Bakar and Akil’s reunion, which should have been joyous, was instead marked only by the flat, deadened clink of the chisel carving into the stone sarcophagus.
It was a familiar welcome for Bakar. This was only the latest of his many descents into the cave’s depths, and by now he no longer needed a torch to light his way. He knew the path. It never changed. And neither did what he found at the cavern’s deepest point.
It was there that Akil sat on his stool, where he always sat, and was quiet and distant, as he always was. His body was proof of the burden on his spirit. His once-tan skin was now pale in the darkness, after so long beyond the reach of the sun. His clothes, gnawed away, were now little more than rags hanging loosely over his thinning frame. And his eyes were hidden beneath a messy, unrestrained head of hair, which had grown without caution or direction, like a panic in a crowded room.
Bakar did not need to see his friend’s eyes to know the emptiness he would find there. Every time he came it only unnerved him more, the way Akil would chip away at the sarcophagus before him, playing that monotone melody of clink, clink, clink, while sitting so still he could almost have been mistaken for a carving himself.
But Bakar had not given up yet. Gathering his courage, he stepped across the threshold into the dim and lonesome cavern. Covered in dirt and sweat as a result of the journey down—which never grew easier, despite his growing familiarity with the trip—Bakar wiped his brow. The sword at his side swung in its scabbard, having kept him company in cases when he needed to protect himself… or others, if it came to that. Several pouches rested lightly along his belt. And a heavy pack sat on his back. He carried a traveler’s load. But Bakar had finally made it here once again, and so he set down the heavy pack he carried. Perhaps it was not just the journey that tired him so much.
“I’m back, Akil,” Bakar said, with a voice struggling to stay somewhere between cheerful and casual. He leaned against the heavy cloth pack.
Without moving his eyes from the intricate stonework before him, Akil paused before greeting his friend. His mouth opened slowly, like a heavy gate. His voice was raspy, worn by disuse, like a mountain of stone groaning under some great strain. “What have you brought this time?” he asked, his hands unfaltering as he continued to carve.
In the punctuated silence, Bakar pulled his waterskin up to his lips and drank deeply from it. Having quenched his thirst he stepped closer, dragging the sack along with him, until he stood right in front of the sarcophagus and across from Akil. He set the waterskin atop the stone coffin. “Some water, if you’ll drink it.” Bakar waited for an answer.
But none came. Akil remained focused on his meticulous work along the sides of the sarcophagus, the rhythmic sound of the chisel filling the silence. Bakar glanced at the dimly-lit surface. The hieroglyphs had already extended all the way around, the last time he came. Now, they had grown more intricate, like fractal patterns filling the spaces between other carvings. Once, Bakar had hoped Akil might someday simply finish the sarcophagus and be done with this madness. But now he was not so sure. And each time he left, the next trip back seemed to take even longer, as though the chasm in which Akil had secluded himself was sinking deeper into the dirt and rock. Farther from the laughter they had shared. The dreams under starlit nights. Open skies, almost unimaginable from this stone abyss.
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come back,” Bakar said. “You were never an easy person to get gifts for, and now….”
Clink. Clink. Clink. The silence did not hang in the air for long; Akil’s hammer and chisel continued their eerie song.
Clearing his throat, Bakar opened the cloth sack and reached into it.
“I have more letters for you,” he said. He did not mention how few there were now. He had long ago stopped trying to convince others to make the journey down with him. But now he could not even convince them to write. Most of them. “Layla has written to you again. She misses you.” But this did not move Akil.
“Your parents, too,” Bakar continued. “Your mother and father are getting old. They still pray for you, that Isis may help you.”
Clink. Clink. Clink.
“I’ll put them with the others,” Bakar said, voice a little quieter. On the side of the room there rested a small hoard of simple treasures stained with dust. There was a pile of letters, to which Bakar added the most recent contributions. Next to the letters, there were other gifts that had piled up over the years. Bakar had carried more and more of them down here on his own, on behalf of the friends the two had once shared.
