A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  ISBN: 978-1-4835571-8-2

  For my family

  “All things are in the hand of heaven, and Folly, eldest of Jove’s daughters, shuts men’s eyes to their destruction. She walks delicately, not on the solid earth, but hovers over the heads of men to make them stumble or to ensnare them.”

  —Homer, The Iliad

  “Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say

  that we devise their misery. But they

  themselves—in their depravity—design

  grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.”

  —Homer, The Odyssey

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  PROLOGUE

  Crete 1908

  A chill ran down his spine and goose-bumps prickled his skin as the cold darkness enveloped him, swallowed him, the realm of Hades tormentingly near. He sucked in a breath of the damp air and blinked furiously, anxious to find his bearings, to discern hard rocky wall from empty space. It was his fault, he had dropped the torch and they had no choice but to save the reserve for later. For their destination. He would manage. He knew the way.

  “Andros?” The nervous voice caught him almost unaware. Andros, Dros, Dros…the echo bounced off the walls around him and made him feel dizzy for a moment, as though the walls were moving closer and caging him in. He exhaled, trying to steady himself. They just had to follow the plan. He was good at that. Good at being patient, good at doing what he was told, at following directions to the letter.

  “It’s all right,” he tried to sound calm, quelling his fear as it mingled with the excitement that bubbled inside him, ready to explode. They were so close now. He could feel the rhythmic beat of his heart increasing, a nervous echo in his chest. “Stay where you are, your eyes will adjust. Have patience.” Listening for a moment, he became aware of the labored breathing of his brother close behind.

  He stood still for another moment, no other sounds dared to intrude, eerie silence, thick with mystery, with secrets to be uncovered swathed them in its heavy shroud. The Sirens are calling, only you can hear. Run for safety, or plunge and fall prey to temptation. His eyes began to adjust, slowly deciphering the jagged outline of a rocky outcrop above him. It was close. He could feel it. His muscles tensed, stiff and solid, waves of energy pulsing through him, barely contained anticipation. Despite the cold, he felt beads of sweat dotting his brow and running down his temples.

  “Andros? I think I see you. Yes.” A few unsure steps followed these words, and he saw the shadowy outline of his younger brother, warily moving toward him.

  “Come, but beware your steps, a wrong move could be your last.”

  Slowly, with his hands carefully outstretched, he felt his way forward. The air was growing stale, thick and cloying with dust and age.

  “Are we almost there?”

  “Close, very close.”

  Breath was quickening, he shivered. So close now. Everything would change. For a split, indulgent second, he allowed himself a fantasy of the glory that would come, of the life that awaited him. Yes, not much further now. His feet, clad only in his worn leather shoes felt every rock on the uneven ground, a sensation that gave him comfort, a feeling of awareness that had replaced his compromised eyesight and heightened his sense of touch. Hands extended, he reached into the blackness like a blind man. Suddenly they came up against something. Wall. Hard rock wall. The tunnel had come to an abrupt end.

  “What is this? Are we lost?”

  Andros frowned, small creases folding his forehead, his brother’s voice behind him a distracting intrusion. “No,” he answered carefully, unconsciously holding his breath. He ran his hands along the roughness of the stony wall, seemingly solid and impenetrable, until… Yes, a smooth oval protrusion in the rock face. Sucking in a nervous lungful of dusty air, he pushed. The oval receded into the wall with neat precision. A momentary silence. Then, as if by some miraculous force, the wall gave way, an ingenious mechanism. A dense cloud of dust and debris rose up, sending both men staggering backward, coughing, and rubbing their stinging eyes. Soon the dust settled and silence was again upon them. Neither spoke, fear and excitement taking hold of them. Andros swallowed. It was all coming together. They were here, finally.

  “The torch, now.” His voice was almost a whisper, thick with anticipation. A hiss, and a flicker of orange light shot out of the darkness, illuminating his brother’s dirty face. Reluctantly the younger man handed it over. No words were exchanged as Andros took the first careful step, holding the glowing light before him. He entered the chamber, eyes wide, barely breathing. He had found it! He wanted to shout out in joy, in relief. He had known all along, he had found it.

  “So, this is it.”

  Andros turned, sensing something strange in his brother’s tone. The younger man’s face was still cast in shadow, save for the glittering eyes, shining in the gloom like those of an animal.

  “Yes, this is it,” he turned around again, taking it in, the glory. His glory. A sudden coldness at his neck startled him, a stab of pain. And then the blackness returned. Endless and unrelenting.

  CHAPTER 1

  London March 1925

  Rain and Rain and Rain.

  "Ran away from home! And with that man, would you believe it!" Aunt Agnes raises her eyebrows, and I roll my eyes. Her voice drops an octave as she hisses, "Lady Margot told me her parents are threatening to disown her." She nods, her smugness nearly impelling me to get to my feet and leave, slamming the door for good measure, but I restrain myself. There are bigger things to worry about. Frowning, her mouth falls into its natural disapproving position, small lines at the corners crinkling like the tops of my favorite ginger biscuits. Another subtle but firm shake of the head before she busies herself with her embroidery.

