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Boom! The house shook, and the woman screamed. She covered her mouth with her hands, and cried so loudly that it could be heard over the explosions around her.
For the sixth night in a row, the Luftwaffe was bombing London. A trio of bombers wandered off course in the dark cloudy night, and knowing they had to dispose of their bombs before returning to airfields in France, they dropped them randomly before heading for home. The bombs cascaded out of the clouds onto a village near Cambridge University, and exploded, the explosions rocking the towers of the Colleges like a movie spotlight.
The small cottage, home to generations of itinerant scholars, was now the home to the Moffitt family. Professor Moffitt Senior, was an archeologist specializing in Roman history and North Africa. Only Elizabeth Moffitt, his wife, and his youngest son, Ian, lived in Cambridge now; the oldest was away fighting as a commando in North Africa, and the Professor was up in London.
The Tudor-built cottage had withstood centuries of war, famine, plague and deaths. But it couldn't withstand the bombing blitz that the Germans were dropping on Britain. The aged thatched roof had caught fire, then flames ran down the ivy, and leapt to the oak tree in the corner of the small property, and at that point not even the fire engines could save the house.
When the bombing first started, Elizabeth Moffitt called for Ian to come outside, but he didn’t follow. Outside, down by the garden shed, she turned and found herself alone.
At an upper window, framed by the curtains, she saw an ancient kylix jar lifted from its pedestal, and knew he was up there. The jar was his most loved treasure. Centuries old, it had been in shards when his brother found it, and brought it back to England after one of their father's archeology trips to Crete. Ian’s illness had caused him to miss the trip, but he and Jack had jiggered the pieces until they reconstructed the jar with its ornate handles and unique top, a stylized owl, the symbol of Athena. The red figured pottery illustrated the legend of Orestes, persecuted by the Erinyes or Furies for the murder of his mother, who had murdered his father Agamemnon. On the other side was the judgment of Athena in Orestes’s favor against the Erinyes. Ian loved it more for the fact that his brother had brought it back for him, and worked on it with him, than for the value of the antique.
And now it was going to be his death. She was sure of it as she saw a shadow flash against the curtains in his room. Why couldn't he have left the jar behind? Why didn't he come out of there? He was too young to die this way. He wasn't a soldier. There might be a war, but why take Ian, her youngest son? He hadn't begun to live!
The front door burst open, and he came running out, the kylix cradled in his arms. She gave a sob of relief and held out her arms.
Out of the clouds came another stream of bombs. One landed on the house, and it exploded outwards, sending the oak door with the brass hinges flying, and the glass out of every window. A huge cloud of smoke enveloped the falling boy.
She screamed again and again, her voice lost against the exploding bombs and crackle of fire as flames absorbed her home.
Then she crumpled into a ball, her hair over her hands, sobbing. Something rolled against her knee and she looked up and saw the top to the jar, unbroken. Looking further in, she saw her son, still cradling the kylix.
"Damn that thing! Why didn't Ian listen to me? I'm his mother!" Damn Jack for bringing that jar back! Why couldn't it be Jack who’s gone! Ian! God, I wish I was dead! "Jack killed you, Ian!" She sank back on her heels sobbing, wiping soot from her face, as the bombs rained down on the buildings. "You killed him, Jack. I wish that you were there!"
Something stirred in the night. Amid the clouds of smoke and hot flames, the trio raised their heads and looked around. Three wishes, three curses. A heartfelt wish. Vengeance. The mother wanted vengeance. Her oldest son had gone against her wishes, had brought back the item of his brother's death, had caused his mother murderous grief. He had to be brought to justice.
***
Jack Moffitt knew he had to be going insane. In the back corners of his mind he swore he heard the rustling of wings, and a sense of menace. That at least went along with what he was facing currently. But the only birds around here were vultures.
It was supposed to be a simple raid on a convoy, easy in and easy out. The four men, three Americans and one British, had done it a hundred times before, but this convoy had teeth and the Rat Patrol had taken off for their lives, separating to escape the half-track in Troy’s case, and a car full of alarmingly accurate soldiers in Moffitt’s case. Behind the car was a lumbering tank that appeared at the opposite end of the wadi causing Tully Pettigrew, Moffitt’s driver, to swerve violently, and roar down a narrow path.
Moffitt had barely been able to stay upright before this, and that was the last straw. He knew he was going to go flying and landed loosely with that in mind, giving himself bruises instead of broken bones. He’d staggered into one of the narrow crevices that lined the tall walls of the wadi to escape the car full of soldiers which followed after Tully. The tank let out a belch of shot and the walls around him shook like an giant earthquake. A cloud of stone dust rose, hiding the steep slope of the cave and he tripped, falling flat on his face. This time he wasn’t relaxed, and he landed hard, jarring his bones.
