The Healer's Daughters

by Jay Amberg

  When they finally reach the right place, she touches his sweating arm and whispers, “The cleft.” She points toward a tapering, more deeply dark tear in the rock face. “Once we’re in there, we can use the light.”

  “It’s about fucking time!” he snarls. He’s not out of breath, but he is breathing hard.

  “It will be worth it.”

  “It better be.” He peers into the cleft, which looks like a dead end. “This is the only way?”

  “Yes.” She wipes sweat from her forehead. “We can come back in a couple of days.”

  “Hell, no. Get going.”

  “Later, at first light, you’ll see better.”

  “Get fucking going!”

  She exhales slowly. “Do you want the lamp?”

  “No. You lead.” He grabs her shoulder and pushes her toward the cleft.

  She turns from him, puts on the headlamp, and adjusts it—but does not switch it on. “Stay close,” she says as she ducks down and squeezes into the cleft. She lifts her left arm, finds the slot, pulls herself up, and turns on the light. “There’s a handhold,” she says, slowing her breathing. “You’ll feel it.” She wiggles her way forward into the narrow tunnel.

  He follows her but gets stuck almost right away. His breathing becomes ragged.

  “Slow down,” she says to the darkness behind her. Though she can’t see him struggling, she adds, “Stay calm. Relax!”

  As he fights his way toward the tunnel, he mutters, “Shit… Fuck!”

  She listens to him sucking air. “Just stay calm!”

  “I am calm!” he hisses.

  When he finally makes it into the tunnel, she is careful not to shine the light in his eyes. “It’s easier from here,” she says over her shoulder.

  His arms extended in front of him, he serpentines along the tunnel, scraping his elbows and shoulders and knees on the rock walls. After he bumps his head a third time, he panics, grabbing at her boot.

  “Let go!” she says. “We’re there.” She kicks herself free. “You’ve almost made it!” She can smell his rank, fear-ridden sweat.

  When she reaches the gap where the tomb’s wall was breached during some ancient earthquake, she rises to her knees and waits.

  “That was hell!” he mutters when he catches up to her.

  “I told you.”

  Seeing the tomb in the arc of her light, he pulls his smartphone from his jeans pocket and turns on the flashlight app. Holding it in front of him, he starts to pan the tomb.

  “The box,” she says.

  He gets to his feet, hunches down, and scuttles across the tomb. He only pauses when his right hand brushes the top of the finely wrought bronze box. As he opens the lid, he whispers, “Yes, yes… Yes!” Still holding the phone in his left hand, he scoops with his right.

  She can hear the coins jangling as she crouches near the breach.

  His breathing becomes more erratic. He bows his head lower over the box, and he lifts one of the amulets, glistening, between his thumb and forefinger. Leering, he holds it to the light, then grabs a second and third. And a fourth and fifth. He raises all five in his palm, and, both hands shaking, he holds them close to the phone’s light. Only after he has kept the amulets aloft for more than a minute does he place them back in the box.

  Without closing the box, he turns toward the skeleton. The phone app’s light is unsteady as it moves from the gold rings to the necklace to the crown of precious stones. “A woman,” he murmurs. He lowers himself to one knee and fondles the gold filigree of the necklace. His fingers shiver as he touches the edge of the crown. His breathing quick and shallow, he runs his fingers across the crown’s jewels.

  Elif leaps, swinging the oblong stone with all of her might, and strikes him just above his right ear. He sprawls sideways, away from the human remains. His phone falls onto the tomb’s floor, the light facing down so that it forms a glowing ring around the phone but does not illuminate anything else. Dust motes swirl.

  Breathing hard, she crouches above Mustafa, who lies on his side. Blood seeps from the gash in his skull. She drops the stone next to him and kneels. She can’t control her breathing, but her eyes are clear and her hands barely shake. She feels neither elated nor dispirited. Touching her fingertips to his neck, she finds a pulse. She presses her palm to his chest, which heaves. She lifts the rock but does not hit him again. It would be fitting to strike him once more for each of those who died in the attack on her mother. And then again and again for the dear children who died in the ISIL attack on the funicular, even if Mustafa had only a little to do with it. But she won’t. She is no avenging angel, and this moment is utterly personal.

