The Lost Sisterhood (13 page)

I
T WAS NOT LONG
before Kara’s one-sided war with the newcomers culminated in a scene before the High Priestess, whose fatigued expression
confirmed to Myrina that temple life in general was rife with such petty quarrels.

“
She
tried to tell those filthy people that their son was assured a seat in the halls of the Goddess!” exclaimed Kara, pointing an accusative finger at Myrina. “Even though
I
kept saying their votive gift was too puny.
I
follow the rules, but
she
just”—Kara shivered at the idea—”says whatever she wants.”

“They all became very upset,” nodded one of Kara’s confidantes, a petite girl by the name of Egee, whose piercing voice more than made up for her small size. “We had to call the eunuchs. It was almost a rebellion.”

The High Priestess turned to Myrina, eyebrows raised.

“Frankly,” said Myrina, folding her arms, “I do not see why we cannot tell these poor people what they want to hear. How do
we
know who gets eternal life and who doesn’t?” She took a step toward the High Priestess, trusting in the kindness of the woman’s heart. “They were crying. It was their
child.
”

Myrina bit her lip, willing the High Priestess to be more like her mother, to whom the love between parents and children was a sacred thing. She still remembered the day when a group of villagers had gathered secretly behind the dunghill to discuss the fate of a child whose parents were considered deficient. “We think it best,” one of them had said, “to take away that boy and bring him up properly, in another home.”

Child as she was, Myrina had barely been able to follow the discussion. But she certainly knew her mother was furious when she broke into the discussion, saying, “How can you propose to take a little boy away from the ones he loves most in this world? Whatever else you may think he suffers, it is nothing compared to the agony of tearing asunder the bonds of family. Go home with you, busy neighbors”—she gestured at them as if their very presence was disgusting to her—”and be ashamed of your misguided hearts.”

The High Priestess, however, merely drummed her knuckles on the armrests of her throne and said, “We cannot allow ourselves to be moved by pity, Myrina. Imagine if everyone was to live forever in the halls of the Goddess … the noise! It would be unbearable.”

“But perhaps,” ventured Myrina, despite Animone’s horrified grimaces telling her to stop, “the Goddess, divine as she is, will ensure that the noisy ones are separated—by a wall, perhaps?—from the quiet ones—”

“That is enough, Myrina!” The High Priestess stood up abruptly. “Go back to your duties and make sure you follow the rules from now on.”

What rules? Myrina looked around for the answer, but did not get it. Animone’s head was bent in embarrassment, and Kara was smiling—a smug, knowing smile that lasted the entire evening and stung Myrina worse than a whole week’s worth of scornful glances.

That same night, over dinner, Animone pointed her spoon at the wall of the dining hall and said, “It’s all there. The temple rules. Someone should have told you. I suppose we forgot. We’re so used to them.”

“Where?” Myrina stared at the wall, but saw nothing except a decorative black pattern on the creamy plaster. Furthermore, her head was still buzzing with the effort of fully grasping what Animone had said; over dinner everyone spoke the official language of the Temple, and although she was a fast learner, Myrina was still struggling to comprehend even the simplest sentences. It didn’t help that Lilli was still bound by her vow of silence; even though the girl sat on the bench right next to them, twitching with the effort of remaining quiet, there was no telling how much she understood.

“On the wall!” Animone pointed again. “It is all written there. What we can and cannot do. Do you not see it?”

Another woman leaned in on the conversation. She was older than they, her graying hair tucked neatly into her cap. “It is called
writing,
” she explained to Myrina, her eyes full of warm sincerity. “All those little patterns are words.” Seeing Myrina’s perplexity, the woman took a handful of salt and spread it finely on the table. “When we speak, we use our mouths to make sounds. When we write, we use our hands to make patterns. But it is the same idea. See—” With a finger, she drew two little figures in the salt. “Ky-me. I can say it, but I can also write it. Do you understand?”

“What is a kyme?” asked Myrina.

