The Sea King’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  Angelos, the owner of the hotel, waited on us personally. Jim introduced us. I greeted him in my best Greek, which made him smile broadly, but I thought I had never seen anyone who looked less like an angel. He was a big, hulking man, one of the few Greeks I had met who really did look greasy-the result of his trade, perhaps, for Jim explained that he and his wife ran the small hotel together. I assumed he had shaved, since it was Sunday, but his jowls were heavily shadowed. He and Jim talked for a while, and then Jim interpreted.

  “He says it’s okay to swim. There may be some minor tremors but they won’t amount to much.”

  I studied Angelos skeptically. He smiled at me, his white teeth gleaming against the dark stubble.

  “How does he know?” I asked.

  “He says he feels it. It’s possible, you know. Some of the island people claim to be sensitive to it. They get nauseated, headachy-”

  “You sound like a TV commercial for cold remedies,” I interrupted. “I’ve read about that. One of Mary Renault’s books, wasn’t it? The hero could feel earthquakes before they happened. It would be a useful skill in those days. People would think you had divine connections. But that was fiction.”

  Angelos seemed to know what we were talking about. He nodded vigorously, and spoke. Then he slapped Jim on the back, with a roll of his eyes at me and a remark that made Jim look self-conscious.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  As we walked down the street toward the beach, I asked, “What did Angelos say about me?”

  “You can probably guess.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Jim seemed anxious to change the subject.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I made a lunch date for you. My boss wants to meet you.”

  “Why?”

  “What are you so prickly about? Why shouldn’t he want to meet you?”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “It will be jolly lunching with Sir Christopher.”

  When we reached the pier, there were a lot of men hanging around. Greek men hang around a lot-on street corners, in cafés, around piers. They greeted Jim with enthusiasm.

  “The fishing boats are out,” he said, glancing around. “I guess that means it’s okay. Let’s go down the beach a way.”

  The sea was as flat as a pond on a windless day. We found a nice smooth spot, with a few rocks between us and the pier. It was pleasant and private. I peeled off my dress and shoes and adjusted my flippers. Then I looked up.

  For a second I knew how the ancient Greek hero felt when the earthquake was imminent. The ground seemed to dip, and my stomach went down with it.

  Jim was standing a few feet away, watching me. His build was on the lean side, but his shoulders were good and the bands of muscle across his chest were hard and smooth. He was nicely tanned. But for that one eerie second he looked like the man in my dream. The breathless stillness of the air, the oily smooth surface of the sea against which he stood added to the strangeness of the atmosphere.

  The impression came and was gone. I jumped up, forgetting I had the flippers on. I tripped, and Jim reached out an arm and caught me.

  “I hope you swim better than you walk,” he said, with a smile.

  After that challenge I had to excel. I forgot my half-formed plan of flapping around and pretending to be only a mediocre swimmer. I swam rings around him. He was good but not in my class. I can brag about my swimming because it’s the only thing I can brag about. Most of the other things I did that summer were disasters.

  When we were ready to quit I raced him in and got there quite a distance ahead of him. He was winded when he joined me. His chest was pumping in and out like a bellows. And of course, damn him, he said just the right thing.

  “My God, you’re good. How about giving me lessons?”

  It was then that I remembered my subtle, crafty scheme for pretending I was a lousy swimmer. I looked at Jim’s smiling face. His eyelashes were stuck together in spiky points and his eyes were wide with admiration and pleasure. There wasn’t a mean bone in his body. He was as candid and open as…as I was not. It never entered his head that my expertise might be turned to illegal ends. That was the first thing that would have occurred to Frederick.

  “Oh, well,” I mumbled. “You’re pretty good yourself.”

  “Not in your class.”

  He was still watching me with beaming approval, not a trace of wounded vanity or crushed male ego; and I knew that if I didn’t speak up I would never be able to look him in the eye again. I had actually opened my mouth to start the confession when the earth shook.

