The Lost Sisterhood

by Anne Fortier

  “Bex!” I was in no mood for additional mysteries. “This past week has been totally mad—”

  “It’s a clay tablet,” Rebecca blurted out, “and on it are the exact same writing symbols as those in the picture you emailed me. It’s right here, in our archive. I tried to take a photo, but my phone is hopeless. You need to see it in person, but it has to be now, before the team leader comes back—”

  Part of me wanted to calm Rebecca down and say that surely, this was no urgent matter, and yet … if she had really found an ancient tablet with symbols that matched the writing in the Algerian temple and in Granny’s notebook, I could not rest until I held it in my hands. If I flew directly to Crete now, I might still be able to get back to Oxford by Monday. What was another twenty-four hours in the big scheme of things?

  PART III

  SOL

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ISLAND OF CRETE

  THE SUN WAS IN HER FACE, AND THE WIND BEHIND HER.

  Myrina stood in the bow of the boat with her hands on the railing, embracing the rise and fall of each wave and feeling an unexpected trickle of hope. It was her first day without seasickness, her first day of fully appreciating that they were on their way at last.

  Aided by Animone, Myrina had worked hard to persuade her surviving sisters to leave their ruined lives and come with her into the unknown. Sweet Lilli, Kara the chieftain’s daughter, and the beautiful Klito with the adventurous eyes … where were they now? Nine in all had been abducted. Could they be found?

  As hopeless as the quest might seem, Myrina was not satisfied until everyone agreed to go. The world the raiders had left behind was a desperate, violent one, with bands of thieves surging through the streets, scavenging anything of potential value, and unburied bodies left as food for rats and dogs. Were not the uncertainties of traveling preferable to the certain misery of passivity?

  Crete, claimed Animone, was where they would find sympathetic ears and answers to their questions. Drawing on the tales of her seafaring grandfather, she insisted that this prosperous island in the middle of the great northern sea was favored by sailors as a convenient place to replenish fresh water and food. Surely the evil black-hulled ships were known to the Cretans … in fact, it was possible that the raiders, too, would be stopping there on their way home.

  Once the decision was made, the twelve priestesses diligently worked together to turn their ravaged temple into a tomb. They removed the sacred objects from the hollow altar stone and placed the dismembered body of the High Priestess inside, cushioned by the ashes of the newly dead and surrounded by their jackal bracelets. After the coffin was carefully closed, Kyme wrote a full account of those last, tearful days upon the walls of the inner sanctum. “In ages to come,” she told the others, “people will enter this temple and ask what happened here. I want them to know it all in detail, in order that they may honor our dead sisters who can no longer tell their own story.”

  Meanwhile, Myrina gathered every weapon she could find, ensuring that each of her sisters had at least a knife, a bow, and a quiver with plenty of arrows. This time, the only one who protested was Egee, the haughty Kara’s abiding devotee, who resented Myrina telling her what to do. “What do you keep giving me these terrible things for?” she cried, refusing to take the weapons. “The sight of them makes me ill.”

  “Ill?” Myrina had to close her eyes to maintain her calm. “And what about the sight of your slain sisters? What does that make you? Or the thought of your abducted friend?” She forced the bow and quiver into Egee’s hands. “Do you want to know what makes me ill? The sight of a sane, able woman who refuses to defend herself because she believes weapons are evil.” Myrina put a hand on Egee’s shoulder and gave her a conciliatory squeeze. “Those men who came, they were evil. And whoever taught you those false ideas are forever stained with the blood of innocents.”

  Ready at last, their clothes enforced with snakeskin—once so repulsive even to Myrina’s closest companions, but now a welcome armor around their own shaken self-confidence—the women had helped one another place an extra bar across the colossal temple door, bolting it in place as best they could. And after one final prayer to the absent Moon Goddess, Myrina had led the small group away from the temple through the vast system of underground caves—caves she had long since explored on her own while everyone else was enjoying their afternoon rest. “This way!” she beckoned, holding the torch low to keep the snakes at bay. “The flame will soon fade, so make haste!”

