by A. L. Knorr
Her countenance held me there for a long time. I wracked my brains for a reason she would be a grade eleven student at Saltford High after she'd already graduated from my high school. She had to have a doppelganger, or maybe an older sister who looked more like a twin.
The double doors squeaked open behind me and a young man came in, removing the sunglasses from his face. His gaze fell on me and he smiled, his white teeth stark in a tanned face. He had short dark curly hair and eyes the color of moss. He wore a green utility jacket, jeans, and white sneakers that had to be new. A single dull metal ring graced his right thumb and he carried a notebook under one arm.
"Hi, you must be here for the dig team kickoff." Australian accent. "I'm Jesse Tindall. I’ll be one of the trench supervisors on our little excursion.”
Jesse Tindall was far too cute to be an archaeologist, but I didn't say that out loud. I smiled back and took his hand. "Petra Kara. Nice to meet you."
"The meeting room is this way." He gestured for me to follow him. "We've used the room a few times before."
I fell into step beside him and we passed through a second set of doors and turned to make our way down a long tunnel lined with blue metal lockers. "You're an archaeology student?"
He bobbed his head. "Graduated from Australian National"—he put a brown hand over his heart—"known to us locals as ANU. What about you?"
"I haven't started my undergrad yet. I've been saving up. Next year."
Our footsteps echoed in the metallic hallway. "Any idea where you'd like to go?" He gave me a brilliant grin. "ANU is one of the best in the world."
"Top ten for sure." I smiled. Cambridge was widely acknowledged to be number one.
"We're in here." He gestured to an open door. A few voices could be heard in casual conversation.
It was a normal classroom, with a blackboard spanning one wall, a teacher's desk, and student desks. A projector hung from the ceiling and a whiteboard had been erected beside the teacher's desk. A map of North Africa had blossomed on the whiteboard, with Libya the only country outlined and speckled with names and markings. Several people turned to greet Jesse and me as we walked in.
A woman who looked as though she couldn't be much older than I was, with skin the color of cocoa and eyes the color of bronze, got up from her desk, smiling broadly. Before any of the three other people were on their feet she was crossing the room with her hand out. Her long black hair was up in a tight ponytail.
"Dig-mates!” Her words were laced with a British accent. "Welcome to the party. I'm Ibukun." She reached for my hand first and smiled warmly into my eyes. "Call me Ibby."
Everyone introduced themselves and I repeated every name as it was said, to help me remember.
Chris Brown, a short wiry fellow with red hair and glasses had joined from Ireland. He was studying at University of Toronto and in his second year. Sara Platt was an archaeologist originally from Vancouver but who had been digging in Portugal for the last few years. Sara was the area supervisor for the dig and Chris was another trench supervisor. A team of unskilled workers from Ghat would be meeting us at the site to do most of the dirty work. In the division of labor, I would also be part of this lowly group on the totem pole.
Ethan entered the classroom last, carrying a briefcase. "So, the Canadian contingent is all here." He shut the door behind him even though we were alone in the school.
Ibukun took a seat and patted the chair beside her, looking at me. I smiled and went to sit down beside her. "We might be the Canadian contingent," she said, "but I think only two of us are actually Canadian. You and Petra."
"True enough. We are international." Ethan plonked his briefcase on the teacher’s desk and opened it, pulling out stacks of papers and rifling through them. "Here is the paperwork I'll need you each to go over, and there's a waiver at the back you'll need to sign. I'm required to walk through the risk factors with you." Ethan pulled a stack of pages from a briefcase and handed the stack to Chris, who was sitting nearest. Chris took one of the stapled sheets from the top of the stack and handed the rest to Sarah.
"Both the US and Canadian government have put out a travel advisory regarding Libya, warning tourists thinking of going there," he dropped his chin, "to change their minds. The advisory also warns those currently in Libya to leave as quickly as possible by the safest means possible."
"Doesn't apply to us though, does it?" Jesse added with a wolfish kind of grin, as he flipped through the documents.