  I mean, it really shook. The sinking feeling wasn’t inside me, it was in the ground. It felt like a plane hitting an air pocket, a swoop and then a lift. When the movement stopped, Jim and I were lying flat on the ground. His arms were around me and I was clutching him like a drowning man. In one lovely smooth movement he stood up, lifting me with him.

  “Nice little earthquake,” he said, and kissed me.

  It is a testimonial to Jim’s kisses that for a little while I wasn’t sure whether the ground was really rocking under my feet or whether it just felt that way. When he finally lifted his head I saw that he was smiling.

  “We’d better get back,” he said casually, and scooped up our discarded clothing.

  Another shock hit. I staggered, and Jim put his arm around me again. My teeth began to chatter.

  “Oh, God,” I groaned. “This is awful.”

  “I can see you aren’t used to quakes. This was a baby quake, just a tremor. Come on, now, be a big girl.”

  We walked a few steps, but I was still shaking and I kept tripping over my fins. Jim picked me up in his arms. He was a lot stronger than he looked. As we approached the pier a ragged cheer went up. I lifted my head from Jim’s shoulder and saw the men standing along the pier watching us.

  “Put me down,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes… Are there going to be any more earthquakes?”

  “How would I know? Maybe we shouldn’t take any chances.”

  He kissed me again. I had not intended to respond, but I couldn’t help it. Finally the roaring in my ears subsided and I realized the men on the pier were cheering again.

  “Put me down, damn it,” I said. “I’m not going to put on a free show for those peeping toms.”

  “They aren’t peeping, they’re standing right out in the open.”

  But he put me down. I took off my fins and stalked toward the steps with what dignity I could manage. I walked past the grinning audience with my nose in the air. Jim was behind me. He said something to the men; there was a laughing chorus of response.

  Then Jim caught up with me, and I demanded, “What did you say?”

  “I told them you were my girl.”

  “What do you mean, your girl?”

  “I should have said ‘woman.’”

  I started to object; he cut me short by handing me my dress. I put it on. When my head emerged I saw that Jim was studying me soberly.

  “Better understand something,” he said. “Insofar as sexual morality is concerned, these people are still in the nineteenth century. There are two kinds of women here-good, respectable ladies, who stay at home and tend their cook pots, and-the other kind. Western women confuse these guys. They still think of women as property. Okay, so I told them you were my property. You may not like it. I don’t like it either. But they are more likely to respect my property rights than your feelings. Not that I’m trying to curtail your extracurricular activities, but-”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I have no-”

  That was when it happened. I could pinpoint the exact second; between “no” and the next word, which was going to be “plans.” I never said it. I was looking straight at him. Our eyes met, as it says in the old books. It was a meeting, more significant than any physical touch.

  Neither of us spoke. Words weren’t necessary. We walked up the sloping street toward the plaza, holding hands.

  Church was le
tting out and people were standing around, talking and drinking coffee and relaxing. This was their one day of rest, and they were enjoying it. At one of the tables on the terrace a man was sitting. I picked him out of the crowd right away, because he was the only man who was wearing a hat. It was an expensive-looking tweed cap, and it struck an incongruous note on such a hot day.

  I nudged Jim and pointed. “Sir Christopher?”

  “Right.”

  He saw us coming; when we reached the terrace he was on his feet, holding a chair for me and smiling. The cap came off with a gallant sweep. Then I understood why he wore it. He was as bald as an egg, and, without protection, that pink skin would have fried like an egg. As if to compensate for the hairlessness on top, he had cultivated a handsome handlebar moustache that curved like a buffalo’s black horns. I was reminded of Hercule Poirot, but Sir Christopher wasn’t short and tubby like Agatha Christie’s detective. He was tall and lean and rather handsome in a bony, big-nosed way. He had a nice smile and an air of understated elegance that made me feel grubby, with my salt-soaked hair and damp dress.

  “How do you do, Miss Bishop,” he said. “I hope our little earthquake didn’t alarm you.”

  “It did,” I admitted.

