by Mike Sweeney
I’d fallen so deep into that rabbit hole. Prancing around the Business Class lounge in my Athena Fox costume, lecturing that poor British man on my flight, acting like a total ass in front of the lead archaeologist of a legitimate dig. I’d let the fantasy take over, and I hadn’t even realized how stupid I looked doing it.
I sighed. All I wanted was to be home. Even getting back to Athens would be better than this. Back to my hotel room and the rest of my luggage and the ordinary vacation I’d been so hoping to enjoy —
That’s when a pair of heavy hands landed on my back. A hoarse voice spoke as they shoved hard, sending me hurtling into the abandoned cistern. “You’ll find soil and water down there!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’D WHAT THE what?
Seriously, I think that saved my life. I was so confused by the randomness of it I forgot to tense up. Instead I fell bonelessly, and took up most of the shock on soft tissues.
Most of the shock. For the second time in less than a fortnight the world blurred in pain. I lay crumpled, Wind knocked out of me. Lay there for long minutes, letting sensation ooze back into my battered body. Bruises, scraping, an unpleasant sensation from my left knee.
Eventually I took notice of my surroundings. The last water that had collected here had mostly oozed away, leaving unpleasant muck between the partial fill of broken stones. Hard stones.
I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the small circle of canopy above me. That was a hell of a long way. And how long had I been lying here? Well, that could have been worse.
A shadow moved across the light.
It was worse.
Instinct kicked in and I rolled, hard. The huge chunk of rock crashed into the stones a whisper away from my face with an impact as loud as a gunshot.
I pressed against the side of the cistern. I was shaking. My pulse was hammering so hard it was physically painful, like someone was hitting me with tiny hammers right behind my ears.
I think I was in shock. I waited for the next rock, waited frozen in mouse mode for the crunch of bone and blood. Any moment now.
No rock. I dared a look. No shadow.
Maybe he had another weapon. Maybe he’d gone to look for another weapon. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to hold back a whimper. I couldn’t escape. I was trapped here, waiting for him to return.
They were right, they were all right. I wasn’t Athena Fox. I wasn’t an archaeologist and I certainly wasn’t an action hero. I wasn’t some fictional character that faced life-or-death situations daily. I was a media arts graduate in a stupid costume. I couldn’t speak ten languages or fly a plane. I was just another pretty face with a YouTube channel. I was nothing but a video actor —
Who did her own stunts.
I stopped breathing. Maybe I couldn’t read Linear B like it was the morning paper. But I could sure as hell climb rock. That was me, that was my skills. The chroma-key might have put a crumbling Mayan tomb in the background, but when Athena Fox climbed, it was my hands and my strength that did it.
There was something I’d read a long time ago, just when the history bug had started biting. I’d been reading a collection of essays about early explorers, and the essayist had pointed out how in so many of these narratives, faced with some seemingly deadly and inescapable situation, the explorer had echoed a line also spoken by the narrators of later pulp fiction; “I began to look around.”
I began to look around.
“Really?” I said aloud as my practiced eye picked out first one hold, then another. “You call this a trap?”
And with that I was back on my feet.
I’d whacked the knee hard enough to start a nice swelling, and tweaked that leg enough to pull something in my hip. All soft tissue damage that would heal on its own with time, but it did make things more interesting.
The cistern seemed to have been lined with recycled Roman stones, at least down here near the bottom; the top courses were more of those narrow slate-like stones that seemed to litter the ground around here. In a gym this would be an easy climb — but on the other hand, the rock here was really, really manky. And no shoes, no chalk, no crash pad. At least the Best Boots ever weren’t bad for edging.
So I started climbing. It turned out to be a little hairier than it had looked from the bottom. When I reached the slates they showed a disturbing inclination to pull free completely.
As I reached the crux, I found myself holding an undercling, my feet on the last good support and lousy rock above me. I dropped knee and took the deepest Egyptian I could. No good; my high hand was still short of letting me top out.
