Queen Bootlylicious of Punt

The Queen Who Came Bearing Bread

In the ninth year of Pharaoh Hatshepsut's reign, when the great temples of Kemet were rising towards the heavens and ships carried incense, myrrh and precious goods across distant seas, Queen Ati of Punt had a problem. The northern kingdoms were hungry, their harvests failing and their rulers arguing over whose gods had misplaced the rain. Ati, a formidable diplomat with a mind sharper than a bronze chisel, authorised an expedition of grain, medicinal herbs and agricultural knowledge. Her mission was simple: feed the children, restore the harvests and establish a trade agreement that would benefit both sides. Her advisers called it the Puntian Relief Initiative. Ati called it Tuesday.

The queen's flagship, The Unanswerable Argument, was a magnificent vessel with painted sails, cedarwood cabins and a cargo hold full of food. Behind it sailed seven transport ships carrying grain, dried dates, lentils, oils and seedlings carefully packed in damp earth. Aboard the flagship travelled scribes, healers, engineers and a particularly irritable royal accountant named Nefru, who believed every international crisis could be solved by eliminating unnecessary expenditure. When the ships approached the misty northern coastline, Nefru peered over the rail and sighed. “Your Majesty, I must warn you that these people have no proper harbours, no reliable warehouses and absolutely no understanding of inventory management.” Ati smiled. “Then we shall teach them all three.” Nefru looked towards the shore. “I was afraid you would say that.”

Their destination was the fragmented territory known to Puntian navigators as Alba-Francia, a collection of quarrelling settlements scattered across a cold, forested land. Its inhabitants had impressive beards, questionable plumbing and a curious belief that bathing was an optional diplomatic gesture. Their chieftains wore animal skins, decorated their halls with antlers and regarded a well-fitted tunic as evidence of divine favour. The most influential settlement, Lutessia, stood beside a muddy river and was governed by King Gromwald the Considerably Worried, whose treasury was empty, whose granaries were emptier and whose subjects had begun to regard boiled bark as an ambitious culinary experiment.

News of the approaching fleet travelled faster than the king's messengers. By sunset, three rumours had spread through Lutessia: the southern queen possessed ships that floated without water, her physicians could cure a headache by looking disappointed at it, and her royal backside was so magnificently proportioned that it required its own diplomatic escort. The first rumour was exaggerated, the second entirely plausible and the third had originated with a fisherman who had never seen the queen. Unfortunately, the fisherman also happened to be the king's principal adviser on foreign affairs. By morning, Gromwald had ordered the construction of a ceremonial throne twice the usual width, three additional cushions and a public announcement welcoming “the distinguished lady of extraordinary architectural presence.”

Ati received the announcement through her chief interpreter, the brilliant and dry-witted Seshat-Ra, who had studied eleven trading languages and considered all of them preferable to northern diplomacy. “They have prepared a special throne for you, Majesty,” she explained. “Apparently, their furniture has been informed of your arrival.” Ati raised an eyebrow. “Excellent. Have they prepared food for the children?” Seshat-Ra consulted the message. “They have prepared a banquet for the royal delegation.” “And the children?” “There is no mention of the children.” The queen turned towards the harbour. “Then we shall begin with the children.”

The Bronze-Broadcasting Council

The royal delegation entered Lutessia to the sound of horns, drums and one unfortunate man who had mistaken his ceremonial trumpet for a drinking vessel. King Gromwald welcomed Ati beneath a canopy of wolf pelts, while his courtiers stared at her linen garments, gold ornaments and confident bearing. A group of noblewomen stood near the throne, their dresses tightly belted and their skirts arranged in the fashionable northern style, which favoured narrow silhouettes and the strategic concealment of anything resembling a comfortable meal. They examined Ati with the intensity of inspectors discovering an unregistered building. One whispered that the queen's proportions were impossible. Another suggested that Puntian tailors must possess secret knowledge of geometry. A third, who had spent six months trying to achieve a fashionable curve using folded wool, fainted directly into a bowl of turnip soup.

The ceremony was being transmitted across Alba-Francia by the Bronze-Broadcasting Council, universally abbreviated to the BBC, a fictional network of polished bronze mirrors, signal towers and ingenious optical devices. Its chief herald, Berrick Bluster, appeared on a great reflective disc before the assembled crowd, wearing a helmet that made him look like an anxious kettle. “Citizens of the northern territories,” he announced, “today we welcome an illustrious visitor from Punt, a land of astonishing ships, exotic produce and, according to our sources, unusual anatomical advantages.” Ati watched the mirror in silence. “What is this contraption?” she asked. “Their public information service,” Seshat-Ra replied. “They broadcast news, royal announcements and whatever nonsense attracts the largest audience.” Ati considered this. “Do they broadcast information about agriculture?” “Occasionally.” “Medicine?” “Rarely.” “The price of grain?” “Only when the king is unpopular.”