  “There’s no danger, unless you happen to be in a ravine or under a cliff when loose rock is shaken down. You may have noticed the arched construction prevalent here. It is quite well adapted to quakes; I’ve seen these houses swaying to and fro, but they don’t often collapse.”

  I assumed the speech was meant to be reassuring. It did not affect me that way. Sir Christopher’s smile broadened.

  “You’ll become accustomed to earth tremors if you spend much time in this part of the world,” he said consolingly.

  “I guess they have lots of earthquakes,” I said. “I knew it, from my reading, but until you’ve experienced it… How about the volcano?”

  “Quite active,” said Sir Christopher cheerily. “But don’t fret, you’ll not see anything like the great eruption of 1450, the one that has preserved so much for us. The only other disaster of that magnitude occurred in approximately 25,000 B.C.”

  He chuckled as he saw me surreptitiously counting on my fingers.

  “An interval of almost twenty-five thousand years, my dear,” he said. “There has never been anything like the fifteenth-century eruption in recorded history-except for Krakatoa, of course, and that was probably not as great as the Thera eruption.”

  “Krakatoa was bad enough,” Jim said. “The descriptions of eyewitnesses are strikingly reminiscent of certain legends that have come down to us from early times.”

  He glanced at Sir Christopher, who laughed lightly.

  “Jim and I enjoy arguing about his theories. Atlantis, the Greek flood legend, the Exodus story-”

  “Then you don’t believe in the idea that Thera is-was-Atlantis?” I asked.

  “Oh, I think the majority of scholars agree that the eruption and the consequent destruction of the Cretan cities may have furnished the kernel of Plato’s story,” Sir Christopher said disinterestedly. “But I am unable to go along with the enthusiasts who want to connect every myth with that single event.”

  “Not all of them,” Jim admitted, looking a little flustered as Sir Christopher turned to regard him with a humorous smile. “But there has to be a connection between the eruption and the story of the Exodus; it’s just too circumstantial to be a coincidence. We know, from the Krakatoa eruption, that volcanic action of that magnitude is accompanied by earthquakes, rain, hail, lightning-side effects that could explain all the plagues mentioned in the Bible. Areas a hundred and fifty miles from Krakatoa experienced total darkness; and as you said, the Thera eruption was considerably greater than that of Krakatoa. As for the parting of the waters, it’s generally agreed that the Hebrews didn’t cross the Red Sea, but rather a Sea of Reeds in the northern part of the Egyptian Delta, along a well-known ancient route into Sinai and Palestine. The receding of the sea along the coast, followed by a tremendous tsunami wave, has been observed many times as a result of seismic action. Even the death of the first-born could have resulted from crop failure and disease after-”

  “‘Could,’” Sir Christopher repeated. His smile, which I had found so pleasant, was beginning to get on my nerves. “We will never know, will we? Speculation of that sort is entertaining, but not very profitable, my boy.’’

  “Let’s talk about something else besides earthquakes,’’ I said.

  “Certainly.’’ Sir Christopher continued to smile. “How is my old friend Frederick?’’

  “Fine,’’ I said. “Just fine.’’

  “I’m happy to hear it. I saw him recently, and I didn’t think he looked well. He never took proper care of himself. Is he still eating out of tins?’’

  “Yes,’’ I said. “I mean, no, not all the time. I buy fish and things for supper sometimes.’’

  “I’m glad he has someone to look after him.”

  “I thought you didn’t like him,” I said.

  Sir Christopher raised one eyebrow. He must have practiced, it moved so smoothly.

  “Now where did you get that impression? I feel sorry for the poor chap, actually. There was a time when I considered him the most fortunate of men. He had success in his field, good health, good looks, a pretty, devoted young wife, and a child…” The pause was, I thought, quite deliberate. Then he went on. “ Frederick destroyed himself. Or rather, his one failing destroyed his success. It was a tragedy in the classic Greek sense, one flaw in an otherwise noble character-”

  Jim had been increasingly uncomfortable as this speech unrolled. Now he interrupted, “Not quite the classic Greek tragedy, Chris. The Greek heroes failed because they incurred the displeasure of some fickle god or other.”

