Foreword
In the interest of brevity, I shall endeavor to explain my part in this matter as simply as possible, so that you, the reader, may progress as expediently as possible to the events portrayed herein.
My name is Robert Moorehead. I was born in 1942 in Boston. Shortly after the death of my wife’s father, his lawyer, Mr. James Dudley, contacted me, indicating that her father had made quite an unusual bequest to me. I admit that I prevaricated for close onto a year, but eventually, my curiosity getting the better of me, I determined to contact Mr. Dudley. Thus, on a frigid morning in February of 1988, I found myself being ushered into his law office at Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, located in downtown Boston.
Upon grasping the outstretched hand of Mr. Dudley, a squat fiftyish looking man, I was offered a seat, he for his part, cocking his head in what I interpreted to be an inquisitive glance that portrayed mystification not unlike my own. After a few moments of mutual silence, he cleared his throat, emitting, “Ahem,” a sort of preamble, or so I presumed, and subsequently launched into his carefully planned soliloquy, “Mr. Moorehead, I have been asked to provide you with a key - a key, I might add, that unlocks a safe deposit box at Boston National Bank, just down the street from my office. The contents of that box are not precisely known to me. However, given what I do know in this circumstance, I feel it only fair to forewarn you, sir, that the contents shall in all likelihood be quite earthshaking for you.”
I recall staring pensively at Mr. Dudley and, entertaining not the slightest notion as to his meaning, I inquired doubtfully, “In what way, sir?”
“Mr. Moorehead, I am honor-bound by my charge, though he is now deceased, to divulge nothing more to you on this subject at this time. My explicit duty is to hand the key over to you, thenceforth informing you that you shall find the deposit box in question listed under your name, the passcode being your initials, followed by the numeric sequence of your birth date.”
Inexplicably intrigued by this pronouncement, I accepted the proffered key, inquiring insistently, “Is there no more that you can intimate to me, sir?”
“Perhaps, perhaps, I can, sir, but not at this moment in time. At a later time, after you have had the opportunity to sufficiently digest the materials that await you, I may be able to fill you in somewhat.”
“I see,” I mumbled self-consciously, meaning in fact exactly the opposite and, arising from my seat, I thrust my hand forward to him, saying, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dudley. I shall say good day to you.”
Taking my hand in turn, he replied solemnly, “Likewise, I’m sure.”
Upon departing his office, I made straight for the bank in question, whereupon I was promptly admitted to the vault. Exactly as had been described to me, I was forthwith led to the deposit box in question, thereby utilizing the proffered key to open it.
Within, I found only a single item – an unbound manuscript, and though it was obviously well-worn, it was bound neatly with a piece of red ribbon, a bow gracing its frontispiece. Above the bow was the hand-written inscription – For Robert.
Having no idea what was contained therein, I forthwith departed none the wiser. However, I must confess to you that the revelations secreted within would turn Elise’s and my world upside down. And, to be honest, it may well do the same for you, my child. I must therefore caution you – prepare yourself before launching into your grandfather’s diary. Why he wrote it in third person, I can only speculate – perhaps the telling of his own life was even beyond his own ability to absorb.
The manuscript before you is exactly as it was received by me. There is, however, one small alteration, a change made by me. I took the liberty of assigning the title listed on the frontispiece, as the term For Robert was not in my view intended to be a title for the manuscript. And so, my child, I wish you an enlightened and not too despondent perusal of My Father the God.
Prologue
I was born in Cambridge, England in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.
It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert and Elise.
You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accurate, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.
So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.
My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.
That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.
I don’t mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan’s son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.
My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto sixty years.
As memory serves me, my father’s assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father’s side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, “Father, you sent for me?”
“Aye, son, indeed Ah did,” and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some t
hirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, “Ye simply main see thes!”
Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, “Uhm, Ah dorn’t see anythin’ a’tall, father.”
“Reit, boot bide a moment,” he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.
“Ye mean that wee hole there?” I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.
“Precisely,” he responded, “Noow, simply observe,” and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. “Ah, thaur he be, son!”
I stared doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, “Dad, Ah’m a bit auld fur bugs.”
“Aye,” he replied jovially, “But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body.”
“Reit,” I responded doubtfully, “Whit’s it all aboot?”
Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, “That, mah son, be a god!”
I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, “Ye cannae be serioos.”
“Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god.”
“Why ever on earth fur?” I replied in confusion.
“The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung.”
“Och,” I sneered in revulsion, “Dinnae sound godly tae me!”
“Aye, but bide an’ watch. Haur he comes, an’ examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin’ alang with heem.”
“Looks loch some sort ay wee ball,” I responded.
“Reit. It be a dung ball. An’ watch, he’ll be draggin’ it intae his den.”
“Ugh! That be indeed nasty,” I recall remarking in disgust.
“Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an’ at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin’ hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an’ suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot.”
“Och, I say, noow that do soond interesting,” and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, “An’ quite strange as well.” Then, on further contemplation, I added, “Hoo does he dae it, father?”
“Simple – he be a god!”
“Reit,” I murmured cynically.
“Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity.”
“Interestin’,” I said, still pondering, “But whit be the significance ay it all?”
“Guid question,” he replied. “Let’s jist say, the warld be mysterious, an’ sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin’, in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny.”
I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.
And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.