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Ruins of the sun

Johnny Pendlebury

On my travels to the kingdom of the sand, I heard the echoes of something long lost buried beneath the ground at my feet. The scorching winds gave way to a wet, sun-soaked breeze that felt humid in the back of my throat. Not even the coldest of waters could soothe the ache I felt, the strange longing in the pit of my stomach as I stood at the foot of that altar. Echoes of voices, passing clouds baring the faces of lions and falcons that bore the message of the Gods.

‘Seek me.’

Along the path from the village once frequented by kings, a lone traveller told me not to seek the riches of monarchs, but witness the glory they left behind. Granite and sandstone, carved from their sharp edges until they were smooth as silk. But now, as the tips of my fingers brushed their feet, they were brittle and coarse like the sand that sunk into my shoes despite the solid ground and chill of the breeze. Time and the elements did little to wary stories, yet the monuments left behind were but fragments and scraps. Shattered remains of towering rulers, temples of devout worship that commanded the utmost respect.

Ruins. All of it.

Sekhmet, she was called. Daughter of the Sun. Beloved of her father Amon-Ra.

Eight statues of the sun in a triangulated angle towards the endless blue beyond, guardians of a path once soaked in blood and gold. Standing at the feet of the standing statues, performing a never-ending vigil over the ocean of diamond dust sand, I was in awe. Unlike the towering heads of Amonthep and Ramses II I passed in the Valley of Kings, Sekhmet commanded not respect, but fear. Not my gaze, but my blood. She would not be satisfied until rivers of blood ran parallel to the beloved Nile, the fields of reeds dyed crimson with vitality of liars, sinners and all who defy the sanctity of the sands.

The mane that curled to the side of her head like a halo, the angular snout ready to pry itself open, the crown of the sun framed behind her demanded every inch of disbelief to give way to all-encompassing awe. Statues dead, yet alive as they watch and wait for disturbances to their watch; only to remember their time has long passed. Once as Ozymandias carved his hand across the Nile, declaring himself King of the Sun, demanding respect and worship, all that is left of the bygone era is stone and sand. Crumbled away by time, hubris and dust. I could hear the horns, like golden waves on the air signalling the coming of the Old Gods; their very presence under my skin as I trudged towards the peak of the dunes where the watch of Sekhmet came to an end.

Their eyes were on the back of my head, like knives that once carved through those who abandoned mighty Amon-Ra. The air was thick with the scent of incense and sweat, the distant echo of chanting priests reverberating through the stone corridors. Was I too to be a sacrifice for a cause beyond my own? Would my blood run red like the ochre that tamed the mighty lion? And in the end, would I too be welcomed to the embrace of benevolent Hathor? Questions that came, like the sound of the horns, to a slow end. The torches flickered, casting long shadows that danced on the ancient walls, as I marched onwards like the soldiers of Kings, only to fall slow in the face of the plagues wrought by the Gods they worshipped. Would I too fall to that same cruel passage? If my own curiosity did not claim me, then the sands would. The very sands that whispered tales of glory and ruin, now poised to consume me as they had countless others before.

Time itself was the sand, coarse and unyielding beneath my fingertips. The grains whispered secrets of ancient winds, each particle a fragment of forgotten histories. I suppose then, it was only fair that the sand I felt beneath my fingers was solid, a paradox of permanence in a world of decay. As I watched, the very thing that eroded away empires, kings, and their legacies now stood in front of me, a silent sentinel of history; keeping it locked away behind a clear prison of glass, the sand shimmered under the dim light, casting intricate patterns on the cold, stone floor. A cruel irony, that diamond dust along the floors of their temples now kept them in shackles, binding them to a cruel, perpetual prison created by those who once sought their guidance. Mortals, now long considered above their creators, choose now to look upon these works as art and nothing more. The once revered symbols of power and wisdom reduced to mere curiosities, their true significance lost to the sands of time.

Mortals were no different than Gods, then why too did the Old Gods fade away while we yet remain? The Old Gods once revered and feared, their names whispered in the sacred halls of temples, now reduced to mere echoes in the annals of history. Tongues cut out and placed in jars for the reason of preservation; only for that knowledge to belong to no one but the worthy. Worth, a term no longer truthful to its meaning. What is sand, if not time? What is time, if not glass? It is there, but it is not. It is harmless yet will eat away at everything when broken down into its thousands of pieces, carving everything it touches until we are but dust. The very same dust that sat on the edge of the glass, shimmering under the dim light of the tomb. The same dust that would collect over the same monuments that stand tall today, their once grand facades now weathered and worn by the relentless passage of time.