Boom! A tank round landed against one of the rock walls, somewhere near him, and Moffitt rolled and rolled forward, bruising himself even worse on the uneven rocks. He had no idea of where he was, and couldn’t see anything in the pitch black. All he knew was that there was a tank behind him and it was still firing.
Another round slammed into the rocks, and disoriented and stunned, he groped forward.
The ground gave way under his feet, and, with a surprised cry, he fell into the darkness.
Splash! Floundering up through the dank water, he brought his head into the air, and bruised his head on the roof of the cave.
Water? Cave? He put his hand up and touched dressed regular stone. Not rocky cave walls. What the hell? Bricks?
Boom! The tank fired again.
One fell out onto his fingers, splashing his face with water, then with a sudden tug of horror, he felt a current sweep him past his legs. It was as if someone had broken a dike, and a river surged for an exit.
He struggled to breathe in the few seconds his head was above water as he tumbled through the darkness.
A slash of light, a tight fit as ragged bricks ripped at his clothing, and he was propelled into the air. He landed hard on wet rocks and muddy ground, and rolled downhill through a gaping hole in a ruined building.
He heard the illusionary sound of wings again. Something sliced through his shoulder. The edge of a rock? A shard of brick? It felt a lot more like a whip.
Gasping, he staggered to his knees. His head was spinning and he couldn’t see anything clearly. He crawled through the building, running into walls, and stumbling over piles of sand and debris until he gained the cool air outside.
The sun was setting. How long had he been in the underground tunnel/spring, which was still spraying water, judging from the sound? It had been morning when he ran into the crevice and the tank started firing.
He pushed back his soaked hair and looked around. Everything was blurry and unfamiliar.
Walls of abandoned buildings ran down both side of the small valley, many missing roofs. Between the brick walls, camel thorn bushes, palm, fig and olive trees dotted the landscape. One end of the valley was blocked with a sand dune that had as its base shattered rubble. Whoever had owned the valley years, maybe a century ago, hadn’t wanted it discovered, and the blowing sandstorms had effectively sealed the gateway. Towering in the middle was the ruined remnant of a tall mosque, the minaret having fallen inside the globular roof. The red clay brick walls were laid in a star pattern, and each cast a sharp-edged shadow as the moonlight poured over them. The blue tiles winding up the walls of the minaret sparkled as if silver was worked in the glaze.
Forty feet from front of the shattered doorway of the mosque was a fountain, the basin clogged with sand and fallen palm fronds.
Slash! Something cut into his back and he stumbled forward, tripped over the edge of the fountain and landed face down. Using the last of his strength, he rolled over to see what was behind him. Nothing. He felt blood trickle down his back from a cut.
I must be going mad. Where the hell am I?
With a phut! sound, the top of fountain exploded upward, casting dried earth into the air. A stone caught the side of his face. He passed out.
***
Sam Troy had finally ambushed the halftrack that had been chasing his jeep. Between Hitch’s rifle and the machine gun on the back of the jeep, he’d harassed the Germans until one of his shots hit the gasoline tank. Leaving behind the burning half-track, he cautiously headed back towards where they’d separated from Pettigrew and Moffitt.
It wasn’t long until they saw the marks of a tank. It had fired more than once into the cave, blackening the rocks and leaving the smell of burning cordite in the air. Troy held up his hand, and Hitchcock stopped the jeep. Dismounting, they warily went into the cave.
Stone blocked their way before they got ten feet. The roof had tumbled in.
“I hope that whoever it was, he got away,” Hitchcock whispered uneasily. The words echoed around the narrow walls.
“Let’s find Tully and the jeep,” Troy said harshly, looking around. “It wouldn’t have fit in here. Whatever that tank was firing at, it’s gone now.”
Hitchcock cocked his head, looking towards the mouth of the cave. “Sarge! Listen!”
Clank! A repetitious clanking as if something was coming their way. The sound filtered up the narrow walls of the wadi.
“Tank,” Hitchcock said softly.
“Shake it! We have to get to the jeep before it gets here!”
“Do you think he was the one chasing Tully and Moffitt?” Hitchcock asked following Troy.
Troy shrugged.
They emerged to find the tank just coming around the corner, its cannon aiming at the jeep. With a hoarse cry, the tank’s commander, who had been half-sitting on the turret, pointed, and slammed down the hatch cover.
