by Cat Bruno
“I told them that you were distraught and depressed and how I thought that their questions were completely inappropriate and unnecessary. They just kept asking if I was a lawyer. Ha! Maybe I should be,” he laughed.
There was never a time in those first days of meeting him when I did not try to figure out what Griffin had to gain by protecting me. Even with Nemesis so near, I could not abandon all of my reservations about Griffin. However, he did not blame me for those doubts, I think. Instead, he remained steadfast and loyal, productive and protective. Without him, I cannot imagine the trap I might have fallen into; one that the Detectives set, no doubt.
(That answer, the one proving Griffin’s dedication and love, came in the most unexpected way a few days later.)
As I packed my bags so that I could return to the house, Griffin asked, “What are your plans for the day, Dandelion?”
“I need to go home. I didn’t pack enough.”
My voice trembled as I answered, without force or fakery.
“You shouldn’t stay there. It’s too soon.”
“It’s my home,” I countered without much effort.
“Is it though?”
Did his question imply that since William owned it, I would not be permitted to live there? Did his parents dislike me that much so quickly?
“Where else can I go? I moved in with William months ago. All of my stuff is there.”
“Where do you want to go? You aren’t ready to go back to work. I have to be in New York in a few days. Why not come with me?”
“I can’t,” I muttered.
“Then where? You can go anywhere, Dandelion.”
“What about all of the legal things? There are insurance claims and property rights, and so much more that I have no idea about.”
“You’ll have to hire a lawyer at some point. A real one. Let’s do that today.”
“It won’t look proper,” I objected despite knowing the necessity of doing just that.
Even with Griffin, I had to keep my mask in place.
“Then let me handle it. Just sign your name when it comes time to.”
Going back to the house was not something I wanted to do, but we did. In less than an hour, I had packed two large suitcases of clothing, shoes, and my cameras. I changed into a black dress and gray leather coat before we left and checked the mailbox. Sighing aloud, I grabbed days worth of mail and followed Griffin to the street.
As I climbed into his rental car, he nodded toward me, “What’s with the scar?”
When I didn’t answer as I flipped through the mail, he added, “I noticed it yesterday at the hotel.”
Pausing as I scanned the mail, I told him, “It was a stupid accident. I broke a picture frame and sliced my arm.”
A moment later, I grabbed one of the envelopes and hurriedly tore it open. Inside was the check from the Italian travel council.
“I need to go to a bank.”
“Ok, tell me where to go. I haven’t been to Columbus much.”
“Any bank. I need to open a new account.”
“Dandelion, you can’t hide money, you know. You will need your social security number and driver’s license to start a new one.”
“Can you do it? Open an account for me, I mean?”
Was the risk a stupid one? Perhaps, and it’s one that I would not advise any of you to take. But I needed access to the money as soon as possible and did not know if any new account would be locked like the others.
“Sure. It might take a few white lies, but let’s try.”
Finally, on our third attempt, it worked. One of the women there recognized Griffin from a low-budget horror movie he had done, which is the break we needed. We explained that I would sign the check, but the account would be in his name only.
“It’s $20,000,” she reminded us in a hushed tone. “The check won’t clear for at least a week, especially since it’s an international one.”
Yet, the pixie-looking girl did as Griffin asked. We had a checkbook and debit card, both of which he gave to me.
“What can I give you for your help? A ten percent agent’s fee?”
“We’ll even up at some point. That’s how friendship works. For now, I’m just happy to help guard your gold.”
After lunch, we made our way to an estate attorney’s office. She was a no-nonsense type, factual and cold. Griffin couldn’t stand her, but suggested that I hire her anyway. Within an hour of our meeting, he had written her a check from the new account. Shannon Lytle would do nothing until Teddy contacted me or I received letters or phone calls. Any paperwork I did receive, she would need to have. Any calls made to me, she would need to know about it.
At her suggestion, I opened a post office box, where I had all of my mail forwarded.
“You don’t want something to go missing from the house when you are not there,” she had warned.
If I thought the days that followed William’s death would be easier than the ones that had come before it, I would have been wrong.
What surprised me was how much I missed Nemesis.
“Have you thought about what you will do for the next few weeks?” Griffin had asked the day before he was set to leave.
He had already spent more time in Columbus than he had planned, and his director insisted he return to New York.
“I’m going to go back to the Gazette. Try to get back to normal, I guess.”
Hearing the lie, Griffin chose to ignore it.
“Once the money clears, you should take a trip, Dandelion,” he suggested in rebuttal.
Did he know that I had one already planned? Probably.
“I’ve been invited to Italy to promote their new tourism program.”
I did not mention Greece. I did not tell Griffin that I wanted to go home. But I could have. He understood, more even than I did.
It was not until days later, when I was seated on the tarmac of Newark International Airport, that I remembered something I had seen an hour outside of Los Angeles. Had I not been surrounded by a hundred or more strangers, I would have laughed and hollered as the chess pieces shifted and the game neared the end.
