“Yes, well. It’s not spelled like that, Axel. Don’t read too much into it. There’s just something I have to do. It’s not like you’ll never see me again.” But even as I said it, I tasted the uncertainty of it on my tongue. Because there was no telling what I was getting myself into, allowing the mystical summons of the Abyss to have its way with me.
Was I merely going to join the recovery team in unearthing the secrets of Atlantis? Or did an even deeper conspiracy have a hold of me, poised to tow me under the proverbial surface, into a world beyond my greatest imaginings?
Chapter 5
As for my mother, well…
My mother.
Given my past of ocean-related P.T.S.D. and everything she went through with the therapy and relocation, I was utterly unready to try to explain this latest 360. But I couldn’t leave her to think a length of radio silence meant I’d gone and disappeared into a sandstorm or something awful like that, so I put in a call home when I knew she’d be out Jazzercizing with her neighbor friend Deborah. I explained I was branching off to assist with an exciting new discovery and wasn’t sure if I’d be able to call for a while, but not to worry.
And then I shut off that part of my brain so I could focus on me and secrets.
Out of Dakhla Oasis I flew, up to Cairo and then across Israel and the northern region of Saudi Arabia to Dubai. From there it was a straight shot across the Arabian Sea to Maldives. I landed on Huhule` Island early the next morning, knowing I was just a ferry ride away from the capital Male`, where I could peruse the famous mosques and revel amongst the picturesque array of colorful buildings, and where the museum held such wonders as ancient weapon lore and legendary sultans’ thrones.
But I was on a mission, tourism capsizing to the bottom of the totem pole. And so instead, I took the Rasdhoo Ferry west past the King’s Island, past Thilafushi, all the way to Rasdhoo itself, off of which the oceanic recovery team was stationed.
If it had been a daunting task to approach the professor and my two best friends with news of my withdrawal from the Egypt Expedition, it was far greater a feat to show up at the Atlantis Project’s doorstep to instate myself in their enterprise without an invitation. I was one of thousands flocking to the area to witness or otherwise be a part of the discovery, and it was clear from the get-go that I would be hard-pressed to even get as far as pushing through the crowds to the front lines, where I would then be drawn up short by that red tape Axel had mentioned. What reason would they have to let me in?
As suspected, the docks were a mosh-pit of pointless onlookers and hopefuls for gleaning a closer look. The recovery boat itself wasn’t even in sight, refuel- and resupply-boats returning to the bay now and then, but otherwise the main attraction was stationed a few miles offshore. The bay itself had been closed to civilians and most commercial traffic and was policed night and day to keep outsiders from interrupting the operation or clogging the waters.
I paused to bask in the balmy tropical air before delving into the fray, reveling in the way the sun rays soaked like rich massage oil into my skin rather than cracking it into a shriveled mosaic as I’d endured in the desert. This was what summer was supposed to feel like. Sultry and silky, lustrous and lazy.
I had found my way home.
A smile lit my face as I took in my new surroundings. Not quite California, but there was something about all beach locales that felt the same. Some seaside magic that spanned from coast to glistening coast, the spell universal.
As much as I had convinced myself I loved digging up forgotten secrets in the dirt, the allure did not hold a candle to the enchantment of the ocean. I had only to lay eyes on its rapturous blue freedom, hear the elated cries of seagulls and smell the heady-fresh brine of the Kraken’s breath, and the forgotten pieces of my past unfurled back into alignment inside me.
Ahh, you salty vixen, you, I greeted the ocean fondly. How I’ve missed you.
Reacquainted with the original muse of my soul, I shouldered my pack and pushed off toward the crowds that stood between me and a long-overdue reunion. I didn’t care what I had to do–I would barter, buy, or otherwise cheat my way onto that boat, and if they blocked all my advances, I would convene with the mystical elements of the depths that were so determined to have me and capsize their entire operation.
Then they could recover themselves from the sea floor.