They’d never make it to the jeep in time. With a sense of frustration, Troy dove back into the cave, dragging Hitchcock as the cannon’s muzzle dropped, and aimed.
Ka-Boom! One round and the jeep exploded, bits of metal flying high in the air and against the walls of the wadi. The two men hid their faces until things stopped flying. Stone chips and hot metal scored their skin.
Billowing black smoke hid them from the tank but they could hear clanking as the treads started up. It was coming closer.
***
Jack Moffitt awoke to the patter of rain on his face. It was the sound of a soaking rain from the English countryside. The water felt cool as it ran through his dark, bloodied hair.
He opened his lids a crack and got an eyeful of water. He was lying on his side in several inches of water.
Rolling on his back, he saw the outline of the graceful fountain, spraying water above him. Whatever had clogged it was gone. Above it was the ruined dome of the mosque.
For a second he luxuriated in the feeling of water soaking his back and face, the cool air of evening, and the smell of burning.
His eyes flickered open. What was burning?
He sat up and looked around. Lights hung eerily from the half-tumbled walls that bordered the mosque.. It was as if someone had lit huge balls of firefly light on the ruins of the walls, triangulating him on three sides. An owl flew through, hooting softly before disappearing into the darkness.
He shivered then shook his head, ignoring a stab of pain from one temple. Rubbish. The lights had to be reflected from the moon that hung like a orb in the starry sky, casting the shadow of the ruins over his legs. This all reminded him of the time he and Ian had snuck out to play Roman warriors at the ruins of an ancient villa near where Moffitt Sr. was teaching at a small university in Wales, long before he’d been hired at Cambridge. The moon had been full that night as well, and the sounds of rustling animals in the night had terrified the younger boy. Jack had callously laughed before he realized how much it hurt Ian to break down like that; then he tried to make up for it by telling stories. Ian had only wanted to go home. It took real courage for him to last all night, especially when the moon set and there was nothing but the stars, the ruins, and the flickering firelight.
His brother. Moffitt touched the pocket where he carried the telegram that told him of Ian’s death. It arrived only a month before and he still hadn’t taken the time to really think about the boy. There had been too many missions since then, too many chances for him to die and see Ian again, but he had never crossed that line since that first mission where he had put the Troy and the others at risk.
The others. I have to get out of here. He staggered to his knees, and then fell back, his hands landing in the cool water. It was too much of an effort to get up.
This place reminded him of Crete. He and his father had been invited to see the excavation at Polyrinia where the archeologists were turning up piles of ancient coins and random pottery shards. They’d camped by a fountain, where, legend had it, Agamemnon had stopped when returning from Troy. While sacrificing to the Gods, he saw his ships on fire, the flames set by his prisoners. After taking revenge, he sailed off, not bothering to finish the ceremony. The Greek archeologists had joked that that was probably why the Gods let his wife, Clymnestra, kill him; he didn’t finish what he had started.
Moffitt and his father been given the broken shards of a kylix the next day and taken it back to England to rebuild. The jar had had a connection with the legends they heard the night before. Etched on the curved surface was the story of Orestes, son of Agamemnon and Clymnestra, who avenged his father’s murder by slaying his mother, who had ordered it. This unleashed the three Furies, snake-haired hags with sharp whips, Alecto, the unresting; Megaera, the jealous; and the avenger, Tisiphone to avenge his unfilial behavior of matricide.
Moffitt winced. That was right. He remembered the night they had pieced together the rounded side, and he saw that the expression of the jar’s Megaera resembled his mother’s when he and Ian were piecing together the kylix. He’d buried that memory deep.
So why do I remember it now?
***
Sam Troy asked hoarsely, “Are you okay, Hitch?”
“Yeah, Sarge but that tank’s still hunting out there! Hitchcock’s words were drowned in the loud clank of the tank’s hatch being opened.
Troy’s hand went to the gun on his hip, and he eased it out of the holster.
They heard the sound of footsteps stumbling on smoking metal or rocks outside. The tank’s commander or another soldier was creeping up on the smoke-clogged mouth of the cave.
Troy fired, and he heard the man retreat. The German called something to his fellows, and the two members of the Rat Patrol heard rattles and thumps.
“He’s talking to the tank!” Hitchcock whispered. “Sarge, they’re gonna blow us up!”
“Not if I have anything to say,” Troy replied grimly. “Go around the other side, Hitch, and see if the smoke’s still there. We might be able to get out.”
The young man nodded and slid towards the other side of the cave. He hadn’t gone very far before Troy heard the sound of a machine gun, and he knew it wasn’t Hitchcock’s.
