EGYPT KID Chapter 1

 EGYPT KID Chapter 1

Hari Potet was a homeless Egyptian kid from the block in Cairo. Every day, he lay in an abandoned, busted-open room, working on his tablet. Everyone on the block knew him as the homeless kid who wanted to be famous.  

The construction workers would tell him every day, "Come work with us, Hari Potet. We pay three pesos a day. You can get a room and eat. And be a real man."  

"No, thank you," he would reply. "You'll see. When I finish my tablet, I'ma be huge. The next Amotemopep."  

"We all KNOW your story!" they yelled, weary-eyed and deranged. "Come work and make a real living."  

"Not everyone in Cairo knows my story," he said, embarrassed but stubborn.  

The wise woman from the block would cry and bring him tacos every day. Some threatened to report her to the pharaoh and cut off her welfare checks.  

Yeruet, the street paver, once lost his mind. He couldn't stand the thought of going to work every day while Hari Potet just lay around, entertaining people for scraps.  

He had to be restrained. "You think you're Tuthantino? Tuthantino was a man. He wrote about female heroes!"  

"I write about female heroes."  

"Who are what—Disnep princesses? You're a joke. You're so 4330 B.C."  

"You don't even know what you're talking about. You don't even know my tablet."  

"Your hieroglyphics are crap. You're gonna end up like the cow legs we saw at the big tablet last week."  

Hari growled. "No, I am not! I am not cow legs. I saw the same tablet. I'm the rooster head!"  

Yeruet got discouraged and left him alone. He lost sleep that night, went manic, and some say it was the end of his career as a street paver.  

One day, two hood kids broke away from their walk home from school and jumped onto Hari's bed platform as he lounged, eating hummus and drinking. The girl snatched his tablet. "What's this, homie? A board game? This ain't no board game, homie." She chuckled to the boy as she brandished the tablet in the air, threatening to smash it on the ground. The boy looked ready to beat Hari up. An old lady cried out in the distance, "You see? He's not so strong!"  

Hari shed tears and turned on the charm. "Why you gotta do me like that? I'm not against you!"  

The boy glanced at the girl, confused. Hari pressed on. "You don't like me, is that it? Do you realize I like you? I always liked you."  

The boy laughed, suddenly guilty. The girl handed back the tablet, and they sat down beside him.  

"Why you hate me? It's 'cause I'm white, isn't it?"  

"You ain't white."  

"I'm a quarter white."  

They laughed.  

Hari waved his hands. "Look, if you leave me alone, you can have some beer, and I'll let you read my story."  

They agreed, and so he did.  

Three years later, the tablet was finished. At the big premiere, Hari Potet stood before a sea of people, being interviewed by the paparazzi.  

"You went from being homeless to a world-class director. People are saying this tablet is hot. What do you say to all the people who said you wouldn't make it?"  

"I have nothing against them. Some people don't understand that not everyone's calling follows the beaten path. I had to finish my tablet at all costs. I wanted my mom to see me successful while she was still here."  

"What do you say about allegations that you gave beer to minors while you were homeless in East Cairo?"  

"What?"  

A year later, Hari Potet was convicted of corrupting a minor and sentenced to banishment from Cairo. There was a police altercation with gangsters, and his tablet was destroyed in the crossfire.  

The desert stretched endlessly before Hari, a vast golden wasteland under the relentless sun. His throat burned, his lips cracked, and his vision blurred. He had been walking for days, banished from Cairo with nothing but the ragged clothes on his back. The canteen he had traded for—what he thought was a full day’s water—had been a scam, filled with nothing but a few drops and sand.  

He stumbled forward, his bare feet burning against the scorching earth. The merchants who passed him on the trade routes either ignored him or laughed. One, a fat man with a greasy beard and a cart piled high with goods, finally took pity—or saw opportunity.  

“Boy,” the merchant called, his voice slick like oil. “You look like you’re about to die.”  

Hari collapsed to his knees, too weak to answer.  

The merchant grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “Work for me. I’ll give you water. Food. Shelter.”  

