Table of the Sun

By Bill Liggins

Finding ancient Egyptian scrolls is a dream for many archaeologists and historians. But none of them would think of looking for them in Kenya.

Thirty years ago, that’s what happened. Nineteen ancient Egyptian scrolls were discovered on the slopes of Mt. Kenya.

Why were they there? They were three thousand miles out of place. Who brought them there? The archaeologists who found them had no answers.

It took Dr. Mira Qasim and her team to finally decipher the scrolls and find the answers.

“These scrolls weren’t Egyptian,” she said. “They’re actually Nubian – from about 2,700 years ago, the time of Egypt’s 25th Dynasty when Nubia was a far larger empire than we knew.”

Dr. Qasim’s findings had opened a window on a legendary land with a name that still resonates today as a term of endearment and empowerment; a recognition of courage and poise – Nubia.

“What I found was Nubia’s story as told by an orphan child named Kano,” Dr. Kasim said. “He found his way to the core of Nubia, and grew to become an essential part of its rise to empire. I can’t wait to share Kano’s story with you.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532070181

Bill Liggins

BILL LIGGINS is a graduate of Cleveland State University with degrees in Geology and Communications. He is an award-winning writer with five other novels on the market: TABLE OF THE SUN, I NEED; I WANT, UNDYING LOVE, NOVA CHASERS, and WARNING. He is a native of Cleveland, Ohio, and a current resident of Tampa, Florida, with his wife. He was also a TV sportscaster, actor, and a documentary film producer with two regional EMMY nominations, two national CableACE awards, and two Associated Press Awards to his credit.

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TABLE

OF THE

SUN

BILL LIGGINS

30592.png

TABLE OF THE SUN

Copyright © 2019 Bill Liggins.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7019-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7018-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019902418

iUniverse rev. date:   03/07/2019

CONTENTS

ANCIENT KENYAN SCROLLS DECIPHERED

Part 1 Of 6

Scroll 1

Scroll 2

Scroll 3

Part 2 Of 6

Scroll 4

Scroll 5

Scroll 6

Part 3 Of 6

Scroll 7

Scroll 8

Scroll 9

Part 4 Of 6

Scroll 10

Scroll 11

Scroll 12

Part 5 Of 6

Scroll 13

Scroll 14

Scroll 15

Part 6 Of 6

Scroll 16

Scroll 17

Scroll 18

Scroll 19

Epilog

New Antiquities Magazine (July Issue)

ANCIENT KENYAN SCROLLS DECIPHERED

Part 1 of 6

Istanbul – An astonishing window to the past was opened last week at the World Institute of Ancient Studies’ annual conference.

Five hundred of the world’s leading historians and archaeologists gathered for five days of presentations, the highlight of which was the appearance of a group of scientists who have completed years of research on nineteen ancient Egyptian scrolls found not in Egypt, but three-thousand miles south in ruins near Mt. Kenya.

Until now, we couldn’t reconcile how Egyptian influence reached that far south in Africa, said Professor Mira Qasim, the leader of the international team of fifteen archaeologists working on the scrolls. We now have an answer. Nubia.

Dr. Qasim and her team concluded the scrolls were produced during Egypt’s 25th Dynasty, a period of turmoil during which the Kushite Kingdom of Nubia, an ancient culture in what is now Sudan, conquered its massive northern neighbor.

What we have here is a first-person account of that event by a commander of the Nubian army, Dr. Qasim added. His name was Kano, Father of Nations.

Dr. Qasim found it difficult to maintain her dispassionate scientific perspective as the scrolls revealed their story to her.

I’m Sudanese by birth. He may have been one of my ancestors, who knows. So, how can I contain my joy?

Dr. Qasim is not what you would expect for one of the world’s leading archaeologists. First, as a woman in this profession of digging in the dirt, she is still a rarity. Second, she is Sudanese, a person of color who is an elegant representative of a nation trying to pull itself out of the turmoil of the last two decades. In another place or time, she could have been a model, her looks defying her 43 years of life.

Finally, her sense of humor. She came to our meeting in a business dress suit, wearing an Indiana Jones fedora.

When I gave a lecture at the University of Indiana two years ago, the students gave it to me. You like it? It is an indispensable part of my field pack now.

Some of that humor and joy had shown forth during the presentation of her team’s findings at the conference. Her voice thickened several times during her speech.

I’m sorry. I just get emotional when we clear up one of the blank spaces in Africa’s cultural heritage. And this one was so meaningful to me. Nubia, an empire that lasted a thousand years, and here’s an account on how it formed.

Her team’s findings will be intensely reviewed for years by the rest of the world’s scholars in ancient studies. But, for now, these scrolls present the deepest insight into the birth of an ancient African superpower, Nubia.

