I take a deep breath and follow the water trail. There were no pools along the corridor, so whoever left them must have gone downstairs. I proceed cautiously to the lower deck, placing both feet on a step before descending to the next. The pools get progressively smaller. When I reach the bottom there are none at all, just the occasional, damp footprint. Medium-sized with no distinguishing marks. They lead straight on, to the galley.
Everyone’s asleep. I know the sailors aren’t dead because I hear them snoring. Loud snorts and breathing with no rhythm. Men lie across tables, on the floor, and over each other. The fat engineer is face down in a bowl of that unappetising, lumpy sludge the cook insists is porridge. Wax candles burn low in their pewter stands. Very low. The crew could been asleep for hours.
There’s only one way the intruder could have gone: through the kitchen. It’s a similar story in there. Pans simmer on hobs. Peas and carrots have liquefied in boiling water. A beef stew is half-prepared, with sliced meat and onions on the chef’s chopping board. Is he asleep too? I find the moustached blond man under a table, with a rosy coloured bruise on his neck. He’s still alive, just knocked unconscious. Did someone poison the food?
“Stay focused,” I tell myself, following the trail. “You’re not a sleuth.”
The footprints become more spread out. Most of the water has evaporated, making them difficult to follow. After a few wrong turns, I track the intruder to the storage hold. Zennler uses the Aegir for marine archaeology. Treasure hunting, most would call it. Shelves are full of diving equipment: wetsuits, oxygen tanks, spearguns. Those might be useful, but I don’t have time to suss out how they work.
I grab something simpler: a two-foot-long harpoon. It’s for skewering fish, but it will work on humans too. I grip its wooden shaft two handed, aiming the spearhead forward as I head to the rear of the ship.
Chugging, clanking, and squeaking noises come from astern. The intruder’s destination – and source of the ruckus – is the Aegir‘s engine room. It’s hotter than anywhere else I’ve been, and diesel power is dirty. The cranks, pistons and gears are coated in black, oily residue. Fuel barrels are stacked in tied bundles. In between them is—
A bomb! Six sticks of dynamite glued together, wired with a timer. It’s set to explode in five minutes, and the clock’s ticking.
“Edith.”
It’s her. I wheel round to face a familiar woman dressed in black cloth. Like me, she hasn’t aged a day. Traces of dye stain her damp, wavy orange hair. She’s applied brown paint to her face and neck, artificially darkening her appearance. So she was the African fisherwoman on the sailboat.
“Lydia,” I say, brandishing the harpoon.
Chapter Eleven: Three Women on a Boat
“You haven’t changed at all,” Lydia says.
“Neither have you,” I retort, eyeing the dynamite. “You sneak aboard and plant a bomb. Then what? Leave us all to die!?”
“Not you, Edith. You’re coming with me.”
Not exactly reassuring. Lydia’s no better than Zennler. Or Irene. The only difference is she hides behind a friendly charade. If I go with her, I’d just be swapping one murderer for another.
“What about the crew?” I ask. “Don’t their lives matter?”
“We do what we must,” Lydia replies coldly. “Sometimes men have to die. Some are evil. Others are simply misguided, like your father.”
A cruel attempt to provoke me. I keep my eyes open, ready to defend myself. “If you’re trying to send me to the past, it won’t work. I don’t need to remember what I can never forget.”
“You’re more disciplined. But have you learned how to fight?”
“Not really,” I concede.
Lydia sidesteps, positioning herself between me and the bomb. The timer’s second hand completes another revolution. Three minutes remain.
“But we do what we must,” I say, stern faced.
I charge forward with the harpoon held high, aiming straight for Lydia’s heart. She dodges and twists out of my view. As she did at Clayton Manor, but I won’t go down so easily this time.
I close my eyes, and go back to when I saw Lydia last. She’s raised a hand above her opposite shoulder. Palm spread flat, with her fingers pressed together - a chopping move. I return to the present, and simultaneously duck and swing my harpoon. The spearhead slices Lydia’s stomach. Blood sprays in a straight, diagonal line across the fuel barrels behind her.
Lydia staggers back. I’d be clutching the wound, but she keeps her guard up and lets the cut heal without interfering. I thrust. She diverts the harpoon with her forearm. It clangs harmlessly against the engine housing.
