Our Creation Myth

“Why did you steal from us?” Hisan asked—a question left unspoken a decade ago.

The sphinx’s teeth broke the crust of the hearty barley loaf the pharaoh set at her paws. “I was hungry,” she said. “And your kingdom had food.”

“That’s… simple.”

“It was easy. And fun,” she went on. “And I was alone. As all sphinxes come into the world. We are licked clean by our mother before she leaves and that warmth sustains us for the centuries we live. And if it doesn’t, we learn to take.”

Hisan did not eat with her, for he brought nothing for himself. “But you are intelligent. You know valuable truths about the world. Why not share with others? Why not ask for what you need?”

The sphinx’s eyes had a waxen glow about them. “Do ponies always ask for what they need? Do ponies want to know all truths?”

“Perhaps,” Hisan answered, “if the one speaking offers enlightenment.”

The sphinx stood, her shadow draping across the pharaoh. She circled once, then sunk her bulk upon the cave floor, her pelt sagging around the bones of her haunches.

“It is a cruel fate,” she said, “to be enlightened and starving.”