Harpocrates, the child Horus, surprisingly found during the excavation of Sirkap site in Taxila in Pakistan
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@inthemarshes
Harpocrates, the child Horus, surprisingly found during the excavation of Sirkap site in Taxila in Pakistan
Over on your store, in the description for one of your Kebehwet amulets, you mention that, "There is a complex web of connections between serpents, purification, and jackals" and I was wondering if you could elaborate on this, specifically the serpent/jackal connection? I ask because I've also noticed that some depictions of Anubis (including one you reblogged recently) have snake legs/lower bodies and I'm curious as to if there's any consensus as to when/why this started.
Hi Anon. Here is a collection of excerpts for you. Whether they satisfy your question or not is another matter, but hopefully it will be of interest regardless:
"Serpents and canids are often associated in Egyptian religion, most notably in the presence of the royal uraeus at the front of the standard of Upwawet... Both jackals and snakes symbolize healing and regeneration. Qebhut is made the daughter of Anubis to reinforce the notion of rebirth after purification. She is the libating goddess and the healing snake, and she personifies the sky." (DuQuesne, Jackal Divinities, §544)
"Both types of animal have a strange ambiguity in their symbolism: They are closely associated with death, but also with healing, rebirth and transformation." (DuQuesne, "Raising the Serpent Power: Some Parallels between Egyptian Religion and Indian Tantra," in Hermes Aegyptiacus: Egyptological Studies for BH Stricker, pp. 63-64)
In Terence's notes, I found a reference to a couple of pages in Gordon & Schwabe 2004, 'The quick and the dead. Biomedical theory in Ancient Egypt' which discuss the funerary associations of snakes and jackals. I have pulled these pages into a PDF for you as well: https://1drv.ms/b/s!AkaYcY91W4WpgaoGzJHT9nVl8qTaVA
It is also worth noting that both animals can act as guardians. Doubtlessly there are more parallels to be uncovered and it might be something for you to dive into further investigation. For example, there is at least one instance of the solar barque being towed by both a team of jackals (aka the Spirits of the West) and a team of uraei (Papyrus B of Hor-weben, JE95645). And in the towing jackal vignettes, it seems that the tow rope itself is a uraeus more often than not.
On the matter of the snake legs and serpentine lower half, it is a characteristic of Greco-Egyptian syncretism and undoubtedly arises from not only some of the above (and the thread you mentioned where a number of snake+jackal composites were shared - especially the earlier occurring ones which demonstrate there was enough of an affinity there for that type of imagery to be possible) and the throwing in of Greek entities like the agathodaimon and anguipeds. Osiris (as Serapis) and Aset get the serpentiform treatment as well.
As a bonus since I have it on hand, here is a fun guy from the sarcophagus of Teüris:
Me, Catholic, walking into a Protestant church with no depictions of Mary: where's my mom
Me, culturally Protestant, walking into a Catholic church filled balls to the walls with paintings sculptures candles and god knows what else: why’s there so much stuff
Me, Orthodox, walking into a western church: w h e r e a r e t h e b o n e s
Got to check out (older) churches in Spain for those bones :D
Thoth as a Baboon, Egyptian, 664–332 BC, Saint Louis Art Museum: Ancient Art
https://www.slam.org/collection/objects/31997/
African Sacred Ibis
Horus of Behdet (to the left) and Thoth (to the right) performing the ritual for the Union of the Two Lands./
On Faith in Ancient Egypt...
Did the ancients believe in the Netjeru? Or was their religion just a performative construct to support the ruler and the elites around him?
How about the average person of the time? Any evidence of their religious practice?
This 2 hour recording of an intriguing talk by and with Dr. Paul Harrison reflects the findings and ongoing discussion and discernment in the field of Egyptology.
https://youtu.be/OZPnSbTTMVo
tag yourself i’m ask me if i give a fuck
It’s not my fucking problem
im what the fuck do they want from my life
I’m eat shit and die, motherfucker
i’m ‘what the fuck?’
I’m usually “ask me if I give a fuck” but have my moments of “eat shit and die, motherfucker”
I need to up my (language) game.