  Tired, or simply bored silly—I can hardly distinguish the difference—I sink back into the stiff cushioned sofa and glance out of the window facing the empty square. Fat raindrops splatter loudly against the glass, and I barely stifle a sigh. My aunt’s ire is fueled by the elopement of my old school friend, Laura Hallan. I secretly wish I could have attended the wedding myself, but it all had to be done very discreetly, and I have little experience in subterfuge, a fact that strikes me as oddly displeasing. There is however, a little nugget of opportunity that has, quite temptingly, been tossed my way; an opportunity that no one in this house could knows about, least of all dear Auntie … certainly not yet.
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  I was able to seize the letter before Aunt Agnes had a chance to see the name of the sender and question me. I am a terrible liar, and a lie would have been my only option, if I were to see through the plan that had by now taken firm root in my mind.

  I snatched the letter off the silver tray our butler carried into the drawing room. Harris, the butler in question, is fond of me and placed my letter on the top of the pile for me to see, before Aunt Agnes had time to prop her spectacles onto her nose. Feigning a migraine, a favorite malady of many a lady of my acquaintance, I snuck off into my room to devour it. Careful not to tear the lovely blue and white stamp that bore the image of Hermes, the messenger god, I slit the envelope open to find to my delight a letter from my favorite cousin, Briony; Briony being the only daughter of my paternal uncle. As only children and of similar ages, we were always thrown together at the boring adult get-togethers or parties, and our friendship was born.

  We kept in touch since she left the country over a year ago with her husband, Jeffrey, to live on Crete of all places! In truth, I am envious, more of Crete than the husband, though Jeffrey is a dear and quite acceptable as far as husbands go. Briony was terribly happy when they were married, and when Jeffrey announced he had been offered a position at the Historical Museum in Heraklion and was going to accept it, she agreed. Jeffrey is a scholar and a good nine years older than my cousin. At first, I was concerned when I learned of their union, but it seems my concern was for nothing.

  Briony is a real English rose, all pale curls and pink cheeks, so I was not at all certain this change in scenery would be to her liking, especially as it meant I would have to do without her. I told her as much, though perhaps more subtly, nonetheless she seemed excited at the prospect. Thus, with a heavy heart, I waved goodbye, having extracted her solemn promise to write as often as she could. Well, this letter is a bit different than the stack I keep safe in an old biscuit tin at the bottom of my wardrobe.

  March 2, 1925

  Miklos, Crete

  Dearest Evie,

  Thank you for you last letter. I am afraid the postal service here in my newly adopted country is still rather lagging behind our majesty’s royal mail, for it arrived a whole three weeks late! I shudder to think you might have felt neglected. To make amends for this flaw in the system, I am inviting you, dear cousin, to visit Jeffrey and me here at our, finally fully furnished spiti (that means home, see I am learning). The country is beautiful, and I am greeted everywhere with kindness, but I still feel quite a stranger and would so welcome your company. Jeffrey is lovely, but he is at the museum much of the time, so my days have become a little more solitary than I am used to. I know Greek history has always held a certain fascination for you, so if nothing else, perhaps that is incentive enough to convince you to come. I know our darling Aunt Agnes will not gladly suffer your absence, but if you can bear to tear yourself away from the bleakness of English April, please do come. I can promise you the best room in the house and my undying gratitude.

  All my love,

  Briony

  Aunt Agnes is still working away at a maddeningly detailed depiction of a hummingbird, her slender fingers as quick and efficient as ever. I close my eyes sinking deeper into the cushion. Greece—clear skies, olive trees, blue waters, Briony, how could I possibly resist?

  Still March, 1925. Still raining. Escape afoot.

  It is rather early this Saturday morning. Harris stands waiting at the foot of the stairs, waving at me and opening the front door. A taxi has just pulled up in front of our Belgravia townhouse. It is still dark outside, and for a fleeting moment I wonder whether this is such a good idea after all. I could still go back to my room, slip into bed, and pretend none of this ever happened. Harris wouldn’t tell, that much I know. No, now or never, I tell myself, fortifying my resolve. I reach the bottom step. Harris gives me an encouraging nod.

  "Ready?"

  I nod back at him. "Ready. Thank you Harris. I shall write as soon as I arrive."

  "Safe journey, Lady Evelyn." He gives a short bow and turns away, hefting my luggage and carrying it to the cab. As he turns, I catch a shimmering trail on the side of his face and realize it is a tear. I will miss Harris. He, my maid, Milly and our cook, Mrs. Barnaby, are very dear to me and have been bright spots in my life ever since I came to live at Number 12, Eaton Square.

  Clutching onto my hat whilst maneuvering an unwieldy hatbox containing the widebrimmed sunhat I bought for Briony at Selfridges, I slip outside. The cabbie is already back in the driver’s seat. I press a kiss onto Harris’ cheek, and before I can change my mind, slide into the backseat of the idling motor. Shrouded by the swirling fog of the city, the car drives off, disrupting the peaceful chirping of early birds with its low rumbling engine.