Easy does it, Sayler, there are a few cards to play before resorting to cataclysmic violence.
Sticking to Plan A for the time being, I wended my way down to the docks and elbowed through the loitering audience. What were they even getting out of hanging about, except the occasional, anticlimactic glimpse of a refueling vessel? The phenomenon isn’t here, people. Go home. Even if the recovered entities were transported back to shore, they would be kept strictly under wraps. All these underqualified landlubbers were accomplishing was acting like a bunch of insufferable tourists in their own backyard.
Eventually I made it down to the pier, which was roped off and guarded by a few Maldivian authorities. They were constantly reminding the front row of sightseers to stay behind the ropes–words a flurry of their native Dhivehi, which I did not understand, but the gestures were clear enough. I was instantly just as irritated by the onlookers as the authorities appeared to be, even though I contrived to their same level of annoyance. But I actually had experience of a certain nature, and came arrogantly armed with the attitude of one with clearance. And so I jostled my way to the front and leaned into and over the barrier even as they ushered everyone back, separating myself from the others with the most engaging manner I could channel, and raised my voice to be heard above the crowd.
“I’m here in assistance to the recovery team,” I projected with what I hoped was unwavering authority. Tara had a knack for slipping in unnoticed places she wasn’t necessarily supposed to be, and claimed it was all in the confidence, in acting like you belonged from the beginning, and half the time no one would question your presence. “Does anyone speak English?” A secondary tactic was to ask another question before anyone could respond to the first proclamation, to deflect any initial backlash that might not be in my favor and start off our interaction circling the objective from a less direct angle.
“Ma’am, yes, please back away from the ropes with the rest of the crowd,” the no-nonsense woman in uniform shut me down right out of the gate. Her accent was thick but her English clear.
“But I have business with the team,” I repeated, enunciating like she may not have heard me.
“Only authorized personnel are allowed onto the pier at this time.”
“I understand, but I’m an archaeological intern with the Ancient Worlds project, and I have insight regarding one of the articles recovered that they’re going to want to hear.”
Ancient Worlds Project? Not exactly your shining moment of creativity. But the important thing was the tone with which I played it off, and as I said it I was digging in my pack for my intern ID that showed my clearance within the Egypt Expedition. It may not have had anything to do with the organizations operating Atlantean matters in Maldives, but it spoke to some level of general relevance and official business, and all I was really trying to do was get her to take me seriously. From there, I could feel out the best way to manipulate the rest.
She glanced at my card, at least, and seeing I had her partway hooked I laid it on thick. “I came all the way from Egypt. Please. Just let me talk to whoever’s in charge.”
The woman pursed her lips, looking none too happy about the pressure to break protocol. For an instant I was sure she would stick to her guns and turn me away, but she gave a short sigh, lifting the rope for my passage.
“Come through, then–NO, JUST HER!” she yelled at someone trying to piggyback on my grant of access, and I slipped through quickly so she could get back to crowd control. Dropping the rope back into place and gesturing for the eager masses to restrain themselves, she nodded over her shoulder at one of her fellow officers. “Ask Of
ficer Hoa to escort you down the pier to the resupply vessel. They can put you in touch with the Salt Queen.”
Must have been the name of the recovery vessel. I wondered over its English moniker. Nodding my thanks, I scurried over to Officer Hoa and relayed the message. His brow furrowed briefly at my unorthodox request, but seeing as the first woman had let me through, he didn’t question my endorsement.
Down the pier he led me, excitement clenching my gut into knots. Aside from a certain thrill that came with talking my way past the red tape, every step brought me closer to the Call, to the magnetic thing pulling me away from land. I could only wonder if the vortex would release me once I was out on the open sea, if the ghosts haunting me would dissipate, or if it would all become this force pulling me down into the water. Either way, I couldn’t deny the first step to appeasing the restlessness was leaving the shore in my wake.
