by Anne Fortier
—VIRGIL, The Aeneid
ISLAND OF CRETE
PRESENT DAY
REFUSING TO GIVE IN TO PANIC, I SEARCHED THE ROUGH-HEWN floor of the corridor as thoroughly as I could by the light pouring out of the tablet room. Then, extending my search, I turned on the flashlight and started back the way I had come … but it was all in vain. The yarn was gone.
Perhaps, I thought, a sudden updraft had tugged at the flimsy thread and somehow torn my knot from the door handle. Such a draft might have even carried the yarn down the tunnel and out of sight. I worked to persuade myself that this was the explanation. For the only rational alternative—that I was not alone in the labyrinth—was too terrifying to contemplate.
I stood on the edge of the darkness, the beam of my flashlight so feeble I wondered if the batteries were dying. Trembling with nerves, I turned it off and retreated into the tablet room to take stock of the situation. My cellphone was on, but I was not surprised to see I had no reception. There were, after all, thousands of tons of earth and ancient brick between me and the modern world. And what would I have told Rebecca anyway? That I intended to spend the rest of the night in the tablet room—door locked, lights on, barricaded behind the worktable—until the team leader discovered me on his morning round?
No, I decided, I was not that cowardly. I wouldn’t risk Rebecca’s job. I owed it to her to remove myself from the forbidden basement as discreetly as I had come, without leaving the slightest trace of my intrusion.
Opening the door to the corridor yet again, I stood listening for a while, hearing nothing. There was a faint draft, more of a whisper, but that was all. Taking a deep breath, I unfolded Rebecca’s map. Yarn or no yarn, calm logic would lead me back the way I had come, and before long I would be crawling into bed in my guest room, laughing at the whole thing.
But as I started down the tunnel, following the shaky beam of my dying flashlight, calm logic was soon awash in a tide of fear. I couldn’t help it; even without the mystery of my yarn disappearing, these stygian caverns made all my instincts run mad. For every step I took, my eyes jumped in panic at some grotesque shadow cast across the jagged wall, and whenever I focused my beam on the map, blackness closed in on me from all sides.
Then, from somewhere deep inside, came a voice that was part mine, part Granny’s, reciting the mantra she had taught me so long ago, and which I would always remember. It had been the day after the killer-dog incident, and we had been halfway through our tea when it occurred to me that Granny was treating me differently than before: with less patience but more respect.
“I am an Amazon,” she had said, her gray-blue eyes aglow with a feverish, metallic shine, “the killer of beasts and men. Freedom runs through my veins; no rope can hold me. I fear nothing; fear runs from me. I always walk forward, for that is the only way. Try to stop me, and you will feel my rage.”
She had repeated this high-handed declaration again and again, until I knew it by heart. Then she tested me on it until my voice became firm and confident and I stood before her, as tall as I could, believing every word.
I had occasionally used the mantra before an important exam or a fencing match, but never before had it bolstered me the way it did tonight, walking through the labyrinth. This was what Granny had been preparing me for—not the trifling challenges of modern life, but those rare visceral moments of truth when you are trapped in the web of fate and the real monsters come out.
And so, as I approached the first turn without seeing any trace of the yarn whatsoever, I braced myself for a possible encounter. Someone or something had come through this corridor while I was busy in the tablet room, I was sure of it now. Clutching the bag to my chest, I pulled back the flashlight to be able to strike … but when I stretched to look, all I saw was another empty tunnel disappearing into limbo.
Or rather, it was not completely empty, for I spotted something lying on the ground a few steps ahead: the ball of yarn. Neatly rolled up.
I was so flummoxed I didn’t hear it coming. In the darkness of the tunnel, I saw nothing other than a sudden, looming shadow, swallowing me from behind. In my terror I ducked instinctively, and I would have started running, had not something grabbed hold of my windbreaker with a bloodcurdling growl of warning.
Desperate to escape, I twisted around and swung my flashlight madly at my attacker. Through a haze of panic I was able to make out a head but no face … just a thick brow and two lifeless eyes. Screaming, I struck at the thing as hard as I could again and again until the flashlight was torn from my hands and then came right back with a numbing blow to my temple.
