Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  Irene slaps the gypsy’s backside with the spade. The man runs off, looking nervously over his shoulder as he stumbles across the field.

  “We still need a reason to go over there,” Irene says, watching him flee. “And the only one that works is a dead Romani.”

  My sister bends her knees and pivots around on her boot heels. She straightens her arms, adding momentum to a fast hip-twisting spin. I’m still pondering what she’s up to when the spade smashes into my face. I barely have time to register a throbbing headache before I pass out.

  I wake to the sound of scraping dirt. I’m flat on my side at the edge of the church graveyard. A tall uniformed woman stands hip deep in a rectangular hole. My sister? It must be, but she’s little more than a legless silhouette among crosses and headstones. Lifting my head up, I see parallel tracks through the soil behind me, and my boot heels are covered in mud.

  “You dragged me all that way?” I ask.

  “You’re what?” Irene exhales between two digs. “Fifty kilos?”

  “Forty-eight.” I know exactly how much I weigh, and so should she.

  “Easy,” my sister brags. “Sorry for breaking your nose, but I had to hit you hard. So it looked real, in case they were watching.”

  My nose may have healed, but my head’s still throbbing. “Why did you knock me out? I could have pretended.”

  A dazzlingly bright, circular searchlight beam shines on us.

  “Keep still,” whispers Irene. “I’m burying a dead girl, and they don’t move.”

  Metal strikes stone. My sister gives nothing away, shovelling dirt until the light moves on. “I think I’ve found the sewer tunnel,” she says, bending down to wipe something clean. “Any men out there?”

  Plenty of them: tower guards, truck drivers, isolated soldiers patrolling the fields. The Germans carry pocket-sized electric torches. It makes them more of a threat, but easy to spot against the shadowy fields.

  “There’s nobody within a hundred yards,” I say.

  “How far is that?” asks Irene, agitated.

  What? Of course. She was brought up in Europe. I do some quick mental arithmetic.

  “About thirty metres,” I clarify.

  A clang rings out, followed by the hum of vibrating metal. The sounds repeat every two seconds with near-precise regularity. I shuffle across to the hole, using my elbows to claw my way through the soft mud. Irene’s attempting to smash through an excavated sewer pipe with the spade. A concrete pipe. That won’t be as easy to break as my nose.

  Panicked shouts come from the camp. I make out two words: Dieter and dead. Torch beams - and both searchlights - converge on the building where Zennler interrogated us.

  A soldier exits through the door, carrying the half-naked Romani girl under one arm. He holds up my blouse by its neckline. The assembled men have a frantic conversation – though I’m too far away to hear a word – and divide up into search parties.

  “They’ll be looking for a gypsy girl,” Irene says. “And a woman in uniform. Here! Help me.”

  She batters the pipe, swinging the spade like crazy. I slide into the hole, showering my sister with loose dirt. Help? What does she expect me to use? My hands?

  Irene’s cap turns a brighter shade of grey, illuminated by torchlight.

  “Over there!” a soldier calls out. “Near the church.”

  They’ve found us! Irene holds nothing back. Yellow sparks fly as the swung blade repeatedly strikes concrete. There’s a pattering sound - akin to a rock slide - and the pipe cracks open. A two foot wide, curved section of concrete breaks off. It sinks into rushing brown water, and is quickly swept away by the current.

  “You said it was a tunnel,” I shout.

  I wouldn’t call it that. The pipe is less than three feet in diameter, narrow enough to be considered a crawlspace. But there’s no hope of crawling through there. Frothy water spills out through the broken section, soaking the surrounding soil. There’s a distinct smell of urine in the air. This is no escape route. If I don’t drown, I’ll die from chemical poisoning.

  Torch beams pierce the gloom overhead. Three of them, close together. Irene dumps the spade and swaps it for her machine gun.

  “Jump!” she screams at me.

  My sister ducks, flattens her back against the dirt trench, and shoots blindly over her shoulder. She fires in short bursts, presumably to conserve bullets. German troops respond with shouts of alarm.

  “What about you?” I yell.

  “Jump, little sister!”

  Her ice cold glare warns me not to argue. I breathe in deep, and drop through the hole into the pipe.