The woman laughed. “That is me. I am Kyme. My father was a scribe. That is how I learned how to write and read. I wasn’t supposed to, of course”—she pointed at herself, smiling—”but I have big ears. Look.” Kyme wiped out her own name and drew something else instead, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “My-ri-na.”

Myrina gazed at the pattern, fascinated. But just as she reached out to touch it, a gasp went through the room, and Kyme quickly brushed the salt away.

A eunuch stood in the door.

“Eat!” Hunched nervously over her plate, Animone elbowed Myrina. “It is Dais. Don’t look at him.”

The eunuch made a slow round of the room, pausing briefly at their table, clearly looking for an occasion to pontificate. Finding none, Dais eventually completed his round and left.

“We are not supposed to know the alphabet,” Animone now dared to whisper, glaring at Kyme for having brought them so close to trouble. “Or waste salt like that. The rules say so.”

Myrina looked from the black writing on the wall to the table where a few grains of salt lingered. “The rules say we are not allowed to read the rules?”

Animone shrugged. “Well, everyone knows what they say anyway.”

“Here—” Kyme spread out another handful of salt, ignoring the pleading whispers around her. “This is what
I
think.” She drew a new pattern, longer this time, with a firm, defiant finger.

“What does it say?” Myrina wanted to know.

Kyme proudly retraced the words. “Dais—has—breasts.”

Soon, the dining room was bubbling away with amusement. The only one who remained stern was Animone. “My grandfather was a sailor,” she told Myrina, switching to the Old Language. “He did not waste his time on frivolous games.” She cocked her head at the temple rules on the wall. “I know it all by heart, having heard it so often. We all do. What is gained by reading?”

According to the rules, meals were served punctually three times a day, and there were certain chores to be done at certain times. Greet the pilgrims, receive their gifts, hear their prayers … and, every day
at noon, entertain all the visitors—bumbling foreigners mostly—with a chanting procession to the solemn beat of the ox-hide drum. “What on earth are they
doing
?” Lilli had whispered, forgetting her vow of silence, when she and Myrina had first witnessed the performance.

“A little song and dance,” Myrina had whispered back, “in return for all the votive offerings, I suppose.”

But not all pilgrims were satisfied with the impersonal spectacle. Some became downright unruly when they discovered there would be no immediate result of their costly gifts to the Moon Goddess. Many had come from far away, carrying the hopes and lives of entire villages upon their shoulders, and they refused to leave the temple until they had seen the Goddess with their own eyes. “Send for the eunuchs!” said Animone, when Myrina asked how one should behave on such occasions. “Whatever you do, never let strangers into the inner sanctum. They would not understand.”

Myrina merely nodded as expected. She, too, did not understand. After their initiation on that first day, she had tried to describe the Moon Goddess to Lilli, but had found herself grasping for words. “She looks like a woman, and yet she is not,” Myrina had explained. “She is much taller than a real person, and completely black, except for the white in her eyes. You might say she is smiling. A mysterious sort of smile.”

Deep in her stomach, however, hidden beneath her hopes for Lilli’s eyes, Myrina felt the truth, hard as the pit of a fruit. The Moon Goddess they had come so far to meet was not a living being at all. She was made out of stone.

And unless Myrina was much mistaken, this immovable stone goddess was no more likely to respond to prayers than the holy rock at home, or the snakes in the river. Whatever the sad tales told by the pilgrims, and whatever their offerings, day after day, week after week, the drought did not end, and the rivers did not return. Nor did Lilli, for all her silent pleading, regain the use of her eyes.

But the Moon Goddess, high on her pedestal, kept smiling.

Remember: women may not be too weak To strike a blow.

—S
OPHOCLES,
Electra

ALGERIA

G
ROWING UP, REBECCA HAD A BICHON FRISE NAMED SPENCER
. Together, we took this little dog for hundreds of walks and spent hours pulling burrs from his belly fur. We even brought him to see Granny once, hoping to cheer her with his playfulness. Her response, as always, was impetuous.

