Ancient Egyptian Magic Mandrake Notebook

A mind that does not record its secrets is a sieve. Useless. The sand swallows the river's flood and by the season of Shemu, it has forgotten the water. You must write. Look at this cover. The mandrake. The root that twists like a sleeping man in the black earth. The fruit of love and the bringer of the heavy sleep. The healers in the House of Life drop their voices to a whisper when they grind it. I have seen the high priests administer its yellow juice to those whose limbs are crushed by falling stones in the quarries. It is a dangerous power. To place the image of this plant upon the cover of your writings is a declaration. It warns the casual eye that the words inside are not the daily tallies of emmer wheat. Not the petty complaints of a herdsman whose calf was taken by a crocodile in the papyrus thickets. These pages are for the deep things. Poorly beaten papyrus crumbles when the dry wind blows. It snags the reed pen. This paper is thick. It drinks the black and red ink without bleeding into a chaotic mess. Ma'at demands order in all things, and a scattered pile of loose texts is the work of Seth. Total chaos. A bound book holds the thoughts secure. Keep your protective amulets drawn here. The movements of the decan stars. The true names of those who owe you silver or malice. The mandrake guards the entrance, but your hand must fill the void within. The ink is mixed. The shadows of the western mountains are already touching the temple walls.