  She bows her head and asks forgiveness—not for striking Mustafa but for bringing evil here and leaving him alive in this sacred place. She wants Mustafa to go on living for a while in pain and darkness so that he will sink into despair. He will almost certainly make deals with himself and whichever false gods he worships. When she realizes he might also in his anger further desecrate this place, she retrieves the stone. Raising it above her head, she smashes first his left hand and then his right. His body twitches, but he does not come to. She strikes his wristwatch until it is shattered. Finally, she slams the smartphone with the stone. Even after the light goes out, she continues to beat it relentlessly, making sure it is obliterated. She takes no pleasure in any of it.

  Still hunched over, she replaces the rock where she found it near the breach. She then rearranges the box’s contents and closes the lid but does not touch the skeleton even though the necklace has been shifted slightly and the crown is askew. As she takes Mustafa’s pulse one final time, tears run down her cheeks.

  In the tunnel, she fears the earth will not let her go, but she does not get stuck at all. She emerges from the cleft into the night’s vast stillness, the air and the darkness itself grazing her skin. Openly weeping, she clambers up the slope above the cleft until she reaches rocks the size of the box in the tomb. With the heel of her boot, she sends one and then another tumbling down. Scree and smaller stones slide, too, and as she climbs, she repeats the process until the cleft is completely covered. She sits for a moment on a rock the size of a wheelbarrow and slows her breathing. She wipes her eyes, sniffles, and swallows. She will not tell Serkan or her grandmother or her mother, if she regains consciousness, or anyone else what she has done.

  As she takes the long hike by a far different route back to her studio in Bergama, the wind falls. Adrenaline melts away. The Milky Way fades. She is thirsty, and her gummy saliva tastes bitter. Though the air is not hot, she cannot cool down. Her hands twitch periodically. The earth begins to sing to her, at first an anthem but then, far more loudly, a dirge.

  58

  KAIKOS VALLEY

  Mustafa Hamit lies in agonizing darkness. He has no idea where he is. A hot spike is being driven into his skull. Fiery nails pierce both of his hands. He remembers only the fear of crawling through a dark tunnel. But this is worse. In the tunnel, a light guided him, and help was close; here he is alone in an excruciating void. His hands are mangled. His mouth is dry. He tries to swallow his panic but cannot.

  When he raises his head five millimeters, pain radiates from an epicenter above his right ear. The left side of his face falls against stinging grit. Slowly, because any movement is torment, he lifts his right hand toward his head. Flames that shed no light arc among his fingers. When he touches his skull, finding sticky blood and matted hair, the juncture detonates. He jerks his head away, creating more misery. His head strikes the stone and grit again. Waves of nausea follow the blast.

  He vomits.

  The smell is unspeakable. The taste sickens him more, but he can’t even wipe his mouth. He has to remain rational, think his way out of this hell. The guiding light from the tunnel grips his mind. His watch…his watch is giving off no
light at all. But there was a light. A woman? There was a woman. The woman led him into— The bitch! The bitch must have hit him. And left him…where? His phone! He’s got to find his phone! His phone will tell him.

  He doesn’t have his phone. But he did. He was using the phone’s flashlight app in a cave. No, not a cave! A grave! He’s in a fucking tomb! Injured. Badly. His head and hands smashed. Alone. Without even his phone. This can’t be happening. The bitch could not have done this to him. A woman… No. It’s not possible. A woman! The bitch! She wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Evil fucking woman! She’s left him, horribly hurt, entombed in…in fucking nowhere. Left him mutilated. Left him to die.

  Knowing where he lies is even worse than not knowing. Far worse. He doesn’t deserve this. Persecution, that’s what it is. He has to get control. The phone…his phone is the key. When he finds it, he can get out, call for help. Then, he can go after the bitch with a vengeance, with fire and fury like the world has never seen. But everything hurts so much. So very fucking much.

