The Goddess Under Zakros

by Paul Moomaw

  Pray stared at the spot where the two had been. The breeze brought an odd, metallic smell to his nostrils. Someone sniffed loudly behind him, and he turned. Fugger stood there, staring at the same place.

  “It does not smell all that deadly, does it?” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Gotard. I hope he did not take too long to die. It would be very painful, otherwise.” He turned his gaze to Pray. “It burns terribly, you see.”

  Suddenly the catwalk and the deck below were bathed in a harsh light that came from the surface of the sea. It illuminated a half dozen dark figure sat the edge of the deck.

  “They must be from the submarine,” Fugger said. “It really was there, after all. I was not sure whether to believe in it or not.” He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, then rubbed his hands together. “I suppose I could turn on the ship’s lights for them. Then I think I will have a drink. Would you like a drink, Herr Pray?” He turned without waiting for an answer and walked toward the bridge.

  Chapter 50

  The sun slid with slow deliberation behind the eastern tip of Crete, and sent shadow gliding across the bay at Zakros. Adam Pray straddled the bowsprit of the Broken Wing, a drink in his hand, and in his mind the kind of confused jumble that will lead a man, when asked what he is thinking, to reply, “Nothing in particular.”

  The ketch dipped as Julian settled himself onto the rail just behind Pray’s shoulder.

  “They say this is where the first people landed on the island,” Julian said. “Most of that canyon holds their tombs and temples.” He pointed toward the long, narrow cleft, a dark shadow rimmed at one edge by the failing light, that creased the terrain from the peaks above Zakros to the bay. “The original settlement is under water. I planned to use my newfound financial stability to pay for some diving there.” He laughed. “So much for my plans, as usual. But I still have the Broken Wing. That puts me one up on Dieter Fugger.”

  “His garbage scow still floats.”

  “But that’s the most you can say. His days as a prince of the sea are over.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

  “Sell der Rattensinger to a bargain hunter. Her hull is still sound. Then I suppose he’ll retire to his private castle on Corfu and meditate on his sins. There are worse endings.”

  “He told me he had put everything he had into his ship. The end of her would be the end of him, he said.”

  “Dieter tends to hyperbole.” Julian slid off the rail. “How about some dinner? I’ve got a couple of tins of decent smoked salmon, and a bit of caviar left from my brief acquaintance with financial security.” He led the way below, rummaged around in the cabinets. “I also have this,” he said, and held up an ornate, carved crystal bottle. “Remy Martin XO, about as good as it gets, and the decanter is worth more than the Cognac.”

  “I’m impressed,” Pray said.

  “I stole it. A souvenir of my last trip to Schloss Fugger. I told myself he would never miss it.” He glanced from the bottle to Pray, and shook his head with a sad smile. “Don’t look so crushed, Adam.”

  “I didn’t know it showed,” Pray said. “I guess I keep looking for my big brother.”

  “People change. Even you.”

  Pray shook his head. “A piece of me got frozen in time, the day you left home. That little boy hasn’t changed, and he’s having a hard time understanding that he doesn’t have his big brother any more.”

  “Maybe he never really did, Adam. When you get bent badly enough, you don’t straighten out. I got bent a long time ago.”

  Pray took the decanter from Julian’s hand, cracked it open, and sloshed brandy into a glass. He passed the bottle back to Julian.

  “What happened to you in Mexico?” he asked.

  “It’s a long, sad story,” Julian said. “Too long. Let’s just say I fell into the wrong crowd, did some things I shouldn’t have done, and wound up facing a choice between a Mexican prison or the life of a vagabond.”

  “You should have come home,” Pray said. “Especially if you were in legal trouble. What’s the good of having a cop for a father if you can’t go to him for help?”

  “Bullshit! Our loving father would have helped them lock me up, and then framed the key and hung it on the wall. All for the good of my character development, of course.”

  Pray took a deep swallow of cognac. “Say what you want, but I think it broke his heart when you dropped out of sight.”

  Julian laughed, a loud, hard-edged bark that shook his body and spilled coffee on the table. He gazed at Pray and shook his head gently from side to side, still smiling, but with something sad or angry—Pray couldn’t decide which—glinting in his eyes. “To get your heart broken, you have to have one.”

  “He does, Julian. Maybe not the biggest in the world, and tied up with rules about how life should be, but a heart all the same. And if you didn’t break it, you surely bruised it.”

  Julian sighed and shook his head. “Believe whatever you need to believe,” he said. “Anyway, that’s all in the foggy, foggy past, isn’t it?”

  Pray gazed at his brother, sad but determined to believe that, somewhere inside Julian’s wiry, blonde frame, there still lived the big brother he had known as a child. He raised his tumbler.

  “Here’s good-bye to all our yesterdays, and hello to what may come,” he said.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Julian refilled his glass. “A lot, in fact. There’s plenty of brandy, even if the rest isn’t as fancy as this.”

  “By the time we finish this, we won’t care.”

  “Good point.” Julian drained his glass, refilled it, and handed the bottle back to his brother. “Sooner started, as they say.” He peered out the porthole at the lights of Zakros.

  “Here’s to Demetria, too,” he said, lifting his glass to the view. “This is where she wanted to come, you know. When I first picked her up, she asked me to take her to Zakros. She wouldn’t say why, just, ‘I need to go there,’ sitting on her beat up steamer trunk, staring at me with those huge, odd eyes.”

  “The trunk,” Pray said. “I suppose, now . . .”

  “Right,” Julian said. He stepped quickly across the cabin and tugged at the trunk. He grunted. “Heavy,” he said. Pray grabbed the other end and they carried it to the center of the floor.

  Julian ran a finger over the brass latch. “I wonder if I have a chisel on board?” he said.

  “No need,” Pray said. He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his pick set. “This looks like your basic pin tumbler, the kind beginning burglars learn on. I could teach you to pick it in half an hour.”

  “Such talents. Did they teach you that at spy school?”

  Pray shook his head. “Something I picked up during the odd free moment.” He examined the keyhole again, then pulled an L-shaped piece of metal from the case. “This is a tension wrench. It holds the tumblers in place while you work on the pins with this.” He selected a pick, a long, flat piece of metal cut into a wavy, snake shape at the end. Slipping the wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, he turned it slightly clockwise, and held it in that position, then slipped the pick into the opening and began to rake it lightly back and forth. With a clicking, snapping sound, the lock turned, and the hasp fell loose. Pray stood up and bowed slightly toward Julian.

  “Be my guest,” he said.

  Julian rubbed his hands together, bent down, and lifted the lid. It resisted momentarily, then swung up with a creak.

  Julian stood frozen, hands on the lid, his eyes widening as he stared into the trunk.

  “Jesus,” he finally whispered.

  A statue occupied the center of the trunk, a woman, the goddess of the photo Julian had shown Pray, pale-skinned, with black hair, and eyes of lapis lazuli, bare breasts with the nipples cupped in lapis of the same hue as her eyes. She sat in a chair, one arm bent upward, a snake coiled around it, the other arm extended forward, holding a bronze sword with gold and silver filigree worked into the blade.


  He brushed a hand lovingly across the goddess’ head, then gripped her around the waist and lifted her from the trunk. “She’s been right here, all this time, the mother of us all.” He carried her to the small table, sat her down gently. Then he settled into a chair and sat, elbows on knees, and stared at her.

  “Poor Demetria,” he said. “I wonder if she knew what she had.”

  “Do goddesses have sisters?” Pray asked.

  Julian sat up straighter, cocked his head. “You’re right. Demetria could have been the model for this.”

  “Maybe she carried it around so long that it was like the old cliche that owners come to look like their dogs.”

  “Or dogs like their owners,” Julian said.

  Pray watched his brother commune with the statue. He still could not understand the fascination the goddess held for Julian, and decided that was just another part of Julian that would remain a stranger to him. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “Right this minute, I don’t have a clue, except to figure a way to keep her safe, and with me,” Julian said. He stood up, rubbed his hands together and grinned at Pray. “I’ll worry about that later.” He picked up the crystal decanter and filled his glass, then extended the bottle to Pray. “Right now, I think we’re entitled to get drunk.”

  Chapter 51

  Homer twitched in her sleep and dreamed of food. Hunger had driven her waking hours for days. She had consumed the last easy scraps some unknowable time before, and now even the smell of food had vanished from her territory. Tendrils of craving tickled her dreams, and her small rat’s brain contorted her body, making it quiver and pressing it deeper into the oily rags that formed her nest, hunting blindly for comfort. But the odd vibrations from the wires that walled her home teased her and aroused her hunger again. Still asleep, she stretched her muzzle toward the wires. She mouthed and licked them, settled her teeth around their warmth, and then bit convulsively through the sheathing.

  A painful shock lifted her body and tossed it against the wall, leaving her stunned but awake. She squealed and huddled in a ball, unable to comprehend what had happened. Then she felt heat, and saw light through her closed lids. She opened her eyes. Flame licked at her nose. Terrified, she scratched and clawed to turn herself around, bolted through the hole she had widened for an entrance, and ran to the cool darkness of the Broken Wing’s galley, where she crouched, still wide-eyed, and panted.

  The stink of the fire woke Adam Pray. A headache assaulted him, and at first he thought he must have drunk not only too much, but something nasty. Then he sniffed again, and bolted from his bunk. He fumbled for the wall lamp, found it and hit the switch, but no light rewarded him.

  “Julian!” he yelled, and stumbled in the direction he hoped to find the door. Halfway across, he slammed into the cabin’s small chair, where his trousers lay draped. As he grabbed them, the door opened to Julian, holding a flashlight whose beam caught tendrils of smoke.

  “It’s a fire,” Julian said. “Take this,” He held out the light. Pray grabbed it and followed his brother into the galley, still clutching his pants in the other hand.

  “Point it over there,” Julian said, and guided Pray’s arm until the light fell on a thicker column of smoke that curled around the edges of the trap door leading to the bilge. Julian unclamped a yellow fire extinguisher from the wall next to the galley stove.

  “When I tell you, open the trap door, then jump the hell out of the way,” he said, and stationed himself next to it. Pray nodded and grabbed the metal handle on the door. He let go immediately with a yelp of pain.

  “It’s hot,” he said.

  “Shit,” Julian said, strain lifting his voice an octave. “That doesn’t sound good.” He danced back to the stove, grabbed a pot holder and tossed it to Pray. “Use this, and be careful.”

  Pray wrapped the pad around the handle and tugged. The door resisted. He pulled harder, and it shot open, followed by a sheet of blue and yellow flame and a puff of heavy, oily smoke.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Julian cried. He sent a stream of foam at the opening. At first it seemed to do nothing, eaten by the fire as soon as they met. Then gradually, the flames diminished.

  “Back, you bastard,” Julian said, stepping closer to the trap door. The fire retreated before him, although the smoke grew more dense, and soon he was able to stick the nozzle through the opening and direct the foam into the bilge, coughing and cursing as he did it.

  Then the foam stopped.

  “Shit!” Julian said. He slung the container through the opening, and stood back, looking frantically around him.

  “Is there another one?” Pray asked.

  “No.” Julian scrambled to the stove, jerked open the cabinet under it and pulled out two buckets. He tossed one to Pray. “Get sea water,” he said. “It’s our only chance.” As he spoke, flames began to lick at the edges of the trap door again. “Hurry!” he said. He grabbed the flashlight and raced for the deck. Pray stumbled after him in the dark, barking his shin painfully on something, he never knew what, as he ran.

  “Leave the goddamn light down there,” he said as he joined Julian at the railing, dipping his bucket into the water.

  “Sorry,” Julian said, and raced away.

  As Pray turned back to the entryway with a full bucket, he could hear his brother cursing and yelling again. He entered the galley and saw that the fire had climbed out of the bilge and now engaged one side of the cabin. It leaped to a curtain, and the cloth began to blaze brightly.

  “No!” Julian threw water at the curtain and sprinted past Pray to get more. Pray emptied his own bucket, and the fire responded contemptuously by doubling its size. Pray took a breath, and the searing heat made him want to scream. He coughed instead and headed for the deck, running into Julian as he did.

  “It’s no good,” he said.

  His brother fought to get past him. “I have to get the statue at least.”

  “No, Julian!”

  “Get the fuck out of my way.” Julian slugged Pray in the face, then kicked at him. Pray hung on desperately at first, then sagged back. As his brother started to break free, he drove his elbow with everything he had into Julian’s solar plexus. Julian gasped and went glassy eyed. Pray shouldered him and staggered to the deck. He tossed Julian down without ceremony and grabbed the painter that secured the dinghy to the Broken Wing’s stern. He pulled the little rowboat up to the rail, stepped on the line with his foot, then grabbed Julian by the ankle. He dragged him to the edge, and rolled him into the dinghy, then jumped in himself and released the line. He had gotten the oars into the locks and begun rowing when the Broken Wing groaned like a dying animal. Flames burst out of the entryway and climbed the rear mast. Pray pulled away, rowing on automatic, hypnotized by the sight of the ketch, which was now completely enveloped in flame.

  “Very well seasoned wood, you have to admit.”

  Pray looked down. Julian had pulled himself to a sitting position and was watching the Broken Wing’s death.

  “A valkyrie couldn’t ask for a better funeral,” he said. His voice was light, but tears on his cheek caught the reflection of the flames.

  “Or a goddess,” Pray said, and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. Julian reached back and laid his own hand over Pray’s. He held it tightly for a moment, then released it.

  “Do me a favor, Adam.”

  “If I can.”

  “Don’t tell anybody she’s down there. One day I’ll put together the money to raise her. It would kill me if somebody else got there first.” He gazed entreatingly at Pray. “Not a word,” Pray said.

  Something chittered in the bow of the dinghy. Pray jumped reflexively and stared. A bedraggled rat stared back at him. He unshipped an oar, dropped to his knees and prepared to swing. Julian blocked his arm.

  “It’s only Homer,” he said. “He’s been pretty good company. And I don’t like to kill things.”

  Pray had a sudden vision of a small boy and an injured bird. He slipped
the oar into the lock and began to row again. The rat kept its glowing eyes on him all the way to shore. Pray guided the dinghy to a small stretch of beach. A group of people who had been watching the fire began to walk toward the boat, waving and calling out as they came. When the dinghy touched land, the rat vanished into the darkness. Then arms were grabbing the rowboat, pulling it ashore, and helping the brothers out.

  The police came, in a pint-sized jeep-like vehicle, lights flashing. They asked questions, and then drove the brothers to the local station, where they asked the same questions again, and had both men fill out a sheaf of forms. As dawn lightened the windows, they offered coffee and sympathy, and sent them off.

  Pray and Julian returned to the harbor, where they sat and watched the sun begin to rise over the patch of water where the Broken Wing had gone down.

  “I suppose you’ll head back to the States now,” Julian said, breaking the silence at length.

  “I’m thinking of a detour to Argentina to visit a friend. Then home. What about you?”

  Julian rubbed his hands together, then examined his palm, running a finger down its center as if he were taking the measure of his life line.