Behind the Ivory Veil
18 Invasion
Thursday, 11 August 1995, Edinburgh, Scotland
GETTING OUT OF SCOTLAND and to the Metéora proved more complicated than anticipated. Rebecca spent most of Thursday at the embassy retrieving her updated passport with her new name. She ran to the university and explained to Dr. Reston that she would be pursuing a lead in Central Greece where a form of goddess worship was still practiced at the very foot of the Orthodox monasteries. And that while based in the Greek pantheon, it appeared that a single goddess was the object of reverence. This supported Rebecca’s thesis that both modern Christianity and ancient goddess worship coexisted in the same space. Reston raised an eyebrow at the rather weak connection.
“And, of course, the fact that your husband is somewhere in that vicinity of Greece is entirely coincidental,” he chuckled as he signed the travel voucher.
“I… uh… Dr. Reston,” Rebecca started and stopped multiple times, much to the amusement of her advisor.
“Mrs. Allen, I have been friends with Professor and Mrs. Weed for many years,” he said. “Alice and I already discussed the likelihood that you would want to engage in this pursuit. Yes, I am aware that your husband is investigating an ancient site with Doctor Heinrich. Heinrich has been a guest lecturer in archaeology here on several occasions. I am also aware that Dr. McGuire has taken off with intents of cashing in on Dr. Heinrich’s find. McGuire did his undergraduate work here and then moved to the United States specifically to study under Heinrich a dozen years ago. You pursue the pursuer. Good hunting, Mrs. Allen.”
Rebecca left his office somewhat bemused and even a bit confused. Mrs. Weed met her outside the door and took her directly to Waverly train station.
“I packed your bag with everything you should need and expect you to return to me before you return to the United States, dearie,” the old woman said.
“It’s all happening so fast,” said Rebecca. “I hardly know what to do next.”
“Things are likely to slow down once you get to London. I have no idea how you will get from there to Athens, nor from Athens to your husband. But I know you will arrive safely. Your circle will pray for your safe and successful journey.”
“Thank you, Alice. I don’t know how to say it any more heartfelt than that. You have given me both hope and power.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Oh, my dear mentor! How could I be anything but? You have taught me well.”
“Blessings light and dark, Sadb,” Mrs. Weed whispered. “May the goddess smile upon you.”
Rebecca boarded the night train for London’s King’s Cross station. It was not a peaceful journey. The night train made frequent stops for local commuters, even late in the night. With each jarring bounce, Rebecca cradled her tender hand more carefully. She hugged her walking stick, now her wand, as she was bounced into and out of a restless sleep in which visions of Wesley in a vast temple plagued her.
Friday, 12 August 1955, London, England
Rebecca arrived at King’s Cross with no other intent at the surface of her mind than finding a cup of coffee. Near the busy train station, she found a café that advertised coffee and ordered a full English breakfast to go with it. It was a typically bland and boiled breakfast, but the café did have salt and pepper that she applied liberally to the entire meal.
On Euston Road, Rebecca found a travel agent, but she was much too early for its posted hours. She wandered on, thinking she might stop at the British Library, but realizing that, too, would still be closed. Near exhaustion from her sleepless night, she stumbled into a small hotel and booked a room. Once there, she collapsed into sleep without bothering to undress.
It was after noon when she roused herself and she panicked at the thought of missing the travel agent. Carrying only her purse and staff, she rushed out of the hotel and the two blocks to the agency.
“How may I help you?” asked a stiff man at the main desk. He wasn’t much if any older than Rebecca, but acted as if he were fifty and she a teen. She glanced at her disheveled and travel-weary appearance and laughed at herself.
“I need to book transport to Athens by the fastest route,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve not had much sleep getting here. It is a family emergency.”
“Ah, I see,” he responded, loosening a bit. “I understand your condition.” She was sure she saw an eyebrow lift at the mention. “London to Athens by fastest route. According to the timetables, it appears that you should fly. There is, however, no direct flight. I could send you via Paris or Rome. No. No. The Rome flight is also via Paris.” He busily shuffled through his timetables and belatedly waved Rebecca to a chair. “Ah. I see. You’ll be flying London to Paris, Paris to Rome, and Rome to Athens. You can be on the first flight first thing in the morning and change planes in Paris, but I’m afraid you will need lodging in Rome before a morning flight on Sunday to Athens. Should I book lodging in Athens for you as well?”
