by Amanda Vink
She pushed herself off the window frame and headed back into the confines of the room. Yes, she’d go to New York with the map and look for a scholar who could continue the work until she was ready, until things had figured themselves out.
Her decision made, she searched for the map among her things, but it wasn’t there.
Of course! Sam had it. She had left it with him in his room before heading down to dinner.
She slipped out into the hall, determined to collect it. The carpet muffled her footfalls, so she didn’t have to worry about waking anyone. She walked quietly to Samuel’s room, encountering no one along the way. When she reached the door, she turned the knob and, finding it unlocked, she let herself in.
A small bedside lamp illuminated the room. Everything looked as it had before, only Samuel’s clothing had been picked up and put back in place. He lay still in the massive bed, with Aunt Ethel asleep in a chair next to him. She slept like the dead, and the sound of her snoring told Marjorie it was unlikely she would awaken easily.
Still, Marjorie moved through the room as quietly as she could. Sam wouldn’t have had time to do too much with it, she reasoned.
She looked on his desk, where piles of books and writing supplies competed for space. Then she scanned the floor nearby, but she didn’t see anything. In fact, she didn’t see it anywhere. She got down on the floor and lay on her stomach, then lifted the bed skirt to look under, but the space was empty too. She pushed herself up with a sigh.
Something gritty in the carpet brushed against her hand, and she looked closer. It was difficult to tell in the half light, but it looked like dirt.
“Is that you, cousin?” The voice came from the bed. Marjorie raced to her feet. “Sam!” she said, her voice full of relief.
Her eyes met his—black with painful bruising around the sockets. The sight of him made her wince. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Dreadful,” he answered. He tried to sit up, but his arms wobbled and he couldn’t manage to push himself into a sitting position. Marjorie hurried to his side and tried to rearrange the pillows to make him more comfortable.
“Never mind with that,” he said, weakly brushing her away. She nodded, then sat on the edge of the bed. “This is important.”
“What, Sam?” she asked. Her head tilted to one side, waiting for him to continue.
“Someone came in,” he told her. “They hit me.”
Marjorie clenched her hands together. “Who?” She wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” Samuel said. He sounded dazed, as if the whole thing confused him too. “Where’s your father’s map?” His eyes bored into hers, searchingly, and she could see how tired he was.
“I don’t know, Sam,” she said.
He fell back against the pillows, already fading and weak from the exertion. But he managed to say, “You’ve got to find it.” He passed out again, dropping back to the bed.
“What happened?” asked Aunt Ethel. She blinked at Marjorie as though she was a specter come for a haunting.
“He was awake!” Marjorie pulled the blankets up over her cousin. Her head spun. Someone hit you, Sam? Who would do such a thing?
“I’ll stay up with him,” Aunt Ethel said, the relief in her voice palpable. She used the chair arms to push her weight up and then shuffled to the bed. She squeezed Marjorie’s arm. Marjorie nodded and headed downstairs.
In the library, she found Uncle Charlie still awake. His curved figure hunched over the mantle, where a small fire turned to ember in the hearth before him. He was drinking. In this moment, he looked like a broken man. There was no hope in his eyes—only the red of lingering tears—Marjorie noticed when she looked at him.
“Sam’s woken up!” she said, trying to lift the pall that had descended on him.
“What?” he murmured.
“I spoke to him, Uncle. He’s awake!”
He stood visibly taller then, and placed his glass down on the table. “How is he?”
“He’s sleeping now, but I spoke with him for a short time.”
“Thank God.” Uncle Charlie crossed himself, a gesture that was strange for Marjorie since she had never seen him do it before. “What did he say?”
She searched for the words. “He told me this wasn’t an accident.”
“What?”
“What’s more, someone has stolen my father’s map.” She stepped into the room fully then and went to pour herself a drink too.
Still by the mantle, Uncle Charlie blinked, uncomprehending.
“I think maybe this is all connected,” Marjorie said.
