Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  Marjorie’s father had explained to her once how people had been living in these plains for thousands of years before Darius chose the region as his royal residence. Persepolis itself, Marjorie knew, sat on the steps of Rahmat Mountain. The city, known as Parsa to the Persians, was the capital of the Achaemenid Empire starting during the reign of Darius. At least Marjorie could see the mountain in the distance, if not the ancient city ruins. Frank explained if they wanted to see it, they just needed to follow the road.

  Every now and then, Marjorie glanced back at Hamid, who moved either slowly or quickly. Right now, he moved slowly, kicking his feet in the dust and holding a bag close to his body. What am I going to do with you? she wondered.

  Amna’s apartment sat at the very end of the row, the furthest to the east and closest to Persepolis. Outside, it smelled of freshly cut mint.

  The door opened, and Marjorie’s eyes widened at the young woman standing before them. She looked barely on the edge of adulthood, but she had the poise of a woman who had managed her life for a long time. She wore a shy smile, brought out infrequently, and her bright eyes seemed eager for knowledge. Her skin was deeply tanned, and she had a small mole above her lip.

  She spoke only a little English, but Frank and she communicated comfortably in Arabic. Hamid, of course, understood everything, and he chatted freely. Marjorie felt obtuse and silly for not having learned the language, but she listened carefully and let the melodious sounds wash over her. She loved the beautiful language, and she promised herself she would learn it one day.

  Amna offered them aggressively sweet tea in copious amounts. They took the cups in hand and sat in the garden in the back, which was shaded by the building.

  Amna said something directly to Marjorie, who blinked. Amna’s voice was quiet and she spoke with clipped, intense words. Marjorie wasn’t sure what she said, but it seemed serious. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. Had she done something wrong?

  “She says hot tea will cool you down fast,” Frank said. “It will make you sweat. She also wants to know if you’re hungry.”

  Oh, that’s all! Marjorie breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  Hamid happily agreed in Arabic, though Marjorie knew exactly what he meant. He bounced up and down in his chair.

  Marjorie gratefully accepted too, and Amna brought out flatbread, meat, and yogurt. She also brought desserts for them to enjoy—squares packed with soft sweet dates, toasted walnuts, and pistachios. It coated their mouths in butter and sugar, and left their stomachs happy.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask her about herself,” Frank said.

  Marjorie nodded, and she sipped her tea thoughtfully as they spoke. Frank and Amna took turns speaking. They were very comfortable with one another, as though they had spent a good deal of time together. Amna said something and then laughed, and the tips of Frank’s ears turned red. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Marjorie felt a hot emotion run over her: jealousy. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You barely know the man. She tried to deflect the unwanted emotion by following Hamid. He had gotten up from his seat and was in the garden following a small rodent, which looked to Marjorie like a hamster. It scurried off into the crack between two large rocks.

  “How are you?” asked Marjorie. She kneeled down so she could look him in the eye.

  Hamid looked at her briefly, then kept searching for the rodent. “Good.”

  “I want to talk to you about why you followed us.”

  Hamid shrugged. He spoke first in Arabic. Marjorie patiently waited, and he looked at her and said the same thing in English. “Mama said we needed to find the Tree.”

  “Surely she didn’t mean for you to find it,” Marjorie said. “Don’t you think she’ll be missing you?”

  He didn’t look at her, and he didn’t say anything. Marjorie didn’t want to make him feel bad, but she also didn’t want to be held responsible for his safety. As it was, they were in enough danger without a child with them. But Hamid was not interested in discussing anything with her.

  Marjorie tried again, pointing to his bag. “What did you bring with you? Anything fun?”

  Still Hamid didn’t reply. Marjorie stood then and brushed off her pants. Stupid, she thought. The kid is probably terrified, and you’re making it worse.

  Then Amna called out, and Hamid raced to her. She produced some object for him, a spinning toy that he proceeded to use on every surface.

  Frank made his way over to Marjorie. “Smart of the organizers of the dig site to hire Amna. One of the most competent archeologists I’ve ever met, she is,” he said. His voice sounded exuberant, excited.

  “I’m glad she’s willing to help us,” Marjorie said. She couldn’t help it: her voice sounded cold and snappy.

  From the tone, Frank startled. “You alright?”

  Her look was cutting. “I don’t like this. It’s one thing to risk our lives, but for Hamid and Amna to risk theirs—”

  “They know what they’re risking,” he said. His eyes flashed with a bit of their own anger.

  “Do they?” Marjorie raised her voice slightly. “Let me guess: they both believe we’ll find the Tree of Life and save the world?”

  “Just because you don’t believe something’s true doesn’t mean you have the authority to tell others what to believe.”

  “It has nothing to do with that,” she said.

  “Oh, doesn’t it?” he asked. “I think from the day you started this thing it was partly to prove it didn’t exist.”

  Marjorie gasped. “How dare you—”

  “Look, we don’t have time to argue. We’re here now, and I think we should share with her the key.”

  With a humph, Marjorie removed the necklace and handed it to him. Just then, Amna appeared at their side, and she began speaking in Arabic. She took the key in her hand and rubbed the metal between her fingers. A rush of excitement flooded her features. She began speaking quickly—so quickly that Frank seemed to have trouble keeping up with her words.

