Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  Irene pulls out her cutlass, wipes the blade clean on the warden’s cloak, and kicks his body onto the train tracks. Another man she’s killed, but I can’t let his death affect me. I’ve recovered enough to stand, but my bad leg still hurts when I put weight on it.

  “Is it sore?” Irene asks. “I’m not a doctor, but I think that needs to come off.”

  My sister slices at my upper thigh, swinging with enough force to sever two limbs. I retreat out of harm’s way. An inch deep cut feels like a successful dodge… until I stumble over my dead leg. Irene kicks me back into a crate, the tall one where Ernst left the candle. The tin holder skitters over the edge, almost falling off.

  “What do you think would happen if I…” Irene keeps her latest evil thought private, but a downward glance at my neck – and a sadistic smile - tells me what she’s planning.

  I freeze time, only to immediately return to the present. Lightning crackles around my wounds. Neither have fully healed. Have I used my powers too much? Run out of energy?

  Irene grabs my hair and tilts back my head. “Tired already?” she torments me. “All that power in your blood, and yet so weak.”

  My sister will brush off whatever puny, glancing blows I throw at her. I need to conserve energy and think of a plan. Stopping time won’t work, but Irene must have a weak spot. Her bare feet? If I was wearing shoes, maybe, but my rubber soles won’t do much harm. The leather scabbard… No, she’ll spot me undoing it. Her hands… The oil! The candle’s too high to reach, but…

  I rotate my feet, increasing friction so they won’t slide, and push my back against the crate. It tilts a little. I relax, and the base lands with a bump. The candle holder teeters on the edge.

  “Acting all brave and heroic,” Irene rants, “but you’ve never saved anyone. The old man, your accomplice on the ship. Father, Lydia. You can’t even save yourself, little sister.”

  Irene swings her sword arm back and pauses to watch my reaction. If she’s hoping to see sweat, I don’t give her the pleasure. I lean back on the crate again and let go.

  My sister’s eyes shoot up. In her glossy irises, I see a reflection of the falling candle. I catch the holder, and use the flame to ignite the oil on Irene’s clenched fist. Smoky, yellow fire flares up, rapidly spreading across her hand.

  Irene hisses at me through closed teeth. She tightens her hold on my scorching hair, refusing to yield. I move the candle holder into the path of an angry cutlass swipe. The blade twists, sticking partway through the base. I receive a clonk to the forehead and lose my grip on the candle, but come away in one piece.

  Irene screams with rage, face lit up by her burning hand. “Just die!” she yells, flinging away the candle. It lands on the tracks and flickers out.

  My leg’s finally healed. I lift my feet off the floor. I feel a sharp pain as hair rips from my scalp. The remaining strands snap, and I fall to the ground. Irene’s left holding a clump of burnt residue. I roll to avoid a vertical cutlass slice.

  Irene finally succumbs to the heat. She tears off her uniform sleeve, wraps it round her burning hand, and suffocates the flames. While she’s busy extinguishing the fire, I grab the warden’s revolver.

  Irene’s an easy target. But can I really kill my own sister? Even after everything she’s done? I hesitate long enough for her to put the fire out. Then it’s dark, and my chance is gone.

  “Down here!” a deep-voiced man shouts. “Move it!”

  I hear heavy footsteps. Military men, and it sounds like a whole platoon is coming. Metal scrapes in front of me. It must be Irene, but what’s she doing?

  My sister appears, lit in bright blue by glowing symbols. She’s got the vessel! Irene runs through the crates, cutlass clinking in its scabbard. I fire the warden’s revolver, putting a hole through her skirt but missing both legs. Irene zigzags, using tall crates for cover. She’s moving away from the marbles, and the glow’s fading fast.

  I freeze time. It works properly now, but I may not have long. I go back to when I last saw Irene, and work out where she’ll appear next. I unfreeze, aim at a wide gap between two crates, and discharge all three remaining bullets. The last strikes metal.