There were clothes among these gifts. Though they remained neatly folded atop a cloth, the dust had now dyed them all gray and brown, a far cry from their once-vibrant hues. Bakar drew new garments from his pack and exchanged it for the stone-colored, untouched set. As far as Bakar could tell, Akil still wore the same clothes he had worn when he first came down here. Now they were little more than rags. Bakar thought it likely that they would simply slide right off Akil’s body and turn to dust if he ever did move. He hadn’t yet, though. So that theory remained untested.
Bakar decided, next, not to reach into the large sack he had carried down; instead, he eagerly reached for a small pouch tied to his waist. As he drew open its drawstring, a beautiful and delicious smell slowly began to permeate the cavern. That delicate and mild fragrance crept along the hanging air, usurping the dry and earthen stillness of those dusty depths.
It was a loaf of bread. But not just any loaf. “I finally figured out my mother’s recipe, Akil,” Bakar said, a hint of mischief playing about his face and voice, now. He placed the uncovered loaf atop the stone coffin, leaving its aroma free to gently find its way to Akil’s nose. “You remember her date loaf, right?”
Akil did remember. Soft and moist. Mashed dates, sweetened with honey, enriched with butter. Mixed with goat’s milk and coconut. “I think I got the shape perfect, too,” Bakar said. Akil’s eyes flicked upward, even his inhuman focus momentarily helpless in the face of his curiosity. Bakar saw this and grinned. In all his time coming here, he had only rarely managed to get Akil to look away from the sarcophagus, even if only for a moment. When Bakar’s mother made date loaves she always shaped them like crocodiles. Bakar’s loaf… could have been a crocodile. If that crocodile had been trampled by a crashing boulder. “Not bad, right?” Bakar grinned at his friend.
“I’m not hungry,” Akil said, eyes already back to his work. Even in the face of this distraction, his hands had not stopped working.
Bakar’s expression fell, though hints of his grin still lingered. “No, of course not. Why would you be?” He grabbed the loaf and tore off a piece, holding it up to his nose to smell, proud. “Clearly you must be full, what with all the feasting you do down here.” His voice was a little harder now.
Bakar raised the piece of bread he had torn off to his mouth and savored it, doing his best to taunt his friend with bread that was, admittedly, nowhere near as good as what his mother used to make. But Akil did not even seem to register the taunting. Bakar had hoped that his friend’s body, at least, would respond to the smell, but it did not protest. Akil’s body was far too weak, now. The pained cries of his stomach were long dormant, as defeated as the man himself, cold ashes in an abandoned hearth. “You used to love these,” said Bakar.
Akil remembered that, too. He still recalled the memories, but when he reached for the feelings he thought should accompany them, he found they only fled further away. He recalled feeling warmth and joy, but could not conjure up the true contours of the actual emotions. And, deep down somewhere, he only felt worse, knowing that he had once felt better.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Bakar, too, was starting to feel defeated. But he still had one last temptation to offer his friend, in the hopes of sparking the soul of this man he recognized less and less with each visit.
“I traveled to Memphis,” Bakar said, as he rifled through the sack. And indeed he had, making the long journey to the capital. “I visited the great temple of Ptah and waited there for many days to meet his artisans.” The god of craftsmen, Ptah held an esteemed place across Egypt, but in Memphis especially. There was no craftsman who did not celebrate Ptah as their patron, for he bestowed the talented with the gift of inspiration, and answered the prayers of those who called to him in advance of their work.
“I brought them the sculptures you had made before you came down here…” Bakar said, smiling at something unseen in the depths of his bag. “Do you remember the boat? You spent so long on it. Refining every detail. Every wooden board and crew member. Even the oars. You said you were trying to evoke the wear and tear in the oars. It drove me crazy how consumed you were by it all. You wouldn’t shut up about it. And even when I did manage to get you to talk about something else, every time our conversation lapsed, you’d go right back to talking about some idea you had for it.”
