merchant’s son would bring a jug of beer. On such days, we were all at attention, for old Oneh would be inspired to tell us strange stories of the other world: of the Celestial Mut, of the Creator, of Ptah and his companion gods. We would giggle, believing that we had distracted him from our difficult tasks and wearisome writing of characters for the rest of the day; it was only later that I perceived old Oneh to be a wiser teacher than we considered. There was a purpose in his recital of the legends to which his pious, childlike spirit gave life: they taught us the traditions of ancient Egypt. In them, no evil deed went unpunished. Relentlessly each human heart was weighed before the high throne of Osiris. That mortal whose evil deeds were disclosed upon the scales of the Jackal-Headed One was thrown to the Devourer who was crocodile-and hippopotamus- combined but more terrifying than either.
He told also of the surly Backward-Gazer, that dreaded ferryman without whose help no one could attain the fields of the blessed. When he rowed, he faced aft, never forward like the earthly boatmen of the Nile. Oneh would make us repeat by heart the phrases with which this being might be bribed and propitiated. He taught us to copy them out and then write them down from memory, correcting our faults with the gentle warning that the smallest error would wipe out all chance of a happy life in the Hereafter. Were we to hand the Backward- Gazer a letter containing even a trivial mistake, we should be forced to wander like shadows for all eternity by the banks of those sombre waters or, worse still, be engulfed in the hideous abysses of the realms of death.
I attended Oneh’s school for some years. My best friend there was Thutmose, who was a year or so older than myself and who had been brought up from infancy to wrestle and to handle horses. His father was leader of a squadron of chariots and wielded a whip of office plaited with copper wire: he had hopes that his son might become a high-ranking officer and therefore wished him to learn to write. But there was nothing prophetic about the illustrious name of Thutmose, despite his father’s ambitions, for as soon as the boy began his schooling, he ceased to care for javelin throwing and charioteering. He learned his characters easily, and while the other boys struggled grimly with them, he drew pictures on his tablets: pictures of chariots, rearing horses and wrestling soldiers. He brought clay to school, and while the ale jug told stories
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through Oneh’s mouth, he modelled a comic little image of the Devourer snapping with clumsy jaws at a little bald old man whose humped-back and pot belly could belong to none other than Oneh. But Oneh was not angry. No one could be angry with Thutmose. He had the broad face and short, thick legs of a peasant, but his eyes held a joyful glint that was infectious, and the birds and beasts he formed from clay with his clever hands delighted us all. I had sought his friendship first because he was soldierly, but the friendship persisted after he had ceased to show a trace of warlike ambition.
A miracle happened during my school day. It happened so suddenly that I still remember that hour as one of revelation. It was a fair, cool day in spring when the air was full of bird songs and storks were repairing their old nests on the roofs of the mud huts. The waters had gone down, and fresh green shoots were springing from the earth. In all the gardens, seeds were being sown and plants bedded out. It was a day for adventure, and we could not sit still on Oneh’s rickety old veranda, where the mud bricks crumbled under one’s hand. I was scratching at those everlasting symbols — letters for cutting in stone and beside them the abbreviated signs used for writing on paper — when suddenly some forgotten word of Oneh’s, some queer flash within myself, spoke and brought these characters to life. The pictures became a word, the word a syllable, the syllable a letter. When I set picture to picture, new words leaped forth — living words, quite distinct from the symbols. Even the simplest field waterer can understand one picture, but two together have meaning only for the literate. I believe that everyone who has studied writing and learned to read knows what I am trying to say. This experience was an adventure to me, more exciting, more fascinating than snatching a pomegranate from a fruit seller’s basket — sweeter than a dried date, delicious as water to the thirsty.
From that time, I needed no urging. I soaked up Oneh’s learning as dry earth soaks up the flood waters of the Nile. I quickly learned to write. In a little while, I began to read what others had written. By the third year, I could already spell my way through tattered scrolls and read aloud instructive fables for the others to write down.
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