The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  A shadow crossed Julian’s face. “I haven’t heard that for a long time,” he said. “Have you stored a lot of dear old Dad’s favorite sayings?”

  “It just popped out. I guess seeing you stirs up old memories.” Pray gazed at his brother, still trying to meld the middle aged face, the crow’s feet and creases and thinning hair, with the picture he had carried in his mind for years. “I see double when I look at you. Kid big brother superimposed onto grownup.”

  Julian shook his head. “Not grown up. Not now, not ever. That was just one of the many things Dad couldn’t accept.” He pulled the silver flask out again. “This was the old man’s vision for me.” He handed it to Pray. The sides were intricately engraved, traces of brass inlay still visible. A goose spread its wings on one side; a fly fisherman stood rampant on the other.

  “He gave me that just before I left home for the last time. I was supposed to finish college, come back, and become a country gentleman. Settled, married, two-point-eight children. His version of being grown up.” He retrieved the flask, unscrewed the top, and swigged bourbon directly from it.

  Pray found his eyes turning away, and chided himself silently for his priggishness. “I had a hell of a time tracking you down, you know? And discovered in the process that you’re not too popular some places.”

  Julian laughed. “I assume you ran into the Skevis clan in Sitia.”

  Pray nodded. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I got caught in flagrante delicto with the daughter of the house,” Julian said, “right in her daddy’s bedroom. The men were supposed to be out of town. They weren’t. Milos Argyros told me later it was a setup. I was to make an honest woman out of her at that point instead of taking flight. He said everyone in town knew the Skevis men had already had apiece of her, and so she couldn’t get married in the normal course of things. Spoiled goods and all. I did get her out of town, though. She said her brothers would kill her otherwise, and they seemed crazy enough to do it.”

  Pray remembered the voices of the night before. “She’s with you now?”

  “No. Last time I saw Dina was on the dock in Piraeus.” Julian paused, gazed across the water, tapping his fingers on the rail, then shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge a stray thought. “You met Milos. What did you think of him?”

  “He seemed to like you.”

  Julian nodded energetically. “Hell of a fellow. He took me under his wing when I first came to the Islands. There were a few times when he stood between me and starvation.” He grinned. “I haven’t exactly been a raving success financially the last few years. People call Milos greedy, but he was kind to me when those same people wouldn’t give me the time of day. I don’t forget a kindness. Some day I’ll repay him with interest.”

  Julian looked somber for a moment, then brightened again. “And Irene. You met her?”

  Pray shook his head. “She wasn’t well.”

  Julian frowned. “Something serious?”

  “I’m not sure they knew.”

  “I hope she’s okay.” The frown deepened. “She’s pretty wonderful. Solid gold. Milos is lucky to have her. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known that I could probably fall in love with, you know? She’s lucky I’m content to be just a friend, I guess. That way I can’t hurt her.” He gazed intently at his brother. “I do seem to hurt people.”

  Pray wondered if that was a warning. He sipped at the coffee. It had not gotten any better.

  “You need to clean your coffee pot,” he said.

  Julian laughed. “I’m afraid Demetria is no house keeper, and I’m certainly not.”

  “Demetria?”

  “My traveling companion. She was ashore until after you crashed last night, and she doesn’t like to get up early.”

  “Then I wasn’t imagining things,” Pray said. He told Julian about his sudden awakening. “I was pretty sure the rat was real, but I thought I might have dreamed the voices.” And if the voice was real, so was the question, he added silently. What are you going to do about me, Julian?

  “The rat hasn’t eaten anyone yet. Sometimes I think about hunting it down, but mostly I figure every ship needs at least one. This way the Broken Wing makes its quota even when I’m ashore. I call it Homer.”

  Pray’s eyes widened. “Honor thy father?”

  “I don’t suppose he’d be amused,” Julian said. He grabbed the cockpit rail and swung himself to his feet. “Let’s go below and dig up some food.”