  The water is freezing, and the rags I’m wearing do little to keep me warm. It’s hopeless to fight the current. I may as well try swimming up a waterfall. I’m sucked along and under. Pieces of brown sewage swirl around me. They’re either clumps of mud or… human waste. Unpleasant to look at, but closing my eyes will only trigger bad memories. In any case, it soon becomes too dark to see.

  An eternity passes as I hold my breath. I’m running out of oxygen, and my legs and arms continually collide with the concrete. Soon I’ll be forced to open my mouth, and swallow… whatever that stuff is. How long does this pipe go on?

  Suddenly I’m in the open again. I smell foul air for about two seconds, then splash down into a pool of sludgy water. I quickly swim to the surface and cough up vile-tasting, gooey lumps. Ugh! That’s definitely not mud.

  The currents are much weaker now. Despite feeling nauseous enough to vomit, I’m able to stand. I hold my palm level with the water and measure it against my body. Just above my waistline, so it’s roughly two feet deep.

  “Hello?” I shout, wading forward through the darkness.

  My voice echoes back, barely audible over… It sounds like a running tap, though I suspect it’s much larger in scale. The ambient noise comes from all directions. This sewer junction – if that’s where I am - must be fed by multiple inlets.

  There’s a loud splash behind me, and I’m swamped by sewage. Someone else just arrived via the same pipe I did.

  “Irene!” That’s my first thought. But what if it’s not?

  I listen for vocal confirmation, but it doesn’t come. I wave my arms around frantically, making waves as I search. My fingers brush rough cloth. It feels like a soldier’s uniform, and the person wearing it has long feminine hair. It can’t be anyone else.

  “Irene! Irene!” I call her name repeatedly, lifting my sister’s head above water.

  I hold my hand underneath her nose, and feel a faint draught blow on my wet fingers. Irene’s breathing, but doesn’t appear to be conscious.

  I rummage through the uniform pockets. Crumpled paper, loose change, keys on a metal ring. Nothing useful. The machine gun is still strapped around Irene’s neck, but that’s not going to be… Maybe I can use it. Its muzzle flash should provide light, if only briefly.

  The weapon is heavy, difficult for someone of my small stature to lift. Now I know why they have straps attached. The trigger guard is damp. So is the barrel, but at least it’s not bent. I aim directly upward and squeeze the trigger.

  The kickback almost knocks the gun from my shaking hands, but I hold on and fire a three-round burst. For a short moment the sewer tunnel is lit in bright, flickering yellow. I see mouldy bricks, metal pipes, and… Was that a ladder over there? Then it’s dark once more.

  My sister’s not carrying any spare ammunition, so I have to make the remaining shots count. But I’ll be firing blind. Unless I close my eyes and turn back time. It’s more difficult that I expected because the muzzle flashes are very short in duration, but after four failed attempts I’m able to stop at the right moment.

  With the darkness dispersed, the tunnel’s secrets are revealed: grey mushrooms sprouting between muddy bricks, a corked glass bottle floating in the filthy brown water, steel pipes bolted to the far wall. There’s a sign painted on a welded plate. It’s buried beneath a layer of solidified grime, but a flame
symbol is visible above an umlauted letter U. A gas pipe, and that corroded joint is missing a few rivets. I haven’t moved, so if I aim where the sign is…

  I open my eyes. After spreading my feet to absorb the recoil, I hold the machine gun’s thick magazine with my free hand, and pull the trigger. Even with all my preparation, the weapon is impossible to hold steady. Bullets chip bricks. One severs a mushroom stem, and another bounces off the pipe. After two seconds of continual firing, I get lucky.

  Hissing gas explodes from the broken joint. Yellow and orange flames shoot toward me. Warm air precedes the fire, blowing me backward. I regain my footing, stunned but unscathed. Irene - I can see her in the burning flames - stirs from her slumber. She coughs, spitting out brown saliva that’s indistinguishable from sewer water.

  “Edith,” she mumbles, squinting at me.

  “Irene!”

  She’s hurt! So much blood. How did I not feel it before? It must have been because of the water. There’s a hole in my sister’s shoulder. One inch deep, with a dull grey metal nugget nestled inside.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I was shot,” Irene moans. An obvious answer to a stupid question.

