If only Mr. Ludwig had not said the magic word.
Amazons.
He obviously knew of my scholarly obsession with the subject, or he wouldn’t have approached me in the first place. But what was I to make of his assumption that I was pining for proof the Amazons had really existed? Surely, there was no way he could know just how right he was.
How could he possibly?
According to most academics, the Amazons had never lived anywhere except in Greek mythology, and those who claimed otherwise were, at best, moonstruck romantics. Yes, indeed, it was entirely conceivable the prehistoric world had been populated in part by women warriors, but the myths about Amazons laying siege to Athens or taking part in the Trojan War were obviously the product of storytellers looking to mesmerize their listeners with ever more fantastic tales.
The Amazons of classical literature, I would always explain to my students, should be seen as the predecessors of the vampires and zombies populating our bookshelves today; they were creatures of the imagination, terrible and unnatural with their habits of training their daughters in the arts of war and mating with random males once a year. Yet at the same time these wild women possessed—at least in the eyes of ancient vase painters and sculptors—enough appealing human characteristics to arouse our secret passions.
I was always careful not to disclose my own feelings in the matter; to be interested in Amazon lore was bad enough, to come out of the closet as an “Amazon believer” would be nothing but an act of academic self-annihilation.
As soon as my tea was ready, I sat down to study Mr. Ludwig’s photograph with the aid of a magnifying glass. I fully expected to be able to identify the script on the wall right away as one of the more common ancient alphabets; when that did not happen, I allowed myself to feel a tiny tickle of excitement. And after another few minutes of hunched scrutiny and increased confusion, the possibilities began scooting up and down my spine with the urgency of battlefield messengers.
What intrigued me the most was the universal quality of the symbols, which made it almost impossible to link them to a particular place or time. They might have been drawn on the cracked plaster wall immediately before the picture was taken, as part of some elaborate swindle, or they might be several thousand years old. And yet … the more I looked at them, the more I became aware of an eerie sense of familiarity. It was as if somewhere, in a remote corner of my subconscious, a dormant beast was stirring. Had I encountered these symbols before? If so, frustratingly, the context completely escaped me.
As it happened, my childhood friend Rebecca had been working at an archaeological site in Crete for the past three years, and I was fairly certain she knew precisely which organizations were digging where, and for what. Surely, if someone had come across this kind of inscription anywhere in the Mediterranean region, and had somehow linked it to the Amazons, Dr. Rebecca M. Wharton would have been the first to know.
“Sorry to interrupt your midnight orgy,” I said, when she finally answered her cellphone. We had not spoken for over a month, and it occurred to me how much I had missed her when I heard her snorting delightedly at the other end. It was a laugh I would have recognized anywhere; it sounded like a whisky hangover but, in Rebecca’s case, was really the rather prosaic consequence of having her inquisitive head buried in a dusty hole all day.
“I was just thinking of you!” she exclaimed. “I have a chorus of gorgeous Greek boys feeding me grapes and rubbing me with olive oil.”
I laughed at the image. The odds of lovely Rebecca getting intimate with anything other than ancient pottery shards were, sadly, ten to none. There she was, playing the rebel with her sun cap and cutoff denim shorts, crawling around on her hands and knees in an anthill of fascinating male archaeologists … but with eyes for nothing but the past. Although she always talked big, I knew there was still a vicar’s daughter right beneath the freckles. “Is that why you haven’t had time to call and tell me the big news?”
There was a brief rustle, suggesting Rebecca was trying to hold the phone between her ear and shoulder. “What big news?”
“You tell me. Who’s digging up Amazons in your backyard?”
She let out one of her ear-piercing jungle-bird shrieks. “What?”
“Take a look.” I leaned forward to check the picture on my computer screen. “I just emailed you a photo.”