Hari nodded desperately. He had no choice.  

But the promise was a lie.  

The merchant’s “shelter” was a patch of sand under his cart. The “food” was half-rotten bread. The “water” was barely enough to keep him alive. And the work? Endless. Hari hauled crates, scrubbed pots, tended to camels, and was beaten if he slowed. The merchant, whose name he learned was Sobek, treated him like property.  

“You’re lucky I saved you,” Sobek sneered whenever Hari groaned under the weight of a load. “Out here, you’re nothing. Less than nothing.”  

At night, when the desert grew cold, Hari curled up under the cart, his fingers tracing absent shapes in the sand. His tablet—his life’s work—was gone. Destroyed. His name, once whispered in the streets of Cairo as a rising storyteller, was now forgotten. Or worse, remembered only as a criminal.  

But he still had his mind. His stories.  

One evening, as Sobek snored loudly in his tent, Hari overheard two other workers whispering.  

“That caravan coming tomorrow,” one muttered. “They say it’s heading to Thebes. Rich merchants. Guards. If we can sneak on…”  

Hari’s heart pounded. Thebes. A city of scribes, of storytellers. A place where he could start again.  

The next morning, as the caravan rolled in, Hari moved quickly. He hid among the cargo, holding his breath as Sobek barked orders nearby. When the merchants mounted their camels and the caravan began to move, Hari stayed still, buried beneath sacks of grain.  

He had escaped.  

But the desert was vast. And the world was cruel.  

As the cart rolled forward, Hari closed his eyes and dreamed of his tablet—of the stories he would tell again.  

Because a man with a story could never truly be broken.

By the time Hari Potet reached the outskirts of Thebes, he was lean from hunger but hard from labor. The desert had burned the softness out of him. He no longer thought of Cairo the same way—as a place of dreams. Now, he only wanted to eat, sleep in peace, and, somehow, tell stories again.

It was in the scrub hills north of Thebes, after the caravan master had caught him hiding and whipped him from the cart, that Hari staggered into a shepherd’s homestead.

Stone huts. Bleating goats. Smoke from dung fires.

And her.

She was leaning over a well, her back arched, filling a jug with water. Her dress clung to her in the heat, sheer and worn, like everything else in the camp. Her name was Setepka, and she turned, eyeing Hari like he was either a lost lamb or a wolf.

“You with the trade caravan?” she asked.

“No,” he said, licking cracked lips. “I’m a storyteller. I’m just… walking.”

She squinted at him, then smiled in a way that didn’t match the poverty around her. “Well. You look like you could use a roof. And I like stories.”

Setepka was nineteen, the daughter of the shepherd who ruled the hills with a club and a voice like thunder. But that night, as the sun dipped low and the goats were penned, she brought Hari into the stable loft with bread, dried figs, and a clay jug of fermented goat’s milk.

She asked him to tell her a story.

He did. One about a boy who talked to lions. She laughed and gasped and touched his arm like she’d known him forever. When he paused to sip the milk, she leaned in and whispered, “I’ve never met a real artist before.”

And then she kissed him.

It was quick and fierce and wrong—but Hari was half-starved, half-crazed, and wholly lonely. So when her fingers pulled at his tunic and her legs drew him closer, he didn’t stop her.

They lay together in the hay, limbs tangled, her breath warm against his ear. For a moment, Hari forgot the world had ever broken him.

But dawn brought the shepherd.

“WHO’S IN MY STABLE?!”

The voice cracked like lightning. Hari sat bolt upright, hay in his hair, tunic around his waist. Setepka hissed, “Go! Out the back!”

But it was too late. The door slammed open. There stood her father, a mountain of a man, barefoot and wild-eyed, holding a club thick as a camel’s leg.

“You!” he bellowed, pointing the club at Hari. “You touched my daughter?! You gutter rat! I’ll crush your head and feed it to the vultures!”

Hari didn’t wait to argue. He vaulted from the loft window, hit the dirt running, and heard the club smash through wooden beams behind him. Setepka screamed something—but her father’s roars drowned her out.