Lydia’s too fast, and too well trained. I need an opening. We fight for… seconds I suppose, but it seems like minutes because I freeze time after every attack. Not one finds its mark, and the constant exertion soon takes its toll.
“You rely too much on your memories, and not on skill,” Lydia says.
A powerful kick sends me careering into the barrels. The fumbled harpoon clatters between my legs. Loud ticking reminds me there’s a time limit. Fifty seconds before the engine room becomes an inferno.
I’m too exhausted to fight on. All I have left in my arsenal are words. “We’re both going… to die,” I cough. “Switch it off!”
I’m optimistic when Lydia reaches for the timer. But she doesn’t stop the clock. She simply adds another five minutes.
“You’ve seen what the black metal can do,” she says. “There’ll be a lot more of it in Athena’s tomb. We can’t allow the Nazis to find it.”
“We? Don’t talk as if we’re friends.”
Matthau walks in, and suddenly everything makes sense. Him smoking on deck, the vial of liquid, why he’s the only crewman still awake. He’s the second half of Lydia’s we. Her accomplice, the man who signalled her and put his shipmates to sleep.
“Everything set?” Matthau’s tone is downbeat. I get the impression he’s not fully on board with the plan.
“Almost,” replies Lydia in fluent German. “I had to deal with a little problem.”
She’s not dealt with me yet. I reclaim the harpoon and rise to confront her.
“Silly girl,” Lydia says chidingly. “Why would you want to save these men? They’re Nazis. Fascists. They’d separate the world based on religion, skin colour, or—”
“Blood?” I intercede. “That’s why you want me. Right?”
Lydia’s eyes momentarily soften. “We can’t let them reach Egypt,” she says. “Now put that spear down, unless you want to embarrass yourself.”
I’m no match for Lydia’s fighting prowess. And if I freeze time again I’ll collapse. If only there was an alternative. I can’t think with that engine chugging in my ears. The engine… Of course!
I grasp the harpoon tight. Lydia raises her arms, ready to block. But she’s not my target. I slash the rope securing the fuel drums. The weakened fibres stretch, then snap under the increased tension. Barrels roll, colliding with the engine, the hull, and each other.
I pry the cap off the nearest one. Viscous, black oil spills onto the floor. I stand still, letting it lap over my boots.
“It’s difficult to sail without fuel,” I reason. “Nobody has to die.”
Matthau inspects a big circular gauge. Its needle hovers just outside the red warning zone. “They don’t have enough left in the tank to reach Alexandria,” he says.
It seems I’ve found an ally, but I haven’t won Lydia over yet. “What if they call for help?” she argues. “We’ll only slow them down.”
“I can disable the radio,” volunteers Matthau.
Lydia frowns, trying to find a flaw with his argument. I raise my harpoon as she approaches, but relax when she stoops down to collect the bomb. Lydia disables the timer, and hands the oil-smeared dynamite to her accomplice.
“Any trouble,” she tells him. “You set it off. No hesitation.”
Matthau nods, then starts sabotaging the other barrels. Lydia wre
stles the harpoon from my grasp. I was expecting that, but against her superior strength and alertness there’s nothing I can do.
“You go first,” Lydia insists, moving behind me.
I step carefully through the oil spill. My lubricated boots can’t get a grip, and keep on sliding. Things are a little better once we’re in the storage room, but not by much.
“Keep moving,” Lydia says, dissuading me from collecting a second harpoon from the shelf.
“Why did you kill my father?” I ask her pointedly. I’ve been waiting twelve years. Since we’re not running or fighting – for a change – this is an appropriate a time as any to get some answers.
“I didn’t want to, believe me.” Lydia sounds sincere, but she’s lied before. “Your father changed after Egypt. He was determined to keep the vessel. When I learned he’d found it, me and my men planned to recover it at the museum. But then you showed up, and things got complicated. I tried to save him, but Stephen was delirious. He would have shot me.”
“So? You would have healed.”
“We’re not immortal, Edith. Don’t think having Athena’s gift makes you a god.”
