Amytis

The sound of an Ur lyre still echoed in the open field. On the riverside, the small village was built in adobe walls. It's only buildings, the main house and a pantheon. There, her bones would rest on her journey to Irkalla.

But she still had life left in her and she could hear her granddaughters playing outside. She stopped tending the kitchen and went to watch them from the upper garden. By the shore of the tributary, one of them was building the Etemenanki temple using clayey mud. Then, the other one would destroy it, like a vengeful god, exchanging roles to keep the game and the myth alive.

The house had a firm foundation and stood three stories high, which was unusual. A straight, rough staircase split the building in half.

The left side was the home, two floors inside. More than enough space for the servants as for herself. The first floor on the right was a storehouse for provisions and tools. The second and third, in the form of a ziggurat, were filled with different trees, bushes and flowers brought from faraway places.

The ibis descended on the estuary while the girls built, the same birds then took flight when the girls burst into screams and laughter. It was not a life she regretted. Her origin was not one of sun and sand, but of lush mountains and free will. She left that all when she was young, left it for someone she was meant to love. Now, as an old woman, she appreciates a life she did not choose.

She summoned the servants to prepare the bath. When she was sure she wasn’t being watched, she took a pot to water the newly grafted palm tree. No one was going to tell her that she couldn’t take care of her own plants.

She lifted the pottery and tilted it to pour the water. She was missing some pots; the barge had arrived this morning with them. Assuming that they must still be down below, she peeped down to check. When they had already been spotted, the height gave her a wobbling nausea. She tried to pull her body back, though the ground seemed to be moving closer rather than further away.

She stumbled awake, as if she were falling. She was asleep in the kitchen again; she had been too tired these past few weeks. There were barely enough hours to rest, tinker with the new house and take care of her daughters. She heard their laughter through the porch window and opened it. From there, she could see the girls playing on the lawn. Thank God she’d bought them that mastiff. The price of the dog, chip, food, and trainer has been worth it just to keep the twins entertained with something other than her.

Her partner was hardly around; his frequent trips and conquest of new business left little time for fatherhood. He had built her a wonderful greenhouse and she enjoyed it even though she knew it was an attempt to make up for his shortcomings. Harnessing the boundless energy of a puppy, she escaped into the orchard. There, among the beams, stems and glass, she felt like royalty. She fertilized the date tree, watered the orange blossom and the lady of the night, and straightened the peonies.

On the way to fix Adam’s rib, she noticed how fatigued she was. The summer heat was taking its toll on her this year, she felt heavy and flabby. With a mother’s impetus, she continued on her way but the pressure on her forehead and the feeling of dizziness forced her to sit down. She sank back into her reverie, and in the blink of an eye, her hands were toasted by the sun. She is on the ground, having fallen from the prominent garden and hit her head. “It is incredible how much our dreams truly affect us”, she thinks before she loses double consciousness.

Shouts in akkadian, she finds it hard to think, ideas cross her mind fleetingly, who is she? What is she doing here? Who are these people? The quails begin to chirp amidst the screams, hands reach out to pull her up. Standing, she can see the mausoleum of blunt stone and gorgeous decoration. Whose is it? It seems to belong to someone important; she can make out an inscription on one of the walls. She feels that all the answers she is looking for are there. But her eyes blur before she can find out who the structure belongs to.

She wakes up to the beeping of the grey microwave, she can see smoke coming out. The lunch is burnt, she shouldn’t have put it on grill. She can’t concentrate on the present.

What does it say on the stone? She can’t think with so many people talking to her and the birds beeping. She needs to know whose mausoleum it is, why are they all in the way? She narrows her eyes, but her eyelids don’t stop, and she returns to the darkness.

The damn device doesn't stop chirping. She is back in the greenhouse. She tries to shout her daughter’s name to warn her, but her voice is barely enough for a whimper before she gets dizzy.

More hands come, blocking her view, getting in the way. Why can’t she understand the writing? She makes a last effort before losing herself again.

She takes a breath; it’s just a heat stroke and a spoiled meal. Never mind, she will fix it, she needs some rest now.

She closed her eyes, unable to distinguish that the dream was to be that woman with plants. A woman in a structure she had never seen before with a mechanism that cooked by itself. She was the old woman who fell from her luxurious dwelling, whose personal mausoleum was adorned in gold and lapis lazuli. Both with an absent partner who showered them with gifts, two children to care for and a garden that was their dedication. But one faced death, the other oblivion.

She fell into eternal rest, not knowing that that was her tomb, the tomb of Amytis of Media, queen of Babylon.

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