“Did you think I’d die so easily?” Irene yanks the chain, garrotting me so hard I nearly black out.
I’m in serious trouble. My feet are suspended well above ground. I can’t turn to get a good punch in. Irene’s wetsuit is slippery, impossible to grip. The vessel is lodged under my chin, compressing my jaw shut. All I have in my arsenal are fingernails. Short, fragile, and practically useless against my sister’s healing powers. My best hope is that she pulls the chain too tight and snaps it.
“You’re nothing,” Irene says spitefully. “A weak girl, with a weak—” She regains her footing after a sideways tumble. “A weak neck.”
Disjointed sentences with a jarring break in between. My sister used that phrase at Aldwych. She’s been to the past again, probably to relive strangling the poor wren whose uniform she stole. I’ve gained some control over my memories, but the experience is new to Irene. A weakness I can exploit? Maybe, but I doubt I’ll get the opportunity.
The cavern is getting darker. Instead of flares I see flashing red circles. The lake blends with the wreckage of the U-boat, creating a runny mixture of grey and black. A gold star twinkles where the island meets the sea. Probably the cutlass, possibly the bright light that precedes death.
Do the machines in my blood protect against choking? What if I don’t heal? Or I do recover, only to find Irene’s buried me under a mountain of rubble? My sister’s won. I’m too weak to hurt her. To break her hold. To stay awake any longer. It’s only because the vessel is so uncomfortable I haven’t already…
The vessel! If I can open its petals, maybe I can use those as a weapon. I can’t see the metal ball completely with my head forced back, so I reach out and feel round its surface with my gloved hand.
The symbols are still uncovered from my encounter with the mermaid, but going back in time to review the sequence will use too much energy. I’ll have to rely on my memory being reliable without the machines. I place my fingers on the squares, and sense them shift. There’s the first symbol! I press it with my other – bare – hand. If there’s a tingling sensation, I’m too tired to feel it.
“You got the liquid in your blood by accident.”
I touch the second symbol while Irene continues her rant.
“You never wanted the power, never used it to do anything important. You hid away, took me away, worked with the people who—”
Irene lurches forward so violently I almost miss the next symbol. Another memory?
My sister drags me up, hot air blowing through her nostrils. “Who killed our parents!” she screams.
I complete the sequence. Irene’s oblivious to the opening vessel. Her view of the pouch is obstructed, and she’s shouting too loudly to hear the sharp petals tear apart the leather.
“You couldn’t have forgotten what happened,” Irene fumes. “To Mother, to Father. To me that night. Unless you wanted to. All those years with this power, and you squandered it.”
Steel squeaks as a petal catches under the chain. The metal flap peels skin from my neck. My raw flesh feels sooth and tender. Until the sharp point slices deeper, and the pain becomes almost intolerable. Blood flows freely, drowning the links in a tide of crimson. The snagged ring snaps, and the chain comes apart in my sister’s hands.
Relieved to taste fresh air, I grab the vessel and swing it overhead. A petal scoops out a sizeable portion of Irene’s forehead, leaving her eyeball and optic nerves exposed. My sister felt that one. She drops the chain pieces and screams like a baby, hands clutched round the metal ball.
I roll away as I land, easily dodging Irene’s stomping foot. My sister lashes out, screaming with fury. With one eye blocked by the vessel, she has no depth perception. A lucky hit catches my elbow, but the rest of her punches are inaccurate.
Irene prises out the petal - ignoring the blue glow - and hurls the metal ball a full thirty yards into the lake. Severed nerves reconnect, and skin forms over her skull.
It took ten seconds – at most – for Irene to fully recover from a serious injury. Paper cuts take me longer. And Lydia’s severed arm never healed. My sister is far more powerful. To have any chance against her I need a weapon.
“Had enough?” Irene asks, misinterpreting my anxious look around as fear. “We share the same powers. The only difference is that I have strong blood.”
The cutlass is a few yards behind her. I pretend not to see it, acting scared as I retreat to the shoreline.
“You finally admitted you’re weaker than me,” Irene says.