While we waited for Rebecca’s laptop to catch up, I gave her a quick overview of the situation, complete with James Moselane’s suspicion that I had become the victim of a hoax and might even be in danger. “Obviously, I’m not going,” I said, “but I’m dying to know where this picture was taken. As you can see, it looks like the inscription is part of a larger wall, with the text presented in vertical columns. As for the writing itself”—I leaned closer still, trying to position the desk lamp better—”I have this odd feeling … but I can’t for the life of me—”
A crunching sound suggested Rebecca was chewing on a handful of nuts—a sure sign she was getting intrigued. “What do you want me to do?” she asked. “I can guarantee you this photo wasn’t taken on my island. If someone had come across a wall like that on Crete, trust me, I’d know about it.”
“Here is what I want you to do,” I said. “Take a good look at that inscription and tell me where I’ve seen those symbols before.”
I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try. Rebecca had always had a knack for seeing right through the obvious. She was the one who had discovered my father’s secret stash of chocolate bars in an old tackle box in the garage when we were children. Even then, despite her sweet tooth, she had not proposed we share one; the mere triumph of the discovery—and of being able to teach me something about my father that I didn’t know—was excitement enough.
“I am going to give you another minute—” I said.
“How about,” countered Rebecca, “you give me a few days to ask around? I’ll forward the photo to Mr. Telemakhos—”
“Wait!” I said. “Don’t show this photo to anyone.”
“Why not?”
I hesitated, aware I was being irrational. “Because there is something about this writing that is deeply familiar to me … in an uncanny sort of way. It’s as if I can see it in blue writing—”
The truth hit us both at once.
“Your grandmother’s notebook!” gasped Rebecca, rustling frantically at the other end. “The one you gave her for Christmas—”
I felt a shudder of alarm. “No, it’s impossible. Insane.”
“Why?” Rebecca was too agitated to tread gently on what she knew was my emotional Achilles’ heel. “She always said she would leave you instructions, right? And that you would get them when you least expected it. Well, maybe this is it. Granny’s big summons. Who knows—” Rebecca’s voice rose in a defiant pitch as she likely realized the outrageousness of her proposition. “Maybe she is waiting for you in Amsterdam.”
CHAPTER FOUR
NORTH AFRICA
LATE BRONZE AGE
TWO FIGURES APPEARED ON THE SHIMMERING HORIZON.
It was the bright, burning time of day, when heaven and earth came together in a silvery haze, and it was impossible to tell one from the other. But slowly, as they made their way across the salt flats, the two quavery forms materialized as women—one fully grown, the other not quite so.
Myrina and Lilli had been away for many days, just the two of them. The purpose of their trip was evident, for all species of prey and weaponry dangled from their shoulders by leather straps, and their steps quickened as they approached the village ahead. “How proud Mama will be!” exclaimed Lilli. “I hope you will tell her how I snared that rabbit.”
“I shall leave out no detail,” promised Myrina, ruffling her younger sister’s matted hair, “except perhaps the part where you nearly broke your neck.”
“Yes—” Lilli drew up her shoulders and did the funny turtle walk she always did when she was embarrassed. “Better not mention that, or I shall never be allowed to
come out with you again. And that”—she glanced up at Myrina with a hopeful smile—”would be a shame, would it not?”
Myrina nodded firmly. “A great shame. You have the makings of a fine hunter. And besides”—she could not help it, she had to giggle—”you are an inexhaustible well of amusement.”
Lilli scowled, but Myrina knew she was secretly pleased. Small for a girl of twelve, her sister had been desperate to prove herself on the trip, and Myrina had been happily surprised at her endurance. Come hunger or fatigue, Lilli never refused a task, never shed a tear. At least not when Myrina was looking.
Being a whole six years older than Lilli, and easily as capable as any man her own age, Myrina had seen it as her duty to teach her sister the art of hunting. The idea, however, had met with visceral resistance from their mother, who had never stopped thinking of Lilli as her baby, and who still sang her to sleep at night.