  He tries to stand but can’t balance himself with his crippled hands. He finally makes it to a squat, wobbles, arms askew, and rises fast. His head strikes the tomb’s ceiling, and he collapses in an eruption of pain. He screams, chokes, vomits again. His mouth fetid, he moans and moans. He whimpers for a time, though time itself has stolen away, leaving him in this hell.

  He’s cheek down in puke and grime, gasping, unable to catch his breath. Something warm… His blood! Blood is trickling along his forehead, around his right ear, into his right eye. Pricking his eye. He tries to blink it away, finally raises his arm enough to wipe it with his short sleeve. Not that he can see anyway. The world is black, the horror infinite. Darkness ubiquitous. Pain crushes him.

  But he won’t give up, won’t give in to the bitch. He’ll live so that he can have her tortured to death. And her brother. And her grandmother. All of them. His phone must be here, somewhere in the dust. Movement is agony, but he wills himself to move his right elbow, scraping an arc in the dust. Nothing. He sucks in his breath, shifts his body half a meter, scrapes his elbow, still feels nothing.

  On his seventh shift, his elbow nudges something hard. But it’s jagged, not smooth. He rubs his elbow back and forth. Yes, something, but it can’t be his phone. He begins to shift his weight again, but stops. Despite the acute suffering, he taps the object repeatedly. It’s the right size but not the right shape. Wracked with pain and utterly enervated, he begins choking, sobbing again. The bitch has destroyed his phone, completely demolished it. He is alone, absolutely—more than he has ever been.

  He howls. The echo assaults him.

  He is going to survive, though, going to make it home. He must. His father… His father will save him! He’ll come looking for him. He’ll organize a search party. They’ll find the Range Rover. Follow the tracks. Discover the cleft. His father will be irate, but the treasure will appease him. The treasure! Priceless amulets—five of them. And invaluable jewelry on the bones. Bones…skeletal remains, dessicated, covered with dust. It’s all here, all around him…treasure and bones and dust. A shiver runs through the blazing pain.

  He wanted to show his father that he could, alone, find immeasurable treasure. He wanted to see his father’s face when he laid the artifacts in front of him. But now he just wants to see his father’s face, even incensed, one more time. He told no one where he was going, who he was meeting, who he was going to convince that he had an offer for the Galen cache that she could not refuse. And she didn’t. The bitch! He’ll have to get out on his own. And bring the treasure with him. Maybe not all of it at first. But something. Something that proves he did it. His plan—not really a plan but an idea—worked.

  He needs to shake his head to clear it, but it hurts too much. It’s all too much, too much effort and too much pain. It’s not finite like it is when he’s working his abs in sets of ten reps on the machine. This pain doesn’t stop. He has to be logical, mathematical, but stringing even two thoughts together is almost impossible. He’ll make a grid, cover each quadrant until he finds the tunnel. Yes, that’s it. A grid, like those at archeological sites. But where should he start? A wall…or a corner would be even better. He slides his elbows out in front of him and slithers in the dust. In only a few seconds his left elbow reaches rock. Gulping air fouled by puke, he creates the grid in his mind.

  But wait, he doesn’t even need a grid. He can just follow the wall. It’s all so simple. He has wasted so much time making it more complicated than it is. He can do this. It’s easy. The only question is, how can he take the artifacts? His jeans have pockets, but his hands don’t work. He begins to ponder but stops himself almost immediately. Cogitation is worthless. He’ll come back for the artifacts. His father won’t believe him, but so fucking what. He’s found incalcuable treasure, and there’s more. The bitch said there were four undiscovered tombs, and this was the least of them. The last must be the Galen cache.

  He finds the tunnel quickly, even more easily than he imagined, and the discovery energizes him. But once he’s in it, fear returns, stealing his breath and the newfound energy. He has to move slowly, like a centipede, but without legs. A worm. The stench is awful, and it takes him a couple of meters to realize it isn’t coming from the tunnel. But he’s alive—the smell and taste and pain all attest to it.

