The Phantom and the Fisherman Read Online Free PDF
Author: Terry Deary
Chapter 1
The Miserable Master
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Menes whispered to his friend Ahmose.
Menes heard the sudden swish of a stick then felt it strike him on the back.
“No talking in class!” the fat and sweating teacher hissed.
“Sorry, Master Meshwesh,” Menes muttered. He bent his head over the plaster board in front of him. He dipped his reed pen in water, rubbed it against the black ink-block and started writing again.
Lessons were in a cool garden with a sparkling fountain. But still Menes sweated over his work.
But fat Master Meshwesh wasn’t finished with him yet.
“You will never be a good scribe if you talk when you should be working, will you, Menes?”
“No, Master Meshwesh,” the boy sighed.
“But, if you work hard, you will grow to be a temple scribe and as rich as a lord. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Menes?”
“Yes, Master Meshwesh.”
The teacher was panting in the midday sun and licking his thick lips.
“Yes, Master Meshwesh,” he mimicked.
“Rich. Learn to write and you can become a priest. Or even a corn dealer, like Ahmose’s father. Not like your father. A poor and stinking fisherman. If you talk in class I’ll have you thrown out of school and you’ll end up like your fishy, foul father.”
Suddenly the master grabbed Menes by the ear and lifted the boy to his feet. He breathed his onion breath into the boy’s face. “Have you brought any fish from home for me?”
“Yes, Master Meshwesh!” Menes squealed as the fat thumb and finger squeezed his ear.
“Good,” the teacher said. “In that case we will stop for lunch.”
The ten boys rinsed their pens in the water, stood up and stretched. Menes opened his linen bag and took out two pieces of dried fish and some bread. The teacher let loose the boy’s ear, snatched the food in one huge paw and grinned his gap-toothed grin.
“Tasty!” he said and smacked his lips.
“One fish was for me,” Menes said.
“Well, I’ve just taken it from you as a punishment,” Master Meshwesh said. He walked over to the shade of a garden wall and began to fill his face with the food in one hand then wash it down with a flask of beer in the other.
The boys knew he would sleep for an hour after lunch as he did every day. They would be free to talk.
Menes shook his head. “Tell me, Ahmose, do you think learning to write will make us rich?”
Ahmose was the same age as Menes but his father was a wealthy corn dealer. “If we can write, the temple will pay us well to work. Maybe one of the lords will give us a job. Yes, being a scribe will make us rich.”
“So why is Master Meshwesh a teacher? Why isn’t he making money at the temple?” Menes asked.
Ahmose took his friend by the arm and dragged him round the corner of the garden wall so they were hidden from the bullying master.
He spoke quickly and quietly. “He was the scribe to Payneshi, the governor of our region. He had to keep a record of all the corn and the animals, the gold and the jewels, the slaves and the wine of Payneshi.”
“An important job,” Menes said.
“But Master Meshwesh used his scribe skills to cheat Payneshi. If Payneshi got two bags of gold then Meshwesh wrote that he had one bag of gold, you see?”
Menes shook his head. “No.”
“Meshwesh wrote one bag of gold on the list – and there was one bag of gold in Payneshi’s counting house. The other bag of gold would go into Meshwesh’s pocket, you see?”
“Did he have big pockets?” Menes asked.
Ahmose groaned. “I don’t mean he put it in his pocket – I mean he pinched it. He was caught when the Pharaoh sent a box of jewels to Payneshi and then sent a message to ask if Payneshi liked them.”
“Did he?” Menes asked.
“He never got them! Payneshi realised Meshwesh must have stolen them,” Ahmose explained. “He was furious.”
“Did he get the box of jewels back?” Menes asked.
“No. Meshwesh must have hidden them. He said he knew
The Miserable Master
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Menes whispered to his friend Ahmose.
Menes heard the sudden swish of a stick then felt it strike him on the back.
“No talking in class!” the fat and sweating teacher hissed.
“Sorry, Master Meshwesh,” Menes muttered. He bent his head over the plaster board in front of him. He dipped his reed pen in water, rubbed it against the black ink-block and started writing again.
Lessons were in a cool garden with a sparkling fountain. But still Menes sweated over his work.
But fat Master Meshwesh wasn’t finished with him yet.
“You will never be a good scribe if you talk when you should be working, will you, Menes?”
“No, Master Meshwesh,” the boy sighed.
“But, if you work hard, you will grow to be a temple scribe and as rich as a lord. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Menes?”
“Yes, Master Meshwesh.”
The teacher was panting in the midday sun and licking his thick lips.
“Yes, Master Meshwesh,” he mimicked.
“Rich. Learn to write and you can become a priest. Or even a corn dealer, like Ahmose’s father. Not like your father. A poor and stinking fisherman. If you talk in class I’ll have you thrown out of school and you’ll end up like your fishy, foul father.”
Suddenly the master grabbed Menes by the ear and lifted the boy to his feet. He breathed his onion breath into the boy’s face. “Have you brought any fish from home for me?”
“Yes, Master Meshwesh!” Menes squealed as the fat thumb and finger squeezed his ear.
“Good,” the teacher said. “In that case we will stop for lunch.”
The ten boys rinsed their pens in the water, stood up and stretched. Menes opened his linen bag and took out two pieces of dried fish and some bread. The teacher let loose the boy’s ear, snatched the food in one huge paw and grinned his gap-toothed grin.
“Tasty!” he said and smacked his lips.
“One fish was for me,” Menes said.
“Well, I’ve just taken it from you as a punishment,” Master Meshwesh said. He walked over to the shade of a garden wall and began to fill his face with the food in one hand then wash it down with a flask of beer in the other.
The boys knew he would sleep for an hour after lunch as he did every day. They would be free to talk.
Menes shook his head. “Tell me, Ahmose, do you think learning to write will make us rich?”
Ahmose was the same age as Menes but his father was a wealthy corn dealer. “If we can write, the temple will pay us well to work. Maybe one of the lords will give us a job. Yes, being a scribe will make us rich.”
“So why is Master Meshwesh a teacher? Why isn’t he making money at the temple?” Menes asked.
Ahmose took his friend by the arm and dragged him round the corner of the garden wall so they were hidden from the bullying master.
He spoke quickly and quietly. “He was the scribe to Payneshi, the governor of our region. He had to keep a record of all the corn and the animals, the gold and the jewels, the slaves and the wine of Payneshi.”
“An important job,” Menes said.
“But Master Meshwesh used his scribe skills to cheat Payneshi. If Payneshi got two bags of gold then Meshwesh wrote that he had one bag of gold, you see?”
Menes shook his head. “No.”
“Meshwesh wrote one bag of gold on the list – and there was one bag of gold in Payneshi’s counting house. The other bag of gold would go into Meshwesh’s pocket, you see?”
“Did he have big pockets?” Menes asked.
Ahmose groaned. “I don’t mean he put it in his pocket – I mean he pinched it. He was caught when the Pharaoh sent a box of jewels to Payneshi and then sent a message to ask if Payneshi liked them.”
“Did he?” Menes asked.
“He never got them! Payneshi realised Meshwesh must have stolen them,” Ahmose explained. “He was furious.”
“Did he get the box of jewels back?” Menes asked.
“No. Meshwesh must have hidden them. He said he knew