Rebecca was overwhelmed. She just wanted to reach Wesley. Paris? Rome? And no time to see either one.
“Just book the flights and the overnight in Rome,” she finally responded. “I will arrange things… uh… with family… in Athens.”
“Of course. And how would you be paying for this Miss…?”
“Mrs. Mrs. Rebecca Allen.” She handed the agent her travel voucher from the University.
“Passport?” she handed it over and he copied down details. “I must call to verify the voucher and then call the airlines. If you could return at half past three, I should have everything arranged,” he smiled at her. “If I make a suggestion, Mrs. Allen?” She nodded. “You might want fancier dress when you board the aircraft. I understand you’ve been in the north,” he sniffed, “and conditions are different among the Scots. But air travel, you know?”
Rebecca nodded. She might look a bit strange in her hiking gear, but she would need it in Greece. She hoped Mrs. Weed had packed a dress.
Saturday, 13 August 1955, Rome, Italy
None of Rebecca’s destinations were in countries where her limited German could be of help. As a result, the trip was a confusion of different voices and different languages, none of which she understood. A kindly flight attendant had pointed her to the right desk to check in for her flight to Rome. When she arrived at the airport outside of Rome, it was only three in the afternoon, but it seemed to be too great a journey to try to see the Vatican when she couldn’t even tell the taxi driver where she wanted to go. She had simply held out the note with the name and address of her hotel and half an hour later was unloaded on Via Fiumara in front of a small hotel. Inside, a very friendly and talkative desk clerk welcomed her.
“You’re American!” Rebecca exclaimed.
“Zeke Mosely of Corn Crib, Kansas,” he grinned. “Don’t bother looking on the map. They call me out of the cellar whenever a reservation is made in English.”
“How did you happen to end up here?”
“Compliments of the U.S. Army. Arrived just in time for the end-war occupation. A lot of leisure found me in the clutches of my sweet Luciana. Got married and now I’ve got three little Dago rug rats running around. They all speak better Italian than English. I think they are conspiring against me!” Zeke jabbered away.
“Fascinating. I wish I could spend more time here. It’s lovely,” Rebecca said. The hotel was small but filled with a quaint charm.
“It’s the only thing I got during the war,” he laughed. “My wife’s parents owned it. They sent me here to fight the Krauts, but the biggest thing I ever shot was a rabbit.” Rebecca laughed. “It’s on the menu tonight,” he nodded. Rebecca snorted at the admission.
“Before I commit to eating it, what year did you shoot it in?”
“Neither ear. Shot it right in the tail,” he rejoined. “Mrs. Allen, I understand you are under some duress in this journey. Let me get your things settled in your room and then please come down to rest in the bar. I will fix you a Bellini. You will sit and watch the people and for a few minutes, you will let your mind rest from your troubles.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s the Italian way. When you stop and think about it, it’s the way I was raised in Kansas… except, of course, I wouldn’t have served alcohol. I like it much better here.”
Rebecca took a short nap before taking advantage of Zeke’s offer. It would not do to have any kind of alcoholic drink as tired as she was. What would Wesley think? Sleep claimed her rapidly.
She walks along a moonlit path, her steps ringing in her ears, the only sound in the silence surrounding her. She must hush. Everyone will know she is here.
Deciding she can move more silently without her shoes, Rebecca is suddenly naked, her bare feet moving noiselessly through the dense forest. She is The Hart and The Hind, accustomed to stealth. She is a goddess of transformation, changing in any way she desires.
The baying of hounds breaks through the quiet and she runs. As they close in, her panic mounts. She can see their bared teeth and glowing eyes. They leap for her exposed throat… and freeze in the air. Suddenly, they are puppies, playfully rolling over each other as she rubs their soft bellies.
The one who set these hounds on her trail is a danger to the forest, given to her keeping. Waving the dogs to the fore, she paces through the forest as they pick up the scent of her pursuer and bay in anger. Like Diana, she is no longer the hunted but the huntress. She follows the pack as they race toward the menace.