The next thing I felt was the cold, hard floor of the tunnel against my cheek. A second later, something took me fiercely by the arm and flipped me over on my back. Sick with fear and unable to see a thing in the pitch-blackness, I tried to kick at the violent, panting body hovering over me. But my legs were seized and pinned to the cave’s floor. Despite my screams and struggles, claws tore furiously at my jacket.
I finally remembered my sharp-eared jackal bracelet and managed a few forceful backhand strokes, one of which made my attacker grunt with pain and let go of me. Fearing the worst, I curled up for protection.
But the strike never came. I heard a rush of feet, felt a trailing draft, and …
Silence.
Shaking all over, I stayed crouched on the tunnel floor for the longest time, wondering if it would return, whatever it was. The darkness was so complete I wasn’t even sure if my eyes were open, and it took all my willpower to get up and start searching for the flashlight.
I couldn’t find it. Gasping with panic, I fumbled around blindly on the gritty floor until it eventually occurred to me to take out my phone. Fortunately, it was undamaged and came on right away when I opened it, giving me a few seconds of blue light at a time. Not enough to see far, but enough to read Rebecca’s map. Except … the precious piece of paper was nowhere to be found. Nor was my bag. My attacker, I realized, had managed to take everything. Even one of my shoes was missing. All I had left were the few items I had slipped into my jacket pockets: my phone, my camera, and Granny’s notebook with the clay-disk transcript tucked inside.
On trembling legs I started down the dark tunnel back toward the tablet room. It was only a turn away, I told myself; surely I could fumble my way back there, even without the aid of the map.
I couldn’t. Coming into a circular cavity I was sure I hadn’t seen before, I knew I had gone too far. Turning, I meant to depart this round chamber the way I came, but absurdly, found myself staring at three identical doorways, unable to identify from which I had emerged.
Nearly in tears from shock and frustration, and too afraid to stand still for more than a few seconds, I finally chose the left one, determined to turn back if it felt wrong. At first, it was impossible to distinguish this tunnel from the one I had been in previously; I kept noticing details that might or might not have been there before, simply because I hadn’t looked for them. A pile of rubble, a gaping crack in the wall—the pressure of finding certainty was so crushing I felt like sitting down right where I was, in the hopes that a search party would find me before the monster came back for more.
No sooner had I overcome this cowardly impulse than the tunnel widened into a proper corridor. Encouraged by the cressets on the wall, I hurried on, holding the phone up before me, eventually ending up in a vaulted grotto. In the feeble light of my cellphone not much could be discerned, but what I did see was promising. I was on the edge of what looked like an underground canal. The ghostly presence of a punting boat and pole suggested the canal had once been passable—it had once led somewhere. Perhaps it had been some ancient form of plumbing; I might be standing on the edge of the old palace sewer. If that were the case, the canal would lead outside. Even the bowels of Hades had to drain somewhere.
Deciding this was my best chance of finding a way out, I picked my way through the rubble, praying I would not end up in a dead end of collapsed stone. I was freezing
cold by now, terrified by what had happened and might happen still, and my one stocking foot—throbbing with pain whenever I took a step—was a constant reminder of how vulnerable and human I was.
Stumbling on through the detritus of the palace sewer, I lost my balance again and again and scraped my hands raw by grappling blindly for something to hold on to. Opening my phone with regular intervals, I tried to make out the time, but couldn’t. The numbers had lost their meaning. To rally my spirits, I tried to recite Granny’s Amazon chant a few times, but my teeth were chattering so badly I had to stop.
At one point, my left hand brushed against a clammy, clingy web of sorts. Flipping open my phone, I saw roots hanging from above. Encouraged by their earthy smell and the evident proximity of the natural world, I strode on and on and on, pushing through rubble and climbing over boulders … until the passage became so narrow I had to continue on my hands and knees.
