Starlight Over Kemet

Panehsy followed the others toward the riverbank, where the ground softened underfoot and the air smelled of mud, reeds, and warm water. The light on the Nile had turned bright and wavering, broken by the slow movement of boats and the bent backs of people working the shallows. He knew this place. He knew the way the river tugged at the bank after floodtime, the way insects hovered over the wet grass, the way the palm shadows slid long in the morning.

It was work, but it was also home.

His mother would be by the house with the dough and the cooking fire. His father would be near the fields, watching without wasting words. Panehsy had learned the shape of their days as he had learned the shape of the paths between the houses: by walking them again and again until his feet trusted them.

Then the shouting began.

It came first from farther down the bank, where one of the boatmen pointed upward with both arms raised. Others looked, squinting into the brilliance. Panehsy lifted his face and saw the sky split by a silver shine that was not the sun. Something enormous moved there, too high to be a bird, too smooth to be a cloud. It did not drift with wind. It did not belong to any river or field or road.

The people around him stepped backward. A donkey screamed. Someone called for the children to come close. Panehsy did not move.

The thing overhead grew larger as it passed, and for one breathless instant its underside caught the light like polished stone, bright enough to hurt the eyes. The air seemed to hum. The river itself looked changed, as if even the water had gone still to stare.

Panehsy felt the pull of fear and wonder together, so tightly bound he could not tell them apart.

Behind him, a familiar voice called his name. Ahead of him, the impossible shadow crossed the riverbank and cast every reed and person into a sudden, trembling shade.