  With the Moon Goddess gone and the High Priestess dead, it had not taken the women long to fall back upon the skills and passions of earlier lives. Most knowledgeable among the survivors was Animone, who had always claimed to be entirely at home on sailing vessels and the open water, and who now, finally, had an opportunity to demonstrate her skills to the rest. “Why do you not believe me?” she had exclaimed, seeing their hesitation in embracing the abandoned fishing boat she and Myrina had laboriously hauled back along the shore. “I am telling you, I know how to sail this thing. But first, we must repair it. We need ropes”—she had started counting on her fingers, brimming with long-forgotten excitement—”we need poles, we need sturdy string and needles, and we need strong fabric for the sail.”

  As for Myrina, she stubbornly maintained that she was a hunter. Nothing more, nothing less. Dressed in a snakeskin tunic, with her precious bow and quiver strapped to her shoulders, she made no claims about being in command. But since the others kept looking to her for answers and encouragement, leadership was inevitably thrust upon her. Wherever she went, the others would follow; not even Egee dared to wish it otherwise.

  THE LAND OF THE Cretans lay upon the ocean like a giant at rest.

  Steep and forbidding, vast parts of the shoreline made landfall impossible; even the most alluring coves were, according to Animone, too treacherous for untrained sailors. Right beneath the sparkling turquoise of those soft waves, she explained, rocks as sharp as teeth and covered in slippery weeds were waiting to toss and lacerate hapless strangers.

  Myrina knew better than to argue. Had it not been for Animone, they would have died many times since leaving their homely marsh. Swallowed by giant waves, crushed by cliffs, or shipwrecked on unknown coasts … one way or another, they would have perished long before they ever laid eyes on the Cretan coast. It was thanks to this one woman’s never-forgotten knowledge of sailing and navigation that they had come this far.

  “There it is!” exclaimed Animone, pointing ahead. “This is where the tradesmen land. The king’s palace is not far from there. They do not call him ‘King,’ though. I am sure my grandfather told me he is called the Minos.”

  Squinting against the sun, Myrina studied the bustling coastline with great interest. All manner of boats were either approaching or leaving the man-made harbor, but none resembled the black ships that had stolen away poor Lilli and so many others. Although a part of her was pining for the sight of them, Myrina also knew she was not yet ready to do battle with those beastly men. As she stood in the bow of their brave little vessel, shielding her eyes with her hands, the wound in her back let her know she had not yet fully healed, and that, for all her grand words of encouragement, and their group archery practice, she and her sisters were still little more than prey.

  “You are sure we will be welcomed in peace?” asked Pitana, joining them at the railing, her sinewy arms resting casually on the weathered wood. Despite her gangly limbs, Pitana had turned out to possess a stubborn strength almost equal to Myrina’s, and the discovery these past weeks of her own hidden might had all but taken the hunch out of her posture.

  “In my grandfather’s day,” replied Animone, “this was the biggest marketplace in the world. Tradesmen of all colors and tongues would come from every corner of the ocean, to barter their goods in peace and obtain knowledge about routes and wind patterns and”—her voice trembled—”the fate of loved ones.”

  BUT FIRST THEY HAD to find food. Their meager supplies had long si
nce run out, and for the last three days, they had survived on little more than old water in goat bladders and the occasional fish fastened to a hairpin hook by some merciful ocean spirit.

  To make matters worse, a harbor official informed them they had to pay a fee if they wished to stay overnight. He stated his inhospitable message in several different languages before finally striking upon the one used in the Temple of the Moon Goddess—a language Myrina had worked hard to master since becoming a priestess. “I have never heard of such a fee,” said Kyme to the man, sounding as if she knew a great deal more about the world than she did. “And who are you?”