Hitchcock scampered in, coughing heavily. “He’s got buddies posted, Sarge. Don’t recognize the markings on the tank; it isn’t one of Dietrich’s.”
Troy nodded. “Dietrich would give us a chance to surrender. I don’t think this one’s going to.”
“What are we going to do?” Hitchcock looked around the cave, what little he could see through the dissipating smoke and darkness. “He’s gonna blow us all to kingdom come!”
***
Moffitt opened his eyes. I must have fallen asleep. One of the lights had gone out. The moon was gone as well. The sky was full of stars like a blizzard of snowflakes on a loose-woven scarf. They limed the edges of a jar with curved sides and an ornate lid that now sat just out of reach. Who brought that? Is there someone here?
“Where are you?” he called, realizing how dry his throat was only when it came out as a whisper. For all the water around him, and in his hair, he hadn’t drunk a sip. Most of the water in North Africa needed chlorine purification and Moffitt was too much of an old desert hand to fall into the trap of untreated water.
The stars reflected off the water of the fountain’s basin, casting a light upwards onto the jar. It looked like the Polyrinia kylix. He’d left it with Ian in the house in Cambridge, which had burned in the bombing.
Mother was like Megaera, no, Alecto, unresting in her wish to keep Ian with her, and away from my bad influence. But was I a bad influence? I did everything they wanted of me. Ian is dead, but it isn’t my fault.
Wasn’t it? someone asked, and he turned his head sharply. No one to the right or the left. It had sounded like a woman’s voice, full of condemnation.
“No! My mother was jealous of anything I did with Ian!”
Why?
“Ian was growing up. She was afraid that he’d leave her behind, as my Father and I did, and she’d have nothing but the path she’d chosen for herself!” No wonder she hated me so much. She didn’t have to; Ian had no stomach for camping or adventuring in the wild. I found that out the night we spent at the villa. He was perfectly happy to stay at home with Mother, but I taunted him about it. I paid for it. I got whipped, and sent to my room for a week, and he got nothing but a hot bath and a scold. That was when I realized that he wasn’t going to come with us when he got older. He would assemble the notes and help with the research, but he didn’t have an adventurous spirit. Mother had nothing to worry about.
A rustle of leathery wings.
Moffitt put out his hand, palm up. “Who are you and where are you?”
***
The smoke dissipated enough that Troy could see the muzzle of the cannon aiming their way. He spotted the soldiers on either side, hiding behind the rocks. The two Patrollers were boxed into the small cave.
“What if we give up?” Hitchcock suggested hesitantly.
Troy’s lips compressed. He didn’t want to do that, but even less, he didn’t want to die a red spot splattered over the rocks of an obscure cave in North Africa. A living soldier could escape and make more trouble. Dead ones didn’t have that chance. “We can try.”
Hitchcock yanked out his dingy, frayed handkerchief. His mother had always told him to carry one, and this had been carried a long time. It was in sad shape. Before he could tie it to the end of his rifle, they heard the ominous sounds of the cannon creaking around.
“Too late. Shake it, back to the cave!” Troy snarled. “There has to be a way out of here!”
They stumbled into the darkness, holding out their hands to ward off hitting the walls, praying for a miracle.
Hitchcock stepped on something and cursed falling against the rocks. Troy looked back and decided they were far enough from the front to risk a light. He pulled a Zippo lighter out of his pocket and lit it.
Hitchcock reached down to what he’d stepped on, and took a deep breath. “Sarge?”
Troy picked up the silver medallion. They both knew what it was. The badge off Moffitt’s beret glistened in the palm of his hand. The tank must have been firing at him. The Englishman was probably buried under the rockslide.
Someone shouted in German, probably a demand, and it echoed down the cave. “What’s he saying?” Troy asked.
Hitchcock had picked up the rudiments of the language. “He…. I can’t tell, Sarge. I can’t hear it clearly.”
Troy glared at the medallion, then folded his hand closed. “I guess we’d better– "
“Sarge!” Hitchcock said pointing over his shoulder. “I just saw someone over there!”
Troy reached out his hand to stop the young man as Hitchcock stepped out of the circle of light, and, with a panicked cry, disappeared into a pit of darkness.
Troy cursed and held up his Zippo. For a fraction of a second, he saw a young Jack Moffitt, his eyes dark pits like the smoke outside, standing against the wall.
“What the hell?”
With a blast, a cannon shot slammed into the rock around the mouth of the cave, and the concussion blew Troy down into the hole where Hitchcock had disappeared. He didn’t have time to scream.
***
The man lying in the sand at the mouth of the wadi aimed the bazooka carefully and fired. The tank exploded, sending parts flying. The soldiers looked around but the billowing black smoke hid the man’s escape.
