Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  I reach for the woman’s shoulder. I feel a tingle run up my fingers as I touch the metal, and the sleeve of my robe turns blue. As before, three coloured beams project from the crystal eyes, creating a moving picture of planets and moons. Morris’ jaw drops a full inch. His eyes wander, transfixed on Saturn and its thin, beautiful rings.

  “Why did you show him?” Lydia complains. Does she have to talk so loud?

  “To save us,” I mutter under my breath. “Be quiet.”

  “Stop whispering!” Morris shouts, still planet-gazing. “I’m watching you.”

  A bluff, unless he’s able to see through his ears. My legs wobble, but I keep pressing the metal. Now I understand the strain Lydia was under. The energy needed to power the light show is staggering. The seconds drag by. Come on. Change, you stupid picture!

  When the Earth finally appears I push into a sprint. Every instinct tells me to give up. Two steps, and it already feels as though I’ve run a full marathon.

  I limp through the west coast of South America into the hollow globe. The colours are the same on the inside, tinting the scattered bones bluey green. It won’t be long until the flickering starts. There’s no time to lose. Silently asking Khalim for forgiveness, I arm myself with the tibia.

  “Come out!” orders Morris.

  He fires two shots. The first clinks somewhere behind me. The second bounces off the centre column, impact end flattened to a disc.

  This is suicide. I’ve got a leg bone. A stone age weapon against a revolver. The Earth loses it solidness, and we see each other. I’m four feet away, but it wouldn’t matter if it were four inches. Bullets travel much faster than I can, and Morris has a clear shot.

  The globe brightens and becomes opaque again. Before Eastern Europe blots out Morris’ face, he looks to my right. “Let go!” he shouts.

  Drop the bone? Throw away my only defence? The tibia feels lighter now, and my feet aren’t so heavy. Even if Morris shoots me, there’s a chance I’ll heal. I know exactly where he is, and what I need to do.

  I run straight at him, holding the bone above my shoulder. I pass through the globe. Morris – for some unknown reason – is pointing the gun at the metal woman. Or is it Lydia? Who cares? I smack the double-crossing jerk in the face. He reels back, stepping in Khalim’s ribcage.

  Blood spouts from Morris’ nostrils. “You little bi—”

  I club him again. His foot catches under a curved bone, and he trips backward, cracking his skull on a protruding metal seat. Morris rolls onto his side, eyes closed.

  “Edith…”

  Lydia’s voice is very faint. She gasps for breath and releases the metal woman’s ankle. The blue glow was already fading. How much energy did she use saving me? The picture changes to a grey-faced Alexandrian scribe, and then disappears.

  “Lydia!” I lift her into a sitting position. Her eyelids flutter, and her chest expands and contracts at an alarming rate. “We need to go. The Germans are coming.”

  “There’s one last thing Athena asked us to do.”

  Last? That sounds awfully final. Lydia removes a rolled strip of papyrus from inside her robe and unrolls it on the floor. Is this what I saw her reading last night in the tent?

  Three edges are worn down, the fourth neat and jagged as if cut with a knife. I could close my eyes, return to Berlin, and confirm the texture matches the scroll. But I don’t need to. Faded light purple symbols make it obvious where the strip came from.

  “A seventh picture,” I say. “You took this off the scroll. Why? What do these symbols show?”

  Lydia turns the papyrus round so I can read it. I freeze time. My mind goes blank as I focus on the framed symbols. Bright blue lines spread from star-like dots, drawing hollow, straight edged shapes: a saucer surrounded by lightning bolts and jagged spiral lines, with five organised patterns of squares underneath. The tomb being destroyed and the sequence to set off the explosion.

  The tibia bone rolls between the metal woman’s feet, catching with a clink. I’m back in the present.

  “Now you know why,” Lydia says. A statement devoid of any emotion.

  “We’re supposed to blow it up?” That sounds prophetic in hindsight, but it’s too late to rephrase.

  “When I first read the scroll, I couldn’t understand why Athena would want her legacy destroyed. Maybe she didn’t, but she knew others would seek her tomb. I was a fool to think we could save it.”

  “If she thought it was so dangerous, why not destroy it herself?”