  The woman sat with her back to them, holding a mirror. She was doing something with her hair, which was so black, and the hand that touched it so white, that Pray thought of charcoal tomb rubbings. As they entered, she turned and looked at him. Her face shared the unnatural whiteness of the hand, and he had seen the eyes before, in a dream, only that time they had adorned the face of the moon. They were large and round, irises the blue of lapis, a dense, impenetrable blue that the light seemed to bounce off. She was plainly dressed in jeans and a navy turtleneck, which made the bauble that hung on a chain around her neck seem out of place. It was a silver and gold bee, resting snugly in the valley between her breasts.

  “Here’s my brother, in the flesh,” Julian said.

  “I see him,” Demetria said.

  “I am the great hen partridge, enslaver of men,” Pray murmured.

  “You still do that,” Julian said, shaking his head. “He quotes things,” he said to Demetria.

  She did not respond, but the flicker of a smile touched her lips, and Pray felt suddenly certain that she knew what he was thinking.

  Chapter 34

  Gotard let his body sway to the rhythm of the flat bottomed scow as it bulled its way south toward der Rattensinger. The wind came from his rear, cold, and spitting rain through the open door of the tiny wheelhouse, but it felt good. He flexed his arm, freed only the day before from the cast. The stupid doctors in Marseilles had wanted to leave it on another week, and it was true that the elbow still made him wince whenever it bumped into something; but the freedom, the feel of fresh, wet air on his skin was worth a little pain.

  Dupres, who was a bit of a fool and who, Gotard knew, made fun of him behind his back, stepped into the wheelhouse and closed the door.

  “Leave it open,” Gotard said.

  Dupres shrugged and latched the door back again.

  “It’s getting worse,” he said.

  “A little wind never hurt anyone.”

  “I worry the cargo could break loose and punch holes.”

  “Then you will go out and tie it down again.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “You are more afraid of me than of the sea.”

  “So you say.”

  Gotard did not bother to respond. He concentrated on the wheel, fighting the scow’s efforts to swing its stern into the troughs of the increasingly heavy swell, while he scanned the horizon. Just follow your usual route, they had told him. We will find you. A picture flashed momentarily in his mind, of the Arab Rashid plucking a flower.

  “So let’s see if you can find me in this stuff,” he said.

  “What?” Dupres asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Dupres muttered something inaudible, then straightened and pointed. “A boat,” he said. “Over there. Off the port bow.”

  Gotard followed the outstretched finger, irritated that Dupres had spotted what he had been looking for. At first he saw nothing. Then a silhouette, only a little darker gray than the water, popped into view, hung on the horizon for a moment, and disappeared again. Gotard turned the wheel slightly toward the other vessel as it reappeared permanently.

  “It’s coming this way,” Dupres said. The two men watched silently as the other boat drew closer.

  “Still not turning,” Dupres said. “Maybe we’re too low in the water for them to see us.” He reached for the air horn toggle. Gotard knocked his arm away.

  “They see us,” he said. “Go forward and get ready to haul their line in.”

  “What�
�s this about?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” Gotard said, his eyes glued to the approaching craft.

  Dupres glared and made no move to leave until Gotard turned and stared silently at him.

  “All right,” Dupres said. “Don’t give yourself apoplexy.” He stepped out of the wheelhouse, unlatching the door as he went, so that it swung back and forth, banging and squeaking.

  “Merde,” Gotard said. Dupres was a puny-hearted swine who would kiss your pecker, but slip a blade into you if you turned your back at the wrong moment—and make sure it went into the kidneys, so it would hurt as much as possible. Gotard despised the type. He thought one day he might kill Dupres simply as a matter of principle. He snorted and concentrated once more on the other boat.

  A fisherman, from the look of her, she rode oddly high, seeming to perch on the waves rather than float in them. She had a rusty black hull and a gray deck and wheelhouse, with heavy rope bumpers also painted gray. She bore down on the scow until the last possible moment, then swung sharply to one side, dipping into a trough and bobbing up again. A man in a yellow storm coat appeared on deck and tossed a line. It snaked across the scow’s deck at Dupres’ feet. He stood like a statue, clinging to the railing, while it slithered back into the water again.