“That is not a dog!” she exclaimed, glaring at her four-legged guest. “Look at him! He has forgotten to be a wolf. He thinks the world is fluffy and full of cookies. You must protect him or he will be eaten.”

Rebecca’s face fell, and I feared she was going to burst into tears—something my grandmother loathed.

“How?” I quickly stepped in between them. “With bows and arrows?”

Granny started pacing back and forth, the way she always did when discussing strategy. “Bows,” she reminded me, “are long-distance weapons. Fine for a skilled archer and an unsuspecting target. But you are not skilled, and your enemy will be fast and unpredictable.”

I glanced at Rebecca and was relieved to see her distress turning into round-eyed fascination. “How about knives, then?”

“Knives,” Granny went on, her frown suggesting she was ever so
slightly upset with me for not remembering what she had told me many times before, “are for close range. And only for someone with a strong arm and a strong heart. My recommendation is that you never walk that”—she glanced at Spencer—”furry thing without a stick in your hand. A good, firm stick, about the length of your leg and pointy at the end.” She looked at us both with great seriousness. “Being armed is not a privilege, my little ones. It is a duty.”

Rebecca never took Granny’s advice seriously. Whenever I joined her for a walk, she would roll her eyes at me for bringing a stick. But one day, while we were poking around in the forest with Spencer, we suddenly heard people yelling nearby. There was an uncanny desperation to the voices that made us stop and look up.

And then we saw it: the small, reddish-brown animal coming at us full speed, flying over rocks and fallen branches, its feet barely touching the ground. Was it a dog? It looked more like a rabid fox.

At first, everything happened too fast. I simply stood by, stunned, while Rebecca instinctively bent down to pick up Spencer and press him to her chest. And because she was in such a hurry, she lost her balance and fell over, just as the attacker launched itself at the white bundle in her arms.

As the beastly, snarling mutt came down on the other side of my friend, flipping around instantly to try again, things finally slowed down in my head. I heard Rebecca screaming, unable to get up because she was clutching Spencer so hard, and I saw the vicious, reddish-brown body once more flying through the air….

I finally remembered the stick in my hand.

Rushing forward, I somehow managed to get it in between them and block the attack, so that Rebecca was merely clawed, but not bitten. And when the furious mutt came bouncing back, this time without a run-up, I had time to swing the stick and deal it a perfect backhand stroke that made it tumble to the ground once more, with a yelp of frustration.

Rebecca later told me I had screamed so many swearwords at the animal that she began to fear I had become possessed by an evil woodland spirit. And when the dog’s owners finally appeared, stalking
through the dead leaves in their spanking new country apparel—the typical tourist giveaway—they behaved as if
we
were the threat, not their monstrous pet. “Stop it!” the man yelled at me. “Stop it now, or I’ll call the police!”

“Yes!” I spat, while the killer dog was swept up and fondled by its doting mother. “Why don’t you? I’m sure Constable Murray would
love
to have a word with you.”

Not surprisingly, the couple made a hasty retreat and probably spent the rest of the weekend hiding in their rented cottage. At least, I hoped so.

“Oh, Mrs. Morgan! You should have seen Diana,” exclaimed Rebecca, when we ran upstairs to tell Granny about the incident later that day. “She was vicious! Almost as vicious as that dog!”

Granny nodded from her armchair, hands folded peacefully in her lap. “That is good.” She looked at my muddy pant legs, my ripped zipper and flushed face, and there was a dark satisfaction in her eyes. “I am glad you have it in you.”

N
ICK HAD TOLD ME
to pack my suitcase and get ready to leave the drill site after lunch. But I had done no such thing. Instead of dutifully stripping the bed in my small trailer compartment I had sat down on top of the jumbled linen with Granny’s notebook, Mr. Ludwig’s photo, and my camera, determined to apply my new knowledge of the asterisk word dividers to the inscription.

This time, using the close-ups I had snapped that morning, it did not take me long to solve the riddle of the first sentence. It read: “Moon omen arrive beast men ships,” or, if I were to read a little freely: “The Moon foretold that beastly men would arrive by ship.”