Tully Pettigrew was going to make them all pay for killing the rest of the Rat Patrol.
***
As far as he could tell he was alone, except for the fountain and the sound of rustling as if there were rats in the buildings. He was tired through, and the water was cool under his fingers.
Moffitt thought about the telegram. In the proper order of things, he would have been his mother’s favorite son, not Ian. His brother had been a late child and sickly enough that he didn’t go to boarding school until well after the age when most boys went. Jack had always shared his father’s interests; thus the family had split up in unspoken agreement. His mother kept up appearances in Cambridge, acting the loyal faculty wife and enjoying the privileges while his father did what he loved best–exploring, excavating and writing. There was love there still, but it had turned into simple companionship. His parents were simply used to each other. Jack’s arrival had upset the balance between them, but Ian’s had re-balanced it, going towards his mother. The family arrangement had worked out.
He shook his head, looking around. Another of the lights was gone, leaving only the one behind him. He heard hooting from the olive trees. Probably another owl out hunting in the deep night. But it shouldn’t be that late in the day! Where was the sun? He hadn’t been in that underground river long enough to bring out the moon, and besides, it should be a moonless night. He should be hearing bombers as the Allies went to destroy the Afrika Korps. The fountain’s water should be absorbed by the sand and dirt of the basin, but instead the water was pooling as if the basin were empty. Maybe he was dead, after all, and this was the afterlife. If that was true, then why was he still worried about his mother?
Are you an unfilial child? Have you made your mother ashamed?
“No, I am not! Both my parents were proud when I joined up, though my father wasn’t too pleased when I came back in a ranker’s uniform, not an officer’s,” Moffitt said crossly, looking around. “I never did anything to make her ashamed of me. I never gave her any reason to accuse me of being unfilial!”
The kylix was so familiar. He reached over to touch it, and a fraction of a second late, recognized the motif. Orestes, tormented by the Erinyes until he threw himself on the mercy of the goddess, Athena. She held a trial and judged him innocent, annoying the Erinyes, the Furies, who reluctantly promised to abide by the ruling in return for other amenities. Aeschylus, the ancient Greek playwright had written one of his greatest plays about it.
“Ian!” His fingers burned as he pulled back. The jar rocked, then fell into the sand that had piled against the side of the basin. The stylized owl lid shattered, the grave dust inside falling out. A viper slid out, coiling within easy reach of his hand. He froze.
A hand gripped the back of his neck. “You killed your brother,” a woman whispered.
He tried to move, but the woman had a death grip on his hair. The snake was hissed and lifted its head.
“I didn’t kill my brother,” he finally whispered. That was the only thing he could think to say. What the hell is going on?
“Your mother said you killed him,” the woman hissed.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw two globes of light reappear. They bobbed like torches but he couldn’t see who was holding them. He did hear hissing. More snakes? The Erinyes had heads covered with snakes, and carried torches and whips. His back stung from cuts.
None of this made sense. Well, if that was true, then he’d better play along with it. That was what the commandos taught you – await your opportunity and then act. “My mother was wrong. I didn’t drop the bomb that killed Ian.”
“This jar.”
“The kylix? It was a gift.”
“He set that jar above his mother’s deepest wishes because it was a gift from you.”
Moffitt’s head was spinning. That opened up new understanding. “Ian died because of the jar? Who are you?” he asked desperately. “Tisiphone? Alecto? Or Megaera?”
***
Sam Troy bobbed along in Hitchcock’s wake, pulled towards a narrow sliver of light in the distance. They’d fallen into some kind of underground spring. As far as he could make out, it was part of an ancient water system that probably supported some kind of city. The water smelled strange, and the walls were slimy. Something must have happened to seal up the spring until the tank’s rounds had jarred it loose. The light entered where the wall had ruptured.
He still felt bruising where bricks and stones had hit him after he landed in the icy flow. Hitchcock had dragged his head above the flow, then they’d been buoyed along as the stream flowed out towards the light.
Troy just hoped desperately that the crack was large enough for them to crawl out.
Hitchcock reached it first, catching the slimy walls and dragging himself up towards the light. The water filled most of the opening.
“Get back, Sarge. I think I can make it larger,” Hitchcock called.
Troy swam backward and watched as the young man braced himself, and pulled at the rocks. Several of the bricks fell down, and water surged out.
Hitchcock fell outside, helped by the water pressure.
Troy followed him. Dragging themselves out of the waterfall, they sat in the shade offered by an olive tree that leaned precariously over them. The mid-afternoon sun cast long shadows over the ruined valley.