I sprint for the sword, stamp on its overhanging hilt, and flip it up into my waiting grasp. A perfectly executed move, but the cutlass is heavier than I expected. It takes both hands – and a concentrated effort – to hold the blade level.
“Look at my little sister, acting all grown up.” Irene stops three feet away. “Be careful you don’t hurt yourself.”
I lunge high. Irene does nothing to stop me. The cutlass sinks into her belly, two inches inside her hip. Its curved blade grinds to a halt against her ribcage. My sister grins and knocks both my hands away with a single, bludgeoning chop. She charges into me, using the embedded pommel as a battering ram. With no ground left to stand on, I fall backward into the lake, choking on salty seawater as I go under.
The flares are about to expire, and my vision is cloudy, but a giant woman kneeling by the lakeside is hard to miss. I swim to the surface, coughing to empty my lungs.
Irene rips off her wetsuit top and throws the punctured rubber into the water. The cutlass is back in her belt, and the wound it made has disappeared. So have all her self-inflicted scars. My sister’s a perfectly healthy, smooth-bodied woman. I can’t hurt her, and she knows it.
I splash water in Irene’s face, hoping to distract her. She spits it back in my eyes, and plucks me from the lake.
“Very naughty,” Irene says, tossing me onshore. “And naughty girls deserve a good beating.”
She throws punch upon punch, pounding me into submission. I freeze time to plan a counter attack, but when I come to execute it, my movement is sluggish. Irene hops over my sweeping feet. She jumps high, spreads her legs in an inverted T-shape, and drops onto my waist. Her slam crushes me against the rock. I’m pegged down, unable to wiggle free.
“I didn’t get chance to do this in London,” Irene says over my groaning, “but now you’re more compliant…”
She combs waterlogged hair off my neck, preparing it for the chop. I won’t survive a decapitating blow, and if I do… The prospect of being a bodiless trophy is worse than dying.
All my energy was depleted during the last attack. I’m flat out exhausted. Any attempt to freeze time would fail. My vision would end as soon as it started, and I’d return even more vulnerable. The only weapon in range is my sister’s cutlass. But I’ll never reach it. She’s too alert.
Irene blinks, and I remember the idea I had earlier. When the machines first infected my blood, every loose thought I had sent me into the past. If I can force my sister to relive a memory, she’ll lose concentration. Maybe that will give me the opening I need.
“Remember when Lydia murdered Father in his study?” I use graphic language, putting brutal emphasis on key words. “When she threw the nail file in his head?”
Irene’s eyelids remain shut for a whole second. When they open, she gives me a furious snarl. It worked. I reach for the cutlass hilt. My sister moves to grab my wrist. I need another memory.
“The night you left to join the German maidens?” I shout quickly. “The Reichstag on fire?”
Irene’s eyes close. I quickly pull the cutlass from her belt. My sister grabs its blade instead of my hand, cutting herself. Her wounded hand is slow to heal. She’s tiring. One more blink ought to do it.
“The British Empire Exhibition?” I say. “When I wouldn’t take you in the Indian pavilion?”
No reaction. Irene doesn’t remember.
“When you shot—”
My sister squeezes my throat, silencing me. She closes he
r other hand round the sword blade. Blood drips through the gaps between Irene’s fingers, but she smiles through the pain.
I can’t break her hold - not while she’s focused. I need to remind Irene of a pivotal moment in her life. Something she’d never forget. But how? While my sister’s choking me, I can’t say a word.
She’s always gone on about our parents. How I didn’t save them. I’ve already mentioned Father. That leaves Mother. What happened that night? I can’t afford to waste energy freezing time, so I have to rely on normal – hazy – memories.
We were trapped in the bedroom, with Mother under the armchair. Lydia broke through the barricade, a silhouette surrounded by smoke. I was by the open window, getting ready to catch Irene. Yes…
I arch my back and push my chest up into the cutlass pommel to hold it in position. I let go of the hilt, spread my arms wide, and mouth the same words I did that night.
“Jump, little sister!”
Irene blinks. I grab the hilt again, twist the cutlass free of her loosened grip, and thrust the blade up into my sister’s heart.