Uncle Charlie’s face fell.
Marjorie got the sense that he expected her to say these words. It seemed like the only explanation to her. Somehow there was no denying that Samuel had been set up, injured on purpose, and all for the map to the Tree of Life.
“But—who?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out,” Marjorie said.
Uncle Charlie looked at her sharply, then got up, crossed the room, and shut the doors. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered after the door clicked shut. “Look how dangerous it is. Maybe it’s best we stop while we’re ahead.”
“Of course it’s dangerous,” Marjorie admitted. She took a step toward him, her feet planting firmly on the ground. “But we owe it to Father and to Sam to find out what’s going on. I can’t leave it.”
“Very well then. Ever your father’s daughter, you are. Persistent and unyielding.” Marjorie saw the ends of her uncle’s lips curling into a faint smile as he spoke.
After a moment, he crossed the room. From a drawer in a wooden table, he pulled out a small box. He handed it to her, and she slowly lifted the lid. Inside sat a small silver pistol. It was the perfect size to slip into a bag and pull out on an unsuspecting victim. On its wooden hilt sprawled a fine engraving. C.V. it read. Charles Vale.
The Voyage
Chapter Eight
As the ocean liner left New York City’s harbor on Tuesday morning, Marjorie stood on the deck in the late morning brightness, watching the thousands of enthusiastic onlookers waving the ship off below. Among them, somewhere in the clutter, stood Uncle Charlie. He could not come with her—his health, he revealed, made such a long trip impossible. Now, alone on a seemingly hopeless mission, she sighed, a mix of excitement and anticipation coursing through her nonetheless. I can do this.
Once away from port, the passengers, Marjorie included, turned with excitement to the open water, relishing in the marine sights around New York—Ellis Island, Lady Liberty. Marjorie tied down her hat and snapped a picture of it all. Her eyes drifted to the small boats that ferried new arrivals from Ellis Island. Funny, she thought. These people aren’t looking to the ocean, where they have been, but they’re looking to the future awaiting them.
Large clouds of smoke billowed from the top of the steamship’s stacks. For those who could afford it, the S.S. Majesty offered every imaginable luxury. It was the best of its kind, complete with first-class lounges, smoking rooms, dining rooms, and a polished deck so shiny Marjorie could just about see her face in it.
She made her way to her room, located on the upper decks on the starboard side. It was first-class, which meant it provided access to the air and sunshine—and included a functioning window. It was small but luxurious. Marjorie ran her fingers over the fine wood of the dresser. It felt warm against her skin.
Later in the day, she would unpack what she needed for the journey itself, but most of her belongings would stay safely tucked away in her travel chest. She would not develop any pictures over the course of the week—a sad reality, since she would be awash in spare time. But to do otherwise would invite certain risk—the saltwater mist carried in from the ocean might ruin the film—and that solidified her resolve to wait for a more appropriate time.
The steamship carried 1,900 passengers, and it would land in France on Saturday. From there, Marjorie would take a smaller vessel through the M
editerranean. She was grateful to be traveling in summer, for while going over the water, the air felt exceedingly pleasant.
That evening, Marjorie reclined in a chair out on the deck. She had her father’s journal spread over her lap, but concentrating proved difficult. Instead, she closed her eyes and faced the sun. The sound of the ocean and the wind and the smoke pumping from the iron engine below calmed her, and she felt the muscles in her back completely relax. It was good to be moving forward.
Nearby, a few young men played a game of shuffleboard. Occasionally, Marjorie tore her eyes from the pages of the journal to watch them push the metal circles onto the board.
Two women sat down not far from her, startling Marjorie out of her reverie. “Will you look at this?” one of them asked. She gestured to a newspaper, now a few days old, which was open to the society pages. “The first woman flew across the Atlantic Ocean, in a plane piloted by two men. Twenty hours and forty minutes.”
