The Tales of Kamaran: Volume I

By Ethan Kane

We have all probably been fooled over the past several thousand yearsabout history, about religion, and maybe even about physics.

The Tales of Kamaran narrates how a young man gets to hear an alternative version based on five related tales about earth and the universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984543639

Ethan Kane

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Copyright © 2018 by Ethan Kane.

ISBN:                  Softcover                        978-1-9845-4362-2

                            eBook                              978-1-9845-4363-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/02/2018

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Dedication

To Nessita, the only love of my life.

Contents

BOOK 1

Egypt, Old Era: A Tale Of The Sand

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

BOOK 2

Egypt, New Era: A Tale Of The Sand

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

BOOK 3

North Africa, The Atlantic: A Tale Of The Wind

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

BOOK 1

EGYPT, OLD ERA:

A TALE OF THE SAND

A silent desert stretches over limits of the eye.

A savage scorching silence overwhelms.

The weary traveler pauses on the shifting sands.

You have been long awaited, whispers the desert wind from far away.

This is the journey’s end, confirms the cloudless desert sky,

The place of truth that so long you have sought.

The place of truth. The easy words.

The oft-repeated, much-too-often-heard and senseless words.

So many places has he heard the very words:

In circles built of stones, gigantic stones and silent;

From Maya ruins;

From wonders of the world diminished, broken, destined to be rubble;

From India’s sages;

From the wastelands of Iraq.

There is no place of truth I fear, he tells the sky.

The journey’s end is mere futility.

This is the place of truth, insists the desert sand,

"And we have seen the truth as no one has.

"Beware, oh brash and wayward youth!

"Still time there is to turn from truth, to run with feet like wings,

And close your ears to all we have to say.

He is bewildered but amused. For he is not afraid.

He says to sand and wind and sky:

"The truth is all that ever I have craved. If there is truth in you,

Then give it up to me. It is my birthright and my heritage."

Beware, oh brash and wayward youth, repeats the desert wind,

"There is no hope retreating or reversing from the things that you may hear.

There will be no erasing, and this truth shall sear your very soul and eat you up eternally.

But I will hear the truth he says in patronizing weariness.

"Enough! Say I am warned and duly cautioned of this risk.

Now speak to me of truth.

It is no task of pleasure, nor for us nor yet for you, the desert sand explains.

"It is a burden yet you may refuse to bear.

"Beware, oh brash and wayward youth!

You do not want to know of Kamaran!

Of Kamaran.

Why should he learn of Kamaran to know the truth?

He asks the elements.

The truth is Kamaran, explains the desert sand.

"The one great truth, consistent and historical,

"Explaining earth, and you, and all,

"The future, past, the world entire.

"One truth, called Kamaran.

"It is unpleasant truth,

"And you are changed, and irreversibly are changed,

"Who hear this tale.

"So be prepared, oh brash and wayward youth:

If you would hear of Kamaran, listen…….

Chapter 1

I

H er mind was pregnant, along with her body;

Her body was Nubian, along with her mind;

And she was beautiful.

Her blackness shone in softest hues

Of smile-evincing beauty: Dark and mesmerizing,

Like charms so willingly accepted

To subdue the heart.

And she was so much more than young:

She had no age.

Impossible and inconceivable, the thought of age with her.

A newness permeated her entirety:

Her childlike smiles encircling gleaming and attractive whiteness,

And her spotless flowing robes of white befitting youth,

Embroidered at the collar and the hem also in sky-reflecting blue;

Her long black hair in girlish freedom dangling past her shoulders;

And the graceful winsomeness of pregnancy that

So defined her in her youthfulness.

A picture born of loveliness,

This Nubian queen with dreamy eyes.

And life so lovely leaped enthused from her,

The first enthralling greeting of a new emerging

Hitherto imprisoned butterfly.

She sat in idleness upon her husband’s throne.

An idle gesture, harmless in the late declining

Afternoon, with all affairs of court being done,

The royal courtroom then of little consequence.

But not an empty room:

Around her stood the eunuchs, four in all,

And maidens (there were three)

And royal guards attentive not to duty but to her,

So she was safe within this palace from which Redfu

Ruled his Nubian kingdom, from the royal Kerman seat.

The throne, magnificent, engulfed her pregnant self.

Its headrest towered high above her, and the sacred cobra’s

Raised protecting head in ivory white served as its pinnacle.

The arm-rests, overlain in gold, were too apart

Accommodating her unless she stretched her hands

To barely grasp them each.

They talked and laughed around her

But respectfully, for she was Nubia’s queen.

Though little of their words young Saltaq heard.

For so engrossed was she in dreams:

In dreams of him:

He who would shortly come, majestic,

And from her, her very self, to free the land.

A son that she would have, a son delivering in youth

More than this tame delivery at birth

That held her anxious, waiting for the day.

A son to save the Nubian people

From this mockery and pretentious rule

That Redfu now endured.

