13

Present time

Turgoth was staring at Rebecca, apparently deep in his own thoughts. She waited patiently for him to begin the story.

“Originally,” he said eventually, “I’m Egyptian. The Pharaohs were egotistical, arrogant and vain, as powerful people so often are. They built those huge pyramids with the sweat and blood of others, supposedly in the hope of gaining immortality for themselves. They used to inspect the works, strutting about like little clockwork penguins. The people working there were mostly slaves. One day I said to a Pharaoh who had filled Egypt with statues of himself: ‘Why do you need so many statues? They’ll be adorned for all time with bird droppings. That will be your only accolade. As for me, when I die I’m going to ask the gods to break up my soul into little pieces so that I can be eaten by those birds and enter into their bodies.’ He looked at me as if I were already a bird and as if my droppings were already falling on his head. He didn’t send me away, though, because he wanted to be on good terms with me in case I really did become a bird in my next life. He was as superstitious as a fisherman and, being Egyptian, he also believed in reincarnation. He summoned the priests immediately and got them performing ceremonies, offering sacrifices and doing whatever else they deemed necessary. He told them to beg the god Osiris not to make me a bird and to beg the rest of the gods to make all birds disappear.”

Rebecca laughed, taking the King by surprise, as if he had forgotten she was there. He allowed himself a glimmer of a smile before continuing.

“I used to go to funerals and watch the dead and I realised that they all looked alike. I tried to think my way inside their heads to understand how they felt. Were their souls still there or had they departed in search of other haunts? I had hoped to find an orphaned soul, one as restless and footloose as mine. Maybe, I thought, the two of them could then become friends and play together like homeless dogs. I asked the dead questions and they answered many of them clearly.”

Rebecca had stopped laughing. She was unsure now whether he was teasing her. “But how can this be?” she asked. “Can the dead talk?”

“Of course they can talk,” he said gently, aware that she was unsure of how to react to him. “Mostly they talk about the nothingness of life. They urge us to be humble. They advise us not to go to war, telling us that all that matters is to love each other and to not cause anyone harm. The dead keep shouting: ‘Do only good!’”

“Now I understand what you mean. But I’ve never observed the dead, so I haven’t had such an important experience. I have sometimes wondered whether they’re jealous of the fact that we’re alive while they’re in the ground.”

“It depends on how they lived their lives and what there is where they are now. During the period when I was studying them, whenever I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, I felt as though I was being buried alive. It was as if I was enclosed in a painted sarcophagus and could hear the soil falling from the spades of the gravediggers onto the lid. I’d gasp and leap up, terrified. Then I’d stay awake for a week.

“I was full of passion back then, but the pain of life had wrung out my heart. One evening I went walking in the desert to soothe my troubled mind. Buzzards circled menacingly in a harsh blue sky. I remember I was wearing matching khaki trousers and shirt, my face covered to the eyes against the wind, and so I walked along the dunes.” He paused. “Are you sure I’m not boring you with my personal story?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, surprised by her own vehemence. “Please go on.”

“The sun set faster than I expected and by morning I was lost among the carcasses of camels and the skeletons of those too troubled, or too foolish, to turn back. My eyes dried out from the sun, I crawled up a dune and collapsed. Days passed and I managed to cling to life through sandstorms and burning heat until eventually I became aware of the shadows of horses and riders falling across my half-buried body.”

“How did you manage to survive?” she asked, impatient for more.

“The Bedouins who found me believed I would die. They took me to their camp and put me in the tent of the Lord of the Oasis, a wise old Bedouin with vivid eyes. When I eventually regained consciousness I saw his worried, windswept face, as wrinkled as a prune, leaning over me. And there she was - his daughter - standing beside him. My God, what sweet eyes Haruma had as she gazed down at me!”

Turgoth looked up, startled to find that Rebecca was staring at him through exactly the same beautiful eyes that he was remembering. Lost for a second in the space between his memories and the reality of the girl sitting in front of him, he stumbled and averted his gaze as he tried to find the words to continue.

“Her sublime, moonlit face was like an intoxicating flower of the night,” he said in a voice so quiet she had to lean forward to fully catch the words. “I fell instantly in love. The old man examined me as she stood beside him, so young and so beautiful.”

He stopped again and raised his eyes to hers. It seemed that he was summoning all his courage to say something else.

“Yes,” he said, “I can see it now. She strongly resembled... She looked - she looked just like you.”

Rebecca jumped back in shock at such unexpected words. She tried to think of something wise to say, but nothing came apart from a blush to her cheeks. She took several deep breaths. “So,” she said at last, “this is how you met... And what happened then?”

“They cared for me well and, having found peace in Haruma’s eyes, I stayed to learn about their wonderful culture.”

“And, did you marry her?”

Turgoth sighed deeply and continued as if every word was bringing him fresh physical pain.

“The chief and I grew close. There was mutual respect. He sadly confided in me that, had he known it was Haruma’s destiny to meet me, he wouldn’t have promised her in marriage to a prince who lived in another oasis. They were fiercely honourable people and there was no way he could break his word to another tribe.”

“Oh,” Rebecca said, struggling to work out the conflicting emotions she was feeling as Turgoth opened his heart to her.

“It was sweet agony. I could feel my senses stirring every time she looked at me. Our gazes would lock and our lips would meet in invisible, ardent kisses. At night we slept opposite each other in the round Bedouin tent and our feet would slip outside the covers to touch. Our hearts were like magical boxes - mine was just for her heart and if you had looked into hers, you would have seen my heart in her care. In my imagination I would take her by the hand and we would climb to the far side of the moon, beyond the eyes of the world, and stay until morning. We would stroll over the violet, moonlit dunes and make love.

“I wanted to stay there forever, if only to embrace her shadow. But they told me she was moving to the other oasis to marry and start a family. I collected my bits and pieces and my weary heart and, like the prodigal son, returned to my own village. It seemed to me that even the lilacs were fragrant with grief. Whenever the moon was full I would go to my tree, dip my thoughts into the silvery lake, and draw Haruma’s face on the moon. The stars recognised her! In their delight they all ran and took on the shape of the letters of her name and the lake would fill with love. The tree, my faithful friend, would put its arm around my shoulders. And my companions, the birds, would awaken from their sweet dreams to dance and sing in joy.

“I flicked through the pictures I had committed to memory during those days and sorted carefully away in my mind. I showed them to the birds and the tree by the faint light of the crying moon. The branches folded in like an umbrella so that all the leaves could see and hear every detail as I described each image to them passionately, pining for her.”

Turgoth was completely still, enduring the pain as the memories flooded through him and waiting for it to pass. Rebecca stood and walked to him. She put her hand on his cheek and wiped away a tear with her thumb. Still, he did not move but his eyes appeared to melt as they looked up at her.

“So much pain, Rebecca,” he said eventually. “It wrung out my heart and stripped my soul bare. What could I do with a dry heart and a barren soul? I tried to find the last flickers of fire, a few glowing embers.

“Now, thousands of years later, the pictures of my first and only love have faded, but I haven’t forgotten. In my heart there is a room where there are palm trees, sand and moonlit skies and Haruma sleeps there, in the attic. On rare occasions, she wakes up, dances and weeps with a smile. I watch her like I would gaze at a masterpiece.”

Turgoth took her hand from his cheek and kissed it lightly. For some reason, the story sounded familiar to her although she couldn’t understand why. She fought the urge to cry. Her feelings confused her. She felt as if she knew all this and the memories were just coming back. It was vivid and strange.

“I am imagining things,” she thought to herself.

Deliberately shattering the mood, Turgoth stood up abruptly. “Rebecca, please walk with me to the garden.”