Spiritual nonsense from whatever religion Lydia preaches. If she classes that as wisdom, there’s no point in discussing it further.
Lydia doesn’t speak again until we’ve walked through the galley. “Matthau said you’ve been spending a lot of time with Doctor Ernst. What did you tell him?”
“I… nothing,” I stutter.
An obvious lie that Lydia sees straight through. She knocks me aside, making straight for the most exquisitely decorated door on deck. Her instincts are right: that’s the captain’s cabin. I follow Lydia inside, ready to dodge an angrily thrown harpoon. She’s not that furious, but she’s building up to it.
“You drew them,” she says, following up with a scything, tight-lipped gaze.
“They were going to kill the Romani girl,” I say in my defence. Then I realise she won’t know who I mean. “A prisoner at Marzahn. They threatened the others, too.”
“Marzahn’s a death camp,” Lydia says unwaveringly. “Precious secrets traded for the life of someone who would have died anyway. Why do you think Athena gave us the power to read her symbols? So only those with her blessing could find her tomb!”
Lydia finishes her crazed outburst by stamping the harpoon shaft against the floor. Gustav’s compass bounces on the table, still vibrating three seconds later. Luckily she hasn’t woken the men: Zennler, quietly snoozing in his chair, or Gustav who’s sprawled beside the three-eyed woman sketch. Irene’s sleeping behind Lydia, with one hand on her sheathed cutlass.
“And you led them right to it,” Lydia accuses me.
“Like you led Father there. What was it you gave him?” I close my eyes. Not to freeze time, but to remember what Lydia said the night of his murder. I return with her phrase fresh in my mind. “Direction and encouragement. You called him a misguided man. Misguided by who, Lydia?”
Her hand curls tighter around the harpoon - a vicious, unrepentant stance. “I’m telling Matthau to sink the ship. You can either come with me…”
Irene rises, silent as a ghost. The sleeping drug must have worn off. My sister mimes a shush. She raises her blade, and closes in behind an unsuspecting Lydia.
I freeze time. Do I save the woman who killed my father, or stop my traitorous sister? What kind of twisted choice is that? One I’d prefer not to make, but I side with Lydia. Yes, she manipulated Father. No, she didn’t have to kill him. But the way my sister executed Zennler’s men. That was bone-chillingly evil. She enjoyed it.
I open my eyes and immediately scream, “Watch out!”
Lydia thinks it’s a trick. She looks at me as a parent would a naughty child. “How long did you spend—”
Lydia stops when she hears the whoosh of the cutlass. Its blade slices clean through her wrist. Blood erupts from her severed arm, recolouring the map of north Africa deep red. The harpoon – with the separated hand still clutching it – falls on its flat shaft end, bounces up, and lands near the door.
Lydia screams. Her wound is so severe she can’t resist stemming the blood flow. Only an instinctive half-turn saves her from being stabbed in the back.
“You would talk to the woman who killed Father,” Irene criticises me. “Instead of killing her like she deserves. Lydia should have named you after her goddess of peace.”
“Eirene?” gasps Lydia. She can’t believe the barbaric swordswoman is my grown-up little sister.
“It’s not healing,” Irene says gleefully.
She’s right. Layers of skin form across Lydia’s severed wrist, preventing further blood loss, but there’s no sign of a replacement hand. Is there a limit to how much the creatures inside our bodies can do? I suddenly feel vulnerable.
“And that means you can die!” my sister screams, launching an attack.
Lydia – unarmed and handicapped – adopts a defensive strategy. She bends her body back to avoid a sideways slice, twists to evade a lunge, and jumps over an ankle sweep. Not once does she fight back. Losing a hand has destroyed Lydia’s confidence. Irene thrives on her doubt, slashing and chopping until she has her quarry up against the Pharos sketch.
Lydia blinks. A long time-freezing blink. She dodges a vicious thrust, then shuts her eyes again. Lydia’s doing what she warned me not to: relying too much on her powers. Irene swipes at her neck. A neatly cut lock of orange hair falls off the blade. If Lydia hadn’t ducked that would have been a decapitating blow. Her reactions are getting slower. She needs help.
I grab Gustav’s compass, push the arms apart, and stab the needle in Irene’s shoulder. It barely slows her down. My sister swings her elbow back into my face, leaving me so disorientated I trip over my own feet.
