Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

“Dead!” I reply.

  Gustav wipes debris from his face. With all the soot I can’t tell if he’s upset, angry, or couldn’t care less. He fires blindly into the study. The top bookcase shelf collapses, support bracket dislodged by a stray bullet. Dusty tomes come crashing down. Among them is Father’s diary.

  Lydia dives behind the desk, taking cover. Kostis makes a dash for the corner, giving Gustav a clear shot. Somehow he manages to miss, and the bullet pings harmlessly off the safe door.

  “Get to me,” Gustav says. “I will keep them occupied.”

  His pistol is a model I haven’t seen before, with an oblong-shaped firing chamber and slanted handle. I don’t know how many bullets it holds, but there can’t be many left. I grab hold of Irene and pull her toward the window. She drags her feet, heels scraping the floor.

  “Come on,” I shout. “Move!”

  My sister’s in shock – completely out of it - and doesn’t want to leave.

  “Father’s gone!” I scream at her. “We need to go.”

  Still she doesn’t respond. Where’s my brave sister now I need her?

  Lydia makes a curved hand signal to Kostis. He reaches for Father’s revolver with his knife, using the blade to hook the trigger ring. Keeping his body behind the door, he slides the gun to his waiting hand. Kostis grabs some spare bullets from the safe, opens the cylinder, and reloads. He can’t miss us from there, but luckily we’re not the target. Kostis fires at the window. Gustav retreats to the side, sheltering behind the brick wall.

  “Stephen?” Mother calls out. “Edith?”

  It sounded like her voice came from the staircase. She must have heard the gunfire, and left her bedroom.

  “Mother,” Irene says vacantly. She’s still looking at Father’s body, but at least she’s said something.

  Gustav peeks round the window, signalling us to come over. He can fend for himself. There’s no way I’m leaving Mother behind. Or Irene.

  I grab my sister’s hand. She drags her heels, but not as stubbornly as before. Gustav shoots from cover. Lydia and Kostis keep their heads down. I escort Irene into the hallway while they’re under fire.

  “You find Gustav,” I hear Lydia shout between two gunshots. “I’ll get the girl.”

  She must mean me. I’m the one with the magic liquid in her body. Where’s Mother? As I thought. On the staircase, about seven steps down.

  “Go to Mother,” I tell Irene. “Take her upstairs and hide.”

  Irene stays put. “Is Father—” she begins.

  “Do as I say, little sister!”

  That gets her moving. Irene’s just begun to climb the stairs when Lydia exits the study. She ignores my sister, blocking my path to the manor’s front door.

  “Edith, the gift you’ve been given is dangerous,” Lydia says. “You need to come with me.”

  She’ll have to do better than that to persuade me. I dash down the hall, away from her. The doors are all closed except the one that leads to the sitting room. I run in, throwing it shut behind me. I twist the brass doorknob toward the lock.

  “I understand why you’re afraid,” Lydia says through the door. “Let me help you.”

  “If you want to help, then go away!”

  The knob turns. My hand slips. Lydia’s much stronger than me. I can’t keep her out. I look around. For something to block the door. A weapon, another exit. Anything.

  A log fire burns in the stone hearth. There’s a dark patch above the mantelpiece where the Clayton coat of arms used to hang. Three purple armchairs face a bearskin rug. There’s a cabinet for drinking glasses and cutlery. All three arched windows are locked. None of this is helpful!

  The handle turns all the way. Lydia’s coming. If only I had more time… Time! It stops while I’m in the past. Maybe I can remember the moment I rushed in, and take another look. I close my eyes, and picture myself fleeing down the corridor.

  I can still feel the doorknob in my wobbly fingers. Nothing’s happening!

  “Come on!” I tell my mind aloud. “Remember!”

  I feel the door move toward me. Then I’m back in the hall with my eyes open, running away from Lydia. I come into the sitting room. Lydia speaks through the closed door. I look round the room, at the hearth, the mantelpiece— What’s that on top? It’s a fire poker: a shiny silver stick with a pointy end and hook. Father moves – used to move – burning logs with it. If I could reach…

  Lydia enters the sitting room. I’m back in the present!