  The man stuck out his bearded chin. “I am the tax collector. Trading is slowing down, and yet”—he gestured at the havoc all around—”we must ensure the upkeep of this harbor. When your men return, make sure to explain the situation to them.”

  “Maybe trading would not be slowing down,” observed Kyme, “if you hadn’t begun charging a fee.”

  But nothing could be done to change the man’s mind. Some manner of payment had to be produced before sunset, preferably in the form of copper tokens, although a delectable food item might also be acceptable.

  “If only I could hunt,” began Myrina, gazing ahead at the urban sprawl that had left no standing tree in sight.

  “Please,” said Egee, who still, after so many days of sailing, remained hostile to Myrina, “do not speak the word ‘hunt’ again. I am sick of it.”

  “Hunting will do us no good here,” agreed Animone. “The same goes for quarreling. Let us think now, and find a solution.”

  They had left the temple with nothing of value save food and weapons. For all their brutal clumsiness, the raiders had been diligent about removing every gold and silver votive from the shelves and leaving behind no item that would be of value anywhere else. Nor had the priestesses ever been aware of the existence of copper tokens, and had certainly never seen one.

  “I do not like the sound of it,” said Kyme, turning up her nose and exercising the privilege of being the oldest. “Gold and silver I can understand, but tokens? Tokens of what? one wonders. No, let us go into town and barter for food instead. Whatever that odious tax man does not take, we will eat ourselves. For truly, I am so hungry I will eat the barnacles off that pier if we find no other edibles.”

  “Barter for food,” echoed Egee, “with what? We have nothing. Although”—she pulled the knife from her belt—”some may see the value in this.”

  “We are not giving up our weapons!” Myrina pressed the knife back into Egee’s belt. “What a short memory you have. Yes, we have arrived in a city of apparent tranquillity, but we both know how quickly that can change.”

  And so, with two sisters left behind to keep watch, the women disembarked the boat and made their way across the many interlocking bridges and wharves. When at last upon firm ground, they swayed at the unfamiliar feeling and had to sit a while, waiting for the earth to become steady beneath their feet.

  As they sat, a man came over to ask them a question in his own language, his expression so lewd Myrina guessed rather than understood what he wanted. She waved at him to go away, but he merely laughed and stepped closer, as if disgusted refusal was part of the game.

  “Come!” Pitana stood up abruptly, pulling her sisters along. “We have rested enough.”

  As they walked into town, Myrina was reminded of her arrival in the city of the Moon Goddess so many months before, and of Lilli’s fascination with it all. Sweet Lilli, who winced at the foul smells but still wanted to continue … how Myrina longed to have her that close again, unfailingly cheerful in the face of adversity.

  “This is what I propose,” said Animone, nodding toward a man with a trained monkey who was entertaining passersby in exchange for food scraps. “Let us sing our sacred songs and delight the Cretans with our harmonious voices.” She pointed at an empty space among the teeming market stalls. “Why don’t we try here? There is enough room for a small, circular procession, and the noise will surely stop as soon as we begin.”

  Myrina looked around. The vendors around them sold live chickens and boiled goats’ heads, and she saw many goods changing hands in a steady stream of customers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there is yet another fee to be paid—” she began.

  “So we will pay it!” Animone took off her bow and quiver and checked all her little braids to make sure she looked her best. None of the others had the heart to tell her that even now, three weeks after the temple attack, there was still a mask of multihued bruises on her face. “Just wait and see,” she said, with the bravado of someone who has been right about everything else.

  But the sacred songs that had drawn such breathless attention from the pilgrims in the temple barely turned a head in the marketplace and certainly did not inspire anyone to lay down gifts of appreciation. Before long, Animone’s hopes were crushed by the disinterest of the people walking by. “What a hateful place!” she hissed, when they had tried every song and every dance step twice over. “These people do not understand our art. What thick skulls they have. They should be forced to pay!”

  “Let us return to the boat and try to catch another fish,” said Kyme, pale from hunger and fatigue. “Two, I mean. One for us, and one for the man.”