I encouraged one stone to follow its inclination, letting it fall back into the cistern to leave a healthy gap. Now I had a bomber hold. So there was really no other option. I walked up, smearing on the manky rock until my toes found something that was going to have to work.
And I didn’t even pause to consider it. Bobbed twice and committed to a full-on dyno. Both feet held just long enough to launch me upwards. I abandoned my last hold and slapped hard at the top of the arc.
It held. My body slammed back into the face, leaving me hanging on one hand until my flailing feet boosted me enough to get the other hand up. After that, topping out was a cinch.
He wasn’t there. I took a few stumbling steps into the nearest clump of foliage. The ground cover was dry and had a most annoying tendency to rustle but at least I was somewhat hidden. Cold sweat was pouring down and it wasn’t just the recent climb that had done it. Soil and water. Soil and water. Why did that seem so familiar? It reminded me unpleasantly of the phrase “blood and soil.”
Yeah. Exactly the connotations I didn’t want to consider, not in a forest in Germany. But there was a crazy pattern to it. All that talk about steel blades and brawny arms, all the cloaks and amulets and torches, you couldn’t possibly forget the torches.
No. It was ridiculous. I hadn’t stumbled into some sort of Germanic Wicker Man fantasy. Those nice heathenists weren’t going to pull out hayforks to menace me while they prepared a giant bonfire for a sacrifice to Odin.
The blood was still pounding in my ears. No, wait. It wasn’t just my ears. That couldn’t be drums. That would be ridiculous.
A primitive brass fanfare rang out in the distance.
Okay, it was official now. The universe was officially fucking with me.
Footsteps.
Someone was coming back this way. They were trying to move quietly, but the dry leaves did them no more favor than they’d done me. I flattened, moving as gently as I could. The fear was back.
In the distance I could hear voices. The lecture would have ended by now, anyway. They’d be packing up, heading back towards the cars.
The footsteps came closer. The sun was low on the horizon now; it couldn’t be more than an hour before sunset. I hoped the shadows were deep enough to keep me hidden. If not, I was in a very vulnerable position. I felt my back itch. Especially the back of my head. He’d tried to crush my skull with a rock! My scalp itched so bad with the thought of it that it was all I could do to keep from putting my hands around my head.
I had a sudden vision of deep history. So many people, so many women, had hidden like this in woods like this. Some in these very same woods. Hiding from iron-age warriors, Viking raiders, Roman mercenaries, the Kaiser’s soldiers. Hiding because we didn’t have the weapons or the training. Hiding to avoid murder or capture or slavery or all three. History was not a nice place. If history was a destination, there’d be a State Department Travel Advisory for it.
The footsteps made it to the cistern. I couldn’t see him clearly through my screen of weeds. A flickering light. He was carrying one of the tiki torches, which he thrust into the ground in a sudden, powerful motion.
Carefully, he peered into the cistern. Looking to see if I was conscious. Ready to try again if he could get away with it.
The scream tried to burst out of me. I didn’t dare. I didn’t know who my enemies were. I didn’t know if t
here was anyone I could trust, not up here, not in these shadowed woods.
Whatever was going on, it was enough to… Okay, say it. Enough to kill over.
Light. On my face. Oh no. The lowering sun had found a gap in the trees. A saffron beam was falling dead on my formerly secure hiding place.
One chance. In front of me, fir trees dominated and a path had already worn through the needles, exposing dry rock littered with clinkers. I couldn’t run across rice paper without tearing it, but I just might be light enough on my feet to cross those without a betraying sound.
No sound from the man. I raised my head ever so carefully. His back was towards me.
I heaved upwards. I couldn’t risk the time it would take to rise silently. He’d be turning at the sound, but I’d be behind a thick clump of fir first. I ran as swiftly as I could without making enough noise to let him know which way I was going. Then flattened again, this time on hands and elbows in case I needed to run again.
