The Sea King’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  I had never heard him sound like that-like a sulky little boy saying something deliberately naughty and waiting to be scolded. Sir Christopher said nothing, and after a moment Jim went on.

  “It’s different for you, Chris. You knew him. He was your friend. I mean-”

  “Quite all right, my boy. Don’t give it another thought. I understand your point of view thoroughly.”

  Oh, he was an expert, that man; he had both of us speechless and feeling obscurely guilty. I knew what he was doing, but I couldn’t seem to prevent it. He looked from me to Jim, as if waiting for us to speak, and then offered a change of subject.

  “Did you enjoy your dip? You are a splendid swimmer, young lady. I was almost moved to join you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You saw us. Where were you?”

  “I was taking a stroll on the bluff above the beach. You ought to consider marine archaeology, my dear. It’s a new and expanding field. One day I hope to investigate some of the sunken harbor sites in Crete. Perhaps I can induce you to join me.”

  There was no question about it. He knew. The cat-and-mouse hints were beginning to annoy me. Maybe he didn’t mean them as threats, maybe he was trying to warn me. He was beaming benevolently, like Jupiter without his beard or hair. Jim looked puzzled. He knew something was going on, but, bless his honest heart, he didn’t know what.

  Sir Christopher turned to him. “Jim, you had better get some clothes on. It’s a bit breezy here in the shade.”

  “Okay. Back in a minute, Sandy.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, I turned to Sir Christopher. I knew I had to take the initiative, or the man would continue to intimidate me with that soft voice and gentle smile.

  “Okay,” I said. “How did you find out?”

  “Find out what?” That damned eyebrow slipped up again.

  “That I am Frederick ’s daughter.”

  It was out, and I had an instant feeling of relief, like lancing a boil.

  “You are a direct young person, aren’t you?” Sir Christopher said, looking amused.

  I winced. “Usually I am. I sort of got roped into this lie. You haven’t told Jim. Why not?”

  “But, my dear girl, that’s your affair. If you don’t choose to tell him, why should I interfere?”

  “I’m going to tell him,” I said. “I’d appreciate it if you would let me do it.”

  “If I had meant to betray your secret, I would have done so by now, surely.”

  I let my breath out with a big whoosh of air. His smile faded as he watched me.

  “My dear child,” he exclaimed. “You surely don’t think I would hold this over your head? I’m not that sort of person. Deal with the situation as you see fit.”

  I started to say I was sorry and caught myself just in time. Maybe I had misjudged him. Apparently I had. But I still wasn’t going to apologize. He waited for a minute and then went on.

  “Only do be careful about your diving, won’t you? If I know Frederick -and I think I do-he will be inclined to urge you on rather than caution you. You mustn’t take careless chances.”

  “What diving?” I asked.

  “Now, now,” Sir Christopher said indulgently. “That isn’t worthy of you, Sandy.”

  “I suppose you saw the article in Geographic,” I said resignedly.

  “No; but I knew Frederick had a daughter, and when a lovely young lady of precisely the right age joined him here, I made inquiries.”

  “You could report him,” I said. “I mean, if you think I’m going to do any diving-”

  “I have no intention of reporting anyone,” Sir Christopher interrupted, sounding annoyed. “I felt obliged to warn you; even to do that violates my cherished habit of noninterference.”

  “And you won’t tell Jim?”

  “I won’t tell him. And don’t you tell him I knew,” he added, with a flash of wry humor. “He would murder me if you injured yourself and he learned that I had been aware of your activities.”

  “I won’t injure myself.”

  “I certainly hope not.” He glanced up. “And here he comes,” he said calmly. “Just in time to order. Jim, I think we ought to introduce our young friend to the gourmet flavor of octopus, don’t you?”

  Octopus tastes a little like old automobile tire. It’s good exercise for the jaws. We had a big fattening lunch, with plenty of retsina, and we talked of this and that. Sir Christopher was a fascinating conversationalist, when he put his rapier away. After lunch he rose.

  “Back to the job. Paper work is the curse of excavation. Laymen don’t realize that it takes ten times as long as the actual digging. No”-putting his hand on Jim’s shoulder as Jim started to rise-“I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning, Jim. Enjoy your day of rest.”

  He walked toward the door of the hotel. Sunlight slipping through the vines cast a pattern of weaving shadows across his back and shoulders.

  “He must like you,” Jim said ingenuously. “This is the first time he’s told me to run off and play. What’ll we do?”

  “I could take a nap,” I said, yawning. “I’m not used to all that heavy food.”

  “Let’s walk some of it off.”

  I knew what he had in mind. It was in my mind too. But the walk did me in. It was awfully hot. We climbed the hill behind the town and wandered around the slopes for a while, looking for a shady spot. There were vines on the terraced hillsides, but they didn’t provide much shade. Finally we followed a goat trail up into an area that was too steep and rocky for cultivation, and found a tree. It was scrawny and bent, but it was a tree, and that’s rare on Thera. We lay down in the shade and Jim put his arms around me… And in five minutes we were both asleep.