  “Cretin!” Gotard said. The man on the other boat gesticulated, lurching at the same time for balance as he grabbed the line and re-coiled it. Gotard could imagine what the other was saying to Dupres.

  The man threw the line again, and this time Dupres grabbed it and wrapped it around a deck cleat. The man on the fishing boat pulled his craft closer, then ran, crouching, to the stern, where he picked up another line. Dupres continued to stand in one place. The other man started swinging the line around his head with his right hand while he made what looked like an obscene gesture with the left. At length Dupres scuttled across to catch the second line.

  Gotard lashed the wheel and stepped outside. He headed toward the other boat, not bothering with the deck and railing, but moving straight across the shallow hold of the scow, skipping from barrel to barrel, trusting to his balance. He knew it was foolish, but he felt a need to show a contrast to the cowardice of Dupres. The man in the yellow slicker had crossed to the scow, and was talking to Dupres. He looked as if he were still angry, and Dupres, his back to Gotard, waved his hands and bobbed his head around, looking like a kid caught in the jam jar.

  “Go take the wheel,” Gotard said as he reached the pair. “I’ll handle this.” Dupres moved aft, and Gotard turned his attention to the other man, an Arab from the look.

  “Hard to get good help,” he said, jerking his head toward Dupres and grinning.

  “You are Gotard?” The other man did not return the smile. “Come,” he said, and swung across to the fishing boat.

  “Friendly fucker,” Gotard muttered, and followed as the man led the way behind the small cabin. Glistening wetly under a heavy rope net, a barrel much like those the scow carried, except that it was dark blue instead of black, crouched in a small well in the deck.

  “It looks heavy,” Gotard said.

  The other man nodded and began to undo the rope. He pointed silently to the other side. Gotard shrugged and began to help.

  The barrel was not as heavy as it looked, and had matched pairs of handles projecting from the sides that eased the task, although Gotard slipped twice as they carried it across to the scow. He felt a tearing sensation up one side of his back the second time, and yelped in spite of himself. The other man laughed.

  “African pig,” Gotard muttered. They found a space among the other barrels for the new arrival and ran a line through the handles to secure it.

  “There is more,” the other man said, and leaped back to the fishing boat. He disappeared into the wheelhouse and returned with something that looked like a black metal suitcase.

  “That,” the man nodded toward the blue barrel, “does nothing without this.”

  The detonator, Gotard thought. He felt an odd thrill as the other man dropped it into his arms.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “One other thing. But make that secure first.”

  Gotard nodded and picked his way back to the wheelhouse, cradling the detonator in his arms.

  “What’s that?” Dupres asked.

  “You ask too many questions,” Gotard said. He lifted the bench seat and tucked the black case in among the life preservers and small, red fire extinguisher stored there.

  The man in the yellow slicker stood on the fishing boat, waiting, as Gotard returned.

  “Come,” he said, and stepped toward the cabin again. Gotard swung across and started behind him.

  Suddenly the back of his head exploded in pain. He screamed, and the other man turned. He was grinning. As Gotard stumbled toward him, the man brought his knee up, then lashed his toe out, sinking it into Gotard’s midsection. Gotard saw it coming, managed to tighten his stomach some, not enough, but better than nothing. It saved him a little breath so that he could stagger to one side and turn. Another man approached from behind. Gotard had no idea where he had come from. The man swung a club, and Gotard managed to block it, but with his injured arm, and the pain made him scream again. He followed with a kick to his attacker’s knee, and the man collapsed. Then Gotard turned back to the first man, stepped into him, and drove a heavy fist into the man’s side. Even as much as he hurt, the feel of ribs snapping under his knuckles made him smile. He drew back the other fist to plant in the man’s face, and then something hard took him in the back of the knees, and he was suddenly on his back, watching the club come down. He managed to jerk his head to one side, but the club still hit him a glancing blow, stunning him. Then the first man was on him, kicking and punching, and gradually everything went away.