At the Getty Museum Villa in the Pacific Palisades – where I had spent hours by myself while William met with a benefactor – some of my time included a visit to the Roman Mosaic exhibit. I had photographed nearly everything I had come across as I was enamored by the tiny pieces used to create such stunning art. Most of the mosaics included animals: full-feathered peacocks, a carnivorous lion, colorful fish circling a boat, a bear hunt, a small hare with some birds. But there was something else, as well. A fragment of what was once a very large mosaic.
Underneath my seat, my satchel waited, brimming with golden coins of discovery. I grabbed my camera and scanned through the image previews, searching for treasure as I waited for the plane to take off.
There he was. There was my next clue.
In muted colors of tan and terracotta, gray and cream, the winged creature stood. His beak was the hooked beak of an eagle, his body that of a lion. Wings, massive and colorful, leapt from his back. Curved talons, long and sharp, curled from his paws. His tail was thin and swirled around his back leg. However, it was what was beneath his left front paw that made me drop my camera into my lap.
A spoked wheel. My wheel. The wheel of justice moves with haste and carries me forth. The same wheel that the miniature statue at the Louvre has me holding. In art and in sculpture, across millennia, the wheel is beneath my foot or in my hand. Only one goddess carries such an object. Do you not believe me? Pause here, then, and do the research yourself. In these days of technology, my avowals can be swiftly confirmed. Search for Nemesis; in painting and in statue, you will see all the things I have told you. My wings, my wheel, my stone tablet, my sword, my diadem. My scales. I have not lied once about who I am.
You will need to dig deeper, however, to discover Griffin’s truth. But it is there; I have read the books and academic articles from the enlightened few who have added up
all the ancient clues to expose the connection between the two of us. The only hint that you need to understand his importance and his identity is that wheel.
Why? Because it is the same wheel that I often lend to the beast I saw in the marble mosaic. The one beneath his paw is one that I have given to him.
He is but one of the many I know. The Gryphoi.
My griffin.
“Have you been to the Brooklyn Museum?” I half-yelled into my phone as the engines beside my window vibrated and whirred.
“Of course,” he answered calmly, having long expected the frantic inquisition. “I visited just before my trip to Columbus in fact.”
“Do you remember the exhibits that you walked through?”
I spoke so quickly that he made me repeat the question.
“Think quickly, please, my plane is about to take off.”
“Did you walk through an exhibit all in blue? I mean, all the art was painted or dyed blue.”
“Yes, that one is easy to recall, Dandelion.”
“Did you see a small griffin? He would have been glazed blue and shining.”
Laughing at me now, Griffin answered, “Of course I remember that one. How could I not? I took a picture of it on my cell phone and want to get it printed and enlarged.”
“What was beneath his foot?”
“How can I know that?” he asked.
“Check your phone. Now. Hurry.”
As I waited, my breath came far too quickly and my heartbeat echoed between my ears. I knew the answer before he did.
“It looks like some sort of wheel. Like a steering wheel from an old-fashioned boat or something.”
“The wheel of justice. It’s the wheel of justice,” I breathed with a new sense of peace and comprehension.
Finally, the pieces matched up, and the clues that had been spread across time and place came together in magical harmony. Perhaps the Mousai intervened, the nine muses of art and music who blessed those they loved with knowledge and creative gifts. Was it Kleio who found me starving for understanding and granted me a taste of history so that I could make sense of what I had forgotten? Or Thaleia whose domain is the lighter realm of comedy and joyful discourse? How entertaining it must have been for the muses to watch me complete the puzzle of my past! I must thank them, of course, for their assistance in showing me where the pieces had been hidden.
“Excuse me, miss, you’ll have to turn off your phone now,” a pleasant voice interrupted, tearing me from the other place.
“Griffin. I’ll call you when I land,” I swiftly stated as I realized that I had no time to tell him what I had remembered.
How I forgot about the Gryphoi, I do not know. Those magical beasts that pulled my chariot when I was too weary to fly. Who guarded me when those I sought to punish dared to fight back. Who lived on a mountain of gold, defending it from those who tried to steal it as it flowed through rivers and streams.
A bird of vengeance, he has been called. A bird of karma, to borrow from Eastern thought. The pet of Nemesis.
He is all these things, maybe, but mostly he is my friend. And, with his help, I finally went home.
Rhamnous and the Temple of Nemesis
What will strike you most about the temple is the view from the hilltop where it sits. Below, two harbors once existed, offering welcome and safe passage to a land where the sapphire sea matches the sky in rare harmony between Zeus and Poseidon. At such a sacred site, not even the often-bickering brothers would dare fight.
I arrived by car, but parked it at the base of the hill, as everyone must. There might not be a better time to visit than October, long after the tourists have departed. As I hiked to the top – across the ancient streets that are now a mixture of broken rock, dirt, and sand – I marveled at the narrow cypresses standing tall among the plentiful and rounded beech trees. A similar pathway leads from the temple to the settlement that once guarded the town: a collection of houses and streets now half-standing mounds of stone. A few marble seats have survived from what was once the theatre, but I did not stay there for long, nor did I dwell among the many tombs that line the road.
The town will still be there after I have made my amends.
