Despite what Harpoc said last night about not taking responsibility for others’ decisions, I pick at my food, unable to keep guilt completely at bay. If only I hadn’t translated that scroll.
Harpoc soon digs into his second helping of béchamel, eating enough for the both of us. How can he not feel responsible?
I rub my thighs under the picnic table, across from him. The dig team’s given us a wide berth and eats in a clump at the other tables.
“You done?” Harpoc finally asks.
“Yes.”
I’m never so happy when he stands, gathers my unfinished breakfast, and disposes of our paper plates. “Come on.”
Turning to the others he says, “Thank you for your hospitality. I hope your leader makes a full recovery.”
With that he pushes through the tent flap and holds it open for me.
The sun has started climbing in the sky and several birds chatter, but despite the sunny morning, my chest is tight as we kick up dust on our way toward the temple ruins. In any other situation, I’d be like a kid in a candy store, thrilled to experience an opportunity like this, but my heart isn’t in it.
Halfway to our destination, Harpoc grabs my arm and draws me up short.
“Just like the sphinx, that man’s choice is not your fault.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he presses a finger across my lips.
“You brought the sphinx to life, yes, but you’re hardly responsible for its or that man’s choices. He could have evacuated with the others. He chose not to. On top of that, they tried to flee, which is how he got into that mess to begin with. They’d have been better off just staying put.” He clenches his jaw.
“But—”
Harpoc keeps his finger in place and shakes his head. “I’m sorry it happened, too, I truly am, but you can’t take responsibility for any of their choices.”
He lifts his finger and I look down at the dirt. Like before, his argument makes sense, but I still feel bad.
“Pell, it’s not wrong to feel bad, but that’s different than feeling guilty.”
I’m not responsible for anyone’s decisions but my own… no matter the outcome. The thought brings me up short.
Have I always blended the two? Feeling bad and feeling guilty? With my messed-up upbringing, it’s entirely possible. In fact, it’s probable. But with that distinction, a sense of peace flits over me because he’s right; their choices are no one’s responsibility but their own.
The tightness in my chest eases, and I take in a deep breath, pushing back guilt. I still feel bad, but I shouldn’t feel guilty.
I ponder for several more seconds and decide I can live with that.
“We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I can take you back, just say the word.” Harpoc’s eyes soften.
I study his face for signs of frustration at my propensity to take on guilt so quickly but find none. No, he’s not judging me.
He really does have a good heart.
I take another deep breath as I scan the field of overturned obelisks and stacked granite blocks, and my archeology juices start to flow—one cracked pot digging up another, true indeed. I laugh to myself. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
We stay.
Based on that experience with the sphinx, it seems Harpoc knows a bit about the ancient world, so he’s a good sport as I regale him with irrelevant trivia and stories about artifacts I’ve unearthed in my work as we wander through the largest parts of the site; while many of the artifacts from here have been sent to one museum or another, there’s much about the ancient civilization still being discovered, and excitement overwhelms my melancholy in short order.
That and renewed curiosity, because there’s also the question from last night that I plan to get to the bottom of. The fact that he and the sphinx spoke in a language the two of them understood, but I sure didn’t, and I know a bunch.
Harpoc confirmed that hieroglyphs are part of his secret magic. Does it also give him knowledge of all sorts of languages? Is that why he could speak with the sphinx? That sure would be cool. And handy.
Perhaps I can wheedle the truth out of him today.
As we investigate the temple of Amun’s ruins, I get excited and point at a hole in the ground. “Oh, oh, look!”
Harpoc narrows his eyes.
“This used to be a water well, but not just any water well. See the markings on the lip and down the inside?”
“Yes.” He draws out the word, grinning at my excitement.
“It’s a nilometer.”
“Let me guess, it’s a water well that measures… nil, nothing?”
I snort. “Ni-lom-eter, not nil-om-eter.”
He throws his palms up in surrender. “Enlighten me.”
“In ancient Egypt, the Nile was very important to farming. During part of the year, the river burst its banks and covered the adjacent floodplain. When the waters receded, they left behind a black silt that made the land incredibly fertile.”
Harpoc bobs his head. “So this—” He smirks. “—Nile-o-meter?”
“Ni-lom-eter.” I roll my eyes. “It was connected through a tunnel to the Nile and allowed the priests to gauge flood levels. Too much or too little told them they had ticked off the gods and the pharaoh, as the earthly representative of the sun god, wasn’t doing his job.”
“Wouldn’t have wanted to be the priest who told pharaoh he was fired.”
I burst out laughing.
Harpoc looks about. “Why’s it here in the temple?”
“Having it handy allowed the priests to predict the volume of the coming flood, adding to their mystique.”
“I see.” His eyes light up. “So was there an Amazonometer or Yangtzeometer or Mississippiometer?”
I shake