Irene’s eyes snap open. I keep on pushing, burying the sword deeper. My sister releases my throat and attempts to pry my hands away. A tame reaction from a weakening woman.
Irene falls limply on the cutlass, saliva dripping from her open, unmoving mouth. I roll her heavy body off me, sit up, and feel her pulse. There’s no buildup of pressure. Did I strike a fatal blow? My sister’s not healing. Maybe she’s run out of energy, or - more likely – the sword blade is stopping the machines from repairing her heart.
An icy, unrepentant glare is frozen in Irene’s eyes. She died hating me.
“I’m sorry, little sister,” I say. “We do what me must.”
I return to the present and repeat those same words, head bowed toward Irene’s gravestone.
I sink my fists into the frosty turf to support my wobbly knees, and wipe my cheek on my tatty coat sleeve. Was I crying before I shut my eyes? I must have been, but I can’t recall. That was a long memory. So vivid I recalled every accompanying feeling, not just visions and sounds. It lasted ten minutes from my perspective, though not a moment has passed in 1945.
The bell tolls in the church steeple. I count eleven bongs, and brush loose dirt off the granite headstone. The chiselled letters appear dark under the overcast sky. In Loving Memory. Irene Clayton, 11 November 1918 – 29 April 1941.
The village vicar had the stonemason add the first sentence as a customary courtesy. He never knew my sister. If he had, he might have refused to conduct her burial service at all. God’s love only goes so far, and I doubt it extends to traitors. Not with the Second World War fresh in peoples’ minds.
I suppress my hateful thoughts. They’ll only lead me to dark places, and I’ve been to enough of those. “Goodbye,” I say, getting up to leave.
The Sun comes out from behind the grey clouds, and I see a shadow on the grass. Not mine – it’s much too large.
I freeze time and study the still image. Short hair, smooth arc in the middle. The shadow is wider around the arms and body than the legs. A balding man wearing a coat? I can’t see anything in his hands, but that doesn’t mean he’s not carrying a weapon.
I go back earlier, to when I arrived and did the reconnaissance. There’s plenty of potential cover around: tall crosses, wide headstones. Trees have shed their browned leaves in readiness for winter, but the barks are thick and offer a lot of potential protection. The church is small and isolated, with only two entrance doors. I make a mental note of where to run – and where not to - if I’m attacked, open my eyes, and swiftly turn on the spot.
“I expected you would come here,” says Ernst. “You do not need to move so quickly, Edith. I am an old man now.”
I wouldn’t categorise him as old. Ernst’s blond hair is a shade darker than four years ago - and his bald patch half an inch broader – but he’s still in his late forties. Or maybe fifties. It’ll be a while before he needs a walking cane. But I suppose everyone feels old around a teenage girl who doesn’t age.
“Ernst.” My greeting is frostier than the grass. “They set you free.”
I discretely spread my feet apart, poised to strike. I’m dressed lightly: beige pants, chequered shirt, thin raincoat. Hair secured with a simple steel clip. Brown leather boots. I shouldn’t be too restricted in a fight.
I scan the churchyard grounds. Nobody is around except for the gravedigger. Either Ernst came here alone, or he has friends who are very good at hiding. Probably the former. What friends would a German have in England?
“You were dead,” says Ernst. “Or so Rodgers believed. I knew better, but I said nothing. He had no reason to keep me prisoner after the war ended. The fighting is over now.”
“Is it?”
An awkward pause follows. The graveyard is silent apart from the digger’s scraping spade.
“You want to know what I did with the diamond,” I say.
Why else would Ernst be here? His sudden appearance has me on edge. I’d better make sure it’s gone. I close my eyes and return to the limestone cavern under Thera.
Everyone’s dead. Kostis, the U-boat crew, the SS soldier. I check Irene’s pulse for the fifth time, and spread her eyelids to check for signs of life. I don’t find any. My sister really isn’t coming back.
I work fast, setting dynamite charges around the island. I place the stick bundles in crevices, on long stalactites, and beside the dormant mermaid. I need to ensure nobody can ever switch the machine back on. Destroying the black metal shell is optimistic, but I can bury that thing under so much rubble she’ll never be found.
