Free House of Illusions by Pauline Gedge Page B

dream became more complex. There were rings on the orange-painted fingers and a whiff of perfume that mingled with the scent of the lotus as it brushed against my nose. The smell added a sense of desperation to the terror and I fought to make my fingers do my bidding, but try as I might I could not grab the petals. I woke gasping for breath, ran to my window, and tearing aside the rush matting covering it, I leaned out, sucking up the mild night air. Out there the moon was setting, tangled in black treetops. Directly below me the grain bins that huddled against the wall of the house cast fat shadows across the peaceful courtyard and then there was the surface of the Nile’s tributary, moving silently as it flowed towards the Great Green. Going back into my room, I gathered up my pillow and sheets and stepped out the window onto the roof, but lying looking up at the stars was too much like the dream and I soon returned to my couch. This time I could not sleep again. Curled in on myself I waited out the dark hours until the grey light that preceded Ra’s rising began to seep into my room. Drowsiness came with it and I tumbled at last into a deep slumber. I was late taking my watch that morning.
    I decided to try drinking myself into such a stupor each night that no dream could penetrate the fug of wine fumes in my head. Instead of water, the cup beside my couch held Best Wine of the Western River that I quaffed without appreciation, but all I accomplished was a sore throat and a pounding head to add to the effects of the dream. I thought perhaps exercise might render me so exhausted that though I dreamed I would not wake up or even remember what was in the vision but it did no good. My fellow guards commented on my haggard looks, and I began to wake and stumble through my days in a daze of tiredness. I knew I should mend the rift that had appeared between Takhuru and myself, knew I should take her a gift and tell her I loved her, but she remained silent and I could not summon the energy to take any initiative in her direction.
    On the fourteenth night, halfway through the month of Paophi, there was another change. It was as though the dream was the work of a magic artist who first sketched a bare outline and then proceeded to add not only many grades of colour and subtleties of definition but odours and finally sounds, for on that night, as the lotus caressed my face and I made my vain attempts to capture it, a voice began to croon. “Little one, darling one,” it half-sang, half-chanted. “Pretty, pretty little boy, sweetness of my heart,” and in the dream I smiled. The voice was female, young and lilting, slightly husky. It did not belong to my mother or my sisters or Takhuru, yet it sent waves of shock through me. I knew it, knew it in the blind marrow of my bones, and I woke with sobs aching in my chest.
    Throwing on a linen shift, I went unsteadily along the hallway and knocked on my father’s bedroom door. After a moment a slit of light appeared under it. I waited. Finally he opened, his face puffy with sleep but his eyes as always clear and alert. “Gods, Kamen,” he said. “You look terrible. Come in.” He motioned me inside and followed me, closing the door. I sank into one of the comfortable chairs that flanked his window. He took the other, crossed his naked legs, and waited for me to speak. I forced myself to breathe deeply against the already easing constriction in my chest. Gradually my body became still. My father jerked his head at the half-empty cup of wine that stood on the small table between us. He had obviously been reading before he retired, for a scroll lay beside the goblet, but I shuddered and shook my head. “I should think not,” he said drily. “You’ve drunk half my stock in the last couple of weeks. What’s wrong? Is Takhuru being difficult?” I shifted in the chair.
    “Tell me about my mother,” I said. His eyebrows shot up, then he understood.
    “Your mother is dead,” he