Numb with cold, I wormed my way through that confined space, stubbornly clearing my path by picking up and tossing aside chunks of stone. I was so desperate, so close to losing hope, I barely dared believe my senses when I finally emerged through a chasm overgrown with slippery moss into a different kind of darkness.
Looking up, I cried out with joy at the sight of the crescent moon … only to jump aside when a pair of headlights came right toward me before swinging away at the last moment—right into Rebecca’s ivory village.
AS I LIMPED ACROSS the muddy parking lot and up the stone steps to the shared terrace in front of the guest rooms, I made every effort at stealth. Seeing the lights still on in Nick’s room, I tiptoed past his door, trying not to make any noise while searching my pockets for the room key.
It wasn’t there. And nor was the key to the tablet room, which Rebecca had put on the same ring, to make things easier. Struck by the stupidity of it all, I leaned my head against the locked door in silent agony.
“Feeling better?”
The shock of hearing a man’s voice made me snap upright. Leaning against the wall, not ten steps away, Nick watched me with folded arms. “What happened to your other shoe?”
Although his manner was not exactly friendly, I felt myself softening at the question, and my head drooped with exhaustion. “I’m not exactly sure.”
Only then did Nick approach, his bare feet tan against the whitewashed terrace. “What’s going on, Diana?”
I glanced up at him reluctantly, in no mood to explain. As soon as he saw my face, his expression changed. Without a word, he took my arm and guided me into his room. “Look down.” He inspected my banged temple in the light of the ceiling lamp. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t think so—” I began. Then I caught sight of myself in a mirror on the wall. The bruise looked even worse than it felt; not only was it red and swollen right where the flashlight had struck me, but a dark pattern had spread to my right eye.
“What happened?”
I flinched as he poked the bruise. “A door walked into me.”
Nick disappeared into the bathroom. “Do I really have to repeat my question?” he asked when he came back, pressing a damp washcloth firmly against my temple.
His patronizing manner flicked me over the edge. “Repeat whatever you want,” I said, pushing away his hand. “I’m under no obligation to tell you anything. You have filled me with lies from day one—”
Nick started. “What lies?”
I glared at him, unable to quell the anger that had been festering inside me for so long. “Perhaps you could start by telling me the name of your employer? And please don’t say ‘Mr. Skolsky.’ “
“Why should I waste my time?” Nick was completely unfazed. “You’ve known it all along.”
Momentarily stunned, I sat down on the edge of the bed. I had given him my best shot, but his parry had been effortless. He looked at me with a half-overbearing smile, as if to say, “Is that really all you have?” before shaking his head and handing me the washcloth.
“So,” I said, taking it, “you admit to misleading me?”
Nick shrugged. “I’m a liar, you’re a thief. Under the circumstances I think we’re better off working together.” He nodded at my bruise. “Wouldn’t your head agree?”
Just then, we both heard a faint knocking sound.
“That would be Bex,” I sighed. “We were supposed to meet up—”
Nick walked over to the door. “I’ll tell her to get some ice.”
“And a gallon of Metaxa,” I added, pressing the cloth to my forehead.
Later that night, as I was nested on Nick’s bed with a welcome glass of the local painkiller, my lingering shock gradually changed into bitter confusion. Rebecca had been horrified at my account of what had happened, and even though Nick had spoken only a little, I knew he was shocked, too. Sitting in the corner in a tattered gladiolus-blossom armchair, he looked increasingly grim, his fingers drumming loudly on the threadbare armrest.
“Who else knew you were down there?” he asked at length.
I looked at Rebecca who sat on the bedside right next to me, poised to replenish my drink. “Did you tell your darling Mr. Telemakhos I was going down there tonight?” I asked her.
She frowned, looking a little offended. “I don’t remember. But surely, you’re not suspecting him?”
I took another few gulps of Metaxa while Rebecca struggled to explain the phenomenon of Mr. Telemakhos to Nick. This was obviously not the time for an argument, but I highly suspected it was my friend’s big mouth that had somehow gotten me into trouble.