Hari tore through the hills, barefoot, lungs burning. Goats scattered. Dogs barked. The shepherd’s shouts echoed over the rocks.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just ran.

And then—he saw it. A dark hollow in the cliffside ahead. A cave.

Hari dove inside just as a stone slammed into the entrance behind him, thrown with furious strength.

He crouched, panting, in the shadows. The cave was cool and dry. Ancient air filled his nose—dust, bat droppings, and the smell of something forgotten. Outside, the shepherd’s steps circled, then faded.

Hari waited. Hours passed. The sun shifted.

Finally, when he dared to step deeper into the cave, he lit a tiny flame from the tinder he carried—left over from Sobek’s cart days.

What he saw made him freeze.

Hieroglyphs. Painted across the walls.

Not just scribbles. Stories.

He stepped closer. The markings were old—older than anything he’d seen in Cairo. Warriors with falcon heads. Women with sun discs in their palms. A child riding a lion.

Hari’s breath caught. He dropped to his knees.

Another story. Hidden in the desert. Waiting for someone to tell it again.

He pulled a broken shard of pottery from the floor, still faintly sharp. His fingers trembled. Slowly, he scratched a new line beneath the last ancient symbol.

And then another.

He would stay. For now.

He had food to steal, a life to rebuild, and a story to finish.

Because the cave wasn’t just a hiding place.

It was a beginning.

The cave was silent except for Hari's slow, ragged breathing. Three days without food. Two without water. His tongue had swollen in his mouth, his lips cracked like dried riverbeds. The hunger had passed from sharp pain to a dull, endless ache that filled his entire body.  

He had tried chewing his sandals. The leather was tough and bitter, and after hours of gnawing, all he had to show for it were bleeding gums and a mouth full of useless scraps.  

Outside, the desert offered no mercy. The shepherd's rage had sealed Hari's fate—no one would come looking for him here. The trade routes were too far, the hills too empty. Even the vultures had given up on him, circling once before flying off to find better meals.  

Hari slumped against the cave wall, his vision blurring. The torch he had carried in had long since burned out, leaving only thin fingers of daylight creeping through the entrance. His weak fingers traced the ancient carvings on the walls—stories of forgotten kings and gods who no longer listened.  

"Maybe I'll become a story too," he whispered, his voice rough as sand. "The fool who died in a cave."  

Then—  

A glint in the dirt.  

Something caught the fading light near his feet. Hari blinked, his tired mind slow to understand. Gold? A lost trinket from some long-dead traveler?  

With the last of his strength, he clawed at the earth until his fingers closed around cold metal. He pulled it free.  

A pipe.  

Not just any pipe—this was a relic, heavy and ornate, its stem carved with twisting serpents, its bowl set with a single ruby. The kind of thing a nobleman might have smoked from in the days when Egypt was young.  

Hari wheezed a laugh. Of course. Of course this was how it ended. Not with his stories being told in the great halls of Thebes, not with fame or fortune, but here, in the dark, with nothing but a fancy pipe to keep him company.  

His hands shook as he scraped together the last of his stolen herbs—the bitter, half-rotten leaves he had kept hidden since his days with Sobek's caravan. He packed the bowl with trembling fingers, struck his flint once, twice—  

A spark caught.  

He inhaled.  

The smoke burned worse than thirst, worse than hunger, searing his lungs like fire. He coughed, his vision swimming, but he forced himself to take another drag. If this was his last act, he'd make it count.  

The third breath was deep.  

And then—  

The air twisted.  

The cave walls trembled. The ancient carvings writhed like living things, their colors bleeding into the dark. The ruby in the pipe pulsed like a heartbeat, and the smoke—  

The smoke did not fade.  

It coiled. Thickened. Took shape.  

A figure loomed over him, vast and terrible, its eyes burning like coals in a forge.  

Hari's breath froze in his chest.  

The djinn's voice shook the cave.  