“Where are we, Sarge?” Hitchcock finally asked
Troy shrugged. He didn’t have a clue. They were on the other side of the mountain, and lost without their jeeps, without any way of contacting their lines, and all he had was Moffitt’s cap badge, which had ground itself into his hand. He unfolded his fist and looked at the medallion. Where was he? Drowned in the river? Lost in the darkness? Down in the abandoned city? Smashed into pulp by the tank?
There was a hoot from above, and with the suddenness of a thunderbolt an owl swooped down, ruffling their hair, and glided towards the city.
“Hey!” Startled, both men flinched.
Troy raised an eyebrow. “A guide?”
“Guess we’re headed down there,” Hitchcock commented watching the bird disappear into the ruins.
Troy nodded as he put the badge into his shirt pocket, and led the way. The city was the only place that offered any shelter for the night. “There’s nowhere else to go.”
***
“What do you know about us?” the woman asked in an eerie whisper.
Moffitt thought about all he knew about the Erinyes—the daughters of Night, avengers of matricide, goddesses of revenge. With a heart-sickening thud he wondered if his mother was dead, and they were here because of that. Then rationality, as much as could be thought of when one was held captive with an ancient Greek Fury, returned. The telegram had come from his mother. She was still alive. And why would she blame him?
“You demand justice for family crimes. You drive men to suicide and pursue them even afterwards to Hell. But why are you after me?”
“Your mother called us.”
Moffitt’s head spun. His mother had sent the Kindly Ones after him? That was crazy. She might send the MPs or Cambridge constable, but Greek Furies? She couldn’t even identify them in a textbook. For an archeologist’s wife, she had never shown much interest in the mythological aspect. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.
Wrong answer. Tisiphone slammed his head into the water. He scrabbled at the sand, pushing it aside as best he could trying to get a grip. She pulled up his hair and he gasped as air returned to his lungs. “She called us.”
He knew that unless he could get some kind of help he was doomed. Calling frantically on Greek plays he’d read back in Wales, he called, “I am not guilty of fratricide. I ask.…” he remembered the play, “Athena, to judge my case.”
Silence.
The snake hissed finally, breaking the silence. Tisiphone let go of his hair, and he heard rustling as if she’d moved back. He didn’t dare look behind him; the movement might anger her.
He sat upright being careful not to look at the other torches. “I did not kill my brother. Why do you say I did?”
“The kylix.”
Moffitt looked at the curved jar. He could see the cracks left even after their careful rebuilding. His hand still stung from the heat it had given off, like the fragments of an exploded bomb. “The kylix? We built it together. My brother loved it; it was as if he’d gone along with us on that trip. He loved it more than…did he die because of the kylix?”
Silence.
He picked up the jar, ignoring the warning hiss of the snake and the burning heat, and held it up to the stars. “I ask for judgment from Pallas Athena. If I am guilty, then let Tisipone’s snakes kill me here and now. I will not try to escape as Orestes did. But I did not kill Ian. My mother was wrong.”
The skies above him blurred as if the stars were streaming comets. The viper reared up and hissed, and the torches flared.
An owl came out of the darkness like a thunderbolt and snatched up the snake, powerful wings sweeping inches from his face as it flew off, serpentine coils waving frantically in the air.
Judgment is given!
The last rays of the sun hit his eyes and he dropped his hands now empty of a vase. He covered his face and collapsed into the sand. God it was suddenly so hot, and he felt feverish. His skin was on fire. What had happened to the night and stars? He blacked out.
***
Tully led the Germans a merry chase, throwing grenades, then hiding until they decided to retreat, taking their casualties with them. It took hours for them to clear out, leaving only the smoldering remains of the tank, its dead crew, and the bodies of several soldiers. He knew they’d be back in the morning. If he was going to find the other members of the Rat Patrol, dead or alive, he had only the night.
He walked to the mouth of the cave, past the tank, and stopped. To the east were piles of rocks, and debris. To the west lay the cave and the winding road. To the north was the wall with the cave. He wrapped his handkerchief around a piece of metal blown off the tank, making a makeshift torch, set the cloth alight from the flames, and went into the cave.
He saw the Zippo where it had fallen when Troy fell, and a gaping hole in the floor. Cocking his head he heard gurgling water.
“Where is it going?” he asked aloud just to hear a human voice and was startled by the echoes. He retreated outside into the cool air, and pondered for a second.
If there was a tunnel with water, and it was gurgling north, then there had to be a place for it to go. So he had to go north. He looked up at the tall stone above him, and shook his head. Not that way.