  Chapter 35

  The rat was back. The brazen little bastard had to be right at the pillow, and some part of it, maybe the tail, had brushed against Adam Pray’s left cheek, waking him up. He kept his eyes closed, and cursed his habit of sleeping on his back. The room was dark, although Pray was sure he had left a light on.

  The rat brushed against his cheek again. He shuddered, then swept his right arm across his face, hard, trying to knock the beast to the floor. He managed only to crack his nose with the knuckle of his thumb, and cried out in pain. The rat tittered.

  Rats don’t laugh, he thought, and realized at the same time that a musky, heavy perfume filled his nostrils.

  “Rats don’t wear perfume, either,” he said, and heaved himself upright. Immediately, his face was buried in something yielding, and arms pinned his head in place. A tongue glided across his forehead, followed by nibbling teeth. Then he was released and the light came on. A dark outline resolved, as his eyes adjusted, into the figure of Julian’s woman, Demetria, kneeling on the bunk, her knees between his. She wore no clothes, and Pray gazed bemusedly at her impossibly white skin. It was the color of chalk in the cabin light, darkened at the nipples of her smallish breasts, at the triangle of hair that spread between heavy thighs and hips toward a caricature of a waist, and at the large, spider-shaped mark that covered part of her left breast. For a moment Pray could swear the spider moved. He shook his head and blinked, and it was only a birthmark again.

  “You’re not a rat,” he said.

  “I did not mean to wake you like that,” she said.

  “How did you mean to wake me?”

  She smiled and tugged the sheet down, exposing his body to the ankles. “Like this,” she said, and cupped his penis with her fingers. It responded with alacrity, and she bent over it and moved the tip of her tongue in tiny circles around the base of the glans. Pray felt it all the way to the top of his head.

  “What about Julian?” he asked.

  “Full of whiskey and snoring.” She ran her fingernails across his scrotum, then slipped her mouth over his penis, holding him with her right hand while her left crawled across his stomach and chest, and onto his face. She pushed her index finger into his mouth
, and lifted briefly off him.

  “Suck on me, too,” she whispered, and moved her finger in and out of his mouth as she took him between her lips again.

  As the flames grew between his legs, Pray reached for her, but she shook her head and pushed him away, and he lay back, and let it happen to him, and tried not to yell when he came, and failed.

  Afterwards she crawled up him, rubbing and twisting as she did, her body glistening. She took his hand and rubbed it against her vagina, which was slick and wet, and then returned it to his face, filling his nostrils with a mix of perfume and sweat and sex. By the time she had crawled all the way up and begun to nibble on his chin, he was ready again. She rolled under him and guided him inside, arching her back and thrusting her pelvis against him in hard, bruising moves, grinding her pubic bone against his. Her fingernails raked him from shoulders down to the back of his knees, and then up again, and as he began to sweat from the effort of fucking her, the stinging told him she had drawn blood.

  Somewhere in all of it, she held his face away from hers and stared greedily at him.

  “I want you to hit me,” she said.

  Pray stared down at her, not comprehending.

  “You must hurt me,” she said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

  She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes, then pulled his head back down to her neck.

  “But I’ll bite you,” Pray said, and nibbled at the base of her jaw. She groaned and pressed herself against his teeth, rubbing her neck and jaw on them in a frenzy. She groaned louder, and screamed as she thrust her hips even more violently against him in orgasm. Then she began to kiss him, nibbling at his lips, as he continued pumping, feeling the tension increase as he approached his own finish. He came, shuddering and crying out, and in the middle of that, she bit him, hard, her teeth almost meeting in his lower lip.

  Pray yelled and jerked away, and his lip tore more as he did. He held his hand to his mouth and stared at her. She smiled at him.

  “There must be pain,” she said. “Always.” She rolled away from him. “You and your brother are alike. You think you are gentle, but you are only soft. A man must be hard, because life is hard.” She stopped talking, and in less than a minute was snoring softly. Pray watched her sleep for a while, then reached across her unconscious form and turned the lamp off. He lay back and stared briefly into the darkness, aware of the press of her buttocks against his thigh. Then he was asleep.