the Ennead.''
''Big Chief Blazing Shorts,'' adds coarse-mannered Geb. His sister-wife digs an elbow in his ribs.
Ra laughs off the jibe, but inwardly laments Geb's insolence.
Thus, bit by bit, is his morning's happiness whittled.
There are other visitors to the Solar Barque during the course of the day. Minor members of the pantheon, lesser gods, a few demons. Ra receives them all civilly, as a ruler must. They are offered hospitality - sweetmeats and wine. There is idle chat. These duties bore Ra and tire him, but he tries not to
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