​Somewhere, Sometime, There Lived a Scribe, Forgotten by His Own God

The day started like any other, the sun rose, the air was hot and humid. His room was the same as last night; everything was in the same place: his bed, the bed linen, his books, his study table. The light brown wall behind the table held the books he used the most. Yellowed and worn, his favorite books were obvious. The bird’s feather remained in the same place, probably the feather of a Mihun – a rare bird, with a blue feather, perfect for writing, desired by all scribes. His annotations were unfinished. Everything as usual. Except on that night, when he was tired and still trying to put out any words in the papyri, filled with thoughts and ideas, he never imagined he was writing his last words.

The paper read: “Even after all these years of devotion, praise, piety, compassion, love. Even after thousands upon thousands of words, phrases, rites, prayers. Even after all. Do you still love me?”.

As the birds cried and sang outside, as the trees breathed in and out, as the air was still affected by the last week’s condition, he hadn’t moved yet. His words dead on the papyri, held his life still. And his thoughts, dead with him, would never be killed by the feather and by the ink. They received the worse fate for a thought: they were forgotten. To be killed by a scribe is the desire of a thought; to be written down forever.

The moon rose the same as everyday she does. Few know how a human body looks and feels after death. The smell of warm blood filled his room, and soon his entire house knew what had happened. Outside his house, the small and decayed trail would not receive any visitors for days, as it never did.

He arrived covered to the brim in black. Used to his job, he entered the scribe’s house adapted to the smell – it didn’t affect him. He started by cleaning the walls from the heavy mist; he then removed the furniture still left intact and started drawing the ground. The spell he was about to perform required severe conditions to function properly. They never failed, but he knew there’s a first time for everything.

The first step was the most difficult; however, he had luck this time. The condition was already met: the scribe was dead for 10 days. Normally, the book recommends 5 days, but 12 is the maximum.

The second step consisted in choosing the right energy source. Although the death chariots always carried at least two blood bags, he felt this time would require more. The knife, sharp and shining, sliced his wrist with no hesitation.

The third step was the most important. He spent some time looking into the scribes’ papers, choosing the most adequate ones. The right ones. This step took most of his time, but he was used to his job.

With the body and papers well positioned, he began the spell. The first words – half translated from a dead language – were as follows: “Our father, hira creator; words’ owner. This life, dedicated to ye, returns. Take thee, heal he […]”.

The small town was covered by the brightest light they had ever seen; the birds flew away as the sky opened. With his arms opened, the death chariot continued to declare. In the blink of an eye, everything was back to normal: the birds singing, the wolves howling, and the water flowing.

The sun rose once more, and the scribe had finished his last ever story.