Berrick, meanwhile, had reached his principal question. “Your Majesty, our viewers are fascinated by your celebrated silhouette. Does such extraordinary natural architecture make it difficult to pass through narrow doorways?” The court fell silent. Ati looked at the nearest doorway, then at the herald's enormous helmet. “No,” she replied pleasantly. “But I imagine your headgear presents difficulties in ordinary weather.” A child laughed. Then another. Within seconds, the entire square was roaring, including several people who did not understand the language but recognised the expression of a man who had just been defeated by a sentence. Berrick attempted to recover his dignity, struck his helmet against the broadcasting apparatus and sent a shower of sparks across the platform. The bronze mirrors flashed, the transmission tower emitted a noise like a distressed goose and the BBC signal disappeared beneath a cloud of smoke.

That evening, the queen refused the royal banquet until food had been distributed to the settlement's hungry families. Her engineers inspected the granaries, her healers examined the sick and her agricultural advisers discovered that much of the local grain had been stored in damp pits beneath buildings occupied by goats. Ati negotiated a relief programme that included seed distribution, improved storage, irrigation techniques and training for local farmers. Within days, the first shipments had been unloaded, the children were eating properly and Nefru had produced a ledger so comprehensive that the northern treasurer began weeping over its beauty. For the first time in months, King Gromwald's subjects discussed something other than famine. Unfortunately, the subject they chose was Ati's backside.

The Birth of the Ati-Arc

The first meeting of the Northern Council of Elegant Proportions was convened three days later in a chamber that smelled of damp wool and wounded pride. Its members included Lady Ysabet de Chalkmere, an aristocrat famous for her collection of seventeen nearly identical gowns; Mistress Odette de Volumère, a gifted dressmaker from the western city of Bellacour; and Master Merrick Boneweaver, an inventor from the forest settlement of Brindlewick who believed every social problem could be solved by attaching a lever to it. Their stated purpose was to investigate southern tailoring techniques. Their actual purpose was to reproduce Ati's silhouette without admitting that they wanted to reproduce Ati's silhouette. “We must approach the matter scientifically,” declared Lady Ysabet. “Precisely,” said Odette. “I shall require measurements, structural diagrams and an advance payment.” Merrick raised a hand. “I have already built something.” Everyone looked at him. “It squeaks,” he added.

His invention was a framework of woven willow, padded linen and flexible wooden ribs, strapped discreetly beneath a garment to alter its outline. Merrick called it the Gluteal-Extension Rig, a name that impressed nobody except Merrick. Odette immediately redesigned the contraption, replacing the heavy framework with layered fabric, adjustable ties and curved supports. She named the improved version the Ati-Arc, claiming that the arc of its construction honoured the queen's natural proportions. Lady Ysabet preferred The Hinter-Harp, because she believed foreign-sounding names increased the price. By the end of the meeting, three versions had been patented, two more had been stolen and a fourth was being advertised by a man who had never seen the invention. The northern fashion industry had been born, and it had immediately become unbearable.

The first public demonstration took place in the king's courtyard. Lady Ysabet emerged wearing a magnificent blue gown whose rear silhouette was so dramatically enlarged that she could no longer reverse through the palace doors. Odette insisted this was a minor architectural oversight. Merrick announced that his latest model could expand in response to applause, which was true in the same way that a falling tree could be described as an advanced form of forestry. When the crowd applauded, the framework expanded. When the crowd gasped, it expanded further. When a child shouted “Again!”, it expanded so violently that Lady Ysabet rotated backwards into a decorative fountain, carrying three courtiers and a ceremonial goose with her. The goose survived. Lady Ysabet demanded compensation. Merrick demanded royalties. Odette demanded that everyone stop dripping on her samples.

Ati watched the demonstration from the palace steps, accompanied by Seshat-Ra and Nefru. “They have used our relief supplies to manufacture a device for altering their clothes?” the queen asked. “Not the relief supplies, Majesty,” Nefru replied. “They have used the wooden packing frames from the grain shipments.” Ati closed her eyes. “And the children?” “Fed, Majesty.” “The farmers?” “Training has begun.” “Then let us be grateful that only their dignity is in danger.” She turned to leave, but a small girl approached carrying a broken wooden rib from the invention. “Queen Ati,” the child asked, “why do the grown-ups want to look like you?” Ati knelt beside her. “Sometimes people see something beautiful and decide they must possess it. They forget that admiration is not ownership.” The girl considered this carefully. “Can I have a second bowl of lentils?” “That,” said Ati, “is an excellent use of ambition.”

