The night was cold. High above the concerns and activities of humans, a thick fog spanned the horizon, and the bright silver lining of a full moon peeked through small wisps of clouds as if biding its time.

In the East, a small wind lifted from the dry earth, slowly building momentum as it moved over the suburban sprawl of steep Mansard roofs, wide double lane roads, stone paved driveways bordered by automatic garages, elaborate copper lamp posts and imported Palma trees, in the direction of a five bedroom duplex with an arched doorway and wide glass windows.

Upstairs in one of the South facing rooms, satin draperies opened to the dark night and a couple writhed under the covers of a platform bed, white oak oyster gloss cabinetry and state of the art electrical appliances witness to the illicit coupling.

Outside the bedroom window, the wind began to howl and an eerie chorus was taken up by swinging tree branches, loose zinc sheets and the occasional barking dog. Breaking free from a tree a few meters away, a branch floated towards the window of the bedroom as if guided by an invisible hand.  A loud tapping began on the laminated glass, adding a staccato to the chaos.

Oblivious to commotion outside, the couple on the bed continued their rhythmic dance of passion, glazed eyes beholding the pure gold of heaven’s gates. Occasionally they changed positions, moving from the bed to the carpeted floor and back to the bed again. Light from recessed LED cone bulbs and wall scones were dimmed to the faintest glow but it was enough to illuminate the glossy sheen of bodies convulsing in ecstasy. Minutes ticked, outside the wind dropped to a low shriek. The sheets stilled and a mop of fake hair snapped in the direction of the window.

“Did you hear that?”

Another head turned towards the window. It was angular with a strong chin and closely trimmed hair.

“What?”

“Like someone hitting the window.”

Turning his attention back to the room and flopping on the bed, the man studied the concave ceiling.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

The woman watched the shadows behind the window, eyes narrowing further at the sudden silence.

She heard the knocking, she was sure of it.

The bed moved. She turned to see the man walking to the bathroom. His compact naked body was a sight to behold, the speculated size of his bank account adding to the allure. Her belly stirred with desire. She threw herself back on the bed and toyed with thoughts of a committed relationship. They had been sleeping together for three months after all.

In the bathroom, the man watched his reflection, wincing at the throbbing at the base of his skull. Leaning forward, he grabbed the edge of the sink and rested his forehead on the lighted mirror.

“This fucking headache again.”

Pulling back from the mirror and rocking on his heels, he threw his head back and squinted at the squares of recessed lights above him.

Why did it feel like he was heading for a downward spiral?

Inhaling deeply, he walked to the window, eyes scanning the sky for something. He found it immediately, its bright light defiant and mocking.

“Full moon.” Dragging his hand down his face, he shook his head.  “I swear this shit is getting weirder by the day.”

Glaring at the moon one more time, he turned to the shower stall beside him. Hands outstretched and flat on each side of the enclosed shower, he stood under pines of hot water, willing the fear away. Yet he knew. It would be one of those nights again. His soul would be torn from his body and the soul of another would take its place. It was the third year now. The dreams had increased in frequency. It was as if there was something he had to know, a message for him from a realm he didn’t even believe existed.

His hands balled into fists, his eyes remain closed but he heard the soft click of the door opening.

“Luke…”

Inclining his head slightly, the man turned to woman beside the stall. He saw the outstretched hand first. His phone sat in the middle, brightly lit and emitting the soulful stirrings of a jazz song.  The eyes of his longtime girlfriend Bukky, bore holes into him, reminding of a recent engagement and impending family visits. He picked the call while the other woman waited beside the stall, a specter of seduction and stolen kisses in white towel robe.

“Hey.”

The conversation was short. Why did he not call this morning? Why did he not pick his call? When would he return? Did he like the colour of the lace chosen for the introduction ceremony?

He stepped out of the shower, still holding the phone to his ear. The other woman was quick to hand him one of the white towels hanging on the rail beside the door. He took it without a backward glance, walking back to the bedroom even as he knew she was close on his heels.