  I hold Irene between my legs, keeping her afloat. She’s heavy, but the buoyancy helps negate her weight. Seeing my sister like this – weak, bleeding – reminds me of—

  I’m back in the interrogation room. Zennler focuses the light on the scars covering Irene’s back. Not wanting to remember the gory details, I immediately return to the present.

  “Why did Zennler…” The question’s too painful for me to finish.

  “Torture me? He wanted to know about you, Edith.”

  “About my powers?”

  “Yes.” Irene hangs her head in shame. “And I told him everything. About your memories, how you can heal. They came to the Maidens camp, snatched me right in front of the others. I held out as long as I could. It must have been days, weeks. I tried, but the pain… the things Zennler did.”

  I put a comforting arm around Irene’s shoulder, careful not to press on the wound. “It’s all right,” I say consolingly. “I wouldn’t have lasted so long.”

  “He wanted to know about… Father.”

  Irene’s voice goes up an octave. A shriek of pain? From my sister? What did they do to her?

  “His expedition…” Irene pauses to grind her teeth. “…to Egypt. Someone told… Zennler about a document he found.”

  “Gustav.”

  Irene spits out reddish brown fluid. Her eyelids flutter. I hold my palm against her forehead. It feels hot and sweaty. My sister’s burning up. If she doesn’t get medical attention soon, it could be too late. I look for a way out. There’s the ladder I saw before, about forty yards upstream.

  “Irene!” I shake her awake. “We can’t stay here.”

  Her eyes are vacant, her body motionless. Can she even hear me? I swim against the current, holding her shoulders above the water. Progress is slow.

  “The document was… supposed to be a map.” Irene’s voice is almost deathly quiet now. “That Father used to find the tomb. But there was nothing on the scroll… only those symbols. Lydia must have known how to translate them. Did Ernst figure out… what they mean?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I—”

  “Then it was all… for nothing.” Irene talks over me. “I’m—”

  “Irene!” I shout to get her attention. “I can read them! I can read the symbols. When I look at them in my memories, I see pictures.”

  “Pictures of what?” Irene asks, suddenly interested. My revelation seems to have lifted her spirits.

  “A city. Made of hollow shapes. Arabian. Somewhere in Egypt maybe.”

  My sister frowns in thought. “So it was a map. Zennler was right.” She screams - a wail more agonised and louder than she’s made since she was a baby girl. “Edith, you have to… give me… your blood.”

  “What?”

  “I’m dying. Heal… me.”

  Irene lifts a wavering finger, pointing to my left. Toward the corked bottle, bobbing on the surface. Does she want me to— She’s not moving! I shake my sister about and slap her face. I accidentally dunk her underwater. She convulses, tongue wagging outside her mouth.

  “Hang on!”

  I grab the bottle by the neck. It’s coated in viscous, lime green ooze that clings to my fingers. But this isn’t the time to be fussy.

  I propel myself off the bottom of the pool, dragging my sister across the waterway. As soon as I’m close enough, I smash the bottle on the wall. Except it doesn’t smash. I only manage to crack the bottom. Another aimless swing, and a few more cracks appear.

  “Break, you stupid thing!” I tell it.

  On the third attempt it does. Shards fly everywhere, and I’m left clutching a jagged-edged, corked glass tube. Irene’s shirt has come untucked, and waterlogged earth-grey cloth has covered up her wound. The material is too tough to cut through, and there’s no time to undo all her buttons.

  I lift Irene’s hand and make a tiny incision on the back of her wrist. I’ve seen shaving cuts more severe, but it will have to do. I position my arm above hers, and carve it open with the broken glass.

  My blood drips onto her wound. Bolts of lightning flash along the cut. Mine, but not Irene’s. My wound closes up in seconds. The red droplets that came out before my skin sealed behave like normal blood, forming rivulets down Irene’s arm. She’s not healing.

  Was Gustav right? Do the fish creatures remain in my body when I bleed? Devastated, I let Irene’s hand drop into the water. I rest against the wall and watch shadows dance on the ceiling. It’s over. There’s nothing more I can do.

  Irene stands up, rinsing water from her hair. No gasps. No cries of pain. No evidence of fatigue whatsoever. Was she feigning injury all along?

