Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Read online

  “You were a long time,” she says suspiciously. Does she know?

  My heart beats faster. “Mother couldn’t hear the radio,” I say. “If I didn’t turn it up, she would have known something was wrong.”

  Lydia watches me. Only for a moment, but it feels like forever. “Put her in the study,” she tells Kostis. “Next to her sister.”

  Kostis shoves me through the door. With so many people inside, Father’s study feels crowded. Irene’s crunched up by the desk. Shotgun Man leans against the safe, watching her. I don’t see the other Greek. He must be outside.

  “Move,” says Kostis gruffly, digging his knife into my back.

  I walk to where Irene is, hands in front of me. I turn slowly, keeping the bulky glove close to my chest. Kostis grabs my dress, scrunches it up, and throws me down. Without thinking, I fling my arms back to break my fall. My palms smack into the floor. The nail file’s handle catches the hardwood, and its blade slices into my wrist. I bite my lips, resisting the urge to scream. My fingers feel wet and sticky. I can’t see the cut, but it’s bleeding badly.

  “Why are you doing this?” I groan. “You’ve worked with Father for years.”

  It’s obvious I’m in pain. I rub my knee, pretending that’s what I hurt in the fall.

  “I suppose we have time for a story,” Lydia says, taking off her high heels. “I’ve been searching for the vessel a long time.”

  “Ten years?” Lydia can’t be older than thirty, so that seems a good guess.

  “I’m older than I look,” she replies cryptically.

  “Twenty!” Irene shouts, as if we’re playing a game.

  I don’t think so, little sister. She’d have been a girl then. Lydia smiles. I’m waiting for her to look away so I can move my aching hand, but she hasn’t yet. She places her hat upside down on Father’s desk, and her glasses inside. Lydia can see perfectly well without them. Another trick. Is anything about this woman actually real?

  “We suspected the vessel was somewhere in north Africa,” she says, “but the deserts there go on for hundreds of miles. We didn’t know where to begin.”

  Lydia removes her coat and drops it behind her. She bends forward, and pulls off her dress to reveal her black cloth outfit. While she’s busy changing, I take off the damp glove, shifting over to block her view. I glance over my shoulder at the wound. It’s a horrid looking, three-inch-long cut to my wrist. And still bleeding.

  “I met your father just before the end of the Great War,” says Lydia. “On a dig. I’d heard reports of a find in Alexandria, a scroll dating back to ancient times.”

  She pulls down her leggings, stretching the cloth so the attached rubber soles fit over her feet. Lydia rolls down her sleeves until they come to her leather gloves. She takes those off, and pulls them inside out, changing the colour from brown to black. Her cloak must be reversible as well. That’s how she disguised herself. It took Lydia about twenty seconds to change her appearance. One woman hidden inside another, like those Russian dolls I play with.

  “That gave us a better idea where to search,” Lydia continues, “but it was still a large area. We didn’t have the resources for a dig on that scale.”

  “So you tricked Father into helping you.” I don’t hide my disgust. To pretend to be his assistant, to deceive him for six years. What kind of woman does that?

  “I didn’t tell Stephen what we were looking for,” says Lydia. “But over the years I gave him direction and… encouragement.”

  “What does that mean?” Irene asks.

  Lydia smiles without answering. She called Father by his given name. It’s obvious what she means by ‘encouragement’. A greedy cheat seduced by a temptress. I don’t know which of them I hate more.

  “Father can’t have loved you that much,” I say bitterly. “He ran away with your treasure.” Lydia’s so pleased with herself I thought I’d remind her of that.

  Wind blows through the manor hall. A man outside shouts something in Greek.

  “Yes he did,” Lydia says smugly, “but he didn’t get very far.”

  Father’s brought into the study at knifepoint. The fourth Greek has lost his cap. He’s bald, and wields a curved blade identical to Kostis’.

  “Where’s Doctor Ernst?” Lydia asks Father.

  “I came alone,” he replies nervously.

  An obvious lie Lydia sees straight through. She yells instructions in Greek. Kostis and the bald man leave. Shotgun Man nudges Father across to the safe.