Ten minutes remain on the timers. I put on my oxygen tank and flippers, and make my final preparations. Kostis will be caught in the blast, but there’s no way to move him.
“You were right,” I say, taking one last look at my old mentor. “We can’t trust anybody. Not with this technology.”
I take the diamond in my gloved hands and throw it into the water, lowering my goggles as it sinks. What other wisdom did Athena store in there? There are many things I don’t know. Why she came to our solar system, who planted that bomb, whether there are other metal women out there like her. But some questions are best left unanswered. We’ve developed enough devastating weapons on our own. We don’t need Athena’s advanced knowledge to assist us.
I skip forward through time. The return journey through the unnatural underwater tunnel is long and repetitive, and the final dark stretch nerve-wreaking after the flare burns out. Fortunately the path is straight enough I don’t get lost, and the vertical shaft at the end is lit from above.
Night turned to day whilst I was in the cave, and the sea is a lot warmer than when I first dived in. I surface to smell a tangy, mid-morning breeze. I climb the ladder up to the Aegir‘s deck, throw off my goggles, and remove a clump of seaweed from my face.
There’s a distant, earth-shaking boom. A giant water spout erupts off the coast of Thera. People on the island – midgets when seen from here – run out from their limestone houses. The water is reclaimed by the Aegean Sea, the noise fades, and cries of panic quickly cease.
It’s over. Time to leave. I enter the ship’s wheelhouse, start the engine, and steer around Thera’s crescent coast. I continue south and set a course for Crete.
It’ll be a few hours before I reach port. Maybe less if I encounter a British patrol. I’ve plenty of time to think up a convincing story. And a name. I speak three languages fluently, but I’d better pretend to be Greek. There are no British girls out here, and a German wouldn’t be too welcome in Allied territory.
“My name is Lydia,” I say, practising my Mediterranean accent. “Lydia Konstantinos.”
What happened next – German paratroopers invading Crete in May 1941, laying low during the occupation, helping the resistance when I could, disguising myself to look older as the war dragged on - is history. I return to the present.
“Don’t bother looking,” I tell Ernst
. “I buried it.”
“Perhaps.” He drags his black shoes through soggy mud in front of Irene’s headstone. “But you did not bury your sister. There should be barren patches in the soil, signs of disturbance. But there are not. This grave is empty. No coffin, and no body.”
A speedy deduction. A sharp, hopeful glance. Ernst wants Irene to be alive. Of course he does. He finds her fascinating.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Doctor,” I say insincerely. “But I did bury my sister. Just not here. And she wasn’t breathing when I left her.”
“That is not possible.” Ernst shakes his head in denial. “You could not have defeated Irene. She was perfect. She was too strong, too intelligent, too—” He turns deathly pale, realising I’m telling the truth. “How did you do it?”
“I reminded her of what happened in 1924, on the day I first met you. It was a very traumatic memory. Painful enough to kill her.”
Ernst’s shock turns to… curiosity? I don’t like the way he’s looking me over, assessing me.
“You confused her,” he says, stepping closer. “Negated her strength with tactics. Perhaps I was mistaken and it is not her, but you that is remarkable.”
Ernst reaches out to touch me. I cross my arms, lock his hand between my wrists, and swivel past, using the momentum to throw him to the ground. Soil disperses, scattered by the heavy impact. A few seconds pass before Ernst turns around, sits up, and nurses his head.
“If you’re inviting me to your lab, I’m not interested,” I say. “You had twelve years to figure me out. I don’t have any more questions that need answering. There are no answers. Not any longer. I destroyed everything.”
“No.” Grains of dirt snow off Ernst’s coat as he rises to his feet. “You only concealed it, and the traveller’s secrets will not remain hidden forever. People will search.”
“People? Does that mean you?”
“Everybody,” says Ernst. “The scientists who designed the German rocket weapons were responsible for killing thousands, but they were never put on trial. Or held responsible for their actions. Because the Americans and the Soviets wanted the technology. If they are so willing to forgive Nazis, do you think they will ignore the vessel? Ignore metal that moves?”
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 26