The sand was hard, firm like concrete. The air cool from the conditioning in the gallery, muttered ambience hushed amongst the heavy stone walls that towered over us. The horns reverbed from speakers perched in the ceiling corners, the endless blue-sky pixels on an LED screen at the back of the exhibit. A mirage in the desert, or a fantasy in reality? Even I couldn’t tell for sure. The only real, tangible evidence of Egypt being the statues of the sun perched on stone; tracing a triangular path towards statuettes of her father encased in glass. Hundreds of passersby filtering towards the golden Amon-Ra within his glass prison, yet I alone stood transfixed by the gaze of a Goddess no one knew. Children speaking of Tutankhamen, adults speaking of pharaohs belonging in fiction. Fiction that long now has blurred the perception of these once and forever favoured figures.

My father would joke of Imhotep, children would laugh about The Kane Chronicles. I saw the humour in it, but did not understand why that same feeling of awe did not make them as awestruck as I. They did not freeze like statues in time, they did not look up in reverence, nor did they utter even a single praise. Surely, in ages past, Sekhmet would have punished their insolence. Who now in this day and age is left to enforce that worship? What is stopping them from disrespecting the same God they now fight wars over?

To watch others pass the glass cabinets after a single photo or short glance, the fascination with Egypt seemed only to be a necessity, not something to be appreciated and worshipped. Plastered across the pages of history books, every person seems likely to become fascinated with the golden age of ancient history. Why become self-absorbed with the ivory pillars of Greece or crimson curtains of Rome, when all everyone else ever speaks of is the blood and sand that fills the stories of the greatest kings? Sand now that clings to this stone ever present, no longer to shift beneath the feet of travellers.

Travellers now, that do not fear. I would watch the trendsetters move on by, refusing to watch and bask in the sights and sounds of an age long past. Only to look at the glass, the statuette behind it, to see only the carved gold and ochre tapestry rather than the time and dust collected over its millennia of obsolescence. As the horns and percussion chimed in my ears, the marching of time felt evermore present as, like shifting mirages in the sand, people young and old simply came and went. Alone in the presence of the Goddess, that feeling of awe and insignificance melded away into strange curiosity.

Why me, alone with Sekhmet?

I too, did not understand. And yet I stood transfixed by the ruins of the sun, of the daughter who grew benevolent in her senseless, unending slaughter of Egypt. In his anger, Amon-Ra sent his violent daughter to show them their place; only to find the lust for blood ended not like the sands in the desert. Modern wars and ancient plagues paled in comparison to what Gods held over the lives of mortals. Kings and mighty rulers awaited in the next room, yet my feet did not move from the centre of the display. It commanded—demanded—, that I stay. It ruled over me, held me in the palm of its hand, even as my group continued to move without me. Marching on like the years that tore these statues down, leaving only remnants behind.

I felt indescribable joy. I felt unimaginable worship.

Transfixed, hypnotised by the construction and craftsmen of forefathers who wished for Sekhmet’s benevolence. Who laid bread and fruit at their feet for thousands of years, fingertips across carved stone feet as they washed the statue of its impurities. And here they lay, stolen from their temples by usurpers and colonisers. All of it now meaningless, reduced to artefacts of a time of worship that has not been seen since. The same feeling of worship in today’s age is now the catalyst for bloodshed beyond that of Sekhmet, the wrath of the Gods now held in the palms of mortals. Radiance and almighty given way to cruelty and self-interest.

Once encased in glass, the respect it once claimed now restored to its former glory, as if the same sands that flowed through the toes of the Goddess now crumbled back to the ground around it to return to its rightful place. The air was thick with the scent of ancient stone and the faint whisper of forgotten prayers. Despite it all, the legacy of these times belongs only to that yellow sea of grit. Grit that encompassed the suffering of millions of dynasties once passed, dynasties even further removed from Egypt. Each grain a testament to the rise and fall of civilizations, a silent witness to the passage of countless eras. Surrounding these golden wonders are the memories of legends from history; enemies and friends of Egypt united again in their imprisonment. Their legacy, however, still remains. Time, that relentless sculptor, had etched their stories into the very fabric of existence, preserving their essence even as their forms faded.

Yet, everyone else in that gallery knew that its time was over. The dim light cast long shadows on the ancient relics, the silence heavy with the weight of history. Perhaps I did too, as I stood there, a mere mortal in the presence of timeless grandeur.

Perhaps I did too. For in that moment, I realised that we are all bound by the same sands of time, our legacies intertwined with the dust of ages. The very dust that once built empires now cradled their remnants, a poignant reminder of the impermanence of all things.

All that remains are ruins of the sun.