  Irene’s very quiet. What is she— My sister’s spotted my wound. She takes the blood-smeared file before I can stop her, and hides it behind her back.

  Irene clutches the handle, getting ready to stab someone. Only two of the Greeks are left now. Lydia’s close, but what about Shotgun Man? Does Irene think he won’t shoot? I grab her wrist. She gives me an angry glance, but stays where she is.

  Shotgun Man shouts a single word. Lydia catches a thrown object in both hands. The metal ball. Father must have brought it with him. The fool!

  “You said we were going to study it,” Father says.

  Who cares about that? What about our lives? He just gave Lydia what she wanted. Now we have nothing to bargain with.

  Lydia’s eyes widen as she watches the symbols alter shape. “The vessel,” she says.

  That word again. I have no idea what it means, and I don’t care. Shotgun Man turns his head to look at the ball. Nobody’s watching us, but it only takes a moment to fire a weapon. I keep a tight hold of Irene. She’s itching to use that nail file. And what’s Father up to? He pulls a wide-pronged steel key from his pocket, unnoticed.

  Lydia takes off her gloves and discards them on the floor. She holds the ball up to her face. The metal glows deep blue, as if reacting to her touch. Lydia spins the ball round so the symbols face the floor, and touches five patterns in sequence, one from each raised set.

  Thin grooves appear on the ball’s surface. They start at evenly spaced points along the equator – or where it would be on a globe - and meet at the very top. Everything they taught me in school is wrong. Well, maybe not everything, but science isn’t working as it should. Solid metal doesn’t change shape. Or glow when you touch it.

  Lydia can’t take her eyes off the ball, and neither can Shotgun Man. Irene’s stopped fighting my hold, equally as captivated. Nobody - except for me - sees Father spin the safe’s handle.

  The gaps in the black metal get wider, and the ball… opens. There’s no other word for it. Thin flaps bend outward, lowering until they’re level with the floor. Each one is tapered to a point like the petal of a flower. Wavy blue lines ripple across Lydia’s cheek. The effect is similar to water reflecting light on the side of a bathtub. Does the ball contain liquid? I’m too low down to see.

  The safe door squeaks. Everyone looks at Father. He’s holding a revolver! A six shot weapon with an encrusted, silver-plated grip.

  Father points the antique gun at Lydia. “Throw me the artefact!” he demands.

  Lydia closes her eyes for a second - much longer than a blink - and reopens them. It’s a peculiar thing to do, but nothing about this situation is normal. Irene shifts forward, getting ready to move. The nail file scrapes the hardwood floor. Fortunately it’s not that loud, and the Greeks don’t seem to notice.

  “Don’t be a fool, Stephen,” Lydia says. “Athena’s gift is not meant for you.”

  “Athena?” Father scoffs. “The Greek goddess? I suppose you’ve met her.”

  “I did.” Lydia’s totally serious. “So very long ago.” She closes her eyes again. For a full second, like she did before. “I’ll never forget the day she answered my prayers, appeared on the roof of her temple, and granted me everlasting life and wisdom.”

  Father’s jaw drops. It took him a while, but he’s finally realised Lydia’s insane. He places both hands on the revolver, steadying his aim.

  My sister eyes Lydia’s legs. I shake my head at her, but she takes no notice. Irene’s about to do somethi
ng really stupid, and I don’t have the strength left to stop her.

  “You really believe it,” Father says, exasperated. “The Greek gods don’t exist, Lydia. They’re a myth.”

  “Think, Stephen.” Lydia says his name softly, trying to pacify him. Maybe she could if she wasn’t a raving lunatic. “The metal woman you found in Egypt. Seven foot tall. Do you really think she was one of us? I’m taking the vessel. Don’t try to stop me.”

  “No!”

  Father shoots. Out of despair? Revenge? Desperation? Who knows. Lydia looks down disbelievingly at the bullet hole in her chest. She staggers forward, so focused on holding the metal ball steady she does nothing to prevent the loss of blood. Father turns to face Shotgun Man.

  “Stop!” I cry, but he doesn’t.

  The Greek fires first. The shotgun blast is deafeningly loud. Father flies back into the safe door. His cotton shirt is shredded by metal pellets, his exposed chest stained crimson red. He slides all the way down, and lies still.

