Hunger's Brides (191 page)

And the lamentations of Seth's followers filled the northern sky. And the lamentations of his
ka
filled the southern sky.

Then in procession throughout Egypt was Seth driven before the young king, crying: Horus has purified himself in the Field of Rushes! Horus, son of Isis, has arisen as ruler, l.p.h.! Horus thou art the good King of Egypt, of both the Upper and the Lower, Lord of the Two Shores, of the Two Horizons, good lord of all lands, the Black
and
the Red, even of the foreigners-in-their-stinking, forever!

Lo, the name of Seth reeks more than carrion, more than ducks smell. To whom am I to speak today?—brothers are unkind, the friends of today do not love. To whom shall Seth speak, when faces are blank and each turns his face from his brother's? To whom shall the
ka
of Seth speak today, when the
ba
of Seth cannot open its mouth?

To whom shall the
ka
of Seth speak today, whither shall I go now when I have been stripped of my seat in the dog star?

You who come after, you who are to come in a million years, Death is to me now like myrrh on the air. Like a sick man's healing. Like sitting beneath a sail spilling sweet wind. Like a bark beached on the shore of drunkenness. Like a sky, clearing. Death stands before me now like a mist lifted from a man's eyes to reveal what has gone unseen. Death stands before Seth like his longing for home, and reaching it from War.

There is One whose name I did not know, whose power Seth did not hold. He has crushed a million countries by himself. Before this name Seth is submitted. I am fallen on my side. Seth's heart was weighed, the
ba
of Seth was found wanting. It is as if my name never existed, and my
words, my seed never were, and my
ka
. And to Horus has been awarded the White Crown.

Thou hast been vindicated against me. And if thou, O Horus, wouldst that Seth should die, his
ka
shall surely die.

But lo! Horus has been taught to bind and unbind the knot Tyt, of Beginning and Restoration! Horus does not kill Seth! but leaves to him the place of honour foremost in the Bark-of-Millions! Truly he who stands before Seth will pilot the Sun-Bark between the two sycamores of Turquoise, where it sails high over the lake of Qeb. Jubilate through all the land! let there be jubilation throughout all Egypt for Horus, son of Isis! And for Seth. Seth jubilates with the Tribunal, Seth is strife-kept-within-walls, Seth is strength-against-Apophis. Apophis is smitten, turned back, its snout is split! In the Bark-of-the-Dawn-and-Sunset, Seth is sent to the foremost to spill the blood of Apophis through the twilights.

For a million years.

Seth is mother of the Eye, is made its bitch and has suckled it. The
ka
of Seth has sucked the thumb of Horus. Horus is in possession of the uninjured Eye, Horus is in his power-of-the-Eye-Restored.

Horus, Falcon-of-Gold, is come from his egg, his wings are of greenstone. Child of She-who-wide-strides-the-sky, who sows stars from her seed-bag of greenstone, turquoise and malachite.

Horus is Falcon-of-Silence who walks the path of mystery in lightland, child who speaks in silences with the Hidden One. The potency of Seth's testicles fills the Eye of Horus. The potency of Horus grows silent in the bowels of Seth.

My cry is in the silence of the child.

  My cry is in the silence of the child.

    My cry is in the silence of the child.

             

 

Tulum

Muse War

Obsidian Wine

Sacred Harlot

Saturday

Bonfire

Sunday

Hope, long-lasting fever of men's lives

God's War

Bolder at other times

Sacred Heart

Last Dream

Wizards

Requiem

Monday

Green Axle

Cenote Azul

The Red Land, the Black

Conquest

The Far Shore

Bright Child

If men weighed the hazards of the sea

Epilogue

In recognition of the inimitable plumes of Europe

T
ULUM
        

T
ICKET TO ANYWHERE
, Anytime Soon. First class yes—in this hell-heat what else. I board the bus, my silver-sided missile into the mysterious East. East across the Yucatán, peninsular swelter-states of steam called Tabasco, Campeche, Quintana Roo. Anywhere but here, the too-true state of Veracruz.

Chill exhalate of reconditioned air … black vents mould encrusted. Tubercular incubations, beware. Avert eyes. Look up, out, ahead. Every curtain drawn against the sun, the devastation, the road-kill of poverty. All Mexico reduced to this long tunnel of white curtains. At the tunnel's end a panel of sky blinding white, like a page of sun. Schoolbook bus-driver silhouetted in windshield. Mute flicker of television behind the silhouette head.