  My question stumps her. “I… I don’t know,” Lydia says. “But we must—”

  Jackboots on metal. A six foot Amazon enters the chamber, followed by three shadow-enshrouded men. The one at the front is an Egyptian labourer, armed with a German Luger pistol. Another traitor. Is everyone for sale?

  “Exactly as your father described,” the second man says.

  “Ernst,” I say coldly.

  I’ve stopped thinking of him as Gustav. It’s clear whose side he’s on, and only friends use first names.

  Lydia staggers toward the centre column and reaches for the nearest face. The Amazon sprints to intercept, knocking her down with a high kick. In the smouldering torchlight my sister’s hair and moist lips appear blood red.

  “This tomb is not like any I’ve seen,” says man number three. It’s obvious who he is from the silvery badge glinting on his lapel. The spectacles and black fedora confirm it.

  Zennler remains by the breach in the wall and switches on an electric torch to provide some much-needed light. The Nazis all wear the same khaki overalls as they did on the Aegir, though their trousers and boots are noticeably dustier than when I last saw them.

  Gustav devotes his attention to the metal woman, tapping her legs. There’s no reaction to his probing. No glow, and no picture. “Lord Clayton was correct. The woman in the chair was a pilot. But her plane did not fall from the sky.”

  “An interesting theory, Doctor,” Irene says, “but I always preferred experiments.” She stomps on Lydia’s chest. “How much do you think she can take?”

  I can’t do anything to help her. The Egyptian has me at gunpoint. I’m too far from the metal woman, and Gustav, Zennler and Irene have all seen the ‘magic’ before. Moving pictures won’t distract them.

  “Stop!” I beseech. “You’ll kill her.”

  “That’s the idea, little sister. She murdered our parents. You can never forget, but it seems you can forgive.”

  “Do you want to know the truth about Father?” I scream. “All these bones around us. They belonged to that man. Khalim! Father killed him so—”

  “No!” Lydia cries. “Don’t tell her! We must protect Athena’s secret.”

  Gustav turns round, intrigued.

  “Secret?” Irene asks, applying even more pressure to Lydia’s chest. “What secret?”

  When Lydia responds with defiant stubbornness, my sister steps on her hand instead. And when that yields no results – not even a whimper - Irene turns her gaze on me. Is Lydia referring to the light show? That doesn’t make sense. She was trying to reach the symbols, to destroy the tomb. It must be a trick. To convince Irene to let us near the column.

  “There’s…” I hesitate, unsure what to say.

  My sister balances on one leg. Lydia groans under the extra weight, lashing about. It’s far too convincing to be an act. Bones crack under Irene’s boot. Lydia cries in pain, but that only encourages my sister to continue pressing.

  “Well?” snaps Irene.

  What can I bait her with? What would my sister want? My special powers… Yes. Irene has always desired those. That’s why she searched for this tomb, and why she deceived me into healing her at Marzahn.

  “A vessel!” I yell. “There’s another vessel.”

  “Where is it?” my sister rages.

  “Inside the column,” I lie. “The sequence to open it is on that strip of papyrus over there. I can translate it.”

  Zennler shines his electric torch on th
e column, moving the beam slowly up the rows of symbols. “It is wise to touch them?” he asks. “We don’t know—”

  “Show me!” Irene insists, ignoring his concerns.

  I study the symbols on the papyrus, wait for the picture to form, and memorise the sequence that could kill us all. What will happen? Another thunderstorm? An explosion? I wipe the image from my mind, wake up, and cautiously approach the column.

  The first symbol is at a convenient height, right in front of me. I press the three rotated squares, and they change from black to a steady, glowing blue. I look for the next pattern. It’s two faces along, also at waist level. The third and fourth are equally easy to find, as is the fifth. But I hold off making the final push.

  “What’s the matter, little sister?” asks Irene. “Don’t you want to share?”

  Cruel, selfish, power hungry… The loving sister I knew is gone. I have nothing to live for. Lydia’s quite willing to sacrifice herself. And who cares if a few Nazis die? There are no innocents here. With my conscience clear, I touch the last symbol. I expect flames to ignite, lightning bolts to strike from the column. Five glowing patterns is an anticlimax.

