He may have had another motive. I’d like to think so. For it was to Frederick, not to Sir Christopher, that Durkheim left his greatest treasure-the dagger blade he had raised from the ocean floor near Thera, wrapped in a scrap of paper that described its discovery. They had all had their moments of depression and foreboding; in one such moment Durkheim had told Frederick where he had hidden the only thing he hoped would survive him, and after the war Frederick had been able to retrieve it. He expected a will or a letter; the true nature of Durkheim’s legacy astounded him so thoroughly that it was years before he could bring himself to investigate it. He didn’t know, until he found Keller living at Thera, that Durkheim had also confided in him. Probably Durkheim had not rated Frederick ’s chances of surviving the war as much higher than his own.
Jim and I pieced most of it together that night, from the things Frederick and Keller said. There was only one thing that still puzzled me, and as we left the room where Frederick lay, I said thoughtfully,
“How did he know Kore? I’ll bet you there was something between them-”
Jim laughed and put his arm around me.
“The eternal gossip. The world is blowing up around you and all you can think of are your father’s premarital indiscretions.”
I stopped at one of the windows and looked out.
“The world has stopped blowing up. How can it look so beautiful, after last night?”
From our vantage point, high on the headland, we could look out over the valley to the rocky coast. There was still volcanic dust in the air; the sunsets around Thera would be spectacular for weeks to come. But the sea lay like silk around the shore, lapping folds of emerald into the narrow inlets, deepening to azure farther out. The squared-off patches of the fields were grayish green, but the crops would survive. It had been a small eruption, nothing to speak of-not to be mentioned in the same breath as that unique cataclysm of the fifteenth century B.C. Probably it would be another twenty thousand years before the baby volcano in the bay had grown big enough to destroy itself again. I wouldn’t be around to see that…
“Lie down for a while,” Jim said. “You must be bushed.”
“No, I’m going down to the village with you.”
“How did you know that’s what I had in mind?”
“I know you. Let’s go down together.”
IV
That was five years ago. When I look back on some of the crazy things I did, I can hardly believe I was that young. I’m a settled suburban housewife now-although Jim would deny that. In fact, he says if I ever turn into one, he’ll leave me. I went back to school, and I’m still working on my degree-no, not in archaeology. In medicine. The things I saw on the island after the earthquake convinced me that I can’t concentrate on anything more abstract than healing broken bodies. There is so much need, especially in the parts of the world where Jim will be working.
Frederick is very contemptuous of my medical studies. I’ve seen him, off and on, since he recovered. It took him a long time and he’s not the man he was. Physically, I mean. His personality hasn’t mellowed a bit. He’s as mean and cantankerous as ever. But he taught me something valuable: that most people are neither good guys nor bad guys, but unpredictable mixtures of both.
Altogether, the summer on Thera was quite educational; it was also one of those rare cases where justice was served in the end. I got what was coming to me, from Mother and Dad, when I returned-and Jim didn’t defend me, he just stood there grinning while they took turns bawling me out. Keller is still on Thera. He won’t live much longer, but he’ll end his days in relative peace of mind-and with Kore. The relationship between those two has something rather touching about it. As for the relationship between Kore and Frederick… I’ve got my suspicions, but Idon’t suppose I’ll ever know for sure.
Sir Christopher got what was coming to him, too. He’s still in prison. The only person who didn’t receive justice has been in his grave for over thirty years. That was the real tragedy, the loss of a young and productive life in the greatest human tragedy, war.
Jim and I have no children. There is time, if we decide we want them, but we’ll probably adopt. There’s a little girl in a village near Olympia, an orphan, whose old grandmother won’t live much longer… And so many others; I’d feel guilty bringing another child into the world when there are so many who are unloved and unwanted already. Wherever she comes from, I’ll give her a nice sensible name, like Jan or Penny or Liz. Not a name that carries echoes of a past too distant.
Because that part of it still bothers me. Not much; I don’t brood about it, I don’t even dream these days. But sometimes, when my hands are busy and my mind is free to wander, I remember those other dreams. Kore’s inefficient meddling had its effect, certainly, and now that I understand myself a little better I can see how the old myths suited my particular hang-ups. They are universal, after all-symbols of human fear and guilt and hatred.
But I dreamed before I ever arrived on Thera. I stood in the courtyard of the palace at Knossos and saw the bull games and smelled the acrid stench of blood and dust. Was it only the result of my mixed-up feelings about my father, colored by the particular setting? Or was it something more?
I can explain all of it in rational terms-except for one thing. It’s a trivial point, and yet it disturbs me.
The first night I spent at the villa, when I fell into a drugged half-sleep, I heard Kore summoning a spirit from out of the past. I heard her and I understood. I can remember the words she used even now.
Only…how did I understand what she was saying? She always spoke English to me; but that night she wasn’t speaking to me. She must have reverted to her native tongue in that incantation. And I don’t understand Greek.
I know; there are ways of rationalizing that, too, and as I said, it’s a trivial thing. And yet…
Who are we, really? Combinations of common chemicals that perform mechanical actions for a few years before crumbling back into the original components? Fresh new souls, drawn at random from some celestial cupboard where God keeps an unending supply?
Or the same soul, immortal and eternal, refurbished and reused through endless lives, by that thrifty Housekeeper? In Her wisdom and benevolence She wipes off the memory slates, as part of the cleaning process, because if we could remember all the things we have experienced in earlier lives, we might object to risking it again.
It’s a terrifying idea in some ways, but it has certain attractions. It would be nice to think that Vincent Durkheim and all the other young men who died before their time would get another chance. As for me-yes, I would risk it. Aside from all the other things that make life interesting, there would always be Jim.
About Barbara Michaels
Pen name of Barbara Mertz, who also writes as Elizabeth Peters. Under the name Barbara Michaels, she writes primarily gothic and supernatural thrillers. The name Barbara Michaels was chosen by her publisher since she had already published one nonfiction book on ancient Egypt, and the publisher wanted her novels to be distinctive and not be confused with her other historical book.
