Wadjet's
mind always wanders when he
digs. Did the
Before Ones know they where going to
die? Why did they do it? Angry
Atum burned in the sky, his
baleful light pulling the sweat to Wadjets'
brow. "I would cut your eye for relief from this heat" he pledged to the
burning sphere. The God continued to stare. Mopping his brow, Wadjet drove his
spade down in the earth. "More
treasures wait."
They must have known. They buried all these
gifts for their
children.
Since the
Time of Fire, men lived in the scraps of the
ancients. For
generations, the men of Wadjet's family dug in the earth for the hidden
gifts placed there. Wadjet would fill his dirty
cart and push it faithfully to the sprawling city for the
bazaar, just as he did a
thousand times before. When he dug, he found many
strange things.
Poisonwood, in strange and
alien shapes and colors, hid deep in the earth. It burned with
acrid smoke and was good for little but
decoration. Sometimes little
idols made of it would appear under his spade. Wadjet sold these to the dirty
children of the city.
Devilskin also lay buried in masses, wrapping the
treasures of the dead. He knew
black and
green and
white as the color of
discovery.
Water rock, as clear as the sky and as sharp as a
knife, was a constant
hazard. He gave up on selling it after so many cuts on his
raw fingers.
Metal had always brought the highest prices. The secrets of working with it some how survived the Time of Flames. What drove Wadjet to dig was the most precious of all:
rainbow leaves. They held
images from before the
Fall in
colors that no one has been able to
recreate.
Forbidden and
exotic, they where what Wadjet craved most.
Wadjet started digging here with his father. He collected the
fragile leaves while listening to stories as they worked. Youngest of his fathers many children, he was the only one who listened to the
wasted old man. He told fables of the
Lost, tales of the
ancients roads paved with golden metal, of soaring in the
sky like
birds. Late at night when they rolled the old cart back from the bazaar, Wadjet watched as his father
puzzled over his leaves. No one could
unlock the
secret language of the ancients. Old
Horus slaved over his precious
book until he died from the
Black Demon in his bones. If only he could figure out what the ancients had wanted to
tell them, they could live like the
gods of old. "The sons of Atum live like dogs because of them!" he would curse. "
Why?" was all the old man wanted to know. "Why try to
kill your God?"
The old
prophets in the city told tales of the
Fall to Wadjet when he was a
young man full of
dangerous questions. They warned him against his father's
quest. The Before Ones called down the wrath of the
burning eye of Atum with their
hubris. The secrets they buried could anger him
again.
Man should never try to live as a God.
According to the
half remembered myths, Men split
Atum in two with their powerful
magic. Their words and works connected all the places of the
World. They dared to try to replace
God. Atum sent his children to touch the world, and the
stars came down from
heaven.
Waves of flame ate the works of the
Before Ones. Only the
roots of the world lived. The old places are still
cursed.
Evil spirits live in those places. Even the ancient
gifts from the
Starpits kill.
Black Demons would eat you from inside for years until you died. Sometimes, when fools wondered too long in the
dead lands, the spirits would try to possess them, to take a new body. Their
skin would
blister, eyes would
bleed, all their
hair would come out. The spirit would destroy them for coming to its home. The
temptation to visit the Before Ones passed into memory for Wadjet. He found a new
obsession.
Finally, the
pit was deep enough for some
shade. Tossing his spade in
disgust at the
poor haul, Wadjet slumped in
exhaustion. Kicking his dirty feet in the cool earth, he felt a familiar
texture. Moving to hands and knees, he scooped the
dirt with his hands.
Black Devilskin. A good
omen, thought Wadjet.
Pulling up the skin proved difficult. A few
deft moves with the spade
freed it from the dirt. With practiced
skill, Wadjet
split the skin. Looking inside, his
heart caught in his throat. It was
perfect.
Trapped in clear devilskin,
she looked up at him.
Smooth pale skin, unmarked by the sun or scar. Her hair hung
free and clear around her face. Her
inviting eyes stared up at Wadjet. Falling back on his haunches, he studied every inch of the
unholy icon. It was trapped in the devilskin, sealed and unscarred by untold years in the dirt. She had waited for him since the
Fall. His breath grew
shallow. Excitement
prickled the small
hairs on his neck.
Wreathed in writing no one understands, her face is dominated by her
toothy smile. So many teeth showing, it almost seems a
threat, a baring of gums in
aggression. They are so clean, all lined up and shining.
She holds
red poisonwood stick with a set of
hairy growths. They are covered explicitly in
white paste. Poised to go in her
mouth.
Entry and consumption. A
shiver shakes down Wadjet's
spine.
Quickly looking around, Wadjet takes his father's book from the
hiding place on his
rickshaw. These images of the lost would fetch a
high price, but Wadjet will never sell. The
exotic gifts of the
past where his
lone conform in the
cold night.