Dead Heart Longing

4. Seeing the Unseen

Not many things unsettled Nur, but a ghost following her every move was definitely flustering. In her experience, most ghosts were trapped between the worlds, which makes it impossible for them to move on or reincarnate. Usually, it resulted from a curse or some unfinished business. Most of these ghosts would be restless and aggressive. This one, though, showed no signs of hostility. She doubted he even wanted anything from her. Or else, he would've tried to get her attention instead of following her quietly.

Not once had he tried to talk to her, which meant he hadn't guessed she was a seer. But why did he follow her around then? The thought troubled her a little, but more troubling was how he looked at her—as if he was dying of thirst and she was the last drop of water on earth. Even now, his gaze held a longing that broke the heart she always claimed she didn't have. Talk about confusing.

"You seem quite at home here. What's your deal, anyway?" she asked the ghost in question. He wasn't a tall man, and she was tall for a woman, which meant they were almost the same height. Standing like this, facing one another, they could see directly into each other's eyes.

"I... I..." He stuttered at first, but then somewhat unsteadily, he said, "Yes, because this is my home."

"Your home?" Nur observed him closely and noticed he wasn't old and probably died in his early thirties. His black, straight hair reached his waist and hung in a loose ponytail. His robes were traditional Tibetan; full-length cross-over, tied with a sash and had a high collar. Its azure color adorned with intricate green and gold patterns looked pleasing. Strange how it wasn't the first thing she noticed about him, but then, she had been too mesmerized by his eyes to notice anything else. Now that she paid attention, she could ascertain from his attire that he had been dead for quite a while. Her best guess was a century or so ago.

"Yes, I was born here. And I died here, too."

'Ah, more than a century ago then,' she thought. "Anyway, let's get back to my original question. Why are you following me?"

This time when he spoke his voice was steady. "No one has entered the castle in decades, and I can't leave." He paused and said, "So, I just wanted human interaction. By the way, are you even allowed to be here?"

That didn't perturb Nur. She had come across enough ghosts to know how much they liked to be in the company of the living. Early in life, she learned to pretend as if she didn't see them. Ghosts were rarely dangerous, but they could be a pest sometimes. If they realized you could see or hear them, they would attach themselves to you like your shadow, and you wouldn't have a moment of peace after that.

Nur Bakht came from a long line of seers with the sight passed down from woman to woman. Her grandmother used it to help people by playing mediator between the living and the dead. She used to say that the purpose of their gift was to guide the lost to find their way home, the cursed to undo their curses, and the burdened to unload their burdens. But Nur's mother was a modern woman. She might have inherited the sight, yet she wanted nothing to do with it. Nur was more like her mother and never saw any benefit in talking to the dead. Still, she hadn't been able to rid herself of the family legacy and somehow ended up becoming a historian. The past called to her.

These days people no longer believed in ghosts and goblins, which made it easier to ignore them. The living no longer had the time to seek out their dead loved ones and made sure they moved on to the next stage of their lives. People buried or burned were quickly forgotten by those still breathing.

Instead of answering him, she said, "What's your story?" If he were born in the castle, he might know its history better than anyone else. She could use him to verify some of the facts, at least.

"There isn't much I remember. All I know is that I once ruled these lands, then someone killed me, and I have been here since."

"Not much of a story," Nur said under her breath. She had moved further away from the hall and now faced a window, looking out at the horizon. Evening fast approached, and she felt like she had wasted yet another day. If only Mikal had taken an earlier flight. Without his help, she couldn't make a case to declare the castle a national treasure. Just imagining the rich history of this place made her smile.

The world moved away from the past on fast-forward, and people had the attention spans of fruit flies. Yet, if you ever stopped for long enough to take in the beauty past held, you would never be the same. It saddened her sometimes to know how much of Tibet's history went unrecorded. That's why this place interested her so much.

He must have felt embarrassed by her remark, which she didn't mean as an offense, because he added, "I remember my name. It's Gesar."

That got her attention, and she looked at him once again. "Your name is Gesar, and you were a king once? That's what you said?" she said, seeking confirmation.

"Yes, I am Gesar Lhobo Zhadui."

Nur was speechless. If he told the truth, the pride in his voice was well-deserved. But how could he be telling the truth? King Gesar was nothing but a myth. Although the Tibetans and Mongolians would say otherwise, the only thing history told about him came from oral stories bards had sung in these regions for as long as anyone could remember.

She wasn't well-versed in the epic of Gesar of Ling, but as far as she knew, there was nothing about his death. The man claimed he had come out of ancient folklore. Before she got over-excited, Nur recalled a conversation with her grandmother. Ghosts that had roamed the earth for a century, or more, might be unreliable. They could forget their origin and sometimes even develop false memories. She couldn't believe him unless he remembered the exact circumstances of his death and who killed him.

Ghosts might be wrong about many things from their past life, but they could never mistake the circumstances of their death. And in his case, it was a violent death, which meant if he remembered his murderer, it would be the truth.