Heritage et al
This picture is mainly for attention, although linked to the title. This wheat puppet is a memento from my visit to Abydos. I bought it at one of the temples - fittingly.
I stumbled over an interesting archaeologists blog on Wearable Heritage of the MENA Region some time ago. Beyond confirming some of the things I already found out on my own it provided a lot of great info on traditional wearables, cosmetics and more. They explain well how the present is linked to the past (antiquity) and which transformations happened:
https://www.wearableheritage.com
It is always great to know that even change can be relative.
Thoth as Ibis with Maat, Egyptian, 332–30 BC, Saint Louis Art Museum: Ancient Art
https://www.slam.org/collection/objects/35016/
Ancient Egyptian temple reveals previously unknown star constellations
The restoration of a soot-filled ancient Egyptian temple has revealed the previously unknown names of ancient Egyptian constellations, according to experts in Germany and Egypt.
The restoration has also uncovered the gorgeous original colors the ancient Egyptians painted the 2,000-year-old temple.
As workers in Egypt remove soot and dirt from the temple, sometimes with a mixture of alcohol and distilled water, the original painted carvings and hieroglyphics beneath are so vibrant, “it looks like it was painted yesterday,” project leader Christian Leitz, a professor of Egyptology at the University of Tübingen in Germany, told Live Science. “But we are not repainting anything, we are just removing the soot.”
During the restoration, researchers cleaned ancient carved scenes depicting the constellations, including the Big Dipper (known as Mesekhtiu) and Orion (known as Sah). They also found inscriptions about previously unknown constellations, including one called “Apedu n Ra,” or “the geese of Ra,” who is the ancient Egyptian sun deity, Leitz said. Read more.
Annakut at Dwarikadhish temple in Mathura.
Research project reveals the original pigments of 2,000-year-old inscriptions at the temple of Esna
More than 200 years after the rediscovery of an Egyptian temple, a German-Egyptian research team has uncovered the original colors of inscriptions that are around 2,000 years old. Freed from thick layers of soot and dirt, the reliefs and inscriptions can now be admired again in bright colors. The project, led by Egyptologist Professor Christian Leitz, also discovered new inscriptions that reveal the ancient Egyptian names of constellations for the first time. The restoration work is a cooperation between the Institute for Ancient Near Eastern Studies (IANES) at the University of Tübingen and the Egyptian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities.
The temple is in Esna, 60 kilometers south of Luxor in Egypt. Only the vestibule (called the pronaos) remains, but it is complete. At 37 meters long, 20 meters wide and 15 meters high, the sandstone structure was placed in front of the actual temple building under the Roman Emperor Claudius (41-54 AD) and probably eclipsed it. Read more.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
Stick-Gods ~ Dark Side of the Moon
Definitely yes (UPG)
Some rather unusual Djehuty epithets
He, who takes for himself the bow. The Baboon with His bow. The Knife of the Gods. The Lord of the Whip. The Lord of the Flint Knife.
The Fighter. The Great One at Parrying. The Lord of Strength. The Strong One of the Gods. The Valiant One. The one of Manly (= Strong) Arms. The One with the Strong Arm.
The Ruler of Lower Egypt. The Memory of both Lands.
The Presider over the Entrance to the Desert at Hwt-sh3y He who arises from the Desert Valley. The Lord of the Foreigners. The Presider over the Shore. The Presider over the High Plateau. He, who guides/manages (?) the Affairs of all Foreigners.
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Source: LGG - Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Bd. 8, p. 717-721 (there are more pages on Djehuty, these are the ones, in whch I found these epithets though). I translated them from German. Should there be some weird wording I would appreciate you telling me. Thank you!
Djehuty’s darker side (second edition)
“In common with all moon gods, Thoth is enveloped in an atmosphere of mystery. Therefore, more thought has been spent on his origins than on that of other gods. There is even a demoniacal trait in his character, an inexplicable hostility towards Osiris. The fascination of his exceptional accomplishments, however, consigns this peculiarity to oblivion” (Bleeker, p. 156).
Here I write a bit about Djehuty’s involvement with Osiris’ murder and how this does actually define Him as already hinted at in the Pyramid Texts (PT). This may not be mainstream, but there are enough hints at this view having been a thing at some time …
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