Running feet. I almost choked. I found my hands starting to clench in anticipation. Not that I knew the slightest thing about fighting, mind you. The feet came closer…then passed by. Was he…? Yes. He was as scared of being discovered as I was. He was leaving the area.
I waited to make sure. He might be hiding like I’d been, crouching silently, waiting for me to show myself. I shifted as slowly as I could to a new hiding spot. Waited some more. Waiting was uncomfortable. I was hot, I was dirty, there were rocks pressing into my knees. Getting caught, though, would be a lot more uncomfortable. The cold sweat came again at the thought.
In the far distance, a car door slammed. The last one, I thought. The woods were falling silent, the birds beginning to return. I pulled my body upright with much complaining from my joints, especially my poor knee. Then moved towards the clearing. Slowly, carefully, sticking to the tree line, all the way back to where the lecture had taken place.
The tables and banner were gone. Doctor Newman was still there.
He was sitting on the ground with his legs sprawled in front of him, and he’d secured an entire bottle of the celebratory champagne. He looked absolutely miserable.
Despite everything, I felt a wave of sympathy. This was his moment, and I’d ruined it.
He wasn’t in on it. Vash had tried hard to get him to talk the party line, but he had stuck doggedly to the archaeological evidence. Planted evidence, maybe, but he’d stayed with what the data would support.
That put him in danger. The sherd meant something, to the heathenists, to Vash’s strange crowd of pasty-white sympathizers, to someone. He knew it was planted. He had to. The violation of superposition was clear. He knew it or he’d done it. Either way, it made him a target. And he was in no shape now to understand that, much less protect himself.
“Doctor!” I whispered, trying to get his attention. No good. I looked hard. Too many deep shadows. The killer was still out there, somewhere in these woods. He could be right behind me, ready to slam another rock into me. My skin crawled from the thought.
“Doctor!” Again. No good.
I was no hero. But I came up from my crouch. I left the edge of the woods. I walked across the bare, exposed clearing.
I had to.
It took him a long time to look up. “You,” he said bitterly when he did. “You ruined it.”
And he faked the data. It went against everything that science stood for. But at the same time, he was an archaeologist. He was what I’d wanted to be, for a moment thought I could be. And it was such a sad, terrible waste.
“I’m…I’m sorry.” I said instead. “It…you…” I couldn’t say anything else. I didn’t dare say anything else. Because my attacker was still out there and I didn’t know what had driven him to violence. Safe subject. I needed a safe subject.
“I guess I’ve wrecked my career,” he said, more softly.
“Maybe.” I tried to sound encouraging. Don’t talk about it, I urged. Don’t say anything dangerous.
He looked up, then. Gave me an almost wistful, quizzical look. “You said you saw a complete pot?”
Oh, shit. I wanted to tell him about Giulio’s calyx. That look, that desire to know more, that sense of wonder even in what had to be his darkest moment. It made me forgive him. Almost. Almost forgive him. But that was exactly the kind of thing that might get both of us killed.
“Later,” I could only say. “Doctor Newman, it’s time to go,” I urged. “It’s getting dark and you can’t stay out here.”
“Xander.”
“What?”
“Not even my students call me Doctor Newman.”
“No…” I sat back on my heels. It was so out of left field. “Xander, really? Like…”
“It’s short for Alexander.”
“High School must have been hell.” Despite the tension, I felt a grin bubbling up. When had that show come out?
“It had…compensations,” he admitted.
“Really? Did girls...? No, never mind,” I said. “I was born Penelope,” I told him in turn. “Even Penny is better than that. Oh, don’t tell me,” a thought struck me. “Your father wasn’t named Phillip, was he?”
“No.” He seemed to be relaxing a little. “Julius.”
“Well that’s all right then.” Wait. Wait a minute. A story that had stuck in my mind, like him building a bridge across the Rhein, or leading his army into Rome. Gaius Julius crying because the illustrious Alexander the Great had accomplished so much more by the time he was Caesar’s age.
