Red Moon Rising

An approaching chariot was easily distinguished from the regular camel trains which passed by and by. The dust plume with directional flow even suggested to him how fast it was travelling. At least he thought of that above a minimum speed, and where nominally such may not be said as so otherwise the results of some dust devil, or still yet that of the wind pure and free.

On his look out, a very modest cliffside for the Sinai peninsula, Mustapha had his eyes trained on the approach. If it was a royal carriage, he could expect trouble afoot, and he anticipated it now. Piped he arched up from abottom, and perched on tippy toes. That would certainly mean spoils, he thought more, and smirked to himself whilst uttering names of his ancestors, those rich with wealth from the south, from the dynasties of great Egypt. Rubbing the oils from the skin around his ear collecting under his turban, he replaced them upon his moustaches curls. His prayer was mixed in many tongues there poised, a mixture of blessings with curses.

Mustapha wasn’t the only spotter around Ras Shaitan, but the only this far south where armed scouts ventured out of the northern perimeters of Nuweiba. Word at home of ongoing military activities was always well rewarded, where the last Bedouin settlements usually had most to fear if retaliations were due from the Levant. It wasn’t unusual for troops belonging to Ramesses to mitigate suspected foreign loyalties at the northern frontier. Mustapha’s own father in fact was said to be of the Royal attaché, said as such by his mother who he loved dearly. He was loved by nations alike, they had said of him, those with his Allfather, those who told tales of their nomadic circles, and about those begotten not by those most dear, just under the holy mountains arising above and beyond the great green blue sea, where the sea was red by night and not yet golden all around.

The sight of the carriage train was bound and set when Mustapha promptly tied a red string around his quolls neck, severing its neck-rope at the same time. It shot off, knowing well it’s freedom from binding meant a great homecoming. By the time it had gotten back to the village and onto devouring a once fresh and succulent orange, the sign would be received and read no less as an impending threat. Moustapha hence set off on foot along the mountain's rear and so out of sight of the road spanning the edge of the Red Sea. It would be a much longer trip thereby but he could suffer the desert heat, he was bred for it. By the three knots on his pet's red tie, a month's supply of all things sweet was due to him as a spotter. That was indeed if his home at Ras Shaitan wasn’t abandoned by the morning.

Far to the south and east along the coast, and inland directly as the sun glides, beyond the trading port at Nuweiba, past the brilliant domes of Jabal Mousa; the priests there atop Serabit el-Khadim were the cause for this passing. The rumors and stirring of doubt was the antecedent, which Ramesses himself would seek to quell if he’d the breath to do it already. There received in coronation under the Lady of Turquoise, Hathor the embodied mother of all between the sky and the sea. That under the waters from dawn to dusk, and she the eternal patron of the humble, and dutiful; the last son of Ahmose, had said of the sunrise, a bloody and horrible deed becomes. Between slumber and waking, at the dawn of his morning atop the sacred mountain, on his last pilgrims voyage before dynasties were told as they were, great and majestic, he wrangled the demon from his mind, calling for a bastion of Ra to desist at once. In the circles outside of the temple, where stood stellae recounting each attaché, the intention and result in their communion with God atop the holy mount, his scribes uttered recourse for the appeal which they would no doubt interpret for inscription soon. A fear of what should pass over the elder, and kin of the God-king of Egypt, was to be the day set upon the new dynasty, and necessary to investigate henceforth. The chariots were to consider the influx at the most distant edge of the day, which had and would set no further than Ras Shaitan. By the nightfall there, they would recant the tribulation, and should any stirring of the night befall Hathor's grace; blood was the price. There indeed it would be sown anew for the sun's birth.

Mustapha would arrive home by midnight to find all calm and well, his stomach denying him any further tortuous wait amid the desert sands out and beyond. A fortunate turn of events indeed there lay yet, as the dozen chariots sat aloft, horses of the finest steed adorned still in golden dress, by soldiers near twice his size, rippling with muscles, and all there amid the most humble and meagre countenance to be called a civilization. His arrival didn’t cause a stir, of course as the troupe had all but eyes affixed on the fire of the hearths, on the food and wine they had purchased here, and the music and dance spun by the Bedouin. When the partial moon finally rose nearer the morning, and after the all-night vigil, it's rising was seen to be red. There in the last darkness, the priest sung of a dawn forgotten, and a new day before majesties where horrors fail to reside. It was the last humdrum for this scout that night, when all would be back to normal by the time he awoke.