At last, he threw the phone on the bed and gave her his full attention. She planted herself beside him and whispered her deepest longing.

“I know you have a girlfriend, but I think we should get serious.”

He laughed and reached for his wallet. Pulling out several notes of one thousand naira, he paid her for their time together. She was hurt. She let him know, slipping the notes into her expensive Michael Kors bag with a pout.

“I don’t want to continue this way.”

He kissed her and made her wear her too tight jeans and shell pink chiffon top. He wanted to spend the night alone. They would talk. She gave him a quick kiss and made him promise to see her again. A noncommittal shrug was her response, but she was satisfied. He would always come back.

By the time he closed the door behind her, the headache had become a migraine. Rubbing the back of his neck, he had tossed the towel on his waist aside and climbed naked into bed. Squinting with difficulty at his phone, he sought for answers on Google. He found a forum and formed a virtual bond with dozens of people with the same experience. Some words jumped at him from the screen and troubled him.

Lunar effect.

Lu-natic

Loony

Special people.

His head growing heavy, his eyes began to droop and the phone slipped from his hand to the bed.

He slept.

Outside the bedroom window, the night continued to watch. In the dark, a form began to take shape. It began with a pair of piercing white eyes, and then gradually the phantom assumed the hulky frame of a man. The phantom appeared to be from another age, from another part of human history buried in time. Across the broad shoulders of this phantom was a toga. On its head was a sapphire encrusted gold crown. The phantom stood still, watching the man on the bed with a slight curl of his lips. A dog barked. The smile on the phantom’s face grew. Taking a step forward, the phantom walked through the window into the room. Approaching the bed, it climbed to meet the sleeping man. There it folded itself, inch by inch into the body of the man, until phantom and man became one. Then the man on the bed dreamed.

The city was red. The dying light of the sun casting hues over the red clay of triangular mud houses surrounded by courtyards, pomegranates and fig trees, shrubs of blue and white lotuses, clay pots holding herbs and pools with water plants. The air was relaxed and festive. The aroma of spices wafted from the small windows of kitchens to the nostrils of hungry children and middle aged men. Music from reed flutes rose into the air and the young female initiates looked at the darkening sky with growing impatience. It was the last day of the ceremony of Ma-at, a time of unraveling. It had been a grueling two moons and they could not wait to rejoin the society and the lovers they had left behind.

In a small enclosure to the West of the temple of Ma-at, an initiate sat on a raised mud platform, cross-legged and serene. Her name was Qalhata. She was the chosen, the sacred. It was her that the goddess had chosen after the rites, and it was her that the people waited to see, craning their necks in the direction of the secret chambers of the temple.

Qalhata wore a gown made from cobra and animal skins that were obtained from the temple in lower Ta-set. On her head was crown of gold that resembled a cobra, its hood spread on the middle of her brow to symbolize wisdom. Under her floor length gown, she wore the softest linen. In her small upturned nose were smaller versions of the hoops in her ears. Her delicate fingers were bare for she was to be a symbol of restraint and piety, a vessel of the goddess.

Qalhata was beautiful. Her almond eyes burned like midnight fires and her full lips curved like the bows of the royal ships, bewitching all who crossed her path. High round breasts pushed against her gown of animal skins, endowing her with womanhood even though she was only in her fifteenth year.

The finely woven mat of the doorway lifted and a maiden entered, head low as she approached Qalhata’s bed. Her name was Neb-Het and she was Qalhata’s first maiden, born of her father’s household and chosen to wait on Qalhata from birth. Even though Neb-Het was Qalhata’s age, she was forbidden by the law to refer to her as friend, as was the custom of ordinary people.

“Mistress,” Neb-Het said, eyes pinned to the gold anklets on Qalhata’s legs. “It is time.”

Extending her hand to her servant, Qalhata smiled at the wall opposite her bed.

It was time. She, Qalhata, was now the mouthpiece of the goddess.