A day would come, the dawn announced by trumpets,

When the plans of Redfu would be Nubia’s new reality,

And then her golden prince would lead the armies,

Driving all the traces of Egyptian lordship from his land.

And so her husband would be king indeed:

No vassal to the evil and Egyptian dictates

That controlled his rule.

And then her son would proudly serve this kingdom newly born,

Till he should also rule as Nubia’s king.

And thus she dreamed.

II

L ight brown the shade of hand that moved.

It moved in graceful royal power,

Practiced graceful power, power perfect,

Marvelous to behold,

Though she alone was present and could witness it:

Her own and royal hand, that brought the mirror closer to her face.

She gazed and smiled with silent gratitude,

For still was she so beautiful.

Yes, pregnant and still beautiful.

It mattered as no other thing:

She was still beautiful. Still Amenhotep’s queen,

His only queen despite the sentiments,

The statements, of those self-deluded witches

Who inhabited the harem of her king.

She was his queen, the true wife of the Pharaoh.

And she needed to be beautiful.

For in her veins flowed ordinary, common blood

As normal and unroyal citizens would have.

The most unlikely of her lot to ever dream this queenhood.

It placed her beauty as the one great bulwark and insurance

Of her life, that kept at bay the noble royal vultures

Who addressed themselves as Amenhotep’s concubines.

Queen Tiy looked out at royal gardens royally prepared

That met her royal gaze.

And then unseen also, but knowingly in place,

The lake.

The artificial lake,

Built and commissioned by her husband, just for her.

For her, his queen, his one and only queen.

And now she bore his heir.

His noble, royal heir.

He would be king, continuing Amenhotep’s line

(And Amenhotep’s name?)

And so perpetuating Egypt’s majesty

In this the Eighteenth Dynasty of this its vast eternal rule.

And he would rule as none before him,

Would this son of hers:

A ruler strong but tender.

And his vast intelligence would make him humble

And at one with all the ignorant of earth.

He would be conqueror,

But more of hearts than nations.

And the girls of beauty from this vast empire,

All the sensuous young excitement of the female wiles

The Black Land could produce

Would come before him,

Wishing him their own.

And thus she dreamed.

III

T he ‘Syrian Wilds’ they called this land she loved.

Not Syrian and not wild from where she stood.

She wished it wild.

She longed for craziness, uncivilized abandon

As she knew in times so long ago

When wild, his heart still young,

He thought as she:

Not father, and not husband either,

But a reckless lover taking her at nights

On green and pliant grass

That graced the open fields.

But he was serious now,

The aftermath of marriage (marriages: there had been two)

And children changing him in countenance and heart.

And Liah, with her cold and frigid and unlovable demeanor,

Popping children one by one like grape seeds from her womb,

Attempting futilely to gain his love.

But futile, hopeless, the attempt.

For she was Raqel, Yakov’s only love,

And not a thousand children from

As many wives could turn his heart from her.

No, not his heart, but then there was his head……..

For he was serious now, and thought of heirs,

Of birthrights to a strange mysterious thing she did not care to know.

And in that serious state, might he not look to one of Liah’s sons?

So it was joy that overlaid her overwhelming happiness

To feel this pregnant power kicking at her sides.

He would be Yaqov’s son as never son he had:

The first (and only?) child of love that he would know.

She lay supremely smug, the naked fields of grass beneath her back.

Here once her sharp, breath-taking and ecstatic cries reached

Out to moon and stars in earlier days of love.

But he was serious now. He had outgrown the fields

And did it like a husband’s duty in the claustrophobic

And unnatural tents that signified his wealth,

His stature in the eyes of neighbors, friends, and enemies.

But she would bear him such a son,

And seeing life so newly born and representing him,

He would be young again.

The stars would once more be enticing,

And the shepherd’s wild invigorating spirit

Would return to stir his soul and make him take her

In the fields of night.

And thus she dreamed.

IV

I t was the time of dreams.

From palaces and open fields,

The sense of dreamlike power,

Of control beyond the present time,

Pervaded all

(Except perhaps the thoughts of those most

Miserable and unfortunate who lived in servitude).

And they were queens

(Yes, Raqel even)

And they dreamed of princes they would bring

To change their worlds.

Their narrow worlds,

Parochial and so pitiful in smallness,

Were the limits of their dreams

That they believed so grand.

And like their dreams would they emerge,

Their sons.

But so unlike their dreams would they destroy the narrow

Chains that shaped the mental outlook of their time.

And they would tear down all that ever had been known,

And build up what had never been conceived.

So Saltaq could not dream,

Nor Tiy conceive, nor even Raqel see enough to contemplate

How these their sons would shake the world

And change the tides of time.

And be the unsung heroes of the Kamaran.

Chapter 2

I

H e was a god on earth, and Egypt knew him so.

They bowed their hearts and willingly their pliant

And obsequious knees complied.