  “She says she found an inscription inside the tomb. It talks about a mighty gift from the creator that was given to the Jewish Diaspora along with the Ten Commandments. They received—” he struggled to find the word “—seeds of special quality. They took them to Egypt in their exile, and somehow Darius received them. I’m not sure if ‘received’ is the right word,” he said dryly. “Within months, he was the new king of Persia, despite having no royal blood. What if somehow he used these seeds—” Now, he wasn’t translating anymore but projecting his own ideas. “What if he found the Tree of Life and used it to his own advantage?”

  Amna said something, and Frank responded. Then he translated for Marjorie: “Amna says it’s possible this key opens a secret chamber inside the tomb. She says that around the inscription there’s an unusual keyhole.”

  Huh. Marjorie stared at the key in Amna’s hands. Everything seemed to fit together so perfectly. Could it be? Could the Tree of Life be real? She still doubted it, but there was only one way to find out.

  “That settles it,” said Marjorie. “Somehow we have to get inside that tomb.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Frank warned. “Amna said the area is guarded by special military. The whole project shifted hands about a year ago, and everything has been made hush-hush.”

  “Our friend Mr. Seif?” Marjorie ventured.

  “Possibly,” said Frank. But then he frowned, and a deep line formed between his eyebrows. “But he’s working for someone else, I wager. He doesn’t personally have enough money to finance a venture of this size.”

  Amna said something else, and Marjorie wondered how much English she actually understood. Frank translated. “She says there is a lot going on politically, and as always, the colonial powers are vying for control.”

  After she spoke again, Frank laughed. “She says they’re spoiled children fighting for toys.”

  Marjorie looked at Amna and said, “Helping us could be risky for you.”


  Amna waved her hand, trying to brush away Marjorie’s fears. Frank translated. “She wants you to know; she says she loved your father. He believed in her when no one else did. She must do this for us.”

  Looking at Amna, Marjorie suddenly saw a reflection of herself. Both of them had loved her father, and they had both lost him over this quest. Marjorie’s father had trusted Amna enough to bring her in on this dig, and Marjorie realized that she needed to trust her too. She reached out, finding Amna’s warm hands. They were strong, calloused from long days working in the sand. Marjorie gave them a squeeze. “Thank you,” she said.

  ***

  They came to Persepolis from the long, straight road across the plains of Marvdasht. As they drew closer, the ruins of the great city seemed to grow out of the bottom of the Rahmat Mountain itself—large shapes cut by sand and bits of green. She could only imagine what this place had looked like in all its glory.

  Amna spoke in quiet, rushed sentences. “She says she’s going to gather a few things and she’ll be back,” Frank translated. As Amna left, Frank grabbed Hamid, who was wandering off. “Stay here with us,” he warned the boy.

  Marjorie drifted away from them too. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the vertical arches and the motifs of Persian soldiers of antiquity, which now had guarded the ancient ruins for hundreds of years. If only they had guarded you from Alexander and his armies, she thought.

  Most visitors to Persepolis were tourists dressed in Western clothing, but Marjorie also spied the occasional robe and the chador, the full-body cloak many Muslim women wore out in public. People came from all over the world to see the ruins of Darius’s great winter palace known as Taçara, or “winter palace.” There were eight other structures in ancient times, including a throne hall, a treasury, and a council hall. Marjorie remembered from her father’s notes that the first three structures were built by Darius, and the rest were built by his successors.

  The ruins of Persepolis consisted of massive limestone blocks, built on the top of a large man-made terrace. To go in, one had to walk up the Stairs of All Nations. The steps were low, and they took time to ascend. The sky, an impossibly blue backdrop against the gate, called all visitors up—Marjorie, Frank, and Hamid included.

  At Persepolis, the nations that were subjects of Persia gave their tributes to the king. At the doors atop the stairs, which in modern times led into open air, sprawled an inscription Marjorie recognized from her father’s notebook, known as Dpa. It was a series of lines bent in different directions. Marjorie pulled out the notebook and paged through it. When she found what she was looking for, she read the translation out loud. “Darius, the great king, king of kings, king of countries, Hystaspes’s son, an Achaemenid, built this palace.”

  Frank almost touched the stone, his hand hovering over an inscription moving along one of the vertical edges. “Dutch merchants visited this site during their east-west expeditions, and they met individuals who called the city ‘the place of the forty columns.’ It was only identified as Persepolis in 1618 AD. Can you believe no official excavations have been undertaken? They’ve been trying to get permits to dig for years. No luck there. I think it’s because the team is not headed by Persian scholars, but by an American.”

  “Dr. Baxter?” Marjorie guessed.

  “Yes, this is him,” Amna said in broken English.

  So this is where your research money has gone. It made her blood boil—that was her father’s research, her father’s hard-won funding. He loved Persepolis, and he made many journeys to its gates over the years. Looking out over the sand, Marjorie could almost feel his presence around her. Here I am, Father. I’m standing where you stood. What did you see here?