“Can you imagine being cramped in such a thing for so long?” asked the other woman. “No, thank you. I’m more than happy to spend a week riding in style over the ocean.”
Marjorie pulled her hat down and peered at the two of them. “What was her name?” she asked.
The socialites looked up, startled. “What was that, dear?” said one.
“The woman in the airplane,” Marjorie said. Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she was so curious about this woman. The very thought of crossing the ocean in a plane seemed marvelous. Marjorie could only imagine what it would be like to do it alone.
The woman holding the newspaper looked down. Her finger scrolled along as she read. “Amelia Earhart.”
“Thank you,” Marjorie replied with a smile. “I’ll have to remember her.”
The woman shut the newspaper, then turned back to her friend. The two angled away from Marjorie and fell deep into gossip.
Marjorie imagined arriving at her destination in hours. She wanted to speed up time—there were problems to solve.
She turned again to her father’s journal. As she paged through his words and findings, Marjorie realized just how much of his adult life he had invested in the myth of the Tree of Life. It seemed most of the world’s mythologies had their own versions, which made it difficult to catch facts. She read some of the different myths, which her father laid out methodically.
In Taoist belief, a special tree produced a peach every three thousand years, and the person to eat said peach received immortality. In North America, the Iroquois origin story described a tree in the heavens, where man first lived. A pregnant woman fell into the sea and was saved by a giant turtle. She planted bark taken from the tree on the turtle’s back, thus populating the world.
What made her father choose Egypt as a place to start looking? That’s what she wanted to know.
Marjorie spent the remainder of the week trying to decipher the journal, but she didn’t get very far. In between those long bouts of studying, she walked laps around the deck of the ship, enjoying the cool salty breeze off the Atlantic. She loved the feeling of the warm sun on the water and reveled in the occasional sight of dolphins as they swam alongside the ship.
That Friday, they sailed into La Rochelle. Marjorie had heard the French coastal port city was famous for its deep waters and history. Her father had once explained to her how in the twelfth century the Knights Templar stationed their main fleet in its waters.
She disembarked with a handful of passengers and cast her eyes to the Lantern Tower. At that landmark, three historical towers pointed into the sky. She noticed the medieval characteristics—the long pointed steeple and spire.
Quickly, she made her way to a smaller ocean liner, which would depart that evening. Marjorie wished she had more time to explore the old city, but she could not miss the next leg of the journey. Maybe one day I’ll return, after I find answers.
The new steamship was tiny compared to the previous one, but it was by no means any less impressive. Around deck, sailors strode with purpose to get the ship ready to sail. They were dressed in perfectly pressed shirts and pants. The porter took her luggage from her, assuring her that it would be waiting for her in her room, to which he gave the directions scribbled on a piece of paper. Still, she held onto her rucksack, which contained the most important items, including her father’s journal.
A man personally greeted her at the top of the ramp leading on deck. From his hat, Marjorie guessed he was the captain. He seemed a jovial man, and Marjorie placed him in his early sixties. She noted his perfectly snow white hair, cut short, and matching goatee. He took Marjorie’s hand, firmly shaking it once. When he spoke, it was with an English accent. “It’s a pleasure. Miss Hart, is it? My name is Captain William Church.”
Marjorie liked him immediately—she liked his gentle eyes and how the corners of his mouth appeared to ever be reaching for a small smile. “Nice to meet you,” she replied. “I’m surprised you know me.”
“I saw your name on the guest list. Your father, by chance, isn’t Julian Hart?” From her expression, he knew it was true, and he continued. “I was looking forward to meeting you. I had the pleasure of assisting your father a few years ago. He spoke of you a few times, and I couldn’t help remembering. I trust he is doing well? Is he still looking for ancient treasures?”
His expression was open and polite, and Marjorie felt the muscles in her stomach tighten into a fist. “My father passed on last year.”
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that. Your father was a wonderful man.” A look of genuine concern and pity crossed his features.