  Lightning surrounds the vessel, electrocuting Irene’s arm. She yelps in shock. The dropped ball rolls away from her, and comes to a stop near the marbles. Irene thinks about recovering it, but after looking at the steps – and the brightening electric torch beams – she decides to flee down the train tunnel. I set off after her.

  “Stop!” shouts a British soldier. He’s young, wearing a regular army uniform, and has me in the iron sight of his Thompson machine gun.

  “She’s getting away!” I yell.

  The soldier fires a four shot burst, creating dust clouds in front of me. They’re warning shots, but I heed them. Shooting at a child? He mustn’t be able to see me properly.

  “What the devil is going on?” asks a tall, broad-chested man with jet black hair. Three pointy stripes on his shoulders. He’s a sergeant.

  The soldiers all stare at the glowing slab, ignoring the girl in black they caught in a restricted area. Then one stumbles across the dead man’s body on the train tracks, and the sergeant wastes no time restraining me. Torches shine on my face.

  “I didn’t do it,” I tell them.

  “Maybe not,” the sergeant says. “But you’ve got some explaining to do, young lady. Who’s he?” He shines his torch beam at Ernst, who chooses that moment to wake up.

  The German rubs his jaw. “Doctor Gustav—”

  That’s all he gets chance to say before a corporal clouts him in the mouth. The soldiers that had lowered their weapons all raise them.

  “A German right under our nose,” says the sergeant. “So you killed the warden. Did you kidnap the girl too? Whoever you are, we’ve got you now.”

  “You do not understand.” Gustav shields his face, bracing himself for another hit that doesn’t come. “I am working—”

  “Enough!” the sergeant shouts. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk later. They’ll want to question the girl as well. Radio HQ. Inform them we have two prisoners and…” He looks across at the glowing marble slab. “…that we’ve found something strange.”

  Me and Ernst are marched upstairs to the air raid shelter. Wrists pinned behind my back, an armed escort, soldiers on all four sides… no chance of escape. Some civilians on the platform give us frightened glances. A pregnant woman pulls back a young boy, holding him tight.

  We exit Aldwych Station to see London burning. The bombing has ceased – for tonight – and volunteers battle to put out the flames. I see two lucky young women rescued from a collapsing storefront before we’re pushed into the rear of a black van.

  “They will understand when we explain,” Ernst reassures me.

  “Explain what?” I ask once the soldiers have locked the doors. “That the symbols are pictures? That my own sister killed the warden? That I’m over thirty years old?”

  I fold my arms and gaze up at the narrow skylight. Black, smoky wisps block out the stars. The engine starts with a cough, and we’re taken on a bouncy ride through the streets of London. The steel walls are thick, but not enough to silence the wailing ambulance sirens. The van stops and starts nine times before soldiers open the doors and drag us outside.

  The building we’re taken to is a police station. Not Scotland Yard, but they lock me in a real cell this time. The sergeant interviews me in the morning, and then seems to forget about me. Most questions were about Gustav. Who was he? Did he hurt me? He’s probably the one getting the grilling.

  Time slows to a crawl, and I spend most of it watching shadows move excruciatingly slowly across the grubby floor. I can only reach the windows bars if I really stretch for them, and I’d rather save my energy since there’s nothing to see except bombed buildings. Tiny food rations and sour tasting water is barely enough to survive on. At night, I’m kept awake by air raid sirens and distant – and some not-so-distant – explosions.

  Afte
r three days in custody – or is it four? - I’m escorted outside by the sergeant and two privates. They take me to a black van. The one I came here in? It looks the same, but I’m too tired to go back in time and check. After another uncomfortable and bumpy late night ride, I’m let out.

  I know this place. The white stone monument with the three flags is the Cenotaph, a memorial to those who died in the Great War. I’m in Whitehall, where the Government departments are based. The dome-towered, oddly-shaped Baroque building the soldiers are escorting me into… I think it’s the War Office. Why would they bring me here?

  I’m taken through the side entrance, along a darkened corridor, and up a red-carpeted staircase. The women working in the offices wear green army uniforms instead of navy blue, but their duties are similar to those performed by the wrens at Bletchley Park: typists and filing clerks. I count three personnel to every basic desk.