The stag does not flee when they approach. He turns casually toward her as she stretches her bow. A demon sneers from the beast, changing to a horned man. He waves a hand and the dogs fall to the ground whining, circling in confusion. They look at him and then at her before vanishing in the night.
“You have come to me at last,” he laughs.
“I have come for you,” she responds.
“It makes no difference. Here in the green we will mate. When we meet on the physical plane you will be mine. Then I will be the hart and you will be my hind.”
Rebecca, Sadb, feels moisture gathering at the juncture of her thighs and feels the pressure of her hardening nipples. She is drawn to the evil beast, stepping near enough that he might almost touch her. She might almost touch him. She becomes lost in his hypnotic eyes. Hunter or hunted? Which is which?
Just as their lips are about to touch, a horn sounds. Voices surround them. The hounds return. They are encircled. The confident sneer on the face of the horned man begins to fade. The voices, like music, close in on them and the demon turns to run. Before his first leap a thousand arrows sprout from his hide. Screaming in agony, the demon disappears. The hounds leap into the void after him.
Sadb stands frozen, awaiting her own fate.
The hunter’s song softens. He is no longer death stalking her, but is the gamekeeper, protecting his forest from poachers, healing the injured, feeding the hungry. His softly glowing presence emerges from the forest into the clearing, comforting her with his music.
His image resolves and becomes clear. A smile crosses her lips as she looks into the eyes…
Wesley!
Saturday, 13 August 1955, City of the Gods
In Greece, or at some point in the universe which he accessed through Greece, Wesley once again packed his tools—pencil, paper, string, and guitar—to leave the rostrum. The patterns and figures he had recorded spun madly in his head as he attempted to make sense of them. He was certain now that the symbols on the rostrum had moved in relation to each other. His head throbbed at the implications. He was a good Christian. This was deep pagan magic.
If only he could reconcile the two.
That was only one of the wishes that had grown in his mind. The more he hummed and played the soft tunes that came to mind as he sketched the drawings, the more he yearned for Rebecca. Yearned for his wife. He wished for a soft bed with her in his arms. Of course, he also wished for a ham sandwich, an Orange Crush, and a grand piano.
And to be off the mountain by nightfall.
The entire team had been affected by the strange warning that seemed to emanate from the rostrum when Wesley sang there. It was fearful yet seductive. They all left the site well before sundown, traveling into the setting sun and the fog that shrouded them. Their quiet nighttime conversations left Doc and Margaret as disconcerted as Wesley. They had delved much deeper into a mystery than they could fathom. They had seen not only into the past, but into the consciousness of humanity. Their work in the City of the Gods continued with a deeper sense of reverence and a mission that had previously been undiscovered. They were recording the foundation of humanity. The work was urgent and must be completed soon. They were called to do this work, as certainly as young missionaries were called to the service of God.
And yet none of them considered risking the dark to stay on the mountain after nightfall.
The four weary people linked together by their rope, climbed down from the mountain in the dense fog. The music was there. Wesley always heard singing voices in the fog. He was thankful for the silence of his partners who seemed to hear nothing. To Wesley, though, the music was as tangible and present as the tightness of the rope around his waist. It brought him down from the mountain gently. Each night he returned to the camp at peace after hearing the music.
This afternoon, however, the voices were agitated. It chilled Wesley to listen to the music. The soprano was too shrill. It grated on his ears. It was taking too long to get down the mountain. He was becoming more tired instead of less. For the first time, Wesley could feel the looseness of the rocks, the volitility of the ground he was walking on. It seemed like a living thing, heaving, breathing beneath his feet. Something in the air spoke of destruction, devastation. He was sweating beneath his pack and guitar.
A premonition preceded the ground collapsing under him by a fraction of a second. Before his back hit the ground, however, he was out of the fog. It disappeared behind him as quickly as it had closed in. Doc’s low curse broke through the air crushing the last echo of the singing voices from Wesley’s ears. He started to say he was all right but cut off quickly when he realized that none of the rest of the team had even noticed his fall. They had emerged from the fog ahead of Wesley and dropped the ropes at once. Doc’s abrupt curse was joined by a low moan from Wesley as they looked down on the remnants of their camp.
The bivouacs had been slashed and lay scattered. Other supplies had been raided. After a brief inventory, it appeared the only food remaining would be in their packs, or down at their supply point.