"These advisories are necessary," Ethan said, "but I can assure you that there are and have been plenty of archaeological teams moving within and through Libya in the last year since the travel ban was lifted and the advisory changed to"—he made air quotes—"high risk. There are certain regions and cities within Libya that should absolutely be avoided, no doubt about it. But we'll be staying free from those of course and I'm happy to report we'll be granted twenty-four-hour security throughout the duration of the five-week dig."
"What is going on exactly?" asked Sarah. "I mean, I know there’s been a civil war since 2014, but I don't know what it's about."
"I’ll try to make a complicated matter simple." Ethan perched on the edge of the teacher's desk. "Basically there is a handful of rival groups who can't agree on who controls what territory in Libya. The three big players are the Libyan National Army, which by far controls the largest region." He grabbed the remote and pointed it at his computer. "Here, I'll show you."
The screen flashed over several images, many of which I guessed were of the dig site we'd be excavating, and landed on a multi-colored map of Libya.
A large pink blob covered the majority of the country from the eastern border and reached across the south and west. It was labeled LNA.
"The pink shows the Libyan National Army territory," explained Ethan, "which we won't be entering as we'll be flying into Tripoli." He pointed to a dot on the northwestern coast just at the edge of the next largest blob, which was green and marked with the letters NA. "Tripoli is in a region controlled by Libya Shield Force and The Government of National Accord, who know we're coming."
My eyes had already journeyed down into the yellow blob occupying the mid-west border and marked by a T.
"The yellow is controlled by Tuareg militants?" I guessed. I had done some research before coming to the meeting and knew that the Tuaregs were powerful in certain areas in Libya. They were the only main group Ethan hadn't mentioned yet.
"That's right. We'll be flying from Tripoli to Alawenat, where we'll meet our security team and Ibrahim Al Futuri, our connection at Libyan Antiquities, before journeying on by car into the Acacus. We have informed the Emergency Watch and Response Center in Ottawa in case the need for emergency assistance should arise. But, we've had a team there for a month already and they tell me they've had naps more exciting, and haven't seen a soul. So, I expect the same." He clapped his hands and rubbed them with visible glee. “Now that the safety obligations are out of the way, let’s discuss the objective of the dig. I’ve already informed you how the site was first discovered by a paleontologist.”
I felt eyes on me while Ethan was speaking and tried to ignore the feeling. This was my first real Old World dig. I clenched my pen tightly and attempted to push the feeling of being watched into the background.
“A sandstorm,” Ethan continued, “blew into the area where the paleontologist was working. After the storm passed, he pulled up satellite images of the territory he was excavating and discovered large geometric anomalies near the caves that could only have been manmade. He notified the authorities, who sent in a team to do test pits. A water source and further humans remains were discovered along with definitive wall remains.” Ethan put a hand over his chest. “I believe we are dealing with a new type of settlement or ritual structure.”
As Ethan went on about the objectives of the dig, I was having more and more difficulty keeping my mind locked off from those of others in the room. A soft line of perspiration had formed at my brow and I wip
ed my hand across my forehead. I used my notebook to fan my face. My cheeks felt hot and flushed. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and took a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly. Breathing exercises were one of the few armoring tactics I had, and when they failed, that’s when foreign thoughts began to leak in my head.
"Now, onto a few more logistics.” Ethan shuffled through his stack of paperwork and retrieved a sheet with a list on it. “Let's discuss how to pack properly, since we have a few rookies with us and let’s face it, heatstroke isn't fun and neither is getting stuck out in the desert in a sandstorm, so!" He clapped his hands again and grabbed another stack of paper from the desk. He handed them to Chris, who took one and passed it on. "Let’s go over a list of things you should pack, as well as precautions that should be taken. Shall we?"
The feeling of someone, perhaps more than one someone, being incredibly conscious of me had only grown. The little hairs on my upper back were standing on end. Cautiously, I lifted the gate on my mind and let thoughts and images emanating from dig-mates behind me into my mind.