  The walls close in. Dust he stirs chafes his nostrils, scratches his throat, singes his eyes. Time fucks with him again. Is it morning? Have they found the Range Rover? Is anybody looking for him yet? Has anybody even noticed he’s gone? The thoughts exhaust him. He just wants to stop and sleep, but he doesn’t trust himself to wake up.

  His breathing is quick and shallow as he wriggles his way along. Shouldn’t he being seeing light—a literal light at the end of the tunnel? There was a ledge they had to reach up for, and some light should make it that far. Maybe it’s still dark out. Or dark again. He has no way of knowing. He’s lucid, he’s sure. He’s not hallucinating—no apocalyptic nightmares, no dragons, no aliens, no fires or floods, no devils except for the bitch who abandoned him here. There is only this hellacious, contracting, suffocating world of pain and fear and darkness.

  Finally, he comes to the end, or what should be the end. The tunnel veers sharply downward at an angle of at least seventy degrees. But there is still no light. None. Only dust and infinite darkness. His scraped elbows lie on the edge of the shaft. There’s no fresh air either. Just more choking dust in his nostrils, his throat, and his eyes. He lays the left side of his head on his shoulder and bicep. This isn’t right. It’s all wrong. Tears run from his burning eyes. He’s worked so hard, fought off enormous fear, stayed rational, yet here he is on a precipice above some void.

  He’s nowhere, with no end in sight. He can’t stop his chest from heaving. His whole body begins to shake, intensifying his suffering. He can go on. Pitch himself forward and hope. But he holds no real hope. Ahead is only darkness. No air. No light. Going backward is physically impossible. And certain death. He can remain here, but here is the same. Here is hell.

  59

  BERGAMA

  Serkan Boroğlu is sweating as he climbs the hill toward his mother’s house carrying a twelve-pack of Efes. His head is down partly because of the exertion and partly because the morning light playing across the Kaikos Valley beyond Bergama only makes him more sad. He didn’t make it to the hospital last night—his mother is still comatose, still paralyzed, still deaf, still entombed within her battered body. Neither Elif nor his grandmother came home last night. He hasn’t been able to decide which is worse, waiting alone in the house while Elif’s figurines taunt him—chanting at him that he is a stupid, worthless ingrate—or seeing his sister, whose energy shames him. She convinced him to report the incident with the Georgian and the razor to the Istanbul police, but what good will that do? The few times his grandmother has come home since the attack, she made dishes for the doctors and nurses
. He himself is useless, building castles of remorse out of empty beer cans.

  As he is approaching the front steps, he stops dead near the signal wall that he and Elif used as children. He gasps as though he has been gut-punched. His sweat goes cold. There, scratched in the wall is Aytul + Zeynep, A–Z, their newest signal, their only new signal: Danger! Alert!

  The plastic bag holding the beer slips from his left hand and clunks to the pavers. Looking around, he rubs his hand through his uncombed, unwashed hair. He has no idea if the message was there earlier when he went out. He hasn’t even noticed the wall since yesterday afternoon.

  A skinny, gray-brown dog lopes along, but no people are on the street. Cocks are crowing, and light is splashing on the hill above the house. Somewhere, not all that close, a dog is barking. He pulls the phone from his pocket, cradles it in the soft cast that covers his right hand, glances about, and says, “Shit!” He scoops up the beer and, muttering “shit!” repeatedly, hustles toward the house’s street-level kitchen door. After fumbling with the keys, he makes it into the kitchen, kicks the door shut, and slumps against it. On his third try, he successfully taps out Elif’s number.

  “Don’t say anything,” she hisses, her voice intense. “Listen!”

  “Yeah.” Fear ripples. “Okay.” The sink’s faucet is dripping. He must not have completely turned it off…yesterday…or the day before. With his free left hand, he turns the handles until they are tight and then goes on squeezing them even after the dripping has stopped.

  “Don’t go to the hospital!”

  He wasn’t really planning to, but he doesn’t tell her that.

  “Mustafa’s men,” she says, “they’re waiting for you there!”