  I woke with a start, after dreaming that a dog was licking my feet. The sun was warm on my legs, and Jim was tickling my toes with a stalk of grass. As soon as I opened my eyes he leaned over me.

  “And now,” he said, “let’s get back to what we were doing when you copped out on me. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”

  He kissed me before I could think of an answer, and I stopped trying to think.

  There’s something exciting about making love in the open air, a suggestion of innocence and freedom. The air was hot and sweet; no smog, no gasoline fumes, only the scent of wild thyme and sun on clean dust, and the smell of the sea. But one of the reasons why those moments stand out in my memory is that they ended so soon, and so dreadfully.

  It started with a rhythmic pounding. I thought at first it was the beat of my heart, or Jim’s, but the pounding grew louder, faster, fiercer. A shower of pebbles rained down. They weren’t big, but they stung, and the sound seemed right on top of us, like wild horses charging, intent on riding us down.

  I understood then what the Greeks meant by the word panic, an attribute of Pan, who was another of those monstrous Greek mixtures, half man, half goat. Wildly I struggled to sit up. The rain of stones trickled out. I looked up; and I would not have been surprised to see the god himself, immense and shadowy, thundering past on his cloven hooves.

  I saw a man on horseback-presumably the same man I had seen once before. He was motionless for a moment; then he turned in the saddle and the horse broke into a trot. In a few seconds they were out of sight. The hoofbeats faded into silence.

  “Damn,” said Jim. “Of all the times…”

  I let my head fall onto his shoulder. I felt foolish, remembering my reasonless terror, but some of it lingered.

  “Good old Pan,” I mumbled. “Riding around to chaperone the heedless maiden…”

  As usual, Jim followed my train of thought without difficulty.

  “Wrong god,” he said, with a little laugh. “Wrong religion, in fact. The Greek gods didn’t chaperone maidens. Neither did the goddesses, except when their husbands went astray after human girls.”

  “And then they turned the girls into spiders or something,” I said dreamily. His lips were against my hair, moving down in search of my mouth, and I was losing in
terest in gods and goddesses, Greek or otherwise.

  All of a sudden he pushed me down flat and threw himself on top of me. Shock and physical pain brought a cry to my throat, but I couldn’t let it out because my face was mashed against his shoulder. I couldn’t breathe. There was a jagged rock digging into the small of my back, and his weight on my chest reminded me of an old medieval torture, the one where they pressed people to death. Then something hit me on the left ear, the only part of me, except my feet, that was exposed, and I understood. For a few minutes I thought the whole damned hillside was falling down on us.

  The rattle and crash of falling rock finally stopped, and Jim lifted himself up. I took in a lovely deep breath, and let it out faster than I intended, as Jim collapsed on me again.

  I squawked out a few useless questions, like “Are you hurt?” It was obvious that he was. He managed to roll off me, though, and sprawled onto his back, limp as a rag doll. There was blood trickling down his face from half a dozen places, most of them above the hairline.

  I grabbed my dress-I had been lying on it-and started tearing it up.

  “My God,” I said. “That was close. What happened?”

  “I would say that was obvious,” said Jim.

  “Rockslide. I know. But why then? The horse was long gone.”

  “Who cares?” Jim’s voice was weaker. “A minor quake, maybe. I wouldn’t have noticed…”

  I mopped the blood off his face. Most of the cuts were small ones. I thought it was shock that made his face such a funny color till I noticed the puddle of blood under his head.

  He yelped when my fingers probed and found a long gash at the back of his head. The blood was coming out in a thick, steady stream. His hair was already soaked. I tore off another wad of cloth and held it against the wound. I was scared, but I don’t think it showed in my voice.

  “Look, you lie still. I’ll go for help.”

  “I can walk. Let’s get going, before I get any weaker.”

  I helped him up. His back, which had taken most of the punishment, was a mess, all scraped and bloody.

  “There’s a house down there,” I said, pointing.

  “No, thanks. They’ll slap some goat dung on it and say a prayer. Chris has medical supplies.”

  We started down the hill, but we hadn’t gone far before I knew he’d never make it to the village, not on his feet.

  “We’re not far from our house,” I said, panting. “If you can get that far-”

  He didn’t have to get that far. A few minutes later Frederick appeared around a curve in the path. I had never been so glad to see him.

  Frederick didn’t seem to share my feelings. His brows drew together in a scowl, and he exclaimed, “Must you go about the countryside embracing like a pair of cheap hippies? Not only is it in poor taste-”

  Jim chose that moment to fold up. We went down together, our knees buckling in perfect harmony, and it dawned on Frederick that things were not quite as they seemed.

  “What happened?” he asked. His voice was only slightly less irritated.

  “Can’t you see he’s hurt?” I snarled. “Don’t stand there, give me a hand.”