Walking home with Lilli now, seeing the new pride in her bearing, Myrina could not wait to place it all before their mother’s feet: the glorious catch, the many tales, and the youngest daughter returning from the wild safe and smiling, with the bloody mark of the hunter drawn upon her forehead.
“Do you think they will roast it all at once?” asked Lilli, interrupting Myrina’s thoughts. “It would be quite the feast. Although”—she looked down at a bundle of tiny fish hanging from her belt by a woolen string—”some things are rather small and perhaps not worth mentioning at all.”
“In my experience,” said Myrina, “it is the small ones that are most tasty—”
She stopped. They had turned the bend by the pasture, and the Tamash Village lay immediately ahead. This was where the dogs always came to greet her, knowing that her appearance heralded meat scraps and marrow bones.
But today, no dogs came. And when Myrina paused to listen, she heard none of the usual sounds from the village, only the hoarse cries of birds and an odd, persistent buzzing as of thousands of honeybees in a patch of flowers. The only signs of life were a few thick columns of smoke rising from somewhere among the huts and wafting away into the infinite blue.
“What is it?” asked Lilli, her eyes widening. “What do you hear?”
“I am not sure,” said Myrina, feeling every little hair on her body rise in apprehension. “Why don’t you stay here.” She took Lilli by the shoulders and held her still.
“Why? What is wrong?” Lilli’s voice was shrill, and when Myrina started walking, the girl followed her. “Please tell me!”
Now at last, Myrina saw one of the dogs. It was the spotted pup that always came and slept at her feet during storms—the pup she had nursed back to life once, and which sometimes stared at her with eyes that were almost human.
One look at this dog—its slinking, obsequious manner, its nervous yawn—told Myrina everything she needed to know. “Don’t touch him!” she cried, as Lilli stepped forward, arms outstretched.
But it was too late. Her sister had already taken the pup by the neck and started rubbing it fondly. “Lilli!” Myrina pulled the girl abruptly to her feet. “Did you not hear me? Touch nothing!”
Only then did she see the first tremor of understanding in Lilli’s face.
“Please,” said Myrina, softening her voice so much it began to quiver, “be good now and stay here, while I”—she cast another uneasy glance toward the silent houses ahead—”make sure everything is well.”
Walking into the village, both hands clenched around her spear, Myrina looked everywhere for signs of violence. Certain the place had been attacked by rival tribesmen or wild animals, she was braced for gruesome sights, yet wholly unprepared for what she found.
“You!” A hoarse, hateful voice reached her from inside a hut, and a moment later a hunched woman came out, sweat beading off her body. “It was your mother who did this to us—” The woman spat on the ground, her saliva crimson with blood. “Your witch of a mother!”
“Nena, my friend—” Myrina took a few steps back. “What happened here?”
The woman spat again. “Did you not hear me? Your mother cursed us all. She called down a plague and said she would kill everyone who didn’t approve of her whoring ways.”
Walking on, Myrina found sickness and grief wherever she looked. Men, women, and children were clustered in the shade, trembling with fear and fever; others were kneeling at smoldering fires, silently rubbing themselves with ashes. And the place where her mother’s hut had been was now nothing but a bed of black coals with familiar objects unceremoniously thrown in.
Unable to fully comprehend what she was looking at, Myrina knelt down to pick up a small blackened circle sticking out of the ashes. It was the bronze bracelet her mother had worn on her wrist, and which she had always claimed would remain there until her dying day.
“I am so sorry, my dear,” said a faint voice, and Myrina turned to find her mother’s old neighbor standing there, leaning on a cane, a ring of open sores around his mouth. “You had better go. They are looking for someone to blame. I have tried to speak reason, but no one wants reason now.”
Pressing a hand to her mouth, Myrina began walking away, ignoring the comments following her through the village as she went. “Whore!” yelled the men, not because she had ever lain with them, but because she hadn’t. “Witch!” cried the women, forgetting it was Myrina’s mother who had come at night to hold their hands and deliver their babies … and forgetting it was Myrina who had made playthings for those babies out of animal bones.