  “You witch!” screams Irene.

  She dives forward and stabs the nail file into Lydia’s thigh. Metal scrapes bone. Lydia stumbles, her hold slipping. The ball tilts forward. Liquid sloshes around inside. Shotgun Man trains his weapon on my sister.

  “Irene!”

  I’m terrified, but I have to protect her. I run over and lock my arms around her waist. The Greek man hesitates, seemingly reluctant to shoot two children. Wounded and limping, Lydia loses her grip on the ball. It drops from her trembly fingers, spinning upside down. Glowing, bright blue liquid pours along the nearest petal, splashing over my wounded wrist.

  “No,” Lydia gasps. “It was not meant for you.”

  Lightning bolts strike along my wound. The electric shock numbs my arm. It falls limp, bouncing off my hip. Irene steps back. I don’t know if her knees are shaking because of fear, or the storm brewing around me.

  Cold air rushes into my wound. First a light breeze, then a whirlwind. It gathers up the spilt fluid – even droplets on the floor – until nothing remains. Liquid blobs merge in flight, forming curved trails that pour into the cut on my wrist. My blood shines bright blue, arteries and veins visible through my skin. After a few seconds the storm ends, the numbness is gone, and my arm looks normal again.

  “Edith?” Irene looks at me like a complete stranger. If she knew the words, she’d ask the same question that’s in my head. What just happened?

  “I never intended for a child…” Lydia trails off. “I’m so sorry.” She sounds genuine, but she’s deceived us before.

  “Sorry because you have to kill us?” I ask, glancing at Father’s body.

  “That’s more difficult than you realise. Look at your arm.”

  I know it’s a trick, but why am I not feeling any pain? I wipe the blood from my wrist. My skin is smooth, and the cut has disappeared. Completely. There’s no scarring. No marks at all. Whatever went in my body doesn’t want to leave.

  I ignore Lydia, and go to give Irene a reassuring hug. She pushes me away. My sister’s been hurt often enough to know people don’t heal so quickly. I might not look any different, but she knows something has changed. For the first time since she was a toddler, Irene’s afraid of me.

  Chapter Five: A Maze of Memories

  There’s a loud bang. Then another. Shotgun Man topples forward, eyes vacant as his body slams against the floor. Smoke rises from two holes in his raincoat. They’re gunshot wounds, but who…

  Father’s alive! Slouched against the safe door, breathing heavily. “What was in the artefact?” he asks, aiming his revolver at Lydia.

  “Something that Athena—”

  A brief moment of darkness – a blink? - and I’m back at the British Museum, in the exhibit hall with the marble slabs. Lydia holds me and my sister close, telling her story.

  “…Athens, the capital city of Greece,” she says.

  We need to get away before she kidnaps us! I want to run, warn Irene about her. But I can’t move or speak. Only watch and listen.

  “In mythology, the city’s patron goddess was Athena,” Lydia continues.

  Is that what brought me here? The name? When I remember something it’s usually all hazy. Vague thoughts, and an occasional blurry image. But this is so real. I can see and hear everything I did earlier this afternoon. In perfect detail. My thoughts are different, but…

  I’m wasting time here. Father could be in trouble.

  “—shared with me long ago,” says Lydia, finishing the sentence she started.

  I’m… back in the study. I look around the room. Father’s pointing his gun at Lydia, she’s acting crazy, Irene’s in shock. I must have been at the museum for at least a minute, but everything here’s the same. Exactly the same, as if I never left.

  Only Lydia notices my bewildered glance around. “Tell him,” she says. “Tell your father where you’ve been.”

  A crushed chunk of metal falls from Lydia’s chest. It bounces along the floor, coming to rest by her foot. I look at her wound, but see only smooth, unmarked skin through the bullet hole. Lydia heals like… Like I do. The thought makes me uncomfortable.