  Frederick hauled Jim to his feet and draped a limp arm over his shoulders. I took the other arm and we started walking.

  “Where are you planning to take him?” Frederick asked.

  “Our place; it’s the closest. You can go for the doctor while I-”

  “There is no doctor,” said Frederick distantly. “Not in the village. What happened to him?”

  “Rockslide. I suppose part of the cliff was weakened by the quake.”

  “Ah. And may I inquire how it happens that you are unmarked, whereas he has cuts only on his back?”

  It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it.

  “I am unmarked because he shielded me,” I said shortly. “If it’s any of your damn business.”

  “Hmph,” said Frederick. “Save your breath. You’ll need it, this stretch is rough.”

  It was rough, and steep; but I couldn’t help noticing that it showed no signs of fresh disturbance. There had been no falls of rock anywhere-except right above where we happened to be lying.

  I put the idea out of my mind. Living with Frederick was infecting me with his delusions of persecution.

  Frederick had an extensive collection of medical supplies, including antibiotics, which you can buy in Europe without a prescription. He got to work on Jim with ruthless efficiency, ignoring Jim’s groans and curses. The big cut wasn’t as deep as I had feared, and after an examination that made Jim rise to new heights of profane comment, Frederick announced that there didn’t seem to be a fracture or concussion. He then jabbed a hypodermic needle into a little sealed bottle of penicillin, and ordered me out of the room.

  I stared at him. I was standing there holding bloody bandages and a basin of bloody water. My hands were bloodstained. I had watched the whole process without any signs of squeamishness. I couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so considerate of my nonexistent sensitivities. Then Jim, who was lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his folded arms, turned his head painfully and winked at me.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, catching on. “Really, Frederick, you are archaic.”

  I slammed the door behind me; but when I was outside I couldn’t help laughing. This was a side of Frederick I had never seen. He was behaving like a stuffy, old-fashioned…Father.

  I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. But don’t get me wrong, I didn’t feel teary and sentimental either. I wasn’t anxious for Frederick to develop paternal feelings about me-especially when the feelings all seemed to be negative.

  I invited Jim to stay, realizing there was nothing for supper except those everlasting tin cans, but he insisted on going back to the hotel. Frederick agreed with him, pointing out that the path was tricky after dark, and that Jim shouldn’t risk falling on his head a second time. I gave my kindly old father a long, thoughtful look. He returned it with interest.

  The three of us started out. Jim was walking with the careful steadiness of a drunk who is not certain his head is tightly anchored to his neck. Frederick hadn’t offered him any pain pills, not while I was around, anyway. We talked stiltedly-God knows what about, I wasn’t listening, not even to myself. I was wondering what would happen when we ran into Sir Christopher, Frederick ’s old war buddy.

  He was sitting on the hotel terrace when we reached the plaza. His bald head shone in the light of the lanterns Angelos had strung along the arbor. I rather expected Frederick to turn back then. But he didn’t, he marched on, holding Jim by the arm, like a keeper returning an escaped lunatic. And it was in that spirit that he addressed Sir Christopher.

  “Better keep an eye on him tonight,” he remarked, without a word of greeting. “There is always the possibility of concussion.”

  Sir Christopher, always the perfect gent, had risen. He stared down at Jim’s bowed head in understandable surprise, and then looked at Frederick.

  “Hello, Frederick. Good of you to look after my young friend. What happened to him?”

  All in order, you see-the greeting, the polite thank-you, the pertinent question. He even managed to nod and smile at me during the speech.

  I explained about the rockslide, with a little tribute to Jim’s quick-thinking courage, which had saved me from injury. It was now Frederick ’s turn to make a graceful comment acknowledging Jim’s kindness to his young friend. He didn’t, and I suppose nobody expected him to.

  Sir Christopher shook his head. “I did warn you, I believe, about being in a ravine or under a cliff during a tremor.”

  “I don’t think it was a quake,” I said. “The rider dislodged some stones when he went by. Maybe others were loosened.”

  “Rider?” Sir Christopher repeated.

  Jim sat up straight. He was looking better.

  “You know, the old guy who rides, back in the hills. The one who lives in the villa on the headland.” He turned t
o me. “I found out who he is, did I tell you? At least I found out what he is. German. They call him the Colonel.”

  Frederick was sitting to my right, balancing on two legs of the chair and staring at the darkening sky, as if to express his boredom with the lot of us. I wasn’t looking at him when Jim spoke, but his reaction would have been hard to miss. The legs of the chair hit the ground with a crash. As I whirled around I saw that his face had gone gray. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle emerged from his gaping mouth. Then he fell forward onto the table, smashing Sir Christopher’s coffee cup.

  Chapter 7

  MONDAY MORNING. THE USUAL ROUTINE. AWAKENED in the cold gray dawn by Frederick shaking my shoulder…

  I blinked at him. Then I sat up, which