  “Nothing,” Irene says accusingly. “Where’s the vessel? Did you lie to me!?”

  There’s a faint whine. Very high in pitch, similar to the sound produced by running a wet finger around the rim of a drinking glass. The metal floor vibrates. Gustav’s knocked off his feet, but my sister’s much more adept at keeping her balance. She steps off Lydia’s hand and lowers her leg.

  Cold air hits my face, and I feel an immediate drop in temperature. My hair, Irene’s, the Egyptian man’s robes… everything that’s light enough blows away from the column. We’re in the same room, yet the wind directions are all different. How is that possible?

  Zennler’s anxious shouts are difficult to hear above the whining, but one word features in nearly every sentence: Gott, the German for God. The Egyptian man mutters incoherently and clutches an amulet around his neck.

  “Shut up.” Irene doesn’t wait for the Egyptian to comply. She snatches his gun away and pistol whips him to sleep. “God can’t help you.” She turns the weapon on me, khaki uniform flapping against her arms.

  Zennler flees through the hole. “You crazy woman!” he shouts. But only once he’s safely beyond the tomb wall.

  Lightning oscillates between the five glowing symbols. Bolts fork across the column, transforming it into an electrical death trap. Everything in the chamber that’s not pitch black metal - people, clothes, bones - appears bright, flickering blue in the brewing thunderstorm.

  “We must leave now,” Gustav says with none of the usual calmness. “If we stay here, the storm will become too strong.”

  “I’ll leave…” Irene shoves the Luger pistol in my face, holding it steady despite the bitingly cold crosswind. “As soon as Edith gives me the vessel.”

  “There is no vessel!” I yell.

  “You’re lying.”

  Gustav leaves us to argue it out, and heads for the exit. If Morris was awake, he’d make a dash for it too.

  Swirling, impenetrably dark mist spreads over the central column. The wind reverses direction, sucking my scarf inward.

  The unconscious Egyptian slides across the chamber, his body spinning on the smooth floor. I step aside to avoid him and lean forward to counterbalance the storm. The darkness swallows the man whole. He’s too tall to fit inside, so where did he disappear to?

  Irene’s not bothered by any of this. All she wants is her stupid, non-existent vessel. “Where is it?” she screams. “If you won’t tell me…”

  Lydia jumps her and grabs the Luger. The two women stagger about, pulled around by the wind as they grapple over the pistol. With her extra hand, Irene soon asserts herself.

  My sister twists Lydia’s arm back – grinning as it snaps – and thrusts the gun’s barrel into her abdomen. Irene fires three shots and throws her defeated opponent face down on the floor. Lydia’s eyelids are open, unmoving. The stare of a dead woman.

  “Lydia!” cries Kostis through the jagged hole. Where did he come from?

  Irene bends her feet inward, anchoring them under Lydia’s bloody body. My sister fights the brewing tornado and turns to face me. Loose hair compresses against her cheek. The wind is so strong I daren’t lift my foot.

  “Man!” Kostis yells. “Watch out.”

  Morris has woken up! He claws at the floor in desperation, his weak efforts doing little to halt his slide to the centre. Unable to get a grip on the smooth metal, he grabs onto the only thing he can: my sister’s leg.

  “Help me,” Morris pleads.

  My sister doesn’t even look at him. Morris’s hand slips to her ankle. Then her foot. Irene shakes him loose with a flick. Morris attempts to regain his grip, but he’s run out of space. His agonised death scream cuts out as the killer mist claims another victim.

  “Kostis, do something!” I plea. But when I look at the hole, he’s gone.

  The whine becomes deafening. Irene - dizzy from the noise - loses her grip on the Luger. It - along with Morris’ revolver, the spent torch, and assorted bones – gets sucked into the black fog. I’m in a maelstrom of loose objects, being pounded by swirling debris. How much longer can I hold my ground? Even Irene’s feet are starting to slip.

  Something rough and hairy scratches my chin. A rope! Kostis must have fetched it from the trenches. I grab it with both hands, clinging tight as he pulls arm over arm to reel me in.

  My lifeline creaks with tension. It cracks loudly like a whip and lashes my thigh. Irene’s holding the loose end, her flailing feet inches from the mist. She heaves herself along, showing no sign of slowing down in the storm. Was it only yesterday Lydia crippled her?