They called him Amenhotep, and his father, Amenhotep,

Was the Pharaoh,

Meaning fourth in line would he be king

To bear that noble and illustrious name.

He stood in Khonsu’s temple while its priests, the high priest even, kneeled.

For he was god on earth, above the retinue of gods that Egypt worshipped,

And more powerful than they, more dreadful too.

For while the gods above were indirect and subtle in their punishment and wrath,

The gods on earth invariably moved swiftly and direct,

With long imprisonment and with harrowing, torturous death.

They sang their matins in the early evening,

And he silent stood his place.

And some there were that wondered at his silence,

If it harbored anger,

And if even then there might be those within these sacred precincts

Dead in Amenhotep’s mind.

They could not tell, for pensive as it was,

The young face showed nor smile nor frown,

Nor hint of what he thought, but merely that he thought.

He was a youth, of merely twenty years.

He was no athlete, from the look of him.

And something not quite manly was projected from his

Delicate and slender frame.

No father would be proud to call him son,

This frail-demeanored and effeminate excuse for man.

But Egypt looked to him as god on earth,

‘The true god Horus’

And the heir to all the wealth and power

This Black Land and its vast dominions held.

So fortunate indeed for Amenhotep that,

Of all on earth, was he the most important.

Else would he be nobody.

II

T here were pictures.

There were voices too:

Of artisans and artists, of the craftsmen.

And they idly chatted, idly walked in clumps

As homeward journeying they proceeded

From the hard day’s work.

And luxury too was theirs:

No burden of the head or heart as those

Who called themselves nobility must bear,

Responsible for life and all that happened in the empire.

And no poverty or deprivation as must sure

Attend the misery-racked existence of the peasantry.

But they were free, contented, knowledgeable,

And in things that few in Egypt knew but all in Egypt craved.

And so they walked care-free, and thus they chatted loftily

(And idly too), uncaring that they spoke of things

They could not fully know.

Mere alchemy can never win the battles Egypt fights.

Mere alchemy has brought him victory on the Nubian fields

And won him accolades of all within the realm.

What do you say?

But do you both not see:

You miss the point completely:

Clever is this prince (maybe as claimed, intelligent).

And with such wisdom may he long sustain himself

Upon his father’s throne when Amenhotep dies.

But what intelligence would make him keep

This Nubian in our land?

Be careful in your speaking, Memtep:

Khufu is a friend of Amenhotep.

Amenhotep is your future king.

Future king, you say. And you are right.

The future though, is vast: An unknown place.

Who sees what may transpire there?

Today I speak of grievances we know:

We were the victors,

And they lost before our overwhelming might.

Why then this Nubian walking through our streets

With haughty looks as though our king?

Memtep would prolong a war that,

Long since won,

Has paved the way for peace.

"Peace comes with friendship

And forgiveness for the grievance past".

I think he wields the sword to cut himself again,

So to renew this pain his foe inflicted,

And reviving thus the vindication he must feel to fight.

I say you all are fools

And cannot understand…….The Prince!

By heaven! Yes, The Prince!

A striking spectacle unfolded then:

The chatter quieted on every lip,

Each clutching heart and bowing head and knee,

Each reverent and each silent as the chariot and retinue

Of Amenhotep passed them on the street.

For he was god on earth.

III

B ut something here is very wrong, Prince Khufu told himself

And told himself again.

As he had done for many days,

For weeks, for months,

He pondered on the tragedy of, dark and sad, this mystery

That remained unsolved.

And it was not his vivid Nubian mind

Imagining beyond the real

(No, Tiy was wrong).

For he had heard the words himself,

And he had watched the slow development

Of evil sent to eat up all

That Egypt called nobility.

And it was evil rendered tragic,

For it came forth from his friend,

His best friend in the world,

From Amenhotep.

Approved.

And seven times, the prince of Egypt said: Approved.

It was the prince of Egypt who approved this:

It was done at his command.

Prince Khufu idly drifted to the fateful night when

Sad coincidences all converged

To lead him to this pain, this fear

He carried in his heart for Amenhotep…….

And it was late (and some would say no: Early):

But four hours till the sun would rise,

And he was listless, sleep a futile and

Unreachable desire.

He tumbled from his bed

And dressed himself, not knowing

Why a walk throughout this vast

And maze-like palace would be remedy,

But hoping that it would.

And walking, he surmised, might calm his mind:

Might ease the anguish that he felt for Redfu,

And for Saltaq, for Adopis,

For the things at home.

He saw himself a royal nomad,

Aimless and alone,

Turning down uncharted corridors in wild abandon,

Half aware that he would never find his way back

Through these conduits dimly lit by intermittent torches.

And he had had enough, he thought,

And sought a way retracing how he came,

And then he heard them: Voices from an unmarked room.

They came in hushed but solemn tones

And they proceeded from a room

So near his elbow, he could enter through its door.

But here there was no door.

He heard the voice distinct of Ahnseret,

The royal cousin of the