  Leaning back against the cool leather seat, I feel a weight falling from my shoulders as I glance back and see the eerie, foggy outlines of my aunt’s darkened home disappearing from view. I left her a letter. Cowardly, I know, but at least she will be informed and can make up whatever stories she feels she must to protect my reputation and hers. It is not my proudest moment, sneaking off like this, but it had to be done. I have to get away. Life, whatever it has to offer, is out there, outside the shielding walls of that house, and out of sight of the intrusive and restricting reach of English society.

  What harm can it do for me to see more, to do something unexpected? I will return some day. London is home, after all, or at least it carries with it all the familiar attributes that should make it home, but for now … I let out the breath I did not realized I was holding, for now it is time for something new. As the streets of London pass me by in a gray-misted blur, a prickle of fear and excitement surges through me. When we finally pull up in front of Victoria Station I am slightly giddy and have only one thought coursing through my mind: It is time to make my great escape!

  CHAPTER 2

  Crete: Warm winds and sunshine … mingling with mal-de-mer.

  Miklos, the village, is located on the island of Crete off mainland Greece, requiring a short journey from the crowded port. Built around the crumbling ruins of a temple to Dionysus, it maintains an atmosphere of mythological wonder and old-world charm. Or so I am led to believe, if the brief descripton in my guidebook can be trusted.

  I will be very frank, the act of arriving here in one piece has been quite an ordeal. The sea voyage from Piraeus on the "tempestuous" Mediterranean was an arduous undertaking, and when I finally glimpsed the craggy gray cliffs, the first sign of land, I breathed a thankful sigh of relief. The thought crosses my mind that I could not now go back England even if I wanted to. Not even Aunt Agnes could drag me back onto that creaking, leaking, quaking contraption of a ship in the near future.

  Briony promised to send a driver to pick me up, and I hope my dear but oft-forgetful cousin is true to her word. My knowledge of the Greek language is not impressive, despite my keen interest in the country’s rich history and mythology, and I am uncertain whether I could make myself understood, especially as my brain is more than usually shaken from the journey, and I am having trouble stammering in English. Under normal circumstances, I consider myself quite capable when forced to rely upon my own agency, a lifetime of sneaking in and out of Aunt Agnes’ house allowed for the cultivation and development of a certain set of skills. Still, I question whether they will come in handy on an island other than good old Britannia.

  As I stand here, nervously chewing my lower lip, the ship slowly pulls into Heraklion’s harbor, still rocking with a force not befitting the tranquility of my romantic, though clearly uninformed, imagination. In the seaport, I observe a surprising number of other vessels, tied and anchored at the bustling pier. Some are quite small, painted different colors and with names written in angular Greek script upon their sides; others grand, probably yachts for tourists, I observe eagerly as my stomach slowly settles. Most ships are white and blue fishing boats that bob about with their masts tilted in the soft swell of the tide. To one side of the p
ort lies the fortress of Rocca al Mare. It looms large and forboding, walled in a yellow stone that reflects the glow of the sun. The top of the wall is elaborately turreted, like a medieval castle, though the fortress, my trusty guidebook informs me, is Venetian. It is certainly an impressive sight to behold for the visiting traveler, as if to say, "Behave yourself, now!" I will try.

  The process of disembarking takes rather a long time as everyone impatiently waits to be ferried off ship and reassigned their respective luggage. My knees still wobbly, I grow impatient, keen to come ashore.

  When I finally disembark, I feel a faintly familiar, almost forgotten, tremor of anticipation and glee. I did it! I am here. I ran away from home like a naughty child, but it feels like a triumph! What an adventure alone the journey has been, and what else awaits me now that I have finally arrived?

  Again on steady ground, the sea seems much more splendid and far less temperamental than onboard where I felt Poseidon’s might, tossed about, stumbling green-faced to the railing. I hold my face towards the sun and bathe in its warm, welcoming embrace. Heavy waves crash forcefully into the wall of the fort, spraying glistening droplets like a crystal shower into the air. The spectacle has something soothing, almost hypnotic, repeating itself over and over again. A calming monotony. I am so entranced by this sight, I barely notice the slim, young man approaching until he is standing right beside me, coughing loudly to catch my attention.

  "Oh," I say as I swivel around, a curl of my auburn hair falling out of the pins below my straw cloche and into my face. "Hello."

  "Lady Carlisle?" His voice is soft, and his deep-set, watery blue eyes give him the appearance of permanent melancholy. I don’t know how I missed catching sight of him earlier. Among the black curls and brown eyes all around me, he stands out like a sore thumb.

  "Yes, I am she," smiling most winningly as I answer, I attempt to set the anxious young man at ease. By now I have recovered my composure after the rather miserable betrayal of my body on the ship and experience a burst of eager energy to move on.