"A thousand years," it boomed, "and this is what wakes me? A dying rat?"  

Hari could only stare, his mouth dry.  

The djinn's lip curled in disgust.  

"I already hate this century."

Hari stared at the towering djinn, his cracked lips twisting into a skeptical smirk. "A thousand-year-old wish-granter, huh? Yeah, sure. I bet you’re just some desert hallucination."  

The djinn’s molten eyes flared. “You dare doubt me, worm?"

"Prove it," Hari croaked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Blow up that goat’s head." He pointed a shaking finger toward the cave entrance, where one of the shepherd’s stray goats was nibbling at a thornbush.  

The djinn’s expression darkened. “You waste my power on… goats?"

"Can’t do it?" Hari taunted.  

The djinn snarled. A flick of his wrist.  

The goat’s head exploded in a wet burst of gore, its body collapsing mid-chew. Blood sprayed the rocks. The headless corpse twitched once before going still.  

Hari’s stomach lurched. He hadn’t actually expected—  

But no. No, this had to be a trick. Heatstroke. Delirium.  

"Bullshit," he muttered. "That goat was probably sick. Do the trader."  

Down the winding path, a merchant trudged along with his camel, both oblivious to the carnage.  

The djinn’s patience was thinning. "You test me, mortal."

"Or you’re full of it," Hari shot back.  

The djinn exhaled sharply through his nose—then snapped his fingers.  

The trader’s head burst like an overripe melon. The camel’s skull detonated a second later, its neck flailing grotesquely before the whole beast crumpled. Gore painted the sand in wide, glistening arcs.  

Hari’s breath came fast. His hands trembled. That—that had been real. That had been—  

But no. No, there had to be another explanation. Archers? Bandits? Some desert mirage playing tricks?  

"One more," Hari demanded, voice hoarse. "The pharaoh’s—"  

“ENOUGH." The djinn seized Hari by the throat, lifting him off the ground. “I am Naqad the Undying, not some carnival trickster to perform for your amusement!"

Hari gagged, clawing at the iron grip. "Okay—okay, I believe you—"  

“Too late." The djinn’s grin was all teeth. “You wished for proof. You received it. Now, your remaining wishes come with a price."

Hari’s blood turned to ice. "What price?"  

The djinn leaned in, his breath scorching. “For every head you make me pop, one of yours will go next."

Hari’s stomach dropped.  

“Choose wisely," the djinn whispered.  

Hari's stomach growled louder than the djinn's voice. He stared at the towering figure of smoke and ember-light, his cracked lips parting.  

"Before anything else," Hari rasped, "I just... I want a meal. A real one."  

The djinn's burning eyes narrowed. "That is your first wish? Not riches? Not vengeance?"  

Hari wiped dirt from his face. "I haven't eaten in three days. I tried chewing my sandal yesterday. Right now, I'd trade all the gold in Thebes for a bowl of lentils."  

A beat of silence. Then—  

A snap of fingers.  

A low wooden table appeared between them, laden with steaming dishes: flatbread still puffed from the oven, a clay pot of honeyed lentils, roasted onions blackened at the edges, a skewer of spiced lamb so tender it fell apart at a glance. A jug of tamarind beer sweated in the desert heat.  

Hari fell upon the food like a dying man—which he was. He tore bread with shaking hands, scooping up lentils until his fingers burned. The meat dissolved on his tongue in fat and cumin. He drank straight from the jug, beer dripping down his chin.  

The djinn watched, unimpressed. "Pathetic."  

"Mmhmm," Hari agreed with his mouth full.  

"I have granted wishes to kings," the djinn continued, swirling around the cave. "They asked for armies. For palaces that touched the sky. And you? You weep over onions."  

Hari licked his fingers clean, then sat back with a sigh. "Best meal I've ever had."  

The djinn's form crackled. "You have one wish remaining."  

Hari blinked. "What? No, the rules are three—"  

"I don't like your face," the djinn interrupted. "Your nose is asymmetrical. It offends me. Therefore, one wish only."  