Two thoughts from two different sources struck me hard, and confusion went off in my mind like fireworks.
From Ibby: She’s so young, and she seems like a nice girl. Why are they doing this to her?
Jesse’s thoughts floated into my mind like music drifting on the wind, much softer and less concrete, but the gist of it was that he thought I was one of the more beautiful girls he had ever seen. In spite of the loveliness of the sentiment, the whole feeling was dripping with sadness.
My head gave a throb and I dropped the gate down and closed my eyes to collect myself. What did Ibby’s thoughts mean? ‘Doing this to me?’ Sending me on a difficult dig in the desert? I wanted to do it. I was excited to do it. I shook off my confusion. Picking up on thoughts was dangerous, and I immediately regretted that I had done it. And why was Jesse so sad while thinking I was beautiful?
My fingers trembled and I clenched the pen in my hand more tightly. I thought Jesse was beautiful too, but this was also dangerous. Getting close to people only resulted in getting hurt. People moved away, they changed, they sought out other relationships when they tired of you…and sometimes they died. Hadn’t I already learned this in my young life?
With a mental shove that was almost violent in its intensity, I barred up thoughts from everyone else in the room. I needed to focus. One of Beverly’s favorite snippets of wisdom came back to me. What other people think of you is none of your business.
Chapter 5
Goosebumps marbled my flesh as the plane banked over the Alawenat airport. If the moon had a landing strip for passenger planes, the Alawenat airport would be a good model for it. Only two runways and a cluster of colorless buildings sat in the gray sand of the western Sahara like a tattoo on the land. A small parking lot and arrivals building appeared in my window below, encrusted with bushes of green which were no doubt tended to with the utmost care.
Jesse peered over my shoulder and I pressed back into my seat to give him a better view.
"Not much to look at," Jesse said with a smile. He rubbed his hands together and caught me with a wink. "Now we've gone and done it. We're in the Sahara proper now, no turning back."
"Not that we'd want to," I replied, tightening my seatbelt as the plane straightened and dropped its nose to come in for a landing.
"Ah, I don't know," Jesse replied. "Scorpions, blasting sand storms, baking heat, camel spiders, no water for thousands of miles. I'm from Australia, I'm more used to that stuff than you are, little Canadian," he teased, bumping his shoulder against mine. "Tough desert conditions have a way of separating the women from the girls if you know what I mean."
I was about to elbow him and make a witty joke, but my mind had caught on a little hook called phobia. "Camel spiders?" I barely noticed when the wheel of the plane bumped down and the plane began to taxi to the airport.
Jesse's face brightened like a little boy who'd discovered the ticklish spot of a little girl. Hours of gleeful torture ahead. "Never heard of those, have you?" His tone took on that of a professor doing a very important lecture. "Now, camel spiders are a unique member of the class of Arachnida because technically," he held up a finger, "they are neither spiders nor scorpions. It just so happens, as I have been making a study of said Solifugae and have here for reference, a photograph." He fished his phone from his pocket, turned it on, and opened his photos and began to scroll.
"That really won't be necessary," I said, but found myself peering at his phone in spite of myself.
He turned the phone toward me.
"Ugh!" I immediately regretted looking, but also couldn't look away. "You're horrible!"
The photo showed a close up shot of a sand-colored arachnid which appeared to have five sets of legs and was equipped with pinching jaws so large in proportion to its body that they couldn't possibly be real.
"Please tell me that's photoshopped," I said weakly.
"Course not," Jesse replied, affronted.
"It can't be an arachnid; it has ten legs."
"That's a deception," Jesse said, lowering his voice to add drama. "What appears to be five sets of legs is actually four sets of legs"—he paused—"and one set of pedipalps."
"Pediwhat?"
"They're sensors, for detecting prey and for fighting. They're actually more like arms than legs because they never touch the ground."
I shuddered. "But these spiders are tiny, right?"
