Ta’am’s Flock

Ta’am took his writing kit from its case, measured out the soot, and crushed the vegetable gum with a bit of oil on a little wooden palette to make the ink. Amaal sat at his side, observing his every move. Naturally, a group of curious onlookers gathered around to watch. Ta’am selected a reed pen, dipped it in the ink, then slowly, meticulously, wrote out the alphabet, right to left, on a sheet of papyrus, saying the name of each letter as he went. When he was finished, he explained to Amaal and to the others standing nearby.

“The letters are like a flock of sheep. Any good shepherd will tell you that each sheep in the flock looks different from all the others. Same here. Each letter is unique.”

“How many sheep are in the flock?” someone asked.

“Twenty-two,” Ta’am said.

They agreed that twenty-two seemed a manageable number.

“Each letter is unique, and each has a name. For example, this one is called ‘Daleth.’”

The students repeated “Daleth.”

“And, just like sheep, each letter makes a unique sound. For example, “Daleth” says “d.”

Everyone repeated, “Daleth says ‘d.’”

“This one is called “Kaph,” and it says “k.”

Again, they repeated the letter and its sound, and so on all the way through the list.

“Good. Now, shepherds, you must study and learn the shape, the name, and the sound of each letter.”

One student spoke up, “But how can we write words?”

“You already know how to make words; you use them every day when you speak. You need to learn the shapes that go with them. For example, my name is Ta’am. He wrote the letters and said, “Taw…and…Mem. They sound ‘t’ and ‘m.’ Put them together and what do you have?”

“Ta’am!” came the chorus.

The lamp was lit. Everyone commented on how simple it was. Ta’am helped them spell their names which they proudly wrote with sticks in the dirt.

“Now,” he said, “try this.” He wrote a long word on the papyrus. A few students watched but their enthusiasm lagged as the challenge grew more difficult and less personal. Most wandered away across the hill, satisfied to scratch their names on the foundation stones, in the dirt, and anywhere that would take an imprint. Amaal, meanwhile, sounded out the letters.

“That’s Qart-hadasht!” she called out.

“Correct!” Ta’am said. He put the stylus in Amaal’s hand.

She held it as she had seen Ta’am do. “What should I write?”

“Only you can answer that question.”

A multitude of stories leapt to mind.

“What is it?” Ta’am asked.

“I’m going to need more papyrus!”

“There was papyrus on the Arbiter. I don’t think it was ever unloaded.”

Amaal sat and practiced. As her writing became easier, she pondered what to do next. She was not interested in recording trade negotiations and weights and measures. She would leave that up to the sailors and merchants. Nor was she interested in the tales she had heard among her fellow travelers. Such fish stories were fine for dramatic effect, but she wanted to write down what had really happened. What she was searching for was a starting point, and the information had to come from a reliable source.

“Well, why not,” the Oarswoman replied. She set down the mud brick in her hand and clapped off the dust. The others on her crew stopped their work and leaned in to hear what the Oarswoman had to say.

“I know all about Tyre,” she started, sitting down on the half-built wall behind her. “I was born there. I was educated and had a high position. I hadn’t wanted to leave, you know, but my brother told me it would be dangerous to stay, so I followed him onto the ships.”

“Your brother?” Amaal asked. “Who’s your brother?”

“Why, Barca, of course!” the Oarswoman replied.

Amaal looked around. Everyone was as wide-eyed as she.

“Didn’t you know?” the Oarswoman said with a devious smile. They all shook their heads. “So, my anonymity was a success!”

Amaal asked her to tell how Tyre had gotten started.

“Our first king, Agenor, came from Memphis in Egypt some eleven hundred years ago. He named the city after his wife, Tyro. He reigned for sixty-three years and laid the foundation for a very wealthy city by establishing a vibrant trade relationship between Tyre and her neighbors, just as Queen Elishat is planning to do here. It was his son, Phoenix, by the way, who declared that the purple dye should be used for royal garments.

“Phoenix, like the ship!” someone said.

“Precisely! Then came all the other kings and queens all the way down to King Mattan, Queen Elishat’s father, may the gods bless him in death. There were some disruptions to the royal line, even a murder or two, but the kings of Tyre always maintained the goodwill of the people and the respect of pharaohs and kings, until…” She paused. Everyone knew what was coming next. “Until…there came a king who tormented our people and ignored our laws and tarnished our reputation. Need I mention his name?”

The listeners shook their heads. The Tyrians among them spat.

“But then,” she continued, “Ba’al filled his lungs and blew us across the Great Sea to copper-colored Kition, to banner-waving Kommos, to the salty shores of Motye, through a fierce storm to the kind embrace of Gozo, and, finally, here to Libya. By their blessing, the gods have given us this hill, Qart-hadasht, and here we are,” she said, lifting the mud brick she had placed on the wall, “building our homes.”

Her work crew lifted their bricks and tools in a kind of toast. “Building our homes!” they said.

“Okay, Amaal,” the Oarswoman said, “that’s enough for now. Let us get back to work.”

Amaal found a quiet place, mixed her ink, and flattened a sheet of papyrus on the top of an unclaimed building stone. Her hand shook as she dipped the stylus in the ink. She remembered the Oarswoman’s opening words, “Our first king, Agenor, came from Memphis in Egypt…” and started to write using Ta’am’s flock of letters. She could hear the Oarswoman telling the story as it inched out across the page. From time to time, the stylus skipped and the ink smudged, but Amaal carried on because there was a story to be told. When she had filled the page, she carried it, with all its splotches, to Ta’am. What a joy to hear him read it back to her! He pointed out errors and advised her to write it over again, as he had when he was in training, to get it just right.

“And Amaal?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Remember to stop from time to time to stretch your fingers…and eat!”

She worked into the evening, as long as the light allowed, and later the following day returned to Ta’am with the corrected text.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now, go read it to the Oarswoman. See what she thinks. After all, it’s her story.”

Amaal found the Oarswoman drinking mint tea with a small group of royals.

“Hello, Amaal,” she said. “What can we do for you?”

“I wondered if you would allow me to read the story you told me yesterday. Ta’am suggested it would improve my writing.”

“Please, do!”

The group settled back, and Amaal read the story exactly as the Oarswoman had told it to her.

The Oarswoman, clearly pleased with the retelling, said plainly, “I know of only one other person who could have recorded that story so accurately.”

The royals smiled and nodded in agreement. They knew, but Amaal was in the dark. She shrugged and shook her head.

“Gader!”

Amaal’s heart soared. She felt her spirit mentor standing there at her shoulder, patting her gently on the back.

“Read it again!” someone said.

She did, and at the end, the Oarswoman said, “This is an enlightenment as well as an entertainment. May the gods bless you, Amaal, for keeping the flame!”

Within hours, word had spread that Qart-hadasht had a new scribe.

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