An old woman in the next seat is watching me from the corner of her eye as she crochets. An offer of headphones drawn from her knitting bag.
Si usted quiere
, I'm getting too deaf for these. Lilac perfume. Steady needle clack.

Diesel engine … gargle of pistons, breathless deathrattle that numbs and soothes.

Sleep …
I sleep like never in weeks, lulled on this diesel song, garble of throttle, long mantra of ommmm. And I
can
—sleep if not dream. At the next steambath, terminal city of Villahermosa, I go to the counter. Another ticket, please. To anywhere. The next leaving south, east. The ticketman squints at this, my dubious quest. Hurry, nevermind keep it
keep
it—

All aboard the engine of rest.

Through a night a day another night, at depot after depot straight to the counter I stagger drunken gambler buying more bright chips.
Ya se lo dije, señor
—anywhere south or east—what does it matter? on these buses I can sleep. And sooner or later the wheel stops on Tulum.

Sleep-curtained screenings of silent shorts in Technicolor—Mexican slapstick, Hollywood drama. Jiminy Stewart crashed in the desert, a smash in an aviator's jacket…. What state is this? Quintana Roo?
Gracias
. Is this the road to Palenque? No
señorita
it's south of here. You're not lost are you?

Sleep, write, sleep. Wake every now and then to another traveller in the next seat.
Disculpa, señor
, are we near Tulum? No we are coming to the border with Belize. Tulum is north. You are not going to Belize?—you want me to tell the driver?

No matter,
no importa, me da igual
.

At the terminal a ticketseller hunched and squat says no—his head a fat brown orb socketed in necklessness. No more first class this afternoon. Tomorrow morning only, the Belize bus to Cancún. Ah
Tulum …
We have a very nice bus leaving in twenty minutes….

All aboard this third-class rattletrap dipped in electric pink and green—gaudy parrot racket—cage without curtains or glass or screens. We barrel down the centre of our two-laned highway framed in low scrub and tall tree clumps. Foaming cascade of air, oblique riddling of light. Symphony of gears, gossip shouts, wind roar, furred howl of speakers of disembowelled cardboard—I sit, wide-eyed in this jetwash, more awake than in years.
Señora
, what is this music—salsa? No, CUMBIA,
te gusta?

Sí, sí …
I like I like. Acoustical caffeine. Seventy dark bodies sway to the rhythm, the whole bus rocks side to side—hysteria on helium tires—cowbells, coronets, bright hectoring of wind and light, heady concussions of oncoming trucks plunging south….

Bent figures in evening fields of corn and cane, glints of scythe, burros half-hidden under tottering stacks like stalkingblinds. Palm tops lit gold, glimmers of eastern sea between the trees … Over the sea a litmus strip of umber dipped in slate.

Scabbed gaunt dogs / whippets of Sloth, slouch just clear of the giant shadow rush. Raw wounds scabbed in gorging flies that flinch and fluster in the last-instant hornblast. At every little town and crossing a grinding, screeching halt. Afterthoughts of dust catch up…. Child dervishes now, distilled from roaddust—sprite whirlwinds sprint to hawk bags of Coke and Fanta to go…. They hand up twist-tied baggies sprouting straws like potted palms.

At a gas station, vendors tiptoe on gaspump islands and press hot
elotes
through the window gaps—tender white corncobs with chilli and mayo. The parrot bus coughs—pitches forward as though shot. Haste of coins dropped to upcast palms or pitched, and on down this highway that roars and rattles we shriek past cemeteries—death's gaudy pantheons,
mausoleums gay as carousels—right through front yards past lonely country shacks built to the road-side for company. House after house of unfinished second storeys, an endless spring of rebar sprouts … so many rusty hymns to optimism. On swayback porches, hammocks sag and gape their impassive freight of watchers.

Streaked in dust, naked toddlers stalk wary hens.

Elbow nudge. Toothless crone offers a stick of sugarcane—her own stick fiercely gummed and pulped. Defiant posterchild for tooth decay. Smooth black skin, whitewire hair, merry eyes, bright pink hippogrin. You chravel alone, fhar fhrum home? Where is your fhamily? Are you married?—no, thhhen soon?
¿tieneth nofhio, por lo menoth?

Tropical nightfall's sudden blackout—theatrical bomb—my stiff-kneed stumble down. Welcome to Chetumal.

Warm coastal night … The blind lunge of a hundred thousand moths into floodlamps above the busbays. Strange mottling, freckled moth-shadow mosaic as through a crocheted lampshade, spun. The luxury bus in the next bay slides open its chilly window—Tulum,
señorita?
Cancún?