  “While you do that,” said Myrina, adjusting the bow behind her back, “I am going hunting.”

  BEFORE HEADING FURTHER INTO town, Myrina wound her head with the ragged remains of her priestess dress. With only her eyes visible, she figured, people would naturally take her for a man, for she was taller than most women and her snakeskin tunic was long enough to conceal her thighs. Besides, with the bow and quiver on her back, it would surely occur to very few that there might be a female form underneath it all.

  Walking on through the city, she looked for old people sitting in the shade of buildings—talkative codgers who had seen much and were happy to reminisce about it with strangers. Never lingering too long in one place, she asked about ships with black hulls, ships carrying greedy, apelike men to faraway coasts and returning with golden treasures.

  But almost no one understood the languages Myrina spoke, and when she was finally introduced to an elderly sailor lying in a hammock, even this speaker of the Old Language had little to tell her. “Many ships have tarred keels,” he droned, fanning himself with a fig leaf. “They could be from anywhere. Probably the north, since you say the men had pale skin. My business was mostly in the south, which is why I know your language.”

  Myrina decided to concentrate on the more pressing matter, namely how to feed her sisters and pay for their night in the harbor. “If I were looking for a free meal,” she said before leaving the sailor, “where would I go?”

  He replied without hesitation. “The Eastern Harbor. That is where the big ships moor. Try the Trojans; if they are in, you will find them at the far end. I imagine they have something to spare.”

  And so Myrina made her way there, blushing behind her scarf for behaving like a beggar. But she could see no honorable alternative. Since whoring or stealing were out of the question, and it was unlikely she could make herself or her sisters useful in other ways, Myrina was left with the humble hope of meeting some merciful merchant with goods to spare.

  Elbowing her way through strange folk from distant lands—people who had arrived on ships so large she first mistook them for buildings—Myrina eventually arrived at the end of the harbor promenade, where the coast turned to beach again and seagulls circled fishing boats drawn up on the sand. Here, in the slanting orange light of the setting sun, she espied a gathering of men roasting whole chickens and vegetables on sticks over a bonfire, their merriment loud enough to convince her they were friendly. Could they be the Trojans the old sailor had told her about?

  Stepping closer, Myrina saw they were engaged in a children’s game of throwing rocks into circles—a game she had played with her father when she was still too young to hunt with him, and which she had often played by herself to pass the time and
improve her aim.

  One of the men—a clean-shaven youth with a strong frame and handsome, embroidered clothing—was particularly good at landing rocks at the center of the circles, and even though Myrina did not understand his language, it was clear to her that he was taunting the others, challenging them to outdo him.

  Emboldened by the jovial atmosphere, Myrina picked up a rock of her own and tossed it into the game. It landed with a small thud in the nearest, easiest circle, not precisely at the center, but close enough to make the men turn to see who had thrown it.

  When she saw the bafflement in their faces, Myrina pointed at the game, then at the young champion, then at herself to indicate she would like to challenge him. Her gesture set off a rumble of amusement among his mates, and the young man looked at her with eyes full of incredulity, as if he was entirely unused to such bold proposals.

  Seeing his hesitation, Myrina pointed once again at the game, then at the chickens roasting over the bonfire, and finally at her own mouth behind the scarf. To which the young man said something she did not understand, his keen amber eyes searching her veiled face for a sign of comprehension. But Myrina merely bent down to pick up six rocks, three of which she held out to him … only to have her arms abruptly seized by his companions.

  Shocked at the change in humor, Myrina bucked and kicked, anxious to free herself. But a burst of laughter from the young man, followed by a rapid exchange between him and his mates, had them quickly release her again. “Here—” He picked up the three stones she had dropped in the sand. “I will speak to you in the language of the desert nomads, for you look like a nomad to me. Do you understand?”

  Myrina nodded. Even though she could have responded to him in words, she was determined to keep her silence lest her voice gave away her secret.