As the holy son of a long line of holy fathers, the titular moral compass of his community, and the conduit by which his flock approached their divinity, Bib-useka maintained a sizeable mental library of useful axioms and platitudes.

“Unhappy is the river free of water” was a favorite, it being obvious enough to preclude argument, vague enough to accommodate virtually any crisis of faith or fact, and satisfying to the average Egyptian’s bedrock conviction that advice delivered up by way of the Nile, however inscrutable, had to be good. Another standby, “Ask not of Bibleb what you ask not of yourself”, was handy at deflecting aggrieved supplicants’ more unrealistic prayers, and a great time-saver. Of more practical bromides, none were more direct – or more profitable – than “Every journey begins at the Temple.” Few of Bibleb’s faithful would consider venturing much beyond His austere dominion without first making offering and obeisance at His sanctuary. All by itself that compact chestnut yielded about 60 percent of Bib-useka’s wherewithal, which is why he repeated it at every opportunity.

“Every journey begins at the temple,” he said, taking Djamose by the hand and leading him westward through the village.

Djamose was quite literally vibrating with excitement, anticipating his first journey into the greater nation of Egypt and unto the warm bosom of his undiscovered countrymen. It seemed to him a proud and very grown-up thing to be allowed to personally ask Bibleb to speed his feet and protect him on the road ahead, although he didn’t for a moment believe that such blessings and protections were necessary. He half-dragged his father through the winding lanes to Bibleb-Akhet’s western boundary where, between a disintegrating lump of mud-brick that was both home and exile to a young woman whose mind had become infested with violent spirits, and the town’s offal pit, began an ancient avenue leading straight and level into the Red Land.

The way was paved, although most of the paving stones had long since found other employment, and those that remained served more to impede progress than to facilitate it. Low, compact mounds composed of the broken pieces of baked-clay bricks marched beside the broad aisle at precise 22-foot intervals, 24 of them on either side stretching ahead across the desert. No resident of Bibleb-Akhet could remember seeing those sorry heaps in any better condition, and the last person who could speak authoritatively regarding their original form and function had apparently died before doing so.

The priest and his son picked their way along the once-stately boulevard to its end and stood together before a once-stately shrine, an imperfectly rectangular box about five feet high, and long enough and broad enough for three grown men to lie down within. That three grown men might attempt to do so was unlikely, since the sole access to the shrine was the ubiquitous “false door” of Egyptian invention, a purely cosmetic representation allowing passage only to gods, spirits and imaginative musings. The mud-brick upper structure squatted precariously atop the uneven remnants of neatly laid stone walls, hinting that the shrine had once afforded a somewhat grander aspect. The few and scattered vestiges of white plaster still clinging to the roof and walls could, at first introduction, be easily mistaken for a random application of bird dung. Nevertheless, that crumbling, sun-baked carbuncle upon the face of the desert was the divine and august abode of Bibleb, and that it contained wonders beyond mortal description Djamose had no doubt.

Releasing his son’s hand, Bib-useka stepped forward, un-slung the fish-grass bag he’d been carrying from about his neck and fell prostrate in front of the altar. In marked contrast to Bibleb’s unlovely shrine, Bibleb’s altar was a thing to be admired, a precious block of smoothly finished black granite standing waist high and at one time embellished at its top corners by four “horns” not typical of the Egyptian devotional aesthetic. That one of the horns and the corner upon which it had stood were no longer in evidence was not deemed by the Children of Bibleb to hamper the performance of the altar’s holy office, a sensible position considering that five generations of the town’s collective productivity couldn’t hope to replace it.

“Bibleb, I am your servant,” Bib-Useka intoned, effortlessly assuming the timbre and cadence reserved to the priestly classes. “Bibleb, your servant is before you.”

Without rising, he reached into the fish-grass bag on the ground beside him and withdrew a small quantity of bread and dried goat meat wrapped in coarse fish-grass fabric. Reaching up, he set the offering on the dusty altar and continued.

“The servant gives food to Bibleb. The servant gives strength to Bibleb.”

He motioned Djamose to join him at the altar. The boy moved forward, dropping to his knees and planting his forehead in the sand. A powerful thrill surged through him. Djamose had worshiped at Bibleb’s shrine many times before, but he’d never before been there alone with his father, had never before witnessed the personal communion between the god and his priest, and had certainly never before approached Bibleb as a direct petitioner. That he was fated to become Bibleb’s strong right hand he already knew, but his first taste of that heady reality set a thousand sistrums ringing within his head.

“Bibleb eats and grows strong,” chanted Bib-useka. “The gift of the servant is the strength of Bibleb. The strength of Bibleb is the joy of His servant. Life, health, strength to Bibleb.”

Face-down in the dirt before his god, Djamose felt his spirit rise like a falcon in flight, borne aloft on the mighty wings of a benevolent destiny. Bibleb was his god, and he was Bibleb’s servant, and their special bond transcended all ages of that ageless land.

“Now it’s your turn,” whispered his father, without raising or turning his head.

Djamose fell to earth, instantly and hard.

“What?” he hissed.

“It’s your turn,” said Bib-useka, kindly, but insistently. “Give something to Bibleb.”

The boy’s hot rapture turned to cold horror. He had nothing to give. Why, he screamed in his head, didn’t I bring something? That he hadn’t the first idea what might constitute a suitable temple gift didn’t even occur to him. What he knew for certain was that his first semi-private audience with Bibleb was ending in disaster before it had a proper chance to start. His triumph was plummeting in ruin, his euphoria choked by ashes, his divine bond smashed to splinters.

“Go ahead,” coaxed Bib-useka, gently. “Make an offering.

Utterly paralyzed, it required Djamose several moments and all of his five-year-old will to speak.

“I don’t have anything,” he breathed, his eyes wide with alarm and still staring straight at the ground. “I didn’t bring anything.”

His father knew that, of course. It was as he’d intended.

“Hmmm…”, murmured Bib-useka, turning his head slightly and knitting his brow in concern. “Bibleb must have a gift. I don’t know how we can leave for Ta’ Sobek without Bibleb’s blessing, and I don’t know how we can get Bibleb’s blessing without an offering. Nobody comes to the temple without an offering, Djamose. Nobody. This is bad, son. Very bad.”

Djamose’s unhappiness couldn’t have been more complete if Sobek himself had stormed up the ruinous avenue, ripped both of his arms from his body and ate them while he watched. He was going to cry, and he knew it. Bawl and blubber right in front of Bibleb and in front of his father and such a weak and impious worm as he could never be appointed the great god’s earthly instrument. He was just summoning up the wind necessary to express his abject misery in long and full-throated wails when his father clucked and raised a single finger.

“I have an idea.”