The Weight of Souls

7 SO DISAPPOINTED

Dad had fallen asleep at his desk again. The Tale of Oh-Fa lay open beside his microscope. If I took it I could get it back in place by the morning. I ached at the thought of actually reading the words that my mother had once spoken. Automatically I picked it up and opened it to the front page. The familiar sentences danced in front of me, drawing me in.

The journal of Oh-Fa, translated from the Chinese by his daughter, Oh Yehao

Entry the first

I have consulted the I-Ching. That is how I know my son will be born on this date. The fact that I will not see him until he is near walking is a source of great pain. But my heart’s ache is unimportant; our family needs this salary.

Today we begin working on a new grid so maybe we will find the sign the Professor seeks and this interminable misery will end.

I sit on my tiny camp bed to write. The overseer I call Sunbird, because of his bright red hair, permitted me to use these old requisitions once he witnessed my industriousness. Not all of the company work so hard. Even now, despite the brutality of the sun burning through the tent, I see the lankiest of them still fast asleep, one arm slung over his face, knees off the end of his too-small bed. The others have gone for breakfast. The last of them stumbled and cursed into the glare only moments ago. Only he and I remain, one too lazy and the other too excited to eat.

I am tempted to waken him, but the last time I did so, he attacked me and today I am happy to let him lie.

Today I become a father.

First bell is ringing, calling us to work. I must go too. Still it occurs to me before I put down this charcoal that hours in different lands flow inversely. Although it is early here, in Egypt, it may be late at home. I wonder if I will feel different once the time comes.

Is it possible that I am already a father?

A wave of exhaustion rocked me and I stroked the soft paper, almost pitying the man whose story had begun with such hope but ended in despair. One more entry and I would waken Dad.

Entry the second

A miracle has occurred. The discovery has been made and, incredibly, I myself was the one to make it. As I brushed sand aside, just as I have done a million times, the visage of a dog’s head on a man’s body resolved itself from the sand. It was just as the Professor had described.

The Sunbird overseer was the first to notice my shock. Sand puffed around him as he slid to a stop by my feet, barely able to believe after all these months of failure. Then he wheezed his way to the Professor’s tent, calling for our employer who swiftly emerged with his wiry daschund, Titus, dogging his heels.

Due to an excess of coffee and lack of hygiene, the Professor’s teeth have become dark yellow. The colour ensures that his tombstone incisors are the locus of his narrow face. When he reached me, he bared these decayed markers and leaned so close to the stone that his breath shifted fine dust around the dog’s carved muzzle.

“The jackal,” he breathed. “At last.”

Then he had the company clear a four-metre space around the cell where I had been digging. Once we had laboured to board back the sand and provide a canvas shade, he banished us.

Several card games have now sprung up and I have returned to our tent.

I cannot help but wonder if the ancestors are smiling on me. Today all my dreams will come true, I feel it.

What an idiot; if only he could see what was coming. With difficulty I pulled my eyes from the text. There was no point taking the book with me, I’d be asleep before the end of the next page and if Dad noticed it missing he’d never trust me enough to let me have Mum's notes.

I placed it carefully back down with a sigh and nudged him awake. “Dad?”

Groggily he sat up and pulled a document off his face. Smudges of ink blackened his chin and his wedding ring had dented his cheek.

“You should be in bed.”

“I was waiting for you.” His shoulders cracked as he stretched. “You’re still in your uniform. You haven’t been home before now?” He focused on his watch with a frown. “This is ridiculous. You have school in the morning.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting it to take this long.”

“It – another ‘murderer’?”

I nodded with an inward groan, waiting for Dad’s lecture on hallucinations. But he just turned to his microscope with a sigh.

“I don’t know what to do any more, Taylor.” His hand rasped over his stubble. “I can’t control you.”

I swallowed. “About that…”

“What?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I have to give you this from the school.” I handed him the rumpled letter. “You need to sign it and write a comment so I can get it back to Mr Barnes tomorrow.”

“What is it?” Dad put his glasses on to read and I let the letter speak for itself. “You attacked a boy in the playground?” His shoulders dropped and his hair fell into his eyes; I couldn’t see his reaction.

“It was Justin Hargreaves, Dad. You know what he’s like.”

“I know you don’t like him.” He shook his great head, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “This has to stop, Taylor. The path you’re on doesn’t end well.”

“He started it.”

“The letter says it was unprovoked. I’ve had enough, Taylor. I’m going to have to ground you for the weekend and as of Monday you have a curfew. I expect you in the house, doing your homework, by 8pm every single day.”

“But–”

“It’s reasonable, Taylor.”

I rubbed my bare hand. It wouldn’t be too bad to stay in all weekend; thanks to Mum the ghosts couldn’t haunt me inside the house.

I nodded and as Dad scribbled a note on the letter I wished, not for the first time, that my parents had allowed me to be home-schooled once the curse had struck. If I stayed at home I wouldn’t have to risk encountering ghosts at school and I wouldn’t have to put up with Justin Hargreaves. But Mum had wanted me to have a normal life. I closed my eyes and thought of her once more.

“I have you and your Dad to keep me sane. You need friends; people your own age. You need to have time to think about pop music and clothes and – yes – boys. Otherwise...” Her eyes darkened and I know she was thinking about her own mother, who had killed herself when I was a baby. She shook herself then. “Anyway, you have to be on the lookout.”

“I’m always on the lookout for the ghosts, you’ve told me.”

Mum shook her head. “When your ancestor agreed to our curse, those of his line that bore it were each promised a great love. It's our reward and a way for Anubis to ensure the legacy gets passed on. Somewhere out there someone is waiting for you. That’s who you need to look out for – and you can’t do that if you never leave the house.” She sighed. “Also, Taylor, your dad doesn’t believe in the ghosts, so there’s no way he’ll agree to home-schooling to protect you from them.” She ruffled my hair. “You have to stop thinking of the departed as the bad guys. They’re souls seeking justice and we have the honour of being able to give it to them. Try and have a normal life.” The ruffling hand turned soft. “Look forward to finding the love of it. And in the between times, be proud of what you do for the dead.”

Dad folded the letter and rolled back from the table with a groan. “I’m just so disappointed in you, Taylor.”