The Conspiracy Takes Shape

Within a month, the Ati-Arc had become the most sought-after garment in Alba-Francia. Noblewomen queued outside Odette's workshop, merchants imported willow by the cartload and counterfeiters sold imitation frameworks that collapsed whenever their owners attempted to sit down. A popular advertisement promised “The Royal Rear, Without the Royal Responsibility!” Another offered a discount for customers who could prove they had never eaten a full meal. King Gromwald, delighted that his subjects had found a new occupation, announced a national festival celebrating the invention. The festival was to include music, dancing, a grand parade and a competition for the most impressive silhouette. Nefru calculated that the cost of the decorations alone could have purchased grain for three villages. Ati ordered the accounts reviewed. The festival committee immediately accused her of being hostile to innovation.

The BBC, desperate to recover its audience after Berrick Bluster's disastrous interview, began broadcasting nightly reports from the emerging fashion district. Its new slogan was “The Shape of Tomorrow, Today!” Berrick interviewed designers, merchants and aristocrats who described the Ati-Arc as a triumph of northern ingenuity. Nobody mentioned the queen who had inspired it, except to suggest that she might have benefited from northern tailoring. Ati listened to one broadcast while reviewing agricultural reports. “They have taken an idea inspired by my appearance, ignored my contribution and are charging their own people for it,” she observed. Seshat-Ra nodded. “That is their current business model, Majesty.” Ati placed the report on her desk. “Then we shall introduce them to a different model.”

She summoned Odette, Merrick and the principal merchants to the palace and proposed a public agreement. They could continue manufacturing the Ati-Arc, provided that safe construction standards were established, misleading claims were prohibited and a portion of the proceeds funded public granaries and agricultural training. Odette agreed immediately, recognising a sensible business arrangement when she saw one. Merrick agreed after learning that approved designs would carry his name. The merchants hesitated until Nefru explained that a regulated market was considerably more profitable than a market in which half the customers were suing the other half. The agreement was signed before sunset. For a brief and glorious moment, it appeared that commerce, public welfare and common sense had reached a historic understanding.

Then Lady Ysabet de Chalkmere entered the chamber carrying a sealed scroll. She claimed that a secret guild called The Order of the Hidden Seam possessed an earlier design, one far more advanced than the Ati-Arc. According to the scroll, the invention had not originated in Lutessia, Brindlewick or Bellacour. Its original blueprint had been discovered in a buried chamber beneath an abandoned coastal observatory, beside a bronze instrument whose purpose nobody understood. The design bore the symbol of a crowned figure standing beneath seven stars. Ati examined the drawing. Her expression changed. Seshat-Ra recognised the symbol from the royal archives of Punt. It was not a tailor's mark. It was an ancient navigational seal, used by an order of engineers whose records had disappeared centuries before Ati's birth.

That night, while the northern court celebrated the agreement, a small vessel slipped out of Lutessia's harbour without lights. Its passenger carried the original blueprint, the bronze instrument and a letter addressed to someone whose name had been scratched away. On the reverse was a single sentence: “The first frame is complete. Prepare the second.”

Far across the sea, aboard The Unanswerable Argument, Ati received an urgent message from Punt. Her chief engineer had discovered the same seven-star symbol engraved inside a sealed chamber beneath the royal observatory. The chamber had remained locked since the reign of an ancestor whose name had been deliberately removed from every official record. Now, for the first time in centuries, the lock had opened by itself.

Ati stood beneath the stars, holding the northern blueprint in one hand and the royal message in the other. Behind her, the relief ships were ready to sail home. Ahead lay a mystery older than the fashion craze, older than the northern kingdoms and possibly older than the royal house of Punt itself.

Then the bronze instrument began to hum.

A thin line of golden light appeared across its surface, forming a map of coastlines that did not exist on any chart in the royal library. At the centre of the map was a small inscription in the oldest language of Punt.

Seshat-Ra translated it slowly.

“When the second frame is worn, the first kingdom shall awaken.”

From somewhere inside the sealed chamber came the unmistakable sound of a spring being wound.

Ati looked at her chief engineer.

“Tell me,” she said, “that this is not another dressmaker.”

The chamber door slammed shut.

And beneath the palace, something enormous began to move.

TO BE CONTINUED: PART II — THE BUSTLE BACKLASH: THE GREAT WIRE REBELLION