Across my shoulders, I donned my feathered cape, despite the warmth of the sun and the mild autumn temperatures. In this mortal body, my wings are invisible. My hair, once long and blonde, fell in sharp cuts against my chin and had been darkened to a chestnut brown. When the morning breeze fluttered, the uneven strands across my forehead parted and lifted. Dark kohl lined my eyes until the ovals appeared transcendent. I wore no jewelry, not even my wedding band. Beneath the cape, I had chosen a simple outfit of a loose-fitting and billowing ivory-hued romper.
Without hurrying, I ascended, treading slowly and letting the salt-scented air remind me of the days that had come before. Ten minutes later, the temple emerged, and I could do nothing but collapse to my knees and sob.
Is this what I have become? Piles of rock and slivers of marble? For what reason has my altar been desecrated? Was it malice or spite that toppled the 32 marble columns that once climbed high in tribute? This destruction, where even the tributary statue has been stolen, is not explained by time or weather. No, this was an act of rage by a man who no longer wanted me worshiped; he died soon after. Draw what conclusions you can from that history lesson.
Six of the wide-based columns on the front side of the temple remain, a fraction of the height that they once were. When I rose, dry-eyed now, I made my way to the small temple that once stood beside the Temple of Nemesis. This smaller temple nearly touched my own, but it was Themis who was worshiped there. At its front sat two thrones of marble on either side of an entryway, one each for both Themis and myself. Three statues towered along the back wall, although only the statue of Themis survived. That one stands in full beauty and power in a museum in Athens, but I first saw her at Rhamnous.
Tall and full-bodied, Themis shined in marble; a voluminous and heavily draping robe covered her and a thick himation wrapped around her left shoulder and dropped in folds beneath her girdle. Her outstretched right hand held a bowl for offerings, although it has not survived. In her left, Themis held a set of scales similar to the ones that I employ. Her scales, however, were never meant for mortal lives, as her jurisprudence fell only upon the gods. Themis, you see, was responsible for upholding divine law and keeping order among the immortal. Both of us had been gifted with the task of determination: she of the eternal and I of the mortal.
Which is why it was to her that I must make amends. Themis would judge me, as I have judged others. If I had interpreted my own scales incorrectly, and William was not meant to die, then it would be Themis who punished me. The statue of her might be in Athens, but I knew that I would find her in Rhamnous. A statue is only meant for worship or praise. We exist without them, yet tolerate their necessity.
So, there, I fell to my knees again, in supplication, at the entrance to her temple, at the base of where she once sat. I was alone. The hour was early, and I was the first to arrive to the ruins. Even if I had not been, I would have still knelt prostrate and confessed what I had done.
I cannot remember how long I spoke to her, in solitude and in silence. That she heard me was obvious and expected.
That she sent Zeus to judge me was nothing that I had predicted or guessed. That I had not heard him come was my own fault entirely. A mistake, yet a long-fated one. How many times have I repeated the same error over the course of my rebirth and existence? Once a lifetime would be my guess.
“Are you alone?”
With a wide sweep of his arms, he mockingly said, “No, the whole department hides among the rocks and rubble.”
Despite his jest, I stood and scanned the grounds, ones that I knew better than any. If they hid, I would see them. When I was certain that we were alone, I turned back to him.
“Why have you come?” I asked.
“Curiosity, I suppose. You were not easy to find.”
“
I had a direct flight to Athens from Newark. The drive from there is little more than an hour. I would hardly call that difficult,” I replied with as much sarcasm as he had.
“You have a ticket to Rome as well.”
“I’m being honored there for a photograph I took in Pompeii. I had reasons for coming; you did not.”
“I’m doing my job, Ms. Jackman.”
“As am I, Detective King.”
“Why were you kneeling when I arrived?” he asked.
Before I answered, I stared at him, differently now than I had back in Columbus. I am not ashamed that I did not recognize him there. Read the tales, my friends, and remember how often and how well Zeus can shape shift. There is no one like him in Olympus; that is why he alone is king among the gods. Now, here in Rhamnous, he had found me, but did not come as snake or bull or eagle or dove. Or swan. Yes, I know what the stories say, that he came upon me as a swan and, months later, I birthed an egg that Helen would rise from. Many of the stories of those days have been altered and added to, and my own history is no different. You will see.
Outside of the temple, I saw him as a mortal man, one who wanted little more than to see me behind bars. His hair was dark, near to the color of my own, and a closely cropped beard covered his face. The human body he used was at least forty, perhaps older, and bits of silver streaked through his beard. He was handsome, of course, but not in a way that made you suspect his origins. For his trip, he wore modern clothing: green-brown hiking pants and a black sweatshirt. Sturdy boots, the kind that hikers wear, covered the bottoms of his pants. He might be a tourist, if one did not know his real name or his true purpose for visiting the temple.
In a world that could not recognize me, few would know the sky god – he who could disguise himself in the span of a breath.
For now, he maintained the role of Detective King, and I answered him as Dandelion might and lifted my camera from beneath my cape.
Showing it to him, I said, “Praying for some divine guidance.”