The distraction – that’s all it amounts to – gives Lydia some respite. “Olivia never understood the importance of Stephen’s work,” she says scathingly. “I’m not surprised he preferred to spend time with me.” Lydia’s been outfought, and is now resorting to insults.
My sister snarls in fury. She lifts her cutlass high above her head, and swings down viciously. Lydia leaps aside. The blade scrapes the easel and sticks in the wood. Lydia chops Irene’s hand off the hilt and kicks her heel backward, knocking over the wooden stand.
Two swift moves to disarm her opponent, and put them on almost equal terms. Lydia’s attacking options are limited, but her severed arm proves effective at blocking incoming blows. My sister – even with the extra hand – can’t get past her defences.
Irene - berserk and frustrated - plucks the compass from her shoulder. Gripping the bloodied arm like a knife, she stabs between Lydia’s eyes. It’s an obvious attack that’s easily dodged. The needle pierces a watercolour portrait.
Irene’s overstretched herself, and is open to a counter attack. Lydia goes for her weak spot: the elbow. The joint dislocates with a loud crunch. My sister groans. She yanks out the compass with her good hand, waving it threateningly as she retreats. Irene backing off… That has to be a first.
“Edith, come on!” Lydia shouts, opting to let my sister go.
Weary-eyed, I pull myself up. Lydia grabs the harpoon on our way out of the cabin.
“What about…” I’m about to say Matthau when I see Irene’s pursued us into the corridor.
“Lydia!” she bellows. “We’re not finished.”
“If you insist on dying.” Lydia turns, her harpoon ready for throwing.
“You need two hands to hold a spear?”
A cruel jibe at what’s on the harpoon shaft. The disembodied hand is still clinging on. Sealed wrist, twitching forefinger. Some creatures must still be in the blood, keeping it alive.
“Only one,” Lydia responds calmly.
“I hope you’ve been practising your throw,” says Irene.
“For a very long time.” Lydia looks to me for guidance. Do you want me to kill her? is the unspoken question.
I don’t think. Or freeze time to thin
k. I simply nod.
Lydia hurls the harpoon. It arcs gracefully through the air, angling downward. My sister’s an unflinching statue in its path. Her bravery – or is it insanity? - is almost her undoing. The destabilising hand is the only reason the spear doesn’t skewer Irene’s neck. The extra weight causes the harpoon to veer sharply off course. It skips along the metal floor, to the very far end of the corridor.
“Not bad,” mocks Irene. “If you had a few more centuries, you might even be good.”
My sister has no intention of giving Lydia that time. She strides confidently toward us, compass in a vice grip.
“Get to the boat,” says Lydia. “Tell Kostis to start the engine.”
Bushy Beard? He’s here?
“Go!” Lydia yells. “I’ll hold her off!”
She jumps sideways, pushes off the wall, and kicks Irene in the face. My sister recovers quickly and stabs the compass needle into Lydia’s chest. The two combatants fight on, exchanging blows as I head upstairs. The steps are less hazardous now the water has evaporated, but it’s still a laborious climb to the top.
Lydia yelps in pain. I turn to see Irene twist the needle in deep, and floor her opponent with a brutal kick. My sister squats and clamps her hand tight around Lydia’s throat. She’ll kill her. I’ve got to do something.
I take a step down. Lydia pulls out the compass and stabs my sister’s wrist. She rolls on top, pulling her neck free. “Go!” she cries, slamming Irene’s head against the floor.
I climb the last three steps, and exit to the deck. The sky is deep blue, slightly lighter to the east. It’s almost dawn.
A rope and wooden rung ladder is tied to the Aegir‘s guardrail near the bow. I sprint across and lean out over the sea. The sailboat is alongside, impossible to miss with the signal lantern hung atop its mast.
The sailor manning the ship’s wheel is a faint silhouette in dark clothing. A gust of wind blows the sails to one side, and the man’s face brightens in the lamplight. Kostis’ skin is darker than I remember. His hair’s greying, and he’s trimmed his beard to a quarter-inch. But the curved knife tucked in his belt gives him away.
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 13