He headed back to the jeep. There had to be some way to go north, some path he’d missed when he and Moffitt were tearing through the wadis escaping the tank. He would find it one way or another.
A half-hour later, he slowed down at a pile of sand that looked almost as if it were passable. He’d have to check it out on foot first. He parked in a dark shadow, picked up the machine gun, and headed up the shifting dune. The stars were so bright that it was almost like daylight.
***
Jack Moffitt opened his eyes and looked around. Empty. No more hanging lights, no more torches, no more Furies. The shards of the kylix were gone, and the fountain’s basin was filled with sand. The only thing that was the same was the fountain, splashing drops like molten silver matching the reflections off the blue tiles. He started to struggle to his feet but his legs were numb. Looking down he saw his skin had been scored through his torn pants, and he’d lost one shoe.
I have to get out of here. I have to talk to my mother!
He managed to get halfway up before he heard voices. He couldn’t tell who they were or even if they were English or German. He dragged himself closer to the fountain, drenching himself in the water. Maybe if he got around to the other side, he could hide. An owl hooted and flew over him, then soared into the dark sky.
***
Troy heard the gurgling water. The explosion must have jarred other things free as well. He headed cautiously through the darkened rooms of the villa that led directly to the square where the ruined minaret held court over the small town. Hitchcock prowled to one side, looking around.
All they found was the dust of abandonment, and destruction that came with age. Troy estimated the city had been empty for roughly a century, from the look of the wreckage. One building had had rusted chains and litter which rustled as if there were snakes or rats in among it. Well, that would explain why there was an owl.
“Sarge!”
“What?”
Hitchcock waved something in his hand. It was a familiar sight, and Troy’s heart gave an extra beat. A black beret.
“Let’s find him,” Troy said decisively, feeling a touch of hope.
They came out into the last touches of afternoon as the sun set behind the ruined mosque. Long shadows lay across the front courtyard where a fountain was spouting sparkling water over a drenched Moffitt. He recognized them, and stopped struggling.
“Hey, Sarge!” Hitchcock said jubilantly, raising his hand. “Didn’t think we’d see you again?”
“How are you?” Troy said, slightly more seriously.
“Not too bad,” Moffitt replied flippantly, standing, using the slender column of the fountain as a support. “How’d did you find me?”
“We followed the water,” Troy replied. “Did that tank get you at all?”
Moffitt grimaced. “No. It was a rough trip through the water pipe, though.”
“Where is this?” Hitchcock asked. He waved his hands around at the town.
“Looks like an old slave town,” Moffitt answered. He let go of the fountain, swayed, then gritting his teeth, moved towards them. “The Arabs used to bring caravans through this area.”
“And they abandoned it?” Troy asked, stepping up and grabbing Moffitt as he stumbled. He wasn’t going to say anything but the Englishman looked like death.
“A long time ago,” Moffitt concluded. “They must have shut off the water supply, or there was a rock slide, or a thousand other things. They abandoned the town.”
“Make a fire, Hitch,” Troy ordered. “It’s going to be a cold night.”
Hitchcock pulled out his lighter. “I’ll rustle up some of these dried palm leaves and have it started right away.”
Troy helped Moffitt sit down by the side of the fountain. Moffitt eased himself out of his wet jacket, and found the shirt inside was damp but wearable. “Sliced yourself up,” Troy said judiciously.
“Cuts and bruises.” Moffitt felt in the jacket and pulled out the telegram. “Let’s use this to light the fire.”
Troy frowned. “I thought you were keeping it for…reading in the future.” He was at loss. He’d seen Moffitt transfer the paper from jacket to inner pocket the few times they’d managed to get a new shirt or uniform, almost as if it were a talisman or a debt. So why had Moffitt kept it?
Moffitt shook his head. “I don’t need this any more.”
“Why?” Troy asked.
They were interrupted by Hitchcock’s return, dragging dead palm and olive branches behind him. “Hey! Can I get a hand here?”
Troy rose. “You stay put, Jack,” he ordered. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Moffitt folded his arms onto his bent knees, resting his chin on his forearms. “I really must talk with Mother,” he whispered.
***
Tully Pettigrew thought that if he wanted to be a mountain goat, he’d have been born with four legs and horns. He’d stumbled into two dead ends and been forced to backtrack more than once, and now it was getting cold and darker. The stars seemed far, far away.
He blew on his fingers, feeling them tingle. It was going to be a classic desert night–freezing cold, and dark with no moon.