"Are you kidding me? These guys come in eensy to jumbo to burn-the-house-down, and yes those are official technical terms. But the kicker is two-fold." He held up a finger. "One, they hate direct sunlight.” A second finger joined the first. “And two, they can run upwards of sixteen kilometers an hour."
I pushed the phone away and rolled my eyes. "Stop."
He put his hand over his heart. "I tell you this for your own good. Because if one day you happen to be digging in the sand or standing and throwing a nice dark shadow, and one of these monsters comes running straight at you, don't run away. If you do, it'll chase your shadow. Can you imagine running across the dunes of the Sahara with one of these chasing after you?"
"You are a horrible person," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "If you're done trying to terrify me, I do believe we have arrived."
"Oh," Jesse looked around as though he'd forgotten where we were. "Excellent." He tucked his phone away. "Don't say Uncle Jesse never warned you."
"Uncle Jesse?" I raised my brows.
His brown eyes met my gray, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. He eyes dropped to my lips, just for a second. "Yeah, you're right, that's really creepy. My bad."
"Sure is."
"Never happen again, I swear." He got out of his seat and popped the overhead bin open. He pulled out my bags first and set them on the seat beside me before pulling out his own. He bent and peered out the window at the desert dunes and skyline that appeared to reach out for an eternity. "Got your scarf?" he asked, all joking dispensed with.
I unzipped my backpack and pulled out a scarf I'd brought to cover my hair with. I shook it out and draped it over my head, tucking the edges the way I had learned from a YouTube video.
The wind was kicking up, and sprays of sand could be heard hitting the windows of the plane. I put my sunglasses on as I disembarked, still blinking against the glare as we walked across the white-topped concrete to the small airport building. A small truck pulling a trolley for luggage passed us going the other direction and pulled up alongside our plane. The air was much hotter than it had been in Tripoli, and even though the pavement was nearly white, heat waves still rose up from it and cooked us from the underside just as much as the sun did from overhead.
Stepping past the welcoming arches of the airport lobby elicited several sighs of relief from the dig team.
"Thank God they have air conditioning," Ethan sighed, taking his hat off and wiping his brow.
"There won't be air conditioning in the desert," replied Ibukun, taking o
ff her sunglasses and peering around with her strange, bronze-colored eyes. "May as well get used to it now."
"I'll take air-con whenever I can get it," added Chris, craning his neck for the antiquities officer who was scheduled to meet us. "There is Mr. Al Futuri," he said, pointing discreetly at a man in a tailored white suit standing beside another man holding an iPad up with Ethan Rich & Co displayed on the screen. A small logo in the top right corner drew my eye, but it was too small to make out.
Ethan shook hands with the smartly dressed man, who removed his mirrored sunglasses and smiled. His eyes crinkled pleasantly and his gaze passed over all of us, hovering on me momentarily.
"Welcome to Alawenat," he said, speaking to all of us. "My name is Ibrahim Al Futuri. It's my honor to meet you. Antiquities is excited that you are here and is looking forward to the fruits our partnership shall yield over the next several weeks." He tucked his sunglasses into his coat pocket. "If you'll follow me, I'll introduce you to your security team, courtesy of the Libyan Archaeological Authority. They'll remain with you until you return to Alawenat for your flight home, so I hope you can get comfortable with each other."
We crossed the foyer and followed Ibrahim down a hallway to a large windowed entrance where a cluster of four men in khakis and fatigues sat chatting and laughing around a coffee table covered in water bottles and fatigue-colored satchels and bags. When they saw us approach, they all stood up and their faces became serious. Four sets of keenly intelligent dark brown eyes took us in.
Ibrahim introduced them as Omar, Abu, Mifta, and Hassan. Each of them nodded politely as they were introduced and Mifta even gave us a glimpse of gleaming white teeth with a half-smile. Ibrahim spoke to the men in a language that Ethan had told us was called Tamahaq, a dialect local to Southeastern Libya. The men listened and nodded as Ibrahim pointed us out and gave them our names.
