Read Online The Sleeping Baobab Tree by Paula Leyden - Free Book Online
Authors: Paula Leyden
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doesn’t seem to notice.
On Sister’s desk there was a pile of books and pictures about Egypt. I love it when we do Egypt, but that’s normally in History. Sister had never done it with us in Religious Studies before.
“Sit down, sit down,” she said. “Wait quietly for the others, then we’ll begin. We’re going back to Ng’ombe Ilede today.”
I saw Madillo looking sideways at Fred. He went a little pale I think.
As soon as everyone else was in, Sister started. She wrote A R C H A E O L O G I S T S in big uneven letters on the blackboard, and next to them she drew a skull and crossbones. Like this:
“So,” she said. “Archaeologists. The scourge of the living and the dead. Men and their shovels, digging up people and things that have no wish whatsoever to be dug up. If I ever hear of one of you becoming an archaeologist I will tell the world that I had nothing to do with it.”
She stood there looking accusingly at each of us in turn. If any of us did happen to become an archaeologist, I can’t think that the first question we’d be asked would be “Did Sister Leonisa put you up to this?”
In my mind I was ticking the new column in the little red book: STORIES THAT HAVE DEATH IN THEM.
“There they are, the thousand-year-old people, sleeping away peacefully in their graves, and what happens? A nosy little man comes knocking on their coffin walls, ‘Let me in, let me in, I want to take you to pieces and inspect your bones.’
“But, what you need to remember is that these nosy archaeologists have the most dangerous job in the world. Why? Because, naturally enough, the thousand-year-old people don’t want to be disturbed, so they breathe their Dead Breath all over the prying men, and one by one they all die in horrible deathly ways. Which serves them right.”
I do sometimes wonder whether Sister just dresses up as a nun. I don’t think nuns are supposed to say things like “serves them right” when people die. And since when has a death been anything other than deathly?
“Does every archaeologist in the whole world die like that?” Fred asked. He’s allowed to ask and answer questions to his heart’s content.
“Yes, Fred, every last miserable one of them. So, for your own good, don’t even think of that as a job,” Sister said.
“In Egypt,” she continued, “which is the favourite hunting ground of the archaeologists, this has a name: the Curse of the Pharaohs. Anyone looking for scientific proof” – she didn’t even need to look at me – “can find it there. Off they went, a merry band of prying men, and they dug up the tomb of a boy king Tutankhamun. One of them, Howard Carter, walked into the tomb, and the minute he did so his pet canary, who had stayed at home, was killed by a cobra. Instant yellow-bird death.”
I wondered if she thought the canary deserved it too.
“That exact minute, boys and girls, that he dared enter the tomb of the famous Tutankhamun. Now,” she picked up one of her pictures, “tell me what you see.”
She held up a picture of a pharaoh with a big black arrow pointing to a golden cobra on his crown. Just in case there was any doubt she’d written Golden Cobra next to the arrow. I sometimes wonder what she thinks of us.
“An arrow pointing to a golden cobra,” Madillo said, trying to keep her laughter in.
“Never mind about arrows. Yes, the golden cobra, who was warning the archaeologists not to enter the tomb. But did they listen? No. Do they ever listen? No. All for the sake of digging up a few jewels and messing around with the bones of dead people.”
“But, Sister—” I began.
“Ah! When will I get through one day in peace without hearing from the Twin Who Likes to Say But?” she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling as if she was in agony.
I wasn’t about to be put off.
“My mum says that Mr Carter died when he was an old man.”
“So now your mother knows everything about medicine and archaeologists?” she asked.
On Sister’s desk there was a pile of books and pictures about Egypt. I love it when we do Egypt, but that’s normally in History. Sister had never done it with us in Religious Studies before.
“Sit down, sit down,” she said. “Wait quietly for the others, then we’ll begin. We’re going back to Ng’ombe Ilede today.”
I saw Madillo looking sideways at Fred. He went a little pale I think.
As soon as everyone else was in, Sister started. She wrote A R C H A E O L O G I S T S in big uneven letters on the blackboard, and next to them she drew a skull and crossbones. Like this:
“So,” she said. “Archaeologists. The scourge of the living and the dead. Men and their shovels, digging up people and things that have no wish whatsoever to be dug up. If I ever hear of one of you becoming an archaeologist I will tell the world that I had nothing to do with it.”
She stood there looking accusingly at each of us in turn. If any of us did happen to become an archaeologist, I can’t think that the first question we’d be asked would be “Did Sister Leonisa put you up to this?”
In my mind I was ticking the new column in the little red book: STORIES THAT HAVE DEATH IN THEM.
“There they are, the thousand-year-old people, sleeping away peacefully in their graves, and what happens? A nosy little man comes knocking on their coffin walls, ‘Let me in, let me in, I want to take you to pieces and inspect your bones.’
“But, what you need to remember is that these nosy archaeologists have the most dangerous job in the world. Why? Because, naturally enough, the thousand-year-old people don’t want to be disturbed, so they breathe their Dead Breath all over the prying men, and one by one they all die in horrible deathly ways. Which serves them right.”
I do sometimes wonder whether Sister just dresses up as a nun. I don’t think nuns are supposed to say things like “serves them right” when people die. And since when has a death been anything other than deathly?
“Does every archaeologist in the whole world die like that?” Fred asked. He’s allowed to ask and answer questions to his heart’s content.
“Yes, Fred, every last miserable one of them. So, for your own good, don’t even think of that as a job,” Sister said.
“In Egypt,” she continued, “which is the favourite hunting ground of the archaeologists, this has a name: the Curse of the Pharaohs. Anyone looking for scientific proof” – she didn’t even need to look at me – “can find it there. Off they went, a merry band of prying men, and they dug up the tomb of a boy king Tutankhamun. One of them, Howard Carter, walked into the tomb, and the minute he did so his pet canary, who had stayed at home, was killed by a cobra. Instant yellow-bird death.”
I wondered if she thought the canary deserved it too.
“That exact minute, boys and girls, that he dared enter the tomb of the famous Tutankhamun. Now,” she picked up one of her pictures, “tell me what you see.”
She held up a picture of a pharaoh with a big black arrow pointing to a golden cobra on his crown. Just in case there was any doubt she’d written Golden Cobra next to the arrow. I sometimes wonder what she thinks of us.
“An arrow pointing to a golden cobra,” Madillo said, trying to keep her laughter in.
“Never mind about arrows. Yes, the golden cobra, who was warning the archaeologists not to enter the tomb. But did they listen? No. Do they ever listen? No. All for the sake of digging up a few jewels and messing around with the bones of dead people.”
“But, Sister—” I began.
“Ah! When will I get through one day in peace without hearing from the Twin Who Likes to Say But?” she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling as if she was in agony.
I wasn’t about to be put off.
“My mum says that Mr Carter died when he was an old man.”
“So now your mother knows everything about medicine and archaeologists?” she asked.
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