''Am I complaining?'' Neith's laughter rattles her armaments. ''Of course not. I am flushed with power, unlike those pale shadows back there whom I have to spend most of my time with.''
The other three elder gods shuffle their feet and look ashamed. They are ghosts of their former selves, sallow and emaciated. It is hard to imagine them ever having received the adoration of humans, ever imbibing the blood of slaughtered beasts and glowing with the flames of the ritual pyres lit in their names. Their ba is all but non-existent. They linger feebly, clinging to the lees of their lives, with little to say for themselves and less to do.
And Ra feels a tiny pang, his second saddening of the day.
For, looking at these four, he knows that even gods may fade.
Even gods may die.
Now come his nephew and niece, Shu of the air and Tefnut of the rain, to pay their respects. Shu is an absent-minded sort. He would never remember to visit the barque if Tefnut did not drive him to do so.
These married siblings are joined by their children, Geb of the earth and Nut of the sky, also married.
All four of them, the First Family, make their obeisance to Ra. ''As the children and grandchildren of Atum,'' they say, ''from whose swirling chaos the universe was born, we salute you, O Sun God, Ruler of the Ennead.''
''Big Chief Blazing Shorts,'' adds coarse-mannered Geb. His sister-wife digs an elbow in his ribs.
Ra laughs off the jibe, but inwardly laments Geb's insolence.
Thus, bit by bit, is his morning's happiness whittled.
There are other visitors to the Solar Barque during the course of the day. Minor members of the pantheon, lesser gods, a few demons. Ra receives them all civilly, as a ruler must. They are offered hospitality — sweetmeats and wine. There is idle chat. These duties bore Ra and tire him, but he tries not to let it show.
Thoth, his vizier, his dear old friend, he is always glad to see. The two of them repair to the stern, where only Maat may overhear their conversation.
''Tell me something to lift my mood,'' Ra asks of Thoth.
''You are not dead, Ra,'' comes the reply. ''However dull and dim your life becomes, oblivion is worse. Never forget that.''
''Ha!'' Ra is almost amused. ''I feel a chill, though. Why is that?''
''We are nearing the river's end,'' says Thoth. ''The day is dwindling. Perhaps it is just the cool of the oncoming evening.''
''No. No, I think not. It is a chill inside. A prickling in my heart. A cold presentiment. I fear, Thoth. I fear for the future, and don't know why.''
Thoth beetles his hoary eyebrows. ''We are old, you and I, Ra. Time grows short for us. The future is a strange monster. The less there is of it, the more it frightens.''
''Is that all this is? An intimation of death?''
''Only you can know for certain, old friend.''
Thoth leaves Ra pondering.
Finally, late in the day, the squabbling siblings come. They are the inheritors, the ones to whom the earth was given whole and who have carved it up between them, parcelling it into separate dominions.
Osiris and Isis arrive hand in hand, giddy as newly-weds for all that they have been married for eons. Nephthys is with them, and only reluctantly leaves Isis's side to join Set. She much prefers the company of her sister to that of her brother-husband, who greets her coldly as she approaches and who places an arm around her shoulders much as a farmer might place a yoke on an ox's neck. Nephthys simpers in his embrace like a dutiful wife but in her eyes there is a yearning to be elsewhere.
Set and Nephthys's son, Anubis, puts in an appearance, scowling and brooding. Set nods to him. Anubis nods stiffly back, then moves off to stand at a distance from his parents, aloof, arms crossed. The Jackal-Headed One leads a solitary life. His dominion is death, and death is a lonely affair.
Following him comes his cousin and half-brother Horus, who winks at Ra with his one good eye, the left eye being covered by a patch. Horus has his four children in tow — Hapi, Imset, Duamutef and Kebechsenef — an unruly brood of godlings who scamper and brawl around the deck, paying little heed to their elders with whom they frequently and sometimes violently collide.
Set snaps at Horus, ''Can't you keep your damn offspring under control?''
Horus glares back at him. There's enough venom in his one eye to fill two. ''Want me to rip those balls of yours off again? I'll happily do it, you ginger freak. Come on.'' He clenches his hand at crotch height, gripping an imaginary pair of testicles. ''Just give me an excuse.''
''Try it and I'll gouge your other eye out,'' Set retorts.
''Loser.''
''Moron.''
''Liar.''
''Fool.''
None of them stays long. It's a courtesy call, a formality. Ra is the ancient relative they come to see once a day more out of duty than love. They stay a brief while, exchanging pleasantries, managing to mask the divisions between them. They seem ill at ease, however. Perhaps it is the effort of maintaining an illusion of cordiality.
Or perhaps, Ra thinks sombrely, they sense what I sense, that my days are numbered, and it troubles them. Or else, which is worse, it doesn't trouble them.
They are soon gone, at any rate. Only Set remains, and that is because he has the second of his daily tasks to fulfil.
Apophis rises once more. The giant serpent, now healed, explodes from the river, and as ever Set leaps to wrestle with it. As ever, he is victorious. Apophis dies again, and for a time the river is all froth and crimson tumult.
And so the voyage is over. The Solar Barque reaches the western gate of heaven and moors there. Ra is by now weighed down with cares. A gloom has well and truly descended on him. He has nothing to look forward to but a night in the netherworld, Mandet drifting along a black river through caverns of utter darkness, the air glacially still, and only Aker for company, a stoic, uncommunicative presence, peering intently ahead at all times, his golden eyes like lamps in a tomb. No sleep, no rest, just a period of deathlike isolation, to counterbalance the brightness and gregariousness of day.
Ra steps off Mesektet and onto Mandet, heavily.
Dusk, as always, brings sorrow.
6. Caravan
The camels spat and grumbled, and the children laughed harshly and thrashed them all the harder with their switches. In a long line the beasts of burden picked their way across the desert, with a straggle of goats bleating behind. Their young drivers showed them little mercy.
Occasionally, during a rest stop, one of the fouler-tempered camels might take its revenge and bite. The children seemed to find this funny too. The bitten boy — it was always a boy — would giggle, rub the spot where the camel had sunk its teeth in, then turn on the offending animal and thrash it soundly. It was as if pain, giving it and receiving it, was all a game to them.
The adults of the Bedouin goum were no less hardy. They thought nothing of sitting ten, twelve hours in the saddle, remaining perfectly upright despite the swaying, arrhythmic lurch of the camels' motion. Their faces were imperturbable, their skin as finely folded as parchment maps, their eyes full of distance. During travel only the men spoke, and when they did, which was not often, it was to bark an order at the children or make some dusty, sardonic comment to which only the other men were expected to respond.