  “If Frederick were a religious man, he might consider himself cursed,” Sir Christopher said gently. “I’m sure that to this day he doesn’t understand why he failed. He is incapable of understanding emotion. That constitutes both his flaw and his inability to recognize it as such.”

  “Where did you know him?” I asked.

  Sir Christopher glanced at Jim. It was one of those meaningful glances.

  “It is a rather painful story,” he said softly.

  I felt like some poor savage who goes to a fancy party and commits an unwitting faux pas.

  Jim got red. “I’ve told you, Chris, that it doesn’t pain me one damn bit. I wish you wouldn’t-”

  “I’m sorry, my boy. I was being overly sensitive. It is painful to me, even after all these years.”

  Jim was now the color of a nice ripe tomato.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean-”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said. “Either tell me or change the subject. And if you think I’m going to join in the chorus of apologies, forget it.”

  I wasn’t embarrassed any longer, I was mad. I can’t stand that kind of hassling, the gentle, prickly kind. Especially when it was directed at Jim.

  “There is no need for you to apologize,” said Sir Christopher, with a forgiving smile. “You had no idea that the subject might be… You see, mydear, your…employer and I were at Oxford together before the war. Frederick was a Rhodes scholar. We became friends-we two and another young student named Durkheim. They called us the Three Musketeers, of course. We were drawn together because of our interest in pre-classical Greek culture. Durkheim was the oldest; I think perhaps he was also the most brilliant. He had been studying the Linear B script, and if he had lived… But I anticipate.

  “When World War Two broke out, Durkheim was assigned to Crete -a rare example of the military’s actually using a man where he could be most useful. I went with him. We hadn’t been there long when who should appear but your-but Frederick. We couldn’t imagine how he had managed it. This was in the early months of 1941, before America entered the war, and your government was not precisely encouraging its citizens to travel abroad. Yet there he was, imperturbable as ever, and in
a frightful state about his precious antiquities. You would have thought the ruins of Knossos were the only things threatened by a possible German invasion.

  “As you know-or perhaps you don’t, all this is ancient history to you young creatures-the invasion came. It was airborne, and quite overwhelming. Our troops fought on for a short time, but eventually we were forced to withdraw, and the Germans occupied the island. Because Durkheim knew the language and the terrain, he stayed on as liaison officer with the underground; and I stayed as well. So did Frederick. In his peculiar fashion he was more effective than any of us. He had spent only one short season in Crete before the war, yet he knew the country as well as Durkheim did.

  “It was a frightful existence. We were constantly on the move, eating scraps, sleeping where and when we could, constantly anticipating discovery and death. But we were young and healthy and fired up with patriotism. I remember the night when we got the news of America ’s entry into the war. We were staying in a remote village in the eastern mountains, and we got roaring drunk on retsina. Even Frederick got drunk. It was the only time I ever saw him display a human weakness.

  “That was the high point. From then on, everything went wrong. Crete is a splendid place for guerrilla warfare-mountainous, rugged, primitive; and the men were superb. But the Germans were inhumanly efficient. They rounded up the resistance fighters group by group. Durkheim was the prize catch, of course, they wanted him badly. I don’t know precisely how it happened. Everyone who was with him that night is dead. Frederick and I were not in his group, we were off on errands of our own.

  “I met Frederick next day, at the rendezvous we had arranged, and it was he who informed me of Durkheim’s capture. We were making futile plans for freeing him when one of the men from the village found us and told us he had been executed.”

  I paid Sir Christopher the tribute of a moment of silence before I turned to Jim.

  “Who was he, your father?”

  “Your arithmetic is terrible,” Jim said. “He was my uncle. My mother’s older brother. Look, let’s not pull out all the stops, shall we? I never even saw him. I wasn’t born till after he died.”