The double asterisk after “ships” suggested the end of a sentence and the beginning of the next, which simply read: “Priestess pray goddess protect”—a statement that hardly needed interpretation. Clearly, we were dealing with an account of actual events, laboriously traced onto plaster sometime in the prehistoric past. Whatever the narrative unfolding on the wall, the mere fact that I could read it was nothing
short of a miracle. Forget Grigor Reznik and his damn
Historia Amazonum.
… Granny’s notebook dictionary had launched me into a whole new sphere of scholarship.

Armed with my fantastic breakthrough, and a quick dab of lipstick, I wasted no time but scrambled from the trailer and ran off in search of Nick. After our altercation in the temple and throughout the unpleasant ride back to the drill station, he had been completely uninterested in my arguments in favor of staying. For some absurd reason, this man who had driven me hundreds of miles was now determined to be rid of me as soon as possible. Surely, I thought, if I could demonstrate that I was already making headway on the inscription, he would come to his senses.

Craig had pointed out Nick’s quarters to me the night before. Apparently, the Skolsky Foundation had found it sufficient to put up their go-to man in the central pavilion in a small village of faded brown Bedouin tents, and the setup brought to mind an image I had come across often enough in ancient literature: the encampment of a barbaric warlord on the fringes of civilization.

A few men wearing head scarves eyed me with apprehensive curiosity as I strode through the dimpled sand. Not entirely sure of the protocol regarding visits to fabric structures, I hesitated underneath the canvas door, which was held open like a canopy by two metal posts. After a few uncertain seconds, I cleared my throat loudly, hoping that would be enough to alert Nick.

When there came no reaction from the tent, I ducked to peek inside, only to recoil at the sudden burst of his voice. By the sound of it, Nick was on the phone; his speech was punctuated by silences, and although I had no idea what was being said, it sounded as if he was being chewed out long-distance.

It was by no means the first time in my life I had regretted not learning Arabic, but I had never felt the need more keenly than now. For, unless I was mistaken, in the stream of Nick’s aggressive self-defense the name “Moselane” was repeated at least three times.

Just as I was finally backing away from the tent door, realizing with
some delay that I was eavesdropping, Nick came storming out and all but knocked me over. His eyes instantly narrowed.

Sizzling with embarrassment, I held up Mr. Ludwig’s photograph and blurted out, “I’ve done it. The first two sentences. I can do this!”

Without even a glance at the photograph, Nick took me by the elbow and escorted me into his tent. “Take a seat.”

I cast my eyes around his lair. Furniture was scarce, and an open laptop sat directly on a Persian rug next to a cantina plate half-filled with scrambled eggs. The only other place to sit down was the rather imposing divan, which, presumably, served as his bed.

“I just came by to tell you the good news,” I said, turning toward him. In the dimness of the tent I could see little more than the beard and frown I already knew too well. My sense of smell, however, filled in the blanks. Nick was in need of a shower, and the strong smell of his body made me almost dizzy. “Of course, if you don’t care about the inscription, it doesn’t matter, but if you
do
care, I suggest we start over.” I smiled as charmingly as I could under the circumstances. “What do you say?”

It seemed as if Nick had to summon his thoughts from miles away. “You’ve cracked the code?” he said at last, his eyes dropping to the photograph in my hand. “That was fast. How were you able to do that?”

I took half a step back. “I’m a philologist, remember? If you were my employer, I could explain my technique.” I let the sentence dangle in the air.

“All right,” said Nick, crossing his arms. “I apologize.”

I looked him over with measured disdain, thrilled to have the upper hand at last. “I’m not interested in apologies. What matters to me is how we proceed from here. Any suggestions?”

In the murky silence following my question, I had a distinct feeling Nick’s preferred mode of proceeding would be to break out a riding crop. Without another word, I ducked through the canvas door and started, somewhat flustered, across the sand.