“Thank you,” Marjorie said. Then, changing the subject, she asked, “We’ll arrive in Alexandria on Monday?”
“That’s right—early. As long as nothing unexpected happens. Will you be staying in Alexandria then?”
“No, I’ll be heading on to Cairo.”
“Oh, splendid. The best way to get there is by car. There’s a train, but it’s slow.” Marjorie made a note of it. She thanked Captain Church and took her leave.
Before she had gotten too far away, the captain asked, “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me for dinner this evening?”
“Of course!” Marjorie smiled, waving at him.
She tried to follow the directions given to her by the porter. She took a series of steep steps, accompanied by a well-varnished handrail, down to the level below deck. She held out the piece of paper, trying to decide which direction she needed to head. She squinted up at the numbers. An arrow pointed her toward the bow. Once again getting used to her sea legs, Marjorie wobbled down the hall until she came upon an intersecting corridor and had to stop to study the small map on the wall.
Suddenly, she heard something sharp hit the ground, like metal clanging. Had someone dropped something? She turned to look, but there was no one and nothing around her. A sense of foreboding washed over her, and her palms began to sweat. You’re scaring yourself.
The noise returned again, making her jump. She whirled about, looking around.
There was no one.
She gripped her rucksack closer to her, feeling the weight of her father’s journal and her camera. She thought of them as talismans against the unknown and the sinister.
“Hello?”
The only returning sound, Marjorie noted, was the distant sloshing of water outside.
She shook her head. You need to remain calm. But she couldn’t help scurrying away to find her room.
***
The dining hall was spacious and had a large chandelier dangling at the very center. It reflected the electric candle lights that hung along the walls and cast a golden glow over the room and its inhabitants. Circular windows lined the edges of one wall, but darkness had already fallen and all Marjorie could see was an inky black sky.
She spotted Captain Church and made her way to his table. Marjorie noted the other people sitting with him: a gray matron with a sober expression, a young girl of about eighteen—Marjorie thought it likely she was th
e matron’s charge—and a middle-aged gentleman with slicked-back dark hair. Captain Church introduced Marjorie, and she took her seat.
“What brings you aboard?” Marjorie asked the young woman—a Miss Dorothy Baker—cheerfully.
Marjorie was famished, and the sight of grilled whitefish and asparagus was a welcome one. Her mouth watered as she eagerly picked up her cutlery.
Miss Baker opened her mouth to answer, but the matron answered for her. Marjorie hated when people did that. “Miss Baker is here to see Europe. It’s important for a young girl to go on tour to finish her education.”
Marjorie guessed the kind of education Miss Baker was likely to receive—one that involved being on the periphery of society and real conversation, always controlled by women like the matron. Just an outsider looking in. She turned back to Miss Baker, trying again to engage in conversation. “Are you looking forward to going anywhere in particular?”
Once again, Miss Baker tried to answer and the matron interjected. “We’re getting off at the stop in Gibraltar. From there, we’ll travel to Italy—Rome, Italy.”
Marjorie’s gaze narrowed at the older woman. But she knew how to get under the skin of these society people—the kind of people who never let a woman express her own opinion. She had played at it for years. “Oh, Gibraltar!” she said gaily. “I so long to see Trinity Lighthouse at Europa Point. Mercedes Gleitze was the first person in the world to successfully swim between the two continents—that was just this past April!”
Marjorie had eagerly followed the young woman’s swimming career. Mercedes Gleitze had also been the first woman to swim across the English Channel after eight formal attempts. Marjorie was hoping to take the woman’s portrait one day.
“Professional swimming is hardly a suitable profession for a young lady,” the matron said, a scowl on her face.
“Why not?” asked Miss Baker innocently.
Marjorie smiled devilishly at both the younger and older woman’s expressions—the former held a look of admiration, the later a look of horror. Marjorie wiped her mouth with a napkin. Echoing the young girl, Marjorie asked, “Indeed, why not?”
