Word Count » 248
The jackal was not a man who found the concept of community one beyond the give and take of his duty. Enkiel would have thrived in Egypt where the merchants yet controlled the land; he might have found himself rising to politics, to become a man who whispered to the ear of the Pharaoh as all his advisors did. While a king, he was not a figurehead that the common-folk so imagined him to be. His mad mother had explained this as she had explained their calling—gods incarnate, she said. Enkiel was born Horus, but he was Sobek in truth—the Nile was his to command and the healing power of it within his hands.
So he remained impassive when it came to the woman’s outburst, sangria colored eyes trailing from her to the brother. He rose, looking to the darker man now. “I will find you when it can come off,” he explained. The jackal had learned to track dates, using the time of the moon and the rising and falling of the sun. This basic system had yet elevated him from the others; using concepts such as time and numbers were not common here. Turning back to the shelves behind him, Enkiel reached for a small pile of leather pouches. One of these he lifted, and extended to the pair. “Heat water and put some of this within it; you may use as much or as little as you wish. It will help with sleep.”
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