It didn’t take him long to catch up and block my way. “How about ten thousand dollars?”

“For what exactly?” I shot back. “To be your punching bag?”

“To stay as planned, until the end of the week?”

Astonished and somewhat suspicious, I held up the photograph against the sun, studying his face to spot the catch. “You are offering to double my pay?”

Even in the blinding brightness, his eyes were dark. “Yes.”

“All right, I’ll take it. But … why?” My relief came with a moment’s delay and made me almost giddy. “I would have done it for free.”

Nick looked away, his profile inscrutable against the desert sky. “I know.”

A
S SOON AS
I was back in my trailer, I was seized by an irresistible urge to call Rebecca. Of course, during our long drive from Djerba, Nick had made it perfectly clear I mustn’t use my own phone, but following his recent boorish behavior I was hardly filled with a warm and fuzzy sense of loyalty.

Seeing that my phone was dead and my plug did not fit the socket in the wall, I walked over to the drill site office to see if Craig could help. “Don’t worry,” he said, inspecting my clunky three-prong British charger, “we’ll get you juiced up.” And after a little jury-rigging, my phone sprang back to life.

Three voice mail messages had come in since my departure from Oxford. The first was from my father, encouraging me to savor the joys of Amsterdam. I could hear my mother yelling, “Tell her we love her, no matter what!” in the background, as she programmed the microwave, and that little glimpse of home brought back the only too familiar lump of guilt in my throat.

The second message was from Rebecca, who, in her usual, breathless fashion, informed me she had something totally amazing to tell me but omitted to furnish a single clue as to what it was.

I was thrilled to discover that the third and final message was from James, and that he had left it only a few hours ago. As I listened to it, however, my delight quickly faded. “I don’t know where you are,” he said, in a voice that sounded uncharacteristically bitter, “but I thought
you should know that the phone you used yesterday is registered with the Aqrab Foundation. Do you remember what I told you about the restitution fanatics in Dubai? Well, these are the people.” James took a deep breath, as if it was a struggle for him to speak calmly. “I have no idea what they want with you, Morg, but I don’t like you being out there with them. Please call me as soon as you can.”

When I hung up, my hands were shaking. If James was right—and of course he was—Nick had lied to me. He was not working for the Skolsky Foundation, which, I suspected, didn’t even exist, but for the villainous Mr. al-Aqrab—a man whose name alone sent shivers through the British museum world.

A few months earlier, over coffee, James had described in detail the Aqrab Foundation and its ruthless methods. For the past ten years, he told me, al-Aqrab’s people had been hounding British museums demanding the return of ancient artifacts to their countries of origin. Threats of violence and terrorism were not beneath Mr. al-Aqrab; apparently this shameless Dubai billionaire absolutely loathed the British—and Oxford academics in particular.

I found myself staring absentmindedly at Craig, trying to make sense of it all. The kind Scotsman had evidently decided to use my presence as an incitement to clean up his desk and was currently inspecting the mold growing in a mug. To what extent was he in on the swindle? I wondered.

But more important: Why was
I
here? If Mr. al-Aqrab really saw Oxford as his enemy number one, why had he sent Mr. Ludwig all the way up there to hire me? For all my expertise, I was not the only philologist in the world.

Granny’s notebook flashed before my eyes. But that was absurd. I was confident her Amazon delusions were a well-kept family secret.

I fully intended to call James back right away, from the privacy of my own room. But I never got that far. As soon as I emerged from Craig’s office, I noticed two men snapping to attention across the sandy yard, and moments later Nick intercepted me just as I was climbing the steps of my trailer.

I knew what he wanted as soon as he held out his hand. But I resented
the suggestion that ten thousand dollars had bought him the right to bully me—never mind lying to me about his employer—and looked into his sunglasses with feigned bafflement. “Can I help you?”

“Your phone,” he said, skipping any pretense of nicety. “I thought I made it absolutely clear—”

“You did,” I assured him, taking a bold step up the staircase. “And I heard you. Am I to understand you do not trust me?”