The three moved on to assess the notes that they had so carefully compiled. Doc’s and Margaret’s were intact. Wesley’s notes were gone.
“It’s McGuire’s work,” said Doc. “He would take the single item that he thought was valuable—a key to the treasure. The destruction must be intended to drive us away so he has the site to himself.”
“No.” Wesley held his guitar in his hands. “I won’t back down.” He strummed a soft chord and a chilling vocal cadence.
“Why only Wesley’s drawings?” asked Margaret.
“Maps,” answered Wesley as he continued to lose himself in the strumming of his guitar—seeking the calm center music always brought him. The other two stared at him blankly. “It occurred to me a few days ago that the drawings resembled maps if you looked at them correctly. Especially with my notations of the directions on them. If, as you say, he is looking for the key to a treasure, a map would be the first thing to grab.”
“That’s true,” answered Doc. “I am sorry about the loss of your work, Wesley. We will have to attempt to reconstruct it together.”
“Not worth our while,” he shrugged. “Those were all early attempts. It is a four-tiered guide. If the symbols on the rostrum shift as the days go by, then so do the directions. Given a year of drawings and a few months to study them, it might be possible to predict the movements, just as astronomers predict the movements of the firmament. If he follows the guide, he might come close, but he could never reach the City.” Wesley hit a harsher chord on the guitar and lifted his voice in a dissonant complement. Across the greensward Pol snapped his head and locked eyes with Wesley.
The shrill note Pol emitted reminded Wesley of the too-shrill soprano in the fog. An evening wind was rising in the camp and whipped at Pol’s hair and loose clothing. He and Wesley moved toward each other, never wavering in their cadence nor their eye contact. They turned to face the westering sun, and as Wesley maintained the underlying rhythm and vocalese, Pol’s voice rose in a chant that raised the hairs on Doc’s and Margaret’s arms.
May your mattress be of thorns.
May your blanket be of storms.
Lie down with scorpions as your bedmates,
And rise with ants as your companions.
May all the gods rise against you at every step
And plunge you headlong into darkness.
As my heart is honest,
May my words be strong!
Pol slapped his hands together, ending the curse. As if an echo, thunder clapped in the northwest and clouds moved quickly from behind the mountain.
Wesley’s eyes never wavered from Pol as the boy turned to descend the rock on which he’d been standing. Guitar dropped on the ground, Wesley was in action before conscious thought caught up with his body. Pol lost his footing as a brutal gust of wind hit him from behind. In that second, Wesley found himself exactly beneath the falling boy, catching him in his arms.
Pol wrapped his arms around Wesley’s neck and began to sob as the musician carried him back into the camp. Wesley laid the boy down on his own bedroll and whipped the shreds of the bivouac out of the way as Margaret and Doc scurried to get food and water together. He cradled Pol in his arms near the base of the old tree, fed him, and talked to him.
“I’m not injured,” Pol said.
“Not in body. Your spirit has been hurt,” answered Wesley.
“I have never cursed.” Pol’s whole body shook. The storm moved to the west and below them. Their greensward remained undisturbed but for a gentle breeze that cooled the night air. Doc brought Wesley his guitar from where it had been dropped and helped Wesley remove the shreds of his bivouac. All four bedrolls were moved closer together and Pol stretched out on his between Wesley and Margaret. As if her mothering instinct took control, she held and soothed the boy.
“Tomorrow is our day of rest,” Doc said. “Brother El was to have left us supplies today. We’ll hike down and replenish for our last week up here. I trust Marcos will make the journey to retrieve us next Sunday.”
“Papa will be here as promised.”
“Good. We will defy this attack on our camp by not being moved.”
“Pol,” whispered Wesley, “we make a good team. Do not fear. In as much as God… all the gods… give me strength, I will protect you, my son.”
Wesley once again strummed his guitar. This time, his voice spoke in a plaintive lullaby as the clouds scattered from the night sky. The others fell asleep to the gentle and soothing tones.
Wesley lay awake long after he had laid his guitar aside attempting to come to grips with his sudden acceptance of other gods than the One he had served all his life. In his half-sleep, he stood once again before the Temple of Aurora Borealis, but this time saw the rostrum growing from its floor before him.
Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy would follow him. Even into the night.
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