In the next six issues of New Antiquities Magazine we will be presenting the nineteen Mt. Kenya scrolls, as interpreted by Dr. Qasim and her team, from the earliest (approx. 750 BCE) to the latest (approx. 670 BCE).

And now, here’s part one of the Mt. Kenya Scrolls Deciphered.

Scroll 1

Praises all to Nin Gai, god of my ancestors, god of the woman and man who gave me life. Praises all to Amon Ra, god of my children and of my land — the god who presided over my salvation. I stand before them, and all the gods, as an old man awaiting their final gift.

I have lived long. I have lived well. I now serve as my scribe.

To my children, I leave them with life and this chronology of my existence.

The land of my origin was on the slopes of the mountain Kirin Yaga. This land was beyond the domain of the Bloodeaters, and far beyond the southern frontiers of glorious Nubia.

My father was Hasani. My mother was Neema. Through the night, and into the next morning after my birth, my father held me awaiting a sign of my future. By the blessing of the mountain’s spirit, a falcon dove to the ground snaring a mouse with its talons. Thus, he called me Kano, meaning swift falcon. My mother never had another child.

I did not remember much of my time in my father’s village except for herding goats. My father’s herd was not the biggest, but he was an important man.

When I was able to walk, my father took me with him onto the slopes of Kirin Yaga with our herd. The chilly breezes from its summit caused waves on the grass and molded the few trees into contorted postures.

My father told me stories about those trees being people who had sinned against the spirit of the mountain, who would then be punished by having their feet frozen to the ground so hidden plants would have time to grow around them. Eventually, tangled masses of bark engulfed their bodies, keeping them forever frozen as warnings to the rest of us.

As I grew older, I walked with my father to the mountain pastures tending our goats and listening to his stories. To be a goat herder like my father seemed my only destiny. My family, my clan, our herd, and the mountain made up my entire world. Nothing more existed. All was peace and security on the slopes of Kirin Yaga until the ninth month of the sixth year of my life when my world was destroyed.

While we slept in our hut, the Bloodeaters from the valleys below raided our village. We were awakened by the panicked screams of our people. The Bloodeaters were burning our dwellings. My father grabbed his spear. For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. As he rushed out of our hut, he shouted to my mother, Take Kano! Run to the rising sun!

My mother swept me up in her arms and ran out into the turmoil.

The Bloodeaters were swift in their savagery. They attacked anyone whose face was not covered in red pigment and surrounded by feathers like theirs. Their spears, with polished stone tips, tore through flesh like none of our weapons. We had little to defend ourselves. The Bloodeaters not only burned our huts, but also drove our animals into the darkness.

The smoke from our burning huts did not rise to the sky. It instead rolled over the bloody bodies of my people. The screams of the dying were swallowed by the thick smoky fog. In the rampage, the surviving women were raped, the surviving children stolen.

Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she ran. I remembered her fearful sobs as I held on to her neck. She stopped suddenly, her sobs becoming suffocating gasps. I looked at my mother’s bosom. A stone spear had broken through her left breast from the rear. We both fell to the ground. I did not understand. I stood there sucking my fingers while my mother struggled with her pain. I saw a group of Bloodeaters rapidly approaching through the fog. With her fading strength my mother lifted her head and pointed. RUN KANO! GO NOOOOWWW! — THAT WAY!

I ran toward the red glow of the dawn, but my flight was shortened by the impact of a sling-thrown stone to the back of my head. I fell into a gully and descended into unconsciousness.

I did not know how long I was asleep, but the sun was high, and I was in the shade of an enormous bird’s expanded wings. The gods had mercy on me. They had sent this guardian to protect me from the heat of the day, and to ward off scavenger beasts. I startled the great bird when I sat-up, and it took wing for the mountain’s jagged summit. My head hummed with pain, but the bleeding had stopped. It was like a dream, but I still smelled and saw the smoke.

I struggled against sliding soil, climbing out of the gully. I had to get back home to find out what happened to my parents. When I reached the edge of the gully, I saw the carnage was not a dream. The village of my clan was reduced to blackened earth. Few wooden hut frames remained. The bodies of my people were gone. I could only stand in the middle of the ruins sucking my fingers.

MA-MA! MA-MAAA, I called. PA-PA! PA-PAAA! The only response was the whistling of the cool mountain breeze.

The sun baked the land during the day, and the night’s chill was worse than death’s touch. I was hungry, thirsty, and had nowhere to go. So, I stayed around a nearby creek where I ate berries and drank water during the day. At night, I slept in clusters of bushes trying to stay warm. Each day I felt a little weaker. I was slowly dying.

On the seventh day after the massacre, the Bloodeaters returned to my village. There were seven of them, some carrying poles with the carcasses of beasts tied to them.