My boots plunked resolutely down the knotted, waterlogged planks toward the precipice that would fling me off the edge of my self-imposed exile. I was very nearly ready to dive straight into the ocean when we reached the boat at the end of the pier. I reined myself in and resisted the urge, but the impulse didn’t leave me. Like anyone who would love nothing more than to plunge into the cool refreshment of ocean waves after a long stint stranded in the desert, I could hardly withstand the promise of relief. I felt suddenly very thirsty. Like I could drink the whole ocean.
There was a drought in my soul that needed to be quenched.
I swallowed the discomfort that came with rooting myself to land, trying to moisten the feeling of cotton-mouth. All to no avail. My tongue felt like sandpaper as I was introduced to a man checking things off a clipboard by the resupply boat. His shaggy mouse-brown hair was pulled into a tiny ponytail, a sandy shadow of stubble scruffing up his salt-chapped cheeks. He definitely didn’t look Maldivian. I wondered just how diverse a crew was working on the Atlantis project, and how each member had secured his position.
“And why the special treatment?” the man wanted to know, pen hovering over his clipboard.
Well, he was no-nonsense, wasn’t he?
“Sir, if I may, it isn’t special treatment if I have something to offer.”
“We have a dozen or more so-called ‘experts’ showing up every day claiming they have something to offer.”
“Well, do most of them get past the authorities?”
“Exactly why I posed the question. Why the special treatment?”
He was not going to be as easy as the woman guarding the pier. I doubted my intern status would impress him, and he would likely know there was no relevant, active operation called the Ancient Worlds Project.
I decided to do something gutsy that may or may not have been against the rules of…Greater Things.
“In conjunction with the discovery of what’s being called the Atlantean ruins, the archaeological expedition that I’ve been assigned to for the past six months made a correlating discovery that might be of interest.”
“A ‘correlating discovery’ being…?”
Being a misplaced seashell in the desert that I wasn’t ready to pull out unless I absolutely had to, given that its origin was more of a paranormal enigma than I wanted to advertise. “All due respect, sir, I’d prefer to discuss it directly with whoever is overseeing the core project itself, rather than the supply team. Lest the details get lost in translation.” It was a purposeful dis, aimed at elevating my expertise to something that would go over his head, so he’d have little choice.
A twitch of affront tightened his jaw, but overall he looked unimpressed with my tactics. “There are proper avenues through which you can query or apply for a position among the team.”
“The lines were busy,” I pressed, unwilling to back down.
“And you thought you’d have better luck just showing up?”
“I thought I had something worthwhile enough that I had a duty to get it to the Project by whatever means necessary.”
If only to be rid of me, he relented. “I’ll put you in touch with the head of Marine Archaeology here on the Salt Queen. His name is Naaif, and I suggest you don’t waste any of his time.” Gesturing curtly for me to follow, he tucked his pen behind his ear and his clipboard under his arm, and I skipped after him across the gangplank. “If Naaif is busy, you’ll get his assistant, Riles. I suggest you don’t waste her time either.”
As I stepped onto the boat, the bobbing motion of the water beneath me brought to mind the rhythm of my own breathing–a soothing, lulling sensation. It clashed headlong with my nerves, which crackled like an electric current as I was escorted one step closer to the excitement aboard the Salt Queen. A part of me was astonished I’d gotten this far. Another part knew in my bones I’d never been meant for anything else, so why wouldn’t I have?
We crowded into the pilothouse, and my escort donned a headset and picked up the intercom transmitter. It was only then that I realized it had totally slipped my mind to call Axel and Tara when I landed. A stab of guilt joined my nerves, condemning me as a terrible friend.
My escort was talking. I snapped out of my brief personal crisis and refocused myself, tuning in to the conversation.
“That’s right. The validity hasn’t been confirmed. She’s here.” Pulling the headset from his greasy tangle of hair, he handed it over, and I worked it quickly into place over my own unruly mane to make my case.
“Hello, to whom am I speaking?” I started off, assuming my ‘official’ voice. I could do this.