Oh. Oh, my. Now I really did have sympathy for him. “There was this one — I had a conversation with my dad once. It was the day I dropped violin lessons. See, Dad is a session player. A great jazz man. So when I put down the violin he came in and he sat down on my bed and he was quiet for so long. Then he asked me one thing. He asked, ‘Was it because of me?’”
“Taking up the violin? Or giving it up?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t,” Xander said. “I should come clean,” he said then. “It isn’t my thesis, anyhow. This Dorian thing is all Professor Sharpe’s. He and my father were buddies. They met at Boston Latin. I guess he considered himself my mentor. He retired the year I entered college. He gave me the sherd.”
He picked an object off the ground. It was wrapped in a German-language newspaper. It seemed terribly casual to me. He didn’t unwrap it but I recognized the shape.
“You really are an ass, Fox. Or Penny, or whatever your name is. An arrogant ass who doesn’t know shit about archaeology. You should take some classes. A bunch of classes. I think…” his voice softened, “you could be one of the good ones.” He snorted. “Once you’ve learned some basics!”
And with that he passed the larger sherd to me. “Get this out of here,” he said. “I don’t want it tempting me again.”
“I can’t.” I had to. “Listen,” I said. “You’ve got to get out of here. I got pushed down that cistern you’ve got. Just barely got out. I don’t know what’s going on here but it isn’t safe.”
“You…what?” He was stumbling to his feet. Not great, but at least it was a step in the right direction.
“Just go, okay? I can take care of myself.” Oh, brave words. “I’m going to do the smartest thing I’ve done all week.”
“And what would that be?” He was curious.
“I’m going to run like hell.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I RAN. A lot faster than was safe on broken ground, in this light. Safe. That was a laugh. I could still remember those heavy hands on my back. The hoarse voice. The horrible moment when his shadow had blacked out the world and a heavy rock had hurtled towards my head. Running was dangerous. Not running was worse.
I wanted to turn. I wanted to pause and listen for his footsteps. I didn’t dare. So I ran, as best I could, keeping to those places where fir trees dominated, clearing the ground around them of plants that might snare my feet or block my progress.
My breath was coming fast, my heart thud
ding hard. Movement was burning out the last residual stiffness from the flight and the drive and the long tension of crouching in the woods. Exercise was always like that. It freed the blood and distracted the mind.
Ten minutes and I hadn’t a sign the thing in the woods was following. I was running out of fir trees anyhow. I had to slow down, work my way between overgrown, tangled clumps, the dead leaves and fallen branches and knee-high scrub forcing me to lift my feet high enough to satisfy even that horrid choreographer that had tortured us through rehearsals of Oklahoma.
At least the ground continued to slope downwards. I could hear the drums and horns intermittently, along with the amplified voice of an announcer. I still didn’t know what it was but it was the direction of more people and that had to be good.
At last, glimpses of open sky. I was finally reaching the edge of the woods. I pushed on, faster, my feet slipping on the leaves and loose dirt and what seemed the inevitable slate-like stones that decorated the ground like nuts in muesli.
Too much sky!
My instincts caught up with me just in time; the chill of open air, the lack of any foreground objects.
I grabbed the last stunted tree in my path and looked. The ground dropped away dramatically. I could see a town, athletic fields, meadow and small strips of well-tended trees. Spread out below me. I was looking down on them, at almost the same angle I’d viewed that typical Rhineland scenery from before. From the window of the plane.
The vertical relief was unreal. It was too dramatic to be quite believable, like it was something from a fantasy movie. I held on tight and looked further. The ground turned looser and looser and finally gave in to become a nearly sheer rock face. Way, way down there was a river paralleled by both highway and train tracks. Also a good sign, but I wasn’t getting there this way.
The noises were more distinct now. Almost directly across the river from me, the meadow was filled with people. Tents, no, pavilions, although from here they were just tiny round tents with spiky roofs. Viewing stands covered by more tentage, although most of the audience was sprawled out on the surrounding grass. And in the bare dirt, men on horses were charging at each other with lances.
