When I left the palace, the streets were full of people. Everyone was busy with their work. I saw men carrying sacks of grain, women with jars of water, and children running barefoot in the dust. I could feel that they noticed me more than before. After what had happened in the hall, people would talk about me. But I let it be. I only needed peace and space to think.
I sat on a low wall near the market. I pulled out my water skin and drank a little. To myself, I repeated the things I knew: clean water, clean cloth, honey, wine for cleaning wounds, herbs to reduce fever. These were the things I had carried with me from my time. And they were enough to let me help.
People nearby watched me, but they didn't come closer. They knew I was different. I understood their speech, but not everything. Their words were shorter, harder. But they could be understood if I listened long enough.
The first days after the audience, I stayed among the people. I walked through the workshops, sometimes offering small advice. I showed the smiths how to hold the fire better. I helped the weavers stretch the loom tighter. At the well, I told the women that wounds had to be washed with water before herbs were used. Some didn't believe me, but others tried. And when the wounds healed without fever, they came back.
On the fourth day, a boy found me. He was barefoot, dirty, and frightened. He couldn't say many words, only "come." He grabbed my hand and pulled me through narrow alleys. I didn't resist. I followed him.
The house he led me to was low and dark. Inside, a woman lay on a mat. She was pale, sweating, her face twisted in pain. Two older women sat beside her, doing what they knew. One burned herbs and waved the smoke, the other prayed. But the child would not come.
"How long?" I asked.
One of them showed two fingers. "Two days." That I understood.
I looked at the woman. Her belly tightened, but the child was not moving down. I placed my hand on her forehead. She opened her eyes and whispered: "Neseret." That was her name.
"Amenemhet," I said simply. There was no time for more.
I asked for water, cloth, and oil. The women looked at me with doubt, but they brought them. I showed Neseret how to breathe. Short breaths, then long. When the pain came, I turned her slightly on her side, so the hips opened. After several such cycles, the child began to descend.
At last, the head appeared. But the child did not cry. Its neck was wrapped in the cord. One of the women was about to cover the baby, but I pushed her hand away. Quickly I took a small knife, poured wine on it, and cut the cord. Then I laid the child on its side and cleared its mouth with my fingers. I pressed the chest gently and gave two small breaths. Nothing. So I turned the child and rubbed its back hard.
At first, nothing. Then a cough. Then a cry. Weak, but there.
Neseret began to cry as well. She held the child and would not let go. "Breathe," I told her. "You and him."
When I saw that he was breathing regularly, I let them rest together. Then I tied the cord, cut off the rest, and smeared honey on the wound so it would not become infected. In my time, that was always done.
The older women were silent. Then one said: "He was gone, and you brought him back."
"No," I said. "He only needed breath and warmth."
But I knew how it looked to them. In their eyes, I was not a man with knowledge. I was a man who had returned life.
When it was all over, Neseret said quietly: "Stay with me. I have no husband. Now I have a child. And I know you will be needed."
At first, I wanted to refuse. I was used to taking as little space as possible. But I was right to think that if I wanted to work, I needed a place to stay. In the end, I nodded. "I will stay. But if someone comes with a wound or an illness, you will send them here. Do you agree?"
"I agree," she said without hesitation.
That night we all slept in the house. She with the child, the two older women on mats, and I by the wall. Before sleep, I checked the child one more time. He breathed calmly, his color was better.
Then I lay down, and for the first time in a long while, I felt I had a place where I could begin.
First Days at Neseret's House
I woke up earlier than the others. The house was quiet. Neseret slept with the baby against her chest. Two older women lay on mats by the door. I rose quietly, went to the yard, and fetched water from the well. I set it over the fire to boil. Then I laid out my tools: small scissors, a knife, a strip of clean linen, herbs, some honey, and the rest of the wine I had in my bag.
When the older women awoke, I showed them what we would need every day. I explained clearly:
"For wounds – clean water, then honey or clean cloth. For fever – water, shade, herbs. For childbirth – cleanliness, warmth, calm. No dirty hands. Tools washed in wine, if there is any."
Neseret woke a little later. She sat up and looked at me. The baby was pressed to her chest. Its breathing was steady. I checked the umbilical cord. There was no bleeding. The end was dry.
"Will you have milk?" I asked.
She nodded. "I feel it already."
"Good," I said. "When the baby cries and searches, put it to your breast. Often. If you feel fever or dizziness, tell me. If the child's hands and feet grow cold and it stops crying, tell me at once."
I gave the older women simple tasks. One was to keep water ready, the other to keep clean cloths. I told them to separate clean from dirty. Dirty cloths to be soaked before washing. Waste water not to be poured into the well. I explained without long words. Just what, where, and why.
By midmorning, the first visitor came. A man with an inflamed forearm. The wound was old, filled with pus. He sat in the yard, waiting. We washed it with water. I pressed gently to drain the pus. I covered the edges with honey and tied it with clean cloth. I told him to return the next day and again after that. He did not resist. He was silent, watching my hands, nodding.
Not long after, a woman came with a child whose eyes kept tearing. The eyes were red. I told her to boil water, let it cool, and clean the edge of the eye with cloth dipped in it. Then a very weak mixture of honey – just a few drops in boiled water – to the rim. I told her if it didn't improve in three days, come back.
Before noon, a boy came with a cut palm. I washed the wound, pulled the edges together with strips of cloth, and bandaged it. I taught him to keep the hand clean and not dip it in mud.
After lunch, two men who worked with clay brought me broken bricks. They asked why some cracked. I examined them, pressed them, and said:
"Too fast in the sun. More straw in the clay. Dry first in shade, then in sun. Turn them, so cracks don't run one way."
I asked for nothing. They left me two bricks in return and promised to help strengthen the yard if I needed.
In the afternoon, the boy who had run for me yesterday returned with a bundle of reeds. "My father says to give this to you. He said you need beds."
"Come, help me," I said. Together we tied the reeds into two mats. One I left inside for Neseret, the other in the yard for those who came with wounds.
By evening, two men from the palace came. They wore plain linen, bronze knives at their belts. Messengers. The older one said:
"The queen wants to know if the man from the audience still lives."
"He lives," I answered. "But he must be dressed clean every day. Tomorrow I will go myself."
"Good," they said. "We will tell her."
When they left, one of the older women in the house said: "You should go today."
"I will go tomorrow morning," I replied. "I cannot leave this house tonight. Others will come."
And they did. Before dusk, three more arrived. One with stomach pain – I gave him water in small sips and told him to eat plain food. One with a twisted ankle – I wrapped it and told him to rest. One with a burning rash on his neck – I showed him how to keep the skin dry and clean.
Neseret watched, learning. She asked little but remembered much. When the child slept, she did everything I said: heated water, washed cloth, kept the yard in order. She was not a soft woman waiting for others to act. She knew how to work.
By night, the house was quiet again. All slept. I sat at the doorway, planning what to do tomorrow in the palace: change the bandage, rinse with wine, clean the edges, bind again, check for smell and heat. Nothing new, but it had to be done before palace eyes.