  “Hold on!” Kostis grunts, face scrunched up in concentration.

  We float into… It must be a horizontal position, but it feels as though the darkness has moved beneath us, and we’re being pulled upward to the hole above. Lydia falls into the mist, vanishing amidst dark clouds and the odd flash of lightning. There’s no scream, or any indication she was still alive. Even if she was, she’s dead for sure now.

  “Lydia!” I cry.

  Was I really expecting an answer?

  The metal woman creaks as she topples off her seat. She plummets into the darkness. There’s a patterned flash of blue – an empty web of lighting shaped like her body - then it’s gone.

  Kostis pulls. So does Irene. I need both hands – and my squeezed legs - just to hang onto the rope, but my sister keeps coming. We’re still three feet from safety when she grabs my ankle.

  “If I die, so does Edith,” Irene yells threateningly, digging in her fingernails.

  “All right,” Kostis says. “I save you both.”

  The placates my sister. Kostis pulls the rope, lifting us into the trench. Gravity takes hold as soon as we’re clear of the hole, and we fall to the ground. For once I’m grateful to taste sand.

  The whine is much quieter outside. There’s no wind, and the world’s back to being the right way up. The night sky is clear with a full moon. Which is good, since all the wooden torches have gone out. Gustav and Zennler are nowhere to be seen. They’re probably still running.

  Irene stands up, shrugging off her close brush with death as if it were nothing. From this low angle, she appears a giant, menacing figure against the black metal backdrop. “If it was just me on that rope, you’d have let me go. Wouldn’t you?”

  A metallic screech – akin to rusty joints, except amplified in volume – pierces the air. Lightning arcs skyward, illuminating the tomb’s roof. A tornado tears through the camp, uprooting tents and marker ropes. The staff car I travelled here in rolls over as easily as the dining table. The storm heads straight for us, an unstoppable wall of sand that ravages everything in its path.

  “Down!” yells Kostis.

  He doesn’t need to tell me that. I’m already hugging the trench floor. My sister’s either slow to react or determined to brave t
he elements, since she remains standing. The sand wall – thousands if not millions of grains at once – sweeps into her. The force lifts Irene off her feet, and she’s literally blown away. I see her spin around, and then visibility drops to an inch. If that.

  “Too dangerous,” says Kostis. “Must leave. Now.”

  My eyes are clogged with sand. I can’t concentrate enough to freeze time, and I’ve no choice but to follow Kostis. Swirling clouds obscure the moon and stars. I crawl along in the dark, feeling my way through the trenches. All the effort we put into digging seems worth it now. The ditches are the only thing preventing us being swept away by the sandstorm.

  Suddenly the wind stops. I clear sand from my eyes. Is the storm over? No, I can still hear whining. And it’s dark above, with no sign of the clouds clearing.

  “Rock wall,” Kostis says. “Can hide here.”

  “Speak Greek,” I tell him, too exhausted to work out what he means.

  There’s a brief pause before Kostis replies in his native language. “We’re behind the outcrop. We can wait until the wind passes.” I think Kostis sniffled, but can’t be certain. “So whenever Lydia and I talked…”

  “Sorry,” I comfort him.

  Am I sorry for the death of the woman who killed Father? I suppose I am, after what he did to Khalim. But Lydia’s death is a difficult topic for either of us to discuss, so we wait out the storm in silence.

  After a while the sand raining off the outcrop feels warm. Is it daylight? There’s an earthly rumble, accompanied by a blue flash so bright it lights up the cloudy sky. When the sand grains thin out enough for the Sun to shine through, I step from behind the outcrop.

  The tomb has disappeared. Where the black metal discs were, there’s now a wide crater in the Sahara Desert. The circular depression is perfectly smooth. And completely empty. Not a single piece of wreckage in sight.

  “What happened to the tomb?” asks Kostis.

  “Destroyed.”

  I suspect what happened is a lot more complex, but this is a puzzle I’ll probably never solve. At least Lydia got her wish. Wherever the black mist took her, she’s at peace now. I’m not. The tomb may be gone, but the memories of what we found inside – and those who died there - will stay with me forever.