Darkness covered the land. Fires burned from the pots holding them in the courtyard and the music from flutes, silver horns and pig-skinned drums continued to entertain the guests of the governor. Ahmose stood in the shadows, a goblet of mead in his hands and a frown on his handsome face. His thoughts were far from the lively party. They were on the vision of loveliness partially veiled on the elevated golden throne at the end of the room. He could feel her eyes on him, tempting him to break tradition and approach her gilded throne for the answers that he was desperate for.

A tremor ran through his arm and he clenched his hands around his goblet.

Were the stories true?

Did the goddess choose her?

Why her?

A partygoer bumped into him, arms thrown over the shoulders of a distraught young woman Ahmose guessed to be his wife. Staggering, the man bowed before Ahmose.

“Em heset net Ma-at.”

Be in favour with Ma-at.

Ahmose returned his greeting, bowing slightly.

“Em heset net Ma-at.”

The man continued on his journey, staggering and tripping as he encountered more guests. Ahmose sighed and turned back to the throne. His brows dipped in confusion when he found the throne empty. He began to look around the brightly lit room, searching for the woman who was his betrothed.

“Master.”

Ahmose turned to voice and saw the petite form of Heb-Net stooping before him.

“Heb,” he said, giving her a small nod of acknowledgment.

“She says you may come to her now.”

Downing his drink, Ahmose handed the goblet to Heb-Net and walked with brisk steps to the garden to meet Qalhata, his skirt of linen and animal skin swaying with his movements. He found her at the end of the garden, concealed under the shade of the largest fig tree, all her loveliness uncovered and laid bare before his eyes. Ahmose’s heart thumped loudly in his ears and he cursed his weakness.

“Ahmose,” she said, her voice soft and silky. “Come.”

Ahmose looked at the hand stretched to him, willing himself to keep his distance, to remember the conversation he had rehearsed in the silence of his family garden.

“Come.”

Ahmose found his resolve melting. Approaching her, he lowered himself to the ground beside her. The intoxicating mix of scented oils gave Ahmose a heady feeling, and soon he found himself leaning into her soft body. A smile on her face, Qalhata fell back so that he fell on her body. A myriad of sensations jolted him and made him uneasy. He had not known the ways of women. His initiation was the next moon. He was fearful to embarrass himself. He stiffened as Qalhata brought his hand to rest on her left breast.

“Touch me Ahmose. Is it not your desire? Do you not spend nights dreaming of this?”

Swallowing hard, Ahmose began to knead the flesh under his hand. He felt himself grow hard under his skirt.

Qalhata’s smile was gloating.

“See Ahmose? You like it.”

Seeking her lips, Ahmose lowered his head but caught instead her perfumed cheek as she turned her face away.

“You must not.”

Swallowing again, Ahmose withdrew and tried to concentrate on the task before him. He suddenly wanted a lot of things – like the secrets under Qalhata’s dress. It was as though she heard his thoughts. Qalhata reached for his other hand and pushed it under her skirt. Ahmose gasped at the liquid softness his hand encountered.

“You want to bury yourself there Ahmose, don’t you.”

Fingers clumsily searching the folds of flesh under him, Ahmose gasped.

“Yes.”

Qalhata’s eyes grew dark.

“You know Ahmose, they were many. I served the goddess cleansing the land.”

Ahmose froze, revulsion mingling with desire. It was true. She was the chosen. He refused to accept this fact, that Qalhata had performed the rites.

“You were with others?”

“Yes Ahmose,” Qalhata said with a twinkling laugh, her eyes growing distant with memories. “They were dozens. Princes…noblemen…I filled with the power of the goddess, took them in all places….in the bed of the goddess Ahmose. I cleansed Qu-stul of the evil.” She looked at him with wonder. “It was beautiful Ahmose. I am like the goddess now.”

A low growl escaped Ahmose’s throat. A desire to kill filled him.

“You-were-mine,” he said through gritted teeth. “How could you?”