“This is Riles, assistant of–” Her voice cut out in a fit of static, and a strange, mournful tone echoed into my ears instead, followed by another, very distant. I clamped the headphones tighter against my skull, straining to listen.
“Riles? Hello?”
Not only was I denied the battle of wits I’d geared up for, I was met with no exchange at all. Riles was gone as quickly as I’d made contact. But the static cleared, the muffled, musical tones filtering through without hindrance, and I cocked my head trying to identify what I was hearing.
Like far-flung, lyrical howls, the tones sang through the speakers. Ethereal, alien. Both tranquil and haunting at once, augmented by the occasional chortle or grunt.
A chill glided down my spine as I realized what I was hearing. Equal parts awed and uneased, I let out the breath that was pent-up to lobby my crusade, all thoughts of Riles gone. Instead, I sat there in silence listening to the whale calls that had hijacked our radio frequency.
Even now, the Abyss crawled through the woodwork, reaching, reaching…
Like I needed any more convincing. What does it look like I’m doing, you big blue bully? Maybe if you’d actually let me get on with it, I could make some progress. Put Riles back on.
But the tones had possessed the headset, and it would seem they were there to stay.
I pulled the headset off and thrust it back toward my middleman assistant. “There are whale sounds coming through.”
Frowning, he took a listen. “Riles? Are you there?” Adjusting the settings, he tried again, to no avail. He toggled more dials, flipped more switches. I grew impatient watching him struggle, recognizing quickly that it was no use. He was battling the metaphysical. My Abyssal curse. I thought about interrupting him, but he wouldn’t hear me, with the headphones over his ears. And what would I say? Excuse me, sir, but don’t bother trying. The whales have come for me, and they won’t take no for an answer.
So I twiddled my thumbs, tapped the heel of my boot against the chair. Tried not to pull out my hair while he went about troubleshooting. I decided to dub the man ‘Salty’, since he hadn’t bothered to volunteer his name. No doubt he figured we wouldn’t be acquainted long enough for me to need it.
Finally, exasperated, he gave up. “Stay here,” he said, and stalked from the cabin.
Well, at least I was on board a ship. That was one stepping stone, checked off my list. I swiveled back and forth in my chair while I waited for Salty to return, twirling a springy lock of hair
around my finger.
Eventually he came back, looking more frazzled than when he left. “Communications with the Salt Queen are down on all fronts. As a precaution, we’re heading out to check her status. Looks like you get your wish. Sit tight, don’t touch anything, and in half an hour you get one face-to-face with Riles, if she’s not too busy to see you. But if what you have doesn’t impress her, it’s straight back to shore and you won’t be getting another audience. Clear?”
Crystal-shmystal. “Sure thing, Salty,” I said before I could catch myself, and didn’t miss the look of chagrin that shadowed his face. I cleared my throat. “That is, sir.” Sir Salty. I bit back a snort, resolving to assume my best behavior. I couldn’t blow this. Against my better judgment, I tried to smooth things over. “Didn’t…someone call you Salty? I might have heard wrong.”
“The name’s George,” he clarified, nipping that in the bud.
Well, that wasn’t nearly as much fun. But George it would be. “Ahoy then, George. Anchors away!”
Unamused by my lingo, he gestured for me to follow him out. “You can join me on deck as we ready to make way.”
Oh jeepers, could I? Now that I was officially on the water, the Thalassophile in me was reawakening, and longed to soak up the essence of the ocean like a sponge.
That other part of me still wanted to punch a few waves in their faces, but I could get to that after a nice, deep, salty French kiss.
Chapter 6
The sea ran at me with far-flung, open arms, its smile horizon-wide, its laughter a breathy spray of foam on my chest and warm gust of tropical wind in my face. It was glorious. I felt like we could pick up right where we left off, without missing a beat. Except for the tiny little thing that had scared me away from the water and everything to do with it in the first place, all those years ago. I could not just forget about that.
Pillars of the Deep Page 3