Hari touched his nose. "That's not—"  

"DECIDE."  

Hari looked at the empty plates. At the pipe lying in the dust. At the djinn's smug, flickering face.  

Then he grinned.  

"Okay. I wish for unlimited wishes."  

The cave shook violently. Sand rained from the ceiling. The djinn's form stretched thin, his edges fraying like torn cloth.  

"YOU—" His voice splintered into a hundred echoes. "THAT'S NOT—"  

The ruby in the pipe exploded into dust.  

A terrible silence fell.  

The djinn reformed, his flames now dull orange. When he spoke, it was with the weary tone of a scholar forced to explain basic arithmetic to a drunkard.  

"...Granted."  

Hari clapped. "Perfect. Now—"  

"I HATE YOU," the djinn announced, and vanished in a puff of sulky smoke.  

Alone with his empty plates and newfound omnipotence, Hari reached for the last scrap of bread. This, he decided, was going to be fun.

Hari sat cross-legged on the cave floor, surrounded by golden plates still sticky with honey and lamb fat. The djinn’s smoke coiled in the air like an irritated serpent, waiting.  

"So," Hari mused, tapping his chin. "Unlimited wishes, huh?"  

The djinn exhaled a plume of smoke that smelled distinctly like burnt patience. "Yes. Get on with it."  

Hari leaned back, staring at the cave ceiling. "Thing is, I’ve spent so long just trying to survive, I never really thought about what I’d do if I actually got here." He picked at a leftover fig. "I mean, I could wish for a palace. Or a harem. Or to shoot lightning from my—"  

"What," the djinn interrupted, voice like grinding stone, "do you want more than anything?”

Hari went quiet. The cave seemed to hold its breath.  

"My tablet," he said finally. "The one I spent three years carving. The one they destroyed when they banished me." He looked up, eyes sharp. "I want it back. Exactly as it was."  

The djinn studied him—really studied him—for the first time. Then, with a slow, deliberate wave of his hand:  

Done.

A weight appeared in Hari’s lap. His tablet. Not just restored—perfect. Every groove of hieroglyphs crisp, every smoothed edge exactly as he remembered. The story of the boy who spoke to lions, the thief who stole the sun, the woman who wrestled crocodiles—all there.  

Hari’s fingers trembled as he traced the carvings. He didn’t realize he was crying until a tear hit the stone.  

The djinn shifted uncomfortably. "You’re… leaking."  

Hari wiped his face with a laugh. "Shut up." He held the tablet to his chest like a child. "I thought it was gone forever."  

A beat passed. The djinn cleared his throat. "Most mortals ask for immortality next."  

Hari snorted. "What’s the point of living forever if you’ve got nothing to say?" He turned the tablet over in his hands. "I want this in every library. Every temple. I want kids in Memphis to scratch my name on their school slates."  

The djinn sighed. "So wish it."  

Hari grinned. "Right. Okay. I wish—"  

A thunderclap interrupted him. The cave entrance darkened. Three figures stood silhouetted against the sun—the shepherd, his club raised. Behind him, two village elders in dusty robes, their eyes wide at the golden feast.  

"You!" the shepherd roared. "Defiler of my daughter! Thief of my—" He froze, spotting the djinn. His club clattered to the ground.  

The elders fell to their knees. "Great one!" one croaked. "We did not know—"  

Hari stood, tablet clutched tight. "Uh. Hi."  

The djinn’s flames flared. "You know," he murmured, "you could wish them dead."  

The shepherd paled.  

Hari looked at the terrified men, then at his tablet. He exhaled. "Nah." He raised his voice. "You three! Go tell Thebes that Hari Potet’s back. And this time?" He hefted the stone. "I’m carving my story where no one can break it."  

The djinn smirked. "Dramatic."  

"You love it."  

As the men fled, Hari turned to the djinn. "Now. About making this tablet indestructible..."  

Outside, the desert wind carried whispers of the mad storyteller and his fiery god. By dawn, they’d be legends. By next moon, scripture.  

—-ATILA—-