  Things get plusher the further along we go. Through small windows I see a conference hall with cushioned chairs, a surprisingly well-stocked bar, and a gaming room with a darts board and snooker table. I don’t need to be told this is the officers’ section. Even in wartime, it seems there are perks for those high enough up the ranking ladder.

  “In there,” says the sergeant, showing me to a rather plain wooden door. No nameplate, just two dark, empty screw holes. “He’s expecting you, Miss Clayton.”

  How does he know my name? I never told him in the interview, or used my real one since I returned to England. Was it Ernst? Has he told them what I can do?

  Wary of what – and who – lies beyond the door, I turn the spiral-ridged bronze knob and step inside. I ignore the decorations, noting only important details: central table lit by a crystal chandelier, map of Europe and Africa laid on top, little flags sticking out, curly-legged desk with a reading lamp further back.

  The man behind it must be at least sixty, with chalk white hair and straggly sideburns. Horn-rimmed glasses magnify his observant eyeballs, and there’s a Victoria Cross pinned on his tweed jacket. A face from the distant past, but I don’t place him until I spot his lackey stood behind with a neatly-folded, tan brown overcoat over his arm. The butler.

  “Inspector Rodgers,” I greet the seated man cautiously.

  “Plain Mister Rodgers now,” he says. “Edith Clayton. It’s customary to comment on how much a child’s grown in the years since you last saw them, except you haven’t grown old. I wish I could say the same.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I ask, cynical of his motives.

  Most people would freak out upon seeing a thirty year-old child, but Rodgers remains calm and professional. I walk round the table - careful to keep both men in view - and lean my upper back against the wall. I’m close enough to the corner that I have full sight of the office, but far enough along I wouldn’t be trapped in a fight.

  “I wish my men would have told me they’d found a girl down there, Miss Clayton. It would have saved us both some time. They didn’t think it was important, but all details are important.” Rodgers picks up a notebook from the desk. “Collins used to write down everything. Rest his soul. When I interviewed you after the fire, your sister said something very interesting.” He turns through yellowed pages, stopping at one headed 24th April 1924. “Here it is. I wish I could heal like Edith. I would have saved them.”

  Rodgers snaps the book closed, gauging my reaction.

  “What did she mean by that?” he asks.

  “My sister likes to lie,” I say, recalling how easily she deceived the warden.

  “But she wasn’t lying about that, was she?”

  Speculation. Rodgers can’t know for certain. Or maybe he does. He’s probably seen the blood on my leggings, and the fully-healed skin through the torn cloth.

  “And she wasn’t lying about the ball either,” Rodgers continues. “Our top metallurgist fainted when he saw the symbols move. I see why your father was so determined to keep it secret.”

  Rodgers has clearly known about the vessel for some time. It’s my turn to put the clues together: soldiers reporting to a civilian, the endless questions, brown coats, matching trilbies on the hat stand.

  “You’re with British Intelligence,” I deduce. “You’re the one who made the deal with Ernst. He told you about me, what I can do. He bought your cooperation with the metal ball. Things must be desperate for you to trust a…” What was the derogatory word he always used? “Kraut.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Rodgers says with evident distaste. “But this technology is much safer in our hands. And you’re right. Things are desperate.”

  That’s clear from the swastika flags covering the map. Britain is isolated, with France occupied across the English Channel and Norway over the North Sea. Now the Germans are advancing into Libya, and through Bulgaria into Greece. I hope Kostis is okay. Allied forces have pulled back and fortified on the island of Crete, but left Athens practically undefended. The city will fall. The question is… how soon?

  “I can’t heal your troops,” I tell Rodgers. “Is that what you want from me? I can’t just give you my blood. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I have a niece called Edith,” he says fondly. “She was born in 1916, when me and my brother were fighting in the trenches. Do you know why my sister-in-law chose that name? It means fortune in war. We could use some luck right now.”

  If Rodgers is pinning hope of victory on that, things must be bad.

