INCARNATION by Daniel Easterman Read Free Book Online Page A

their door. The father opened it, a small man with a permanently pained expression on a face that looked years older than it could possibly have been.
    ‘As-salamu alaykum. Kirishka rukhsatmu?’ David greeted him. He expected some sort of pretence, a masquerade to chime with Tursun’s, but there was none.
    ‘Wa alaykum as-salamu. Kirin. Olturup biraz chay ichin.’ The man’s invitation was spoken in plain Uighur. As he asked David inside, a half-smile crossed his lips, and he seemed to stand a little straighter. 
    ‘My name’s David Laing. I’m in charge of your son.’ 
    ‘Yes, Mr David. Please. Please come in.’ David followed him inside, along a short corridor to the living room. Tursun’s father introduced himself as Osmanjan. His wife was sitting on the sofa watching the cartoon channel, her lips moving silently as though following the words. She got up when David was introduced, and bowed shyly. When he spoke to her in Uighur, her eyes almost popped out of her head, as if it was the last thing in the world she might have expected. Osmanjan introduced her. Her name was Rotsemi.
    ‘Our guest would like some tea.’ Osmanjan sent her off to the little galley kitchen where Britain’s most notorious traitors had brewed endless cups of PG Tips.
    ‘I would like to speak to her as well,’ said David as she left. ‘You understand that, don’t you?’
    Osmanjan nodded. What little trace there had been of a smile on his face had gone. He knew he was not among friends. Just because a stranger came speaking Uighur…
    ‘She knows nothing of all this.’
    ‘And you - what do you know?’
    The man shrugged and invited David to sit down. In the corner, the television continued to make a nuisance of itself. The garish colours and jerking movements of a Looney Tunes cartoon flickered and gyrated on the edge of vision. Screeches and whoops boomed from the set.
    ‘You are Muslims,’ David said. ‘Why all this talk of reincarnation? Shouldn’t you leave that to the Hindus and the Buddhists?’
    Osmanjan reddened. It was as if David had accused him of sleeping with other men’s wives. Or betraying his people.
    ‘It is the boy’s story, not mine.’
    ‘Then you say you do not believe it?’
    ‘It is not for me to say. It is his story.’
    ‘He is your son, isn’t he?’
    Osmanjan nodded. Behind him, a new cartoon had started. Road Runner zoomed through the desert, pursued by Wile E. Coyote. Every few seconds, the room was rocked by an explosion.
    ‘How old is he? He says he is twelve, but I don’t think he can be more than ten.’
    ‘No, twelve is correct. He has always looked younger than his real age.’
    ‘And he was born in Sinkiang?’ Another nod. ‘Where in Sinkiang?’ 
    ‘Khotan.’
    ‘Have you always lived there? You don’t have a southern accent.’
    ‘No, we have lived many places. Urumchi. Charkhliq. Turfan. Kashgar. Many places.’
    ‘And you got to India through Ladakh?’ 
    ‘Yes. It was a long journey. I thought we would die. It was cold. The snow was like demons.’
    ‘Who told you to make that journey? Who told you to go to India?’ 
    ‘The boy.’
    ‘You take orders from your son?’ 
    Behind him, a woman’s voice answered. ‘You don’t know him. You don’t understand.’ 
    David turned to find Rotsemi standing in the doorway. She held a tray on which a sturdy brown teapot and three china cups were balanced precariously. David recognized them: British Home Stores, Swansea. There were little crowded tears in the woman’s eyes. David got up and went to her.
    ‘Let me take that,’ he said. She shook her head and came in, fighting the tears back, and set the tray down on a low pine table. In her world, it was unthinkable for a guest to help his hostess.
    ‘My son has done nothing wrong,’ she said. ‘All this is to help us, his father and mother. He seeks nothing for himself.’
    ‘I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. I only want to know what is happening.’
    She