Split Second Solution by Denny Taylor

Author:Denny Taylor
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Garn Press
Published: 2016-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-One

“When I was a little girl I imagined my mother working as an archeologist in North Africa,” Word said. “She had ancient texts from Mesopotamia – the cradle of civilization, which no longer exists – and that’s where I imagined her working.”

“Go on,” Cat said.

“Her work was very secret, very dangerous,” Word said. “I didn’t imagine that. She told me she’d made a discovery that could change the future of the world. What I imagined was that before I was born she was working with the man who would become my father and that together they excavated the site where the discovery was made.”

“You were a very precocious little girl,” Cat said. “I have to remember you were reading Greek and Latin when you were two years old.”

“Hieroglyphs and Sanskrit too,” Word said, “just to be accurate. Hieroglyphs are really fun when you are two years old.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Cat said, laughing at her own joke. “Get it – word for it?”

“My mother studied Sumerian, which was an ancient language women as well as men learned to read in Mesopotamia,” Word said, dismissing Cat’s joke and revealing her enormous capacity for learning. “Many scholars believe Mesopotamians invented writing, making it possible for them to find a new way of looking at the world. My mother was convinced writing was invented many millennia before that.”

“Back to your father,” Cat said, impatient with Word’s history lesson.

“My mother did tell me he was gentle, kind, and very brave,” Word said. “In my imaginary account of what happened to my father there was a raid at the archeological site where they were working. There was a spy –”

“They’re all louts,” Cat said.

“But in my version of their story,” Word said, leaning forward and kissing Cat’s head, “there was a secret chamber at the dig and my father placed the small oilskin package in my mother’s hands, and telling her to keep it safe, he persuaded her to climb down into the chamber. I used to imagine my father in flowing desert robes embracing my mother – a hug seemed too ordinary – and telling her it was her only chance of survival. I could almost hear him saying, ‘I’ll love you till the end of time.’ And then guns firing, killing him.”

“You have a very vivid imagination,” Cat said.

“Wait,” Word said, “there’s more.”

“Go on,” Cat said, pretending that the story was too long.

“I used to imagine my mother in the chamber for almost a week,” Word said. “My father, being a good man –”

“Are there any?” Cat asked.

“Yes there are,” Word said. “You’re too cynical. X-it is a good man. Back to the story. I imagined my father had prepared for the attack at the archeological site and my mother had water and food and even clothes – a hijab – money and a passport. I imagined that to the men who killed my father, the entrance to the chamber looked like just a crack between the stones. It was very narrow and a large man could not have got through.

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