Too-hoo! An owl flew down, scraping its claws on the metal pot helmet. Cursing, he ducked and felt his foot slip on the small stones. He clawed at the sand but slipped down several feet. Muttering curses, he shifted until he felt secure, then looked around. He started in surprise, his feet slid, and he cursed as he fell on one knee.
The young man was about five feet to his left. He was slender and wiry and had the curly dark hair of the Moffitt family, but he was years younger than Jack Moffitt. He had his right hand up as if he were shading his eyes.
“Sarge?”
The boy beckoned without turning his head, and then walked over the edge of the dune, not saying a word.
Tully shifted the toothpick in his mouth and wondered what the hell was going on? Oh, well, that seemed to be as good away as any. He headed over the rim into the midnight darkness of the other side.
***
The fire reflected off the faces of the three men and the slender fountain. The crackle was matched by the tinkling.
“I wonder if we can drink it?” Hitchcock finally asked, looking at the water.
“If you want to have the trots for a week, just try it,” Troy commented amused.
Moffitt laughed. “Pity no one brought supper.”
“It’s back at the jeep,” Tully Pettigrew called out of the darkness. “But I think we’d better wait till dawn’s early light. That path’s a killer.”
Hitchcock whooped. “Tully!”
Troy grinned, and Moffitt laughed. “So he didn’t catch you, eh?”
Tully sank down beside Hitchcock, who gave him a slap on the back, then went back to feeding the palm leaves to their fire. “Naw, but the Germans looked like they wanted to get back early. How’re you doing?
“Wet,” Moffitt said briefly, feeling his jacket lying beside the fire.
“You can get us out?” Troy asked.
“Yeah, I followed a boy—”
“Boy?” Troy broke in. He remembered back to the cave. Had he really seen someone who looked like Moffitt?
“Yeah, I thought so, but I coulda been wrong,” Tully said uneasily. “He was gone when I came over the hill. Didn’t even find footsteps in the sand, though most of that is rock on this side.”
Moffitt cocked his head. “Was he real?”
The night wind blowing through the crackling fire was the only sound. Normally Troy would have scoffed, but not tonight. He’d seen a boy where there shouldn’t have been one.
Finally, Tully shrugged. “Looked like a ghost to me, Sarge.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Troy said unexpectedly.
Moffitt looked at him inquiringly. “Do you believe in ghosts, Troy?”
Troy gazed around at the dead city, the broken minaret, at the barren and abandoned houses that lined the square where the fountain’s water sparkled as it fell. “Not out there. But in here?”
“I thought ghosts showed up when there was unfinished business,” Hitchcock commented, looking around.
“Unfinished business? Lots of reasons for there to be ghosts. We English have always had ghost stories,” Moffitt replied glossing over his discomfort. “If he was a ghost, he was a kindly one.”
“It’s gonna take three hours to climb out,” Tully said prosaically, shattering the spell.
“Then everyone get some rest,” Troy ordered. The others nodded.
“Hey, Sarge,” Hitchcock called, grinning at Moffitt. “Got something of yours.”
Moffitt looked puzzled.
Hitchcock held out the beret. “Found it on the way.”
“Thank you,” Moffitt said taking it.
“Here,” Troy added, tossing him the silver cap pin. “Now you’re dressed.”
Moffitt laughed. The men settled down to sleep.
Moffitt lay on his back, looking at the stars, and wondered if any of it was real. He was sure it had happened; the back of his head still hurt from her pulling his hair, and the sharp wounds on his back were more like whip marks than abrasions from the brick walls. The only way to know if it was real, though, was to ask his mother about it, and the jar, and he wasn’t sure he could summon up the courage to do that right now. Better let sleeping dead lie.
“Athena, guard over us tonight,” he murmured in Greek. Somewhere an owl hooted.
***
Dear Mother, I was sorry to hear about Ian. He will always be very special to me.… Elizabeth Moffitt read the letter all the way through, then went over to the dresser where she kept letters from her husband and son, and put it on top of the others.
She was glad that Jack had finally written to her. She didn’t remember a great deal about the night Ian died, but she had kept the pieces of Ian’s jar for Jack to repair when he returned from the war. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept them, except that Ian would have wanted his brother to have the kylix to remember him by. It is a horrible old pot with those three hags on it, she thought. I don’t see why the boys liked it in the first place. I’d rather have flowers.
She turned her attention to the metal plaque in her hands, Ian’s memorial to be mounted in the wall of the local church. It had taken some effort to get the metal since most was designated for military uses.
She paused momentarily, cocking her head, as something struck her. She ought to post this plaque high on the wall, leaving room for another underneath in case Jack died. It was only considerate after all. Then the family would be together after all.
She’d leave room.