  The sense of calm about her slipped away when Frank came to stand next to her. He looked bashful almost, and certainly as affected by the sight of the ancient city as she was.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He kicked at the ground, his attention focused on a rock. “I mean, I’m sorry for yelling at you. You’re right that it’s a risk. All of us here, we’re taking a risk.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Marjorie said. “I just—

  They stood still together, without speaking, gazing out at the amazing site. Standing there, Marjorie felt warm and comforted—strangely, as though she was out of any sort of danger, even though by rights she was closer to it than ever. It felt like they were inside a bubble that no one could pop.

  “Every time I see it, it’s amazing to me all over again,” Frank said. “Something this old standing here all this time—after it was burned to the ground, at that.”

  “It certainly holds a lot of secrets,” Marjorie admitted. “I hope we’ll learn some of them.”

  Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

  When Amna returned, she handed Frank a map. He opened it, extending it so they all could see. Then he translated while Amna pointed to certain spots. “This is Persepolis,” he said. “And here is the historical route that was once a royal road Darius constructed to allow him to control a vast empire.” As an aside, he added, “The road was 2,400 kilometers. That’s—” he did the conversion in his head “—about 1,500 miles long.”

  Marjorie, impressed, nodded at his mathematical skills. He smiled then looked off into the distance as Amna spoke more, translating in his head. “She is leaving us now. There’s work she needs to do at the site. She’s going to gather a group of people who can be trusted. Tonight, we visit Darius with our own excavation team.”

  Long-dead kings and excavated tombs. It sounded ominous. “Please tell her to be careful,” Marjorie said.

  Amna gave one determined shake of her head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  To reach the archeological site, the group had to pass a blockade of soldiers. Ever prepared, Amna flashed her security badge. She spoke very little, but when she did, her voice sounded confident and bright. Meanwhile, everyone else stayed in the back of a truck, hidden under a tarp.

  Marjorie held Hamid close. His body was warm, and his long limbs threw off heat. Before they had left, she had told him to keep quiet, but she hadn’t needed to. He held silence like a dear friend.

  Now, beneath the tarp, Marjorie struggled to breathe. She tried not to think about what would happen if they were caught. As though reading her thoughts, Frank grabbed her hand.

  The truck tumbled to life—and they were through. Amna pounded on the frame of the truck—a fierce staccato rhythm—the signal that everything was going to plan. Marjorie let go of her held breath, as did everyone else.

  The tomb of Darius the Great was huge, carved into the side of a cliff—a rectangular imprint with another rectangle overlaid. It resembled a giant cross with a door in the center, dark and foreboding. These were sometimes known as Persian crosses, Frank had said. The one tomb itself was impressive enough, but with three other identical tombs carved into the rock face, the site felt menacing. To stand next to one tomb was to feel small and insignificant. Scaffolding loomed in front of Darius’s door and one of the other doors—a clear indication of an archaeological dig, and the only way to get inside.

  The Egyptian archeological team had set itself up in tents not far from the main site. Marjorie realized quickly that without Amna’s assistance, they would’ve never even seen the tomb from a distance. With her help, they were now walking through undetected.

  Amna led them into a tent with three flaps stretched taut to the ground, creating a private shelter. The whole camp was full of such structures, which made it look like a small, temporary village. Amna unfurled the flap that constituted the door and spoke.

  “She says we’re to stay here,” explained Frank. “She’s going to gather the team. We should be safe—the workers have already finished for the day. We just have to wait for darkness.” She closed the flap, leaving them in a hazy half-light. They could see through a small slit where the flap moved freely.

  Just then, Hamid ran through the flap, following Amna’s retreating form. Marjorie tried to
grab him, but she missed. Suddenly, Frank pulled her back into the shadows, hard. “What was that for?” she demanded. “He can’t go with—”

  “Shh,” he hissed. He stared beyond her shoulder, and she turned to look. Seif and Dr. Baxter appeared out of the entrance of a nearby tent. Had Frank not grabbed her, she would have walked directly into them.

  Hamid! Marjorie prayed he wouldn’t get into mischief, that he wouldn’t be hurt.

  From where they sat, Marjorie and Frank could listen to their conversation with ease.

  “It’s very difficult working under these circumstances,” Dr. Baxter was saying. He fiddled with something. Marjorie heard the sound of paper crinkling.

  “Our employer is not a patient man,” said Seif. “And your vanity cost us.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t understand,” Dr. Baxter rebuffed. “In my line of work, discovery and research is everything. I have to be seen, or I don’t exist.”

  “You should’ve waited until after we found the Tree,” Seif whispered.

  Dr. Baxter paused and took a breath. When he spoke again, it was with a controlled voice. “I made many drawings and measurements of the ox over the course of the year. I know its secrets. Trust me when I say I can replicate it.”

  Over the course of the year. The phrase echoed in Marjorie’s head. She felt sick to her stomach, and she must’ve made a sound because Frank gripped her arm. She swallowed a cry and leaned forward.

  And when she did, she caught sight of something else—her father’s map, stolen from Gracewood, now in the hands of Dr. Baxter. Together he and Seif walked into another tent, and she watched him place the map down. They were still arguing about the ox. Marjorie watched the map carefully.