When she finally returned to Lilli, the girl was sitting on a rock by the roadside, stiff with fear and anger. “Why couldn’t I come with you?” she said, rocking back and forth, her arms crossed. “You were gone a long time.”
Myrina stuck the spear into the ground and sat down next to her. “Do you remember what Mother said when we left? That no matter what happens, you must always trust me?”
Lilli looked up, her face contracting with premonition. “They are all dead, aren’t they?” she whispered. “Just like the people in my dream.” When Myrina did not reply, Lilli started sobbing. “I want to see Mama. Please!”
Myrina drew her sister into a tight embrace. “There is nothing to see.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It is a dreadful thing, sir, To awaken again an old ill that lies quiet.
—SOPHOCLES, Oedipus at Colonus
THE COTSWOLDS, ENGLAND
MY FATHER PICKED ME UP AT THE TRAIN STATION IN MORETON-IN-Marsh, looking surprisingly dapper despite the hour. I had expected a bristly grump and was touched to find him dressed in a pair of fairly decent corduroy trousers instead of the pajama bottoms he had started wearing around the house on weekends. It was only a matter of time, I had begun to fear, before those bottoms would venture out in the front yard to get the newspaper, and very possibly even find their way into the car for the odd informal outing.
“One hates to pry….” My father did not find it necessary to complete the sentence. It was his way of saying, “Why on earth did you want to leave Oxford at seven in the morning?”
“Oh—” I looked out the window at nothing in particular, struggling with a childish urge to blurt out the real reason for my visit. “I thought we were overdue for a little inconvenience. Privilege of the only child.”
My parents lived in a rambling cottage built with golden stones by some distant ancestor who could not have stood much over five feet tall, judging by the knee-high doorknobs. To him the building must have seemed a lofty mansion; to me—ever tall for my age—it had always felt cramped, and as a child I had often entertained the idea that I was a giantess imprisoned in a small forest mound by two trolls.
After leaving home, of course, even the vexations of childhood had assumed an enchanted glow of their own. For every time I returned to the house now I found that I had grown a little more blind to its shortcomings … even to the point of relishing its comforting snugness.
We entered the house through the garage as usual, and paused in the small mudroom to take off ou
r shoes. Spilling over with coats and drying flowers and hundreds of hazelnuts hanging from ceiling hooks in nylon stockings, it was undoubtedly the messiest room in the house. And yet I liked to linger here, for it had such a soothing, familiar smell about it—a smell of waxed jackets and chamomile, and still, years later, of the basket of apples we had once forgotten on top of the furnace.
As soon as he had his slippers on, my father continued into the kitchen and from there into the dining room. A little puzzled by our route, I tagged along and saw him approaching the bay window in a stealthy sort of way.
In the garden outside stood a new birdfeeder, obviously intended for my father’s feathered friends. On the feeding platform, however, sat a black squirrel, gorging itself on the seeds laid out for the birds.
“Him again!” My father barely paused to excuse himself before storming out through the garden door, slippers and all, to put a stop to the evil schemes of Nature. Seeing him like this, bustling around in the backyard with his knitted vest on backward, it seemed nearly impossible that this man, Vincent Morgan, had—until recently—been headmaster of the local school where, for many years, he had struck terror into the hearts of little boys and girls. Throughout the region my father had been known as Morgan the Gorgon, and whenever I had left the house alone as a child, I had run the risk of being trailed through town by a pack of boys chanting “Morgan the Mini Gorgon” until the butcher came out in his blood-smeared apron and shooed them away.
It was only after his retirement that my father had turned his cannons on the garden. Never one to embrace change, his persistent narrative about this small, ancestral plot of land was one of lament and nostalgia. The apples were never as tart as he remembered from his youth, nor did the raspberries ever yield quite as much as they had when he was a wee lad, picking basket after basket to bring to Mrs. Winterbottom in the kitchen.