I tried staying hidden in the bushes. Through the branches, I watched them moving through the ruins, searching for any valuables. Like the night raiders of my village, red pigment covered their faces. Each had a column of feathers draping down in front of their ears. Their words were not understandable to me, and their smiles made them seem not the vicious savages that made my people disappear.

During my silent observation, I did not notice a small bird landing on a branch of my bush. The bird did not take notice of me either, until I raised my hand to scratch my ear. The frightened bird flew away with startled screams, catching the attention of the Bloodeaters. All of them turned toward my hiding place.

I remained still in the bush as they raised their spears and slowly advanced toward me. In their native tongue, a couple of them called out nervously toward me. Believing the disturbance was caused by an animal, the others jumped forward and stomped their feet hoping to scare it free. I did not move a muscle or even blinked, but they continued advancing closer, their voices becoming whispers. They paused only twenty paces from my spot. Three of them started turning back toward the ruins, but one stepped forward and stared with unblinking eyes at my spot. He tilted his head to the side and bent low, then suddenly screamed, pointing his spear at my bush.

I broke free of my hiding place like a frightened mouse and ran toward a creek. I tried crossing it, but the slippery rocks slowed me. Their screams behind me drove me forward as quickly as I could, but I slipped on the rocks and fell into the water. I looked back and saw them pointing and screaming at me. I began crying as I emerged on the other bank but continued running believing I could get away. Three Bloodeaters had cut-off my escape. I fell backwards to the ground. The Bloodeaters taunted me with their spears. Their maniacal smiles and red faces terrified me beyond sanity.

I scrambled to my feet but found myself surrounded. All of them gathered around me, their spears poised for a final painful thrust. I screamed for the help of death and curled up on the ground ready to die. But I did not die, and the Bloodeaters would not kill me.

When I stopped screaming, one of the Bloodeaters lifted me, bringing me close to his hideous red face. Ornaments made from bone and ivory dangled from his ears and nose. A big smile crossed his face as he shook me. His exhalations smelled of rotting flesh.

He carried me back to the other side of the creek and tied me to a long pole like the carcasses of their animals. I was too exhausted to feel any pain and fell into a merciful sleep thanks to the rocking of the pole.

The journey was long. I felt the air growing hotter and thicker as we descended the mountain foothills. The Bloodeaters chanted the cadence of their steps, their songs silencing all other life. I allowed my head to fall back and saw Kirin Yaga growing smaller. My hopes of ever seeing our mountain again were gone.

During the nights, I remained tied to the pole, which was anchored firmly to a tree by my guards. I was too weak to break my bonds. A Bloodeater offered me bowls of dried meat and fresh milk, but I did not eat or drink. The Bloodeater who presented the food to me became frustrated by my refusals. At each meal, he threw the milk in my face while screaming at me.

On the fifth day of my captivity, we reached a hunting outpost on the edge of Bloodeater territory. In the muted heat of the evening sun, thirty Bloodeaters rejoiced in their successful hunting trips. Their drums beats were ceaseless as they danced in their feathered headdresses around a great fire. It was during that celebration I witnessed the reason they were called the Bloodeaters.

Through my half open eyes, I watched two large Bloodeaters lead a cow to the center of the outpost. While one held its head, the other tied a leather strap around its neck. Their chanting and drums grew more frantic with every turn of that strap. The cow struggled in its breathing because of a bulge growing in its neck. A short Bloodeater with a small spear approached the cow. He held the point of the spear only inches away from the bulge on the cow’s neck and, with a gentle flick of his wrist, bounced it off the skin. A thin, crimson fountain arched toward the ground. A young Bloodeater ran up to the stream with a deep gourd half filled with milk. He poured some of the milk on the ground, then filled the gourd with blood. When the vessel was full, they loosened the strap from the cow’s neck and the blood flow stopped. They then passed around the gourd with its mixture of blood and milk, each drinking from it, each screaming with joy when finished. I fell asleep believing that cow’s fate was mine.

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A spear jab awakened me late the next morning. Two Bloodeaters stood over me. One poured a gourd filled with water on me. The other began untying me from the pole. I was weak and could not walk, so the two Bloodeaters dragged me toward the center of camp. Remembering what happened to the cow, I suddenly found strength enough to resist. I kicked. I bit. But their holds were unbreakable. My screams were met with laughter and taunts from the others.

They threw me to my knees, and one used the shaft of a spear to lift my chin. Through my tears, I saw a man approaching me who was much different from the Bloodeaters. He had a thick beard and wore white fabric from his shoulders to his feet. He also wore a turban made of the same fabric. He looked at the Bloodeaters holding me to the ground and nodded. With a smile on his face, he spoke in their tongue. The Bloodeaters responded with laughter.

The strange man bent low and grabbed my chin. He turned my face from side to side, then forced open my lips. To my shock, I understood his words.

You are a mountain boy, are you not? he asked.