Qalhata’s brow furrowed as her eyes focused on her childhood love.

“Surely you do not contend with the will of the goddess. Of what use are childish vows before her who owns this land.”

Rage filled Ahmose and he slapped Qalhata hard. Qalhata’s mouth opened in surprise. Tears stung her eyes.

“How dare you?”

His hands shaking, Ahmose grabbed the hem of Qalhata’s dress and pushed it roughly to her waist. Wriggling under him, Qalhata tried to fight him off.

“Stop it. I command you, stop it. You do not take by force – argh!”

Her body lifted off the ground with the force of Ahmose’s thrust. She grabbed at his arms, eyes widening in surprise at the fullness of him inside her. Soon desire replaced anger and she began to writhe wildly under him. The sky hung above them, decorated by million twinkling stars as they consummated their childhood vow. Rage drove Ahmose. When it left him, he sagged and collapsed beside Qalhata’s body, his seed spilled deep inside her. The revulsion returned as soon as he regained his strength.  Pulling to his feet, he stared down at her. Her hair was loose and spread around her head like the sun. Her smooth skin glowed with the light of the lamps in the garden. Ahmose did not see her beauty; he saw instead the vile features of the woman who had betrayed him.

“You are nothing but a whore, a whore!”

Qalhata shot upwards, her hair flying around her face as she returned his look of hate.

“And you nothing but a mortal, a useless tool in the hands of the goddess.”

Dropping to his knee, Ahmose grabbed Qalhata’s neck. She watched him, her eyes cool and darker than he had ever seen. A loud burst of laughter from the house broke into the palpable silence and Ahmose’s grip around Qalhata’s neck slackened.

“From this day,” he said, rising to his feet and backing away from Qalhata. “You are nothing to me.”

“And you,” Qalhata said, throwing back her dress to cover her nakedness, “are nothing but my enemy from this day.”

Ahmose shot Qalhata one last look of hatred and then spun on his heel out of the garden. His servants who were waiting outside the palace with the servants of other royal men sprang to attention when they saw him. They fell over themselves to relieve him of his staff and walked behind him on silent feet as he made for his family house. None guessed that their young master was in turmoil for Ahmose walked with his pain hidden in his royal stride. Only when the servants were dismissed and he found himself in the comfort of Au-Set his grandmother did Ahmose release the flood of his emotions.

“I hate her,” he cried into Au-set’s skirt. “I hate her with my soul.”

Stroking his head, Au-set had comforted her favourite grandchild, her wrinkled face breaking into a sad smile.

“Ah Ahmose my moon child, the ways of the goddess are strange. Qalhata is no more her who you loved. Let your heart love another my child.”

“I-cant,” Ahmose had confessed, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Oh mother of my mother, I cannot.”

Grabbing his face in her weathered hands, Au-set had looked sternly into the eyes of her son.

“You can and you must.”

Shoulders shaking, Ahmose cried for several minutes until the emotions ebbed and he lifted his head from his grandmother’s lap to wipe the tears on his face. Standing on the roof of the house, he watched the lights go out in the house of the governor. The memories of Qalhata came back. His jaw hardened.

“I will no longer love her.”

Standing beside him, Au-set nodded. A smile of pride lighted her face.

“It is done.”

“In the next life, I Ahmose will be powerful. I shall serve no woman.”

“It is done.”

“The goddesses will no more have powers.”

The smile on Au-set’s face dimmed. She shook her head in warning, “no my child.”

“Yes,” Ahmose countered, his chest heaving with restrained anger. “There will be gods and the goddesses will no more rule!”

Somewhere at the back of the house, the keening cry of a wild jackal tore into the night. Au-set sighed.

“It is done.”

—————–

Umari Ayim is the author of ‘Twilight at Terracotta Indigo’ and ‘Inside my Head’ both winners of the 2011 ANA NDDC Flora Nwapa prize and 2012 Poetry prize respectively.

Umari blogs at www.umariayim.com and tweets from @umariayim