  “Did your brother survive?” I can tell he didn’t from the haunted look I get back. “They named Irene after the Greek Goddess of Peace. She’s a six foot murderer working with the Germans. I wouldn’t put much faith in names.”

  “Your sister… So there is a tall blonde woman killing our agents. I thought that was a rumour.”

  Rodgers thinking women can’t be criminals? That tale’s familiar. He hasn’t changed, apart from the whiter hair and the addition of spectacles.

  The sergeant enters without knocking. “Sir, you asked me to bring you these.”

  He places the vessel on Rodgers’ desk, gives the moving metal a fearful glance, and spreads out a wad of photographs. They show the slab we found at Aldwych and three more, all with glowing symbols. The British must have opened the other crates, and then used the vessel to expose the patterns.

  “The German offered to translate them,” says the soldier. “He said you’d understand.”

  “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” replies Rodgers callously. “That man’s a prisoner of war. Have him relocated to a camp. Solitary confinement. Under heavy guard.”

  The sergeant leaves to carry out his orders.

  “We don’t need his help any longer,” is Rodgers’ response to my harsh stare. “Unless he lied about you doing the first translation.”

  “Ernst didn’t lie,” I say, holding my gaze. “That was the honourable British. Men of their word.”

  “We’re at war, Miss Clayton. It’s not—”

  “Something a girl would understand?” I ask. “It doesn’t matter. You’re wasting your time. Three of those symbols led to a tomb in Egypt. It’s gone now. Vanished into thin air. The fourth picture is a cave. Good luck finding it.”

  “Our experts did some quick calculations based on the Kraut’s research. They confirm what you say. But they also suggest the existence of a second ball, and… more in the cave.”

  Is Rodgers referring to the mermaid? The diamond? Both? He goes to the map. No heavy pacing, no muttering, no gloomy expression. Is there some reason to be hopeful?

  “We do not have a complete picture,” he says. “But there may be more symbols. Lord Elgin didn’t remove all the marbles from the original site.”

  “Original site? You mean the Parthenon.”

  It’s not labelled on the map, but I know where the temple is. Athens. The city the Germans are lining up to invade.

  Chapter Seventeen: The Fall of Athens

  “Under no circumstances tell them the truth,” Rodgers instructed me before we left. “
Make up something plausible.”

  Like what? Girls don’t go to war. They stay at home where it’s safe. That’s why the men in the transport plane are so on edge. Not because we’re about to parachute into Greece without military support. Hardened commandos are expected to do things like that. No, it’s because they’ve been asked to escort me - a child in their eyes – to a battlefield. And they want to know why.

  “Why are you so special?” asks Scar. “Eh?”

  He’s been quizzing me for hours. Between his nagging, the turbulence, and the constantly buzzing propellers I’m amazed I haven’t snapped yet. Scar’s not his real name – he won’t tell me that - but his identifying feature is a nasty, old cut on his stubbly cheek. A knife wound that came dangerously close to leaving him with one, stony-grey eye.

  “The girl’s stubborn,” says Belfast. “She won’t tell us.”

  He won’t give me his name either. His accent’s raw Irish, and Belfast is the largest city in the part that belongs to Britain. It’ll work as a nickname. Mid twenties, five foot ten, clean shaven, strong hands. Most women my age would find the dark-haired Irishman handsome, but since I’ll always be a teenager… There’s no point in even thinking about it.

  “None of this bothers you?” Scar asks Belfast. “When the Germans reach Athens, the first place they’ll go is that hill. To raise their flag. HQ haven’t even organised a proper escape route. We’re supposed to improvise. Why? What can she do that we can’t?”

  “I don’t know,” Belfast says, voice heavy with concern. “But we have our orders.”

  He pulls a dull grey pistol from his jacket. It’s a model I haven’t seen before, fitted with a twelve inch, cylindrical barrel and fluorescent-painted sight.

  “Strange gun,” I comment, figuring a change of topic will do us all some good.

  “It’s a Welrod. Designed for special operations. It’s got a built in silencer and—”