I did not answer, but I think he knew I understood him. The strange man walked away with two of the Bloodeaters. They gestured at one another as if they were bartering.

A little later, while I was still being held on my knees by the guards, another strange man with no hair on his head and red fabric draping his body, approached me.

You need water. He offerd his waterskin. Drink.

I still did not respond.

Drink! he commanded.

I only looked at him.

The man pointed at the Bloodeaters holding me. Open his mouth.

With their filthy hands, they forced my lips apart. The man poured water in my mouth and though I tried, I could not resist the cool silky fluid streaming down my throat.

That is good for you, boy, the man said. You are fine now.

Later, they tied me to a camel’s back. The bald man mounted the same camel and kept me balanced as we left the Bloodeaters’ camp. We followed the man with the white turban through a sparse forest. When we emerged from it, we were in an encampment of dozens of turban-wearing men, their bald servants, and countless animals. We dismounted our camels for a stay of two days. My hands remained bound, and the bald man who gave me water became my overseer.

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On the second night, the bald man freed my hands. He stooped low and offered his hand to me. I reached for it and he grabbed my wrist, snatching me forward.

If you want to live, do exactly what I say. You are now the property of Clilem of Yawlu. I am Beno, his chief servant. That means, I am in charge of you. The decision on whether you live or die, is with me. Do not ever disobey me, boy. Beno released my arm and walked toward a small fire. He stood over it and turned toward me. Come here.

I hesitated briefly, then walked slowly toward him. Sit.

I sat near the fire. There were two sticks with pieces of meat on them.

Eat.

I only looked at him.

Beno’s eyes narrowed with anger. EAT!

I slowly pulled a burnt stick out of the fire. The meat was scorched, but I cautiously took a bite. It crunched in my mouth, but the inside still held juices.

Good. Beno pulled the other stick out of the fire. You will find me to be very easy to get along with if you obey me. Beno tore a small piece of meat from the stick and consumed it. Now, do you have a name or must our master name you?

Kano, I said while swallowing a piece of the burnt meat.

Kano? Well, that will do. Clilem is merciful to those who serve him. He allows us our given names. Our master is a great spice merchant who travels to many lands. We are going to the village of Yawlu in the north. We will have many months there for me to train you. Work well, Kano, and we will take many journeys together. You will have honor among slaves. Work poorly, and Clilem will remove your manhood and keep you working with the women.

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Our journey continued for more days than I could count. The spice filled bags draping the beasts calmed the sting of sun’s heat with pleasant aromas.

Our caravan traveled through a land set deep into the earth with mountains low and barren. Their scarred tops had vast chasms, and clouds rose from some of them. Endless grass prairies between the mountains held herds of buffalo that stirred up dust clouds, and countless elephants fanning their ears as warnings to stay away from them. My eyes had never seen such a land. It was as if I could see the whole world at once.

We had to take in water, but our beasts remained fit until we reached a sea with water the color of jade. While there, our beasts refreshed themselves while we replenished our food and water supplies.

We then traveled along its shore until the great sea became filled with floating mats of vegetation. When the sea disappeared completely, we turned toward the rising sun, and a land with yellow mesas and sparse forests of short trees.

This is Outer Kush, your new land, Beno said. It is so good to see it again.

Scroll 2

Time had no meaning. Each day was as the flat-top mountains of this land, unchanging. Yawlu was my new home, my life a new toil. Beno was the only one who cared for me, training me well to be of service to Master Clilem and his clan. I listened well to his every instruction, only being struck by his stick five times.

At first, I worked a stone mill driving oxen in endless circles, the stone wheel crushing grain into piles of powder. I then worked the grain fields during the plantings and harvests. By the sixth month of my seventh year of life, Beno was even teaching me the language of the overlords of Kush, the Nubians. As we worked together on our endless chores, he sang Nubian questions, and I answered in song.

Tell me of the land — land closest to the clouds?

Mountains, Beno, are closest to the clouds.

Tell me of the water — water that bends like a snake?

Rivers, Beno, have bends like a snake.

Tell me of the air — air that can talk?

Wind, Beno, is air that can talk.

I learned so fast that Beno granted me the honor of traveling with him and Master Clilem on their constant journeys. I served as Beno’s porter, and he continued teaching me.

We traveled in caravans of up to forty merchants for endless months. It was our job to tend Clilem’s tent and guard his supply of spices. Clilem rarely spoke to us except to direct us in our daily chores.

Beno sang ancient songs of travel as I rode with him on an ox cart. When he did not sing, he told me stories as a father would a son. He told me about the many lands he had seen, stories so fantastic that I would not understand them until I saw these lands myself.

It was in the eighth year of my life when I first traveled to a city that Beno said was the capital of a mystical land. He told me many times about it during our previous journeys. His eyes always had a