  “You gave up too easily.” Her hostile attitude confirms my suspicion. “Like you did with our mother. And you’re far too trusting, little sister.”

  Irene presses her bloody forearm against my throat, slamming me into the wall with enough force to crack the brickwork. My sister’s dropped her act. She’s back to being super strong. And now I’m the helpless weakling.

  Irene – using nothing except that one arm - lifts me higher. “Get down here!” she yells up the ladder. “I’m done with her.”

  Metal grates, and a manhole cover screeches open. Electric torches light up brown rusted rungs.

  “You’re… working with… them?” My words come out gurgled, separated by strangled gasps.

  Irene gives me a Zennler-like smirk. The turncoat! I’ve a good mind to— I freeze time. There’s nowhere to go. I’m literally up against a wall. I could punch my sister all night long, and she’d laugh the blows off. That machine gun’s my only chance. Praying I didn’t waste all the bullets shooting the gas pipe, I wake up.

  I go for the trigger, but Irene’s one step ahead. She pulls the weapon away, unstraps it, and throws it to a Wehrmacht soldier. He’s one of three that’s descended into the sewers.

  “Did you not wonder why it was so easy to escape?” Irene asks me.

  I can only gasp in response.

  “Do you really believe Zennler could have broken me? I’m not like you - a pathetic weakling who’d trade her secrets for the life of a gypsy girl.”

  Irene releases her arm, stepping back while I catch my breath. As painful as her throat crushing blow was, the truth hurts more. My sister never changed sides. She was a Nazi all along. Ruthless, twisted, and downright evil.

  “Why go to all this trouble?” I question. “When you could have just tortured me?”

  “Getting you to open up this way was a lot quicker, and I wanted you to know how it feels to be betrayed by your own sister,” Irene says spitefully. “To be abandoned when you needed her most.”

  “Is that what you think? That I abandoned you? I always—”

  “Thought of yourself!” she screams. “It was always about you. I never mattered. You were
only interested in the vessel, the symbols.”

  Such hatred, and all directed at me. The ungrateful hypocrite!

  “You wanted the blood yourself,” I remind her. “Only it didn’t work on you. Perhaps it’s because you’re a Nazi sc—”

  Irene silences me with a brutal backhand slap. “Bring her to the academy,” she orders the soldiers. “Now we know she can read the symbols, she’s going to translate them for us.”

  I don’t resist as the men drag me away. Irene’s crushed me physically and mentally. I used up all my energy ‘saving’ her, and I’ve no fight left.

  Chapter Ten: The Translation

  A salty breeze blows across the foredeck of the Aegir, but it has negligible effect on the sweltering Mediterranean climate. It’s ninety degrees Fahrenheit. An improvement on the claustrophobic furnace that’s my cabin, but hardly relaxing. I must have drunk seven pints of water today, and I’m still thirsty.

  We’ve been travelling for weeks non-stop. First an overland drive from Berlin to the Italian port of Genoa. Then we boarded Zennler’s ship and navigated the narrow, turbulent Strait of Messina between Sicily and the mainland. Now we’re on the final leg of the journey to Alexandria, following a roughly eastward heading along the Egyptian coastline.

  It would be so easy to escape. Scale the brass guardrail, and it’s a short drop to the cool, turquoise waters. I’m not strong enough to reach the shore, but it’s less than a mile swim to the sailboat off the starboard bow. They’re fishermen by the looks of it. A robed, dark-skinned African woman sits in a deckchair, weaving a net. She’d rescue a distressed girl. Wouldn’t she?

  What am I thinking? It’s a silly idea. I don’t speak a word of Arabic. And I can’t abandon ship, not after what my sister threatened to do.

  “She requests your presence below,” relays Matthau, the ship’s helmsman.

  “I thought she would.”

  Matthau doesn’t need to specify who. There’s only one woman aboard. All but one of the Aegir‘s twelve man crew are thick muscled blonds. Matthau is the exception: a bronze-skinned, dreadlocked seadog with tattooed arms. A spike headed anchor on the inside of one wrist, and an ancient spearman with a round shield and plumed Corinthian helmet on the other. The artwork is fine quality, and looks as out of place as Matthau does. He leans over the rail, a lit cigarette wedged between two chipped teeth.