It was obvious, to both of them, that Akil’s work on the sarcophagus possessed the same spirit as that distant-seeming woodwork, albeit a more grim and silent one. In this cave, there was none of the enthusiasm Bakar remembered. He stood, pulling a roll of papyrus from the bag.
“I couldn’t see it at first. But when you finished it, there was no denying you had made something great.” Bakar extended the roll towards Akil. “The craftsmen in Memphis agreed. I brought it with me. To show them your skill.” Bakar continued, with greater emphasis. “This is a letter inviting you to join them. Welcoming you as an apprentice. In Memphis, Akil. In Ptah’s temple.”
Akil heard his friend. Surely such a gesture would move his heart… but there was no escaping the gray mire that drowned his spirit. He was, somehow, unmoved. His lips parted just far enough to let his raspy voice spill forth once more. “It’s too late…” he said, sorrow audible through the worn and weighty sound of his voice.
Stunned, Bakar couldn’t help but raise his voice, feelings overflowing the dam of patience he had built so high. “Too late?! Too late for what?! “ Akil did not answer. “You wanted this! I refuse to believe you don’t remember how often you used to speak of Memphis. That we would travel there together someday. We still can! The great craftsmen were impressed by your work, Akil! You have a future there!”
Bakar’s voice resounded through the cave, temporarily drowning out the clinks of the chisel. Were Akil’s muscles not so brittle that they lacked the strength for all but the slightest of moments… perhaps, in that moment, he might have flinched.
When Akil did not answer, Bakar continued. “Too late,” he scoffed. “If anything, it’s too soon. To lock yourself down here! You were—no, you are,” he corrected, “—so talented!” Bakar motioned at the sarcophagus between them. “Even now this compulsion—this curse or obsession or whatever—is unmistakably brilliant.”
Bakar was pleading now. His hand balled into a fist, creasing the papyrus. He suddenly reached within the bag and pulled out a large stone stele. Carved upon it were the naive ambitions of a young man who did not know the air he wished to soar through from the ground he walked. Akil’s ambitions. The proud, arrogant declaration of a man who had yet to forget how to dream the world.
“Do you remember this, brother?” Bakar demanded, “Because I do. I remember how much you meant every word you dreamed. How your voice was weighted with so much passion that we couldn’t help but believe it, too. Do you remember?”
Akil remembered. But all he could see when he looked upon the stele was his reflection. The portrait of a foolish soul. And an ignorant one, too. The act of someone who knew the warmth of passion but had not yet felt the chill of hopelessness that was now his home.
In the moment his concentration faltered, Akil’s next mark upon the stone cut deeper than he had intended. How fitting, he thought, to fail even in this, which he had once thought to dedicate his life to.
Still waiting for an answer from his friend, Bakar pleaded. “What are you running from, Akil? Tell me. Please. I only wish to help you.”
“I know…” Akil said.
“Then just tell me what I can do,” Bakar begged of his friend, desperate for a curse to break, a treasure to find, or something—anything—that would allow him to relieve whatever burden it was that weighed Akil down. There had to be something. If only Akil would tell him.
But again, no answer came. Bakar stood there, disappointed and stunned as his friend seemed to shrink before his very eyes, pulling further away than he had ever been. His gaze was vacant as he stared at the coffin and continued his carving. The clink, clink, clink of the stone and the chisel were monstrously callous and unfeeling.
Bakar’s eyes fell. He smoothed the papyrus out and returned it to his bag. He took a moment to pull in a breath and then release it, reaching for calm.
“I am so sorry, my friend,” he said, unable to meet Akil’s eyes. “I have brought you everything I could imagine. Seven times I have come here and each time I have left without you. Returning with new ideas, stubborn hope, and fewer friends to join me.”
Bakar took another deep breath and steadied himself, confronting his failure. “I don’t know what else to do.” Eyes now wet with the tears that had begun to form, Bakar looked back upon his long-lost friend with the mournful resolve of a man with no other choice. And from the scabbard that hung at his side, Bakar drew his sword.
The sound of the blade drew Akil’s attention, his eyes darting up once more, but this time to meet Bakar’s. Where there should have been alarm, Akil’s face was as placid as ever. But now Bakar let its stillness stoke his ire, though it made it no easier to threaten his friend. “I will not let you stay down here like this,” he said, hand clenched tight on the leather grip.
“You’d really go that far?” Akil asked.
“I would. I am,” Bakar answered, resolute.
Akil thought he should be touched by the gesture. But all he could think was that he did not deserve a friend such as this. He did not know how long he had been down here. He had forgotten. But he knew Bakar had come many times. He was sure some part of his old friend must resent him by now. Probably more with each visit, for all of his time that Akil had wasted. His hands kept working, though. “Drag me away and I will return here when you sleep,” Akil said.
“Then I will keep vigil every night.”
Eyes returning to his carving, Akil’s face remained weirdly calm. “You cannot keep your guard up forever.”
Teeth clenched and knuckles white, Bakar’s desperation urged him forward. He had never wanted to raise his hand against Akil, when they had always fought side by side. Had it really come to this? Closing his eyes to try to hold back the tears that he knew were coming, Bakar raised his sword…
…And tossed it aside. The anger that had reared its head could not match his sadness. His strength had fled along with his temper. They left behind a sort of solemn remorse, clear on Bakar’s face, his eyes almost pleading for Akil to stand and come with him.
But only Akil’s hands moved, unceasing. If anything, Bakar’s forfeiture only seemed to entrench Akil’s body more deeply. He remained on his stool, still slowly carving at the stone. Eventually, Bakar broke eye contact, and Akil returned his full attention to his carving.
Weighed down by his failure, Bakar sheathed his blade and gathered up his bag, idly shuffling around the supplies that remained within it to see him through the journey down and back. He knew that, in leaving, he would probably never see his friend again. That he would be lost forever. Could there be a more painful notion? Was that really what Akil wanted?
Hearing his friend readying to depart, Akil spoke up, eyes not leaving his work. “Goodbye, Bakar.”
No answer came from his friend. But Akil did not mind. He had never expected one. Instead his words were only met by shuffling and footsteps as Bakar lifted his pack and began to walk across the stone floor of the cavern. But Akil let the sound drift away, fading into the background as he faded into himself and continued to inscribe.
And so the cavern was quiet again.
It was only much later, in a moment of calm between carvings, that a noise caught Akil’s attention, coming from the side. Akil’s head swiveled, gentle with weakness, to look. It was Bakar, his eyes closed, sitting on his pack. What was he doing here? Hadn’t he left? Seeing Bakar resting there, Akil felt a surprise and confusion that he hadn’t thought were possible anymore. And, for the first time since he had first sat down here, his hands stuttered. The rhythm of his carving halted. “Weren’t you leaving?” Akil asked.
Bakar opened one eye and stifled a yawn, which slowly turned into a smile as he saw Akil’s stunned expression. His expression soft, he gazed back at his friend. Bakar spoke. “I’ve tried that before.” And indeed he had. Bakar had traveled far, seeking any treasure or reminder that might prove a balm to his friend’s spirit. But even after many years, Bakar still did not know the nature of his friend’s affliction. And now, he realized, he might never know.
Neck protesting from the strain of turning after so long spent facing forward and down at the early grave before him, Akil could barely find the words. “I did not ask you to stay.”
Bakar shifted on his pack, trying to flatten out his makeshift seat’s uneven surface. “No, I suppose not,” he said, as he found a position he didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be comfortable, it never was down here. But if he couldn’t scatter the shadows that had taken root in his friend’s heart, then Bakar could at least stay here a while. Cold as the darkness was, it always felt a little warmer when they sat together.
A long moment of silence stretched out. Akil slowly turned back to face the sarcophagus. A few moments later he spoke up again. “You should have brought a stool,” he said.
Bakar blinked, surprised by his friends’ response. And in the long tunnels that stretched from the bright desert above to the frigid stone caves deep below the ground, where two friends sat, the low rumble of laughter echoed softly.
Written by Jeremy Melloul // Edited by Chris Montgomery