“Just to recap.” Nick’s eyes traveled over my filthy clothes and torn knees before returning to the reddish bump on my temple. “You lost your laptop and a set of keys. What else was in the bag?”
“Oh, not much.” I pulled up my sleeve to inspect my throbbing elbow. As I did so, Granny’s bracelet appeared in all its timeless grace, reminding us both what a consummate liar I could be. “Just an envelope with ten thousand dollars.” I shook my head, ignoring Rebecca’s gasp of horror. “Everything else was either in my room or in my pockets.”
“Everything else?”
Suddenly chilled, I drew the bedspread more tightly around me. Even though I was telling the truth, my voice sounded false. “Well, I still have my camera with the photos from Algeria.” I reached into the black windbreaker, which was lying on the bed next to me. “I hope it still works.”
Without hesitation, Nick took the camera from me and popped out the memory card. “With your permission.” It was not a question.
Nick’s laptop was of the sturdy variety, engineered to withstand grime, desert roads, and minor explosions. An excellent choice considering his employer, I thought as he placed it on the bed in front of me and uploaded my photos directly into his own picture library. The next thing I knew, an entire year of my life played out before us in a cringing slide show of James playing tennis, my father carving the Christmas turkey in his squirrel apron, some early daffodils I had bought at an outdoor market, my mother eating a rare ice cream … and finally, all my photos from Algeria followed by the ones I had taken just a few hours earlier in the tablet room.
“It appears,” I said, a little irritated at the ease with which Nick had annexed my private life, “I have more or less moved into your computer.”
“That’s okay.” He leaned forward to study the photo on the screen—the last of the batch. “It was getting boring in there. Is that the tablet?” When I nodded, he shook his head. “You risked your life to take a picture of an engraved pancake?”
I decided to let it slide. It was, after all, a relief to see Nick treating the precious clay disk with so little respect; had he seemed truly interested I might once again have wondered about his true motive for coming to Crete.
An odd buzzing sound brought me back to the moment.
“Excuse me.” Nick extracted his phone from a trouser pocket and disappeared outside. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Rebecca scooted right up to me, clearly itching
to investigate his computer.
“Let’s see what he’s got on here!” she urged me. “Hurry!”
“Go ahead and hack it. It’s all yours.” I pushed the laptop toward her. “Be his guest.”
Rebecca looked down at the keys, only then realizing they were all in Arabic. “Oh.”
“Right.” I pulled it back in front of me. “You didn’t think he was going to make it that easy, did you?”
“What about his own photos?” Rebecca pecked eagerly at the screen. “Try to open another folder.”
I should have said no, but the truth was, I was even more curious than she. After a week of intense coexistence I still knew next to nothing about Nick, except that he was a smooth-talking shape-shifter working for the Aqrab Foundation.
At first glance, his photo library contained nothing outright incriminating. As far as I could see in my guilty hurry, most of the pictures were from archaeological excavations, showing the various stages of digging and cleaning of various finds. Some were burial grounds with skeletons surrounded by clay pots and weapons; others were actual buildings emerging from desert dunes, and the artifacts found here included golden jewelry and drinking vessels.
But in between excavations and artifacts were pictures of armed guards and armored vehicles, stringing the entire photo library together by barbed wire. Even though the guards were often smiling and posing for the shots, a current of latent violence ran through it all, humming right beneath the scientific surface.
Only then did it occur to me to check the most recent folder. As expected, it contained photos from the temple in Algeria, including several close-ups of the sarcophagus in the inner sanctum. Scrolling through the images with trembling fingers, I barely allowed myself to look carefully until I arrived at the very last one.
“Look!” hissed Rebecca. “It’s your bracelet!”
I stared in disbelief. The photo did indeed show a coiled jackal lying on a paper napkin, the ancient bronze dimmed by dust. But it certainly wasn’t mine. It had to be the one from the sarcophagus. My bruised head throbbing with agitation, I decided there could only be one explanation for its presence here among Nick’s photos: He was the one who had removed it from the skeleton, and his claim that I was the thief had been nothing but a handy excuse for following me to Crete.