  Has Father even noticed her miraculous recovery? Probably not. He’s foggy-eyed, and struggles to hold his revolver steady. “Edith hasn’t gone anywhere,” he says gently. “Have you sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart? He hasn’t called me that since—

  Sunlight shines through the study window. Father lifts me high above his head, and twirls me round so fast my knees bang together. Scary, gold animal heads whiz past: birds, two narrow-eyed foxes, a cat, a dog with long ears. Finely cut jewels glint in the statues’ eyes. Polished rubies and sapphires that dazzle me with their beauty.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Father says, putting me down on his desk. I lower my legs carefully over the side, and hold onto the edge tight.

  Another memory. But what’s the year? I’m a little girl dressed in pink, with my knotted hair held in place by a silk ribbon. I must have just turned ten. Or maybe eleven.

  “Where’s that?” I ask, pointing to the map book on Father’s desk. He’s drawn a pretty red circle around a country. I know the answer now, but didn’t at the time.

  “Egypt,” Father replies. “It’s in Africa, a big continent to the south. My new assistant thinks I should go digging in the desert. But now’s not a good time to ask for money to fund an expedition. Tens of millions died in the war.”

  Wailing comes from across the hall. It’s Irene. When she was young, she spent most days in the sitting room. A woman – it must be Mother - sings my baby sister a song, and the crying stops.

  Father turns back a page, to a map of Western Europe. “Some of those men were my friends,” he says sadly. “Close friends. So many funerals. So many goodbyes.” He pushes his Atlas away, opens his top desk drawer, and takes out a bottle of 1774 vintage scotch.

  “Is that from the treasure room?” I ask.

  I sound like my little sister, bombarding Father with all these stupid questions. I don’t remember being this curious, but I must have been. Father unscrews the bottle cap, and gazes longingly into the dark brown liquid. His face appears wobbly through the curved glass.

  “That’s our secret,” he says. “Remember?”

  Day becomes night, and the golden statues disappear. I’m back in the present. The abrupt and sudden change leaves me disoriented.

  Father looks at me, then Lydia. “Why does she keep closing her eyes?” he asks.

  “Memories,” Lydia says. “She can’t stop them. Neither could I at first.”

  “What did you do!?”

  Father hasn’t cared this much about me since… I don’t want to think about it, in case I have another memory. I need to stay here. I can’t help anyone if I’m stuck in the past. Father’s losing his mind. I have to get Irene away before things get worse. I beckon my sister over. She shakes her head, remaining where she is.

  “Lower the gun, Stephen,” Lydia says. “I don’t want to hurt y
ou, but I will if I have to.”

  Father steps away from the safe. He limps forward, blood dripping from his torn shirt. “Damn you,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

  Lydia leaps sideways before the gun fires, twisting to make herself a narrower target. The bullet rips her cloth top, missing her body. Lydia lifts her wounded thigh to her chest, and stretches to pull out the nail file. She lands gracefully on her feet, immediately spinning into a throw. The file whooshes through the air. Its blade flies into Father’s neck before he can shoot. He drops his revolver and moves both hands to the wound.

  “Father!” screams Irene.

  He gurgles violently. Unable to contain the outpouring blood, he collapses against the safe. I watch for movement. A blinking eye, a wiggling finger. Anything. Father’s not dead. He can’t be!

  But he is. I run to my sister, turning her around so she can’t see his body. Irene sinks her face into my dress. My eyes fill with tears. We should probably run, but neither of us want to leave.

  Lydia takes the dead Greek’s shotgun. Her thigh wound heals as she approaches us. “He would have shot me,” she says - as if that excuses what she’s done. “You have Athena’s gift of wisdom. You’re like me now, Edith.”

  “I’m nothing like you. You’re a murderer!”

  I hear gunshots. Two of them, from outside. Kostis runs in, shouting. Only one word isn’t in Greek: Ernst. Kostis looks at the dead bodies, then the overturned metal ball. He and Lydia have a hushed conversation. They keep glancing in my direction.

  Partway through their argument Kostis points his knife at the window. Through the dirty panes, I see the dark shape of a man holding a pistol. Lydia turns and fires her shotgun. The window explodes outward. Broken wood and bits of glass rain on a blond, bearded man stood in the garden.

  “Vo ist Clayton?” shouts Gustav. I assume he’s asking where Father is. He mustn’t have seen the body yet.