  I quickly run to the fireplace, stand on my toes, and slide the poker toward the edge. Fierce heat burns my right leg. My stocking’s caught fire! I must have accidentally stepped in the flames. The poker falls off the mantelpiece. It thumps my head, clanging as it strikes the floor.

  Dazed and dizzy, I tumble back onto the bearskin rug. Fire spreads to it, then my clothes. I stand up, screaming in pain. Though it doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

  I shake my dress to extinguish the flames, and peel off what remains of my charred stocking. My leg is swollen, covered in white blisters. I’ve burned myself before. This feels different, more like a skin irritation.

  Lydia stands back and watches me heal. “Athena’s gift is a heavy burden for an adult,” she says, “never mind a child. You’re not prepared for the responsibility that comes with it.“

  Is Lydia telling me I’m clumsy? She’s right. I’ve only hurt myself so far. I pick up the poker, and step away from the burning rug. Flames race across the carpet, then up a chair leg. Soon the whole room will be on fire. Lydia watches through thick, grey smoke. She doesn’t have a weapon, but she doesn’t need one. I’ve seen what she did to the bobby at the museum. And to Father.

  My hands tighten around the poker handle. I kick off my heels. They’d only slow me down. I charge at Lydia, screaming like mad with the poker’s sharp end held forward. She bends her knees and twists aside. My thrust carries me past her. The silver rod is heavy, easy for Lydia to kick out of my grasp. It bounces along the carpet and vanishes behind a cloud of smoke.

  Lydia knocks me on my back. There was no warning, no opportunity to avoid her low, sweeping legs. She has me trapped. I throw my cloche hat at her. It misses, catching fire on the burning rug. Less than a foot away, and I still couldn’t find my target.

  “I was scared too,” Lydia says, ”when Athena granted me her wisdom. At first I was confused, her motives a mystery to me, but then I realised what she intended. I had to protect her secret. To train, to fight. I had to kill. Things no woman in Greece had ever done. You’re coming with me, Edith, even if I have to drag—”

  The poker’s hook swings into her ankle, slicing through cloth and skin before sticking in place. Lydia falls over, wincing in pain. I peer through the smoke behind her, just about seeing a blonde girl in a black dress.

  “Is mother all right?” I ask Irene.

  “Edith, get up!”

  Irene – acting more like the brave sister I know - takes my hand and helps me to my feet. Lydia pulls out the fire poker and tosses it aside. It won’t take her long to recover. We need to move.

  “Take a deep breath,” I say.

  Me and Irene both inhale, cover our mouths, and dash through the smoke. Lydia gets up, recovering quickly from a stumble. She starts walking, then running as her ankle heals. We rush into the hallway, back along the hall, and upstairs. The smoke is thinner on the landing, and fire has yet to spread to the upper floor. I uncover my mouth and take a welcome breath of air.

  Irene runs on ahead. I follow her into the bedroom, shutting the door on the way in. Mother’s waiting with her armchair. She pulls it across to use as a barricade. The door opens, smacking into the rear side. I push one armrest, and Irene the other. Mother presses the seat cushion. Between us we’re able to keep Lydia at bay.

  “Stephen…” Mother says weakly. The wireless is still switched on, and I have trouble hearing her over the jazz music.

  “Father is—” Irene says.

  “Downstairs,” I sh
out over her. “He got away.”

  I shake my head at my sister. Mother’s in enough pain. She doesn’t need to know what happened to Father. Can she tell I lied? She was looking at Irene, so I don’t think so.

  The door thumps into the armchair. Wood splits. It won’t hold much longer. There’s no way out except the bedroom window. I leave Mother and Irene to push the chair, draw apart the curtains, and pull the rusty handle. It squeaks, turning slowly.

  “What does she want?” Mother asks.

  The answer’s me, but I don’t tell her that. I push the window open. Cold air rushes into my face. It’s a twenty foot drop to the ground - far too high to jump.

  “The house is burning down,” Lydia shouts. A series of coughs follow, but it could be a trick. “Send Lady Clayton out. I won’t hurt her. It’s not her I’m interested in.”

  “Only Stephen!” Mother shouts in response.

  That brought a smile to my face. Mother slumps in her armchair, exhausted. The door rams into its backrest. Mother lurches forward, but manages to steady herself by gripping the arms.

  “Let’s jump!” Irene says.

  “It’s too far,” I tell her. “We’ll get hurt.”

  “You’ll get better. Then you can catch us.”

  It takes me a moment to figure out what my sister means. Of course! My body will heal. But catch them? I don’t think so. If we jump, I’ll need something to cushion Irene from the fall. Mother’s blanket might work.

  “Here. Put this on,” I tell Irene, wrapping it tightly around her body.

  I look at Mother. She’d be too heavy, and there’s nothing else I can use. Only the bed quilt, and that’s too unwieldy. Another whack on the door. The chair almost tips over.

  “Stephen’s dead, isn’t he?” Mother’s head is bowed. She already knows the answer. “Your sister cried when she came in. She never cries when she’s hurt, only when she’s sad. I’m dying, Edith. You can’t save me. Even if I got out, I’d only slow you down. Promise me you’ll look after Irene.”

  “Mother, don’t—”

  “Promise me!”

  Smoke blows in through the door. Mother coughs. Time’s running out for her.

  “I will,” I vow.

  Mother gives me a warm smile. Then the door swings open, knocking the armchair over with a loud crack. Mother’s trapped underneath the seat cushion, passed out. I want to help her, here’s nothing we can do now.

  Lydia clambers through the smoke-filled door frame, orange hair blending with flames on the landing behind her.

  I retreat to the window, and spread my arms wide. “Irene!” I shout.

  “But Mother!” my sister cries, looking back. “We can—”

  “Jump, little sister!” I scream.

  Irene starts running. Lydia leaps over the overturned chair, chasing her. She’s within touching distance when Irene jumps. My sister slams into me, and we both go flying through the window. Lydia dives forward after us. She snatches at Irene’s leg, missing by half an inch.

  I hug Irene tight as we fall, keeping her above me. My dress flutters as cold air rushes past. The blanket blows across my eyes. Blinded, I count the seconds in my head. One, two— My right leg smashes into the ground. There’s a loud crunch, and then I’m flat on my back with Irene sprawled on top.

  I was ready for pain, but not unbearable agony like this. My leg’s twisted. It must be broken, because I can’t move my toes. Or stop whimpering. Irene rolls off my body. I sit up and throw away the blanket.

  The entire manor house is aflame. Windows glow bright orange-yellow. All of them on the ground floor, and most on the first. Lydia climbs through the one above us, preparing to jump down. The pain’s gone now. I force myself up. My leg’s still sore, and it takes a few steps before I’m able to run. We need to hide, and the front driveway’s too open.

  “This way,” I shout, leading Irene round the house.

  We run past a body in the garden. It’s the bald Greek man. He’s been shot twice in the back. That must have been Gustav’s doing.

  Dirt squelches behind us. I turn to see Lydia roll across the grass, and immediately spring to her feet. No sign of any injuries. How did she fall so far without hurting herself?

  “Keep moving,” I tell Irene, even though I’m nearly out of breath myself.

  We turn the corner. This side of the house is mostly gardens. Me and my sister used to play in the hedge maze a lot when we were young. We could hide in there, but Lydia will see us go in. How long before we get lost and run into her?

  A man comes out of the manor’s side entrance, wiping soot from his eyes. A curved blade glints orange in the ambient firelight. Kostis! Too late. He’s already spotted us. There’s only one place to go.

  “Over there,” I say to Irene. “The maze!”

  It’s a twenty yard sprint to the gated entrance. We don’t stop until we’ve gone in, made a blind right turn, and run a bit further.

  “Man went back in house,” I hear Kostis say. “After vessel.”

  “The girl’s more important.” Lydia replies dismissively. “There’s only one way in, and one way out. Stay here. Keep watch.”

  With Kostis guarding the exit, there’s nothing to do but go further into the maze. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and it’s becoming easier to see the hedges and turns. The grounds haven’t been cared for since the gardener left for London. My dress keeps catching on long, untrimmed branches, and sharp thorns dig into my bare feet with every step I take. I wish I hadn’t thrown my shoes at Lydia. Another turn, and we come to a four-way path.

  “Which way?” asks Irene.

  “I don’t know.”

  I always got lost in here when I was little, but then I had only to shout and Father would rescue me. Now he’s… More tears come. Why am I so upset? That was a different Father, before he became a drunk obsessed with his expeditions. The man who died was greedy, uncaring, and selfish. I need to stop crying. Stop thinking about what happened back in the manor.

  A branch snaps, then another. And two more. Lydia’s getting closer. The maze is huge with lots of dead ends. We’ve been lucky so far, but one wrong turn and we’ll be trapped. I’ve only seen the maze layout once, when I… That’s it! I close my eyes, and think about the day I snook into the attic.

  I’m twelve again. Warped wooden floorboards creak under my feet. I squeeze past the spare furniture, climb onto a tea chest, and wipe dirt from the round window. It’s a sunny day outside. Our gardener wanders the hedge maze, trimming branches with his shears.

  “Edith!”

  It’s not easy to listen to Mother’s voice – or see her looking so healthy when I turn around - but I have to concentrate. My vision wobbles as I jump off the chest. If I remember right, I’m about to get a good telling off. But I won’t return to the window, and I didn’t get chance to look properly at the maze. I need to see it again.

  Things happen in reverse. I leap backward onto the chest, turn, hear Mother’s garbled voice. I’m looking out at the garden. My hand wipes dirt over the window. If I can go back in time, maybe I can stop. I watch my memory again, wait until I’ve cleaned the glass, and… The image of the hedge maze stays in my head. Unmoving. The gardener’s stood still, one foot suspended in the air.

  I study the maze’s layout, and find the spot where four paths meet. Two lead to dead ends, and I think… that one’s the way we came. So if we go right, left, and then left again… I work out the best route to the big marble statue at the centre, and return to the present.

  “Go right,” I tell Irene.

  I lead my sister through the hedges, making turns from memory. The route is much longer than it looked from above, and the thorny brambles slow us down. But we’re almost there now.

  Rustling leaves. “Get off me!” Irene yells.

  Lydia’s grabbed my sister through a hole in the hedge. Irene kicks out, snapping off a branch. I run over, catch it, and stab the sharp end into Lydia’s arm. She grunts in pain. I pull Irene fre
e and run. We don’t stop until we reach the statue. It’s nothing like it was in my memory. Filthy, covered in grime and thick moss. I can’t even tell it’s a man.

  Now, where’s the hiding place? Father showed me when I was ten. I close my eyes. It’s getting easier to remember. Merely thinking of the past is enough to send me back. The statue towers over me, marble gleaming white under the Sun. I’m a little girl in its shadow.

  “Who’s that?” I ask, though the family resemblance seems obvious in hindsight. Put a beard and moustache on Father, dress him in a formal outfit, turn him to stone, and there’d be no difference.

  “Joseph Clayton,” answers Father. “My grandfather. Your great grandfather. He built the manor house. Do you want to know a secret? He had a treasure room, hidden right here in the maze. Somewhere to sneak off to.”

  I remember being all excited at the time, but now I just want Father to show me the secret passage. He climbs onto the statue’s large round base, reaches up, and presses the right eye socket. The stone oval moves inward with a click, and part of the base swings outward.

  “Come on inside,” Father invites me.

  I crawl through the down sloping passage after him, brushing cobwebs from my face. It’s damp in here, and I can’t see very much.

  Father lights an oil lantern on the wall. That’s better. We’re in a musty cellar, like the one beneath our kitchen, only tinier and with a much lower ceiling. Criss-crossed wooden storage racks hold dozens of glass bottles. Father pulls one out, and blows dust off its label. I see a number – 1774 – and some text below that’s too faded to read.

  “Where’s the treasure?” I ask.

  “Vintage scotch,” Father says, unscrewing the bottle top to take a swig. “To some people, this is treasure.”

  Back in the present, the statue’s base is wet, slippery, and hard to climb. Once I get on top, I grab the mossy chest and pull myself up, using the folded arms for leverage. It’s a long, uncomfortable stretch, but I reach the eye socket. I have to press it twice before the hidden mechanism clicks. Irene jumps back, startled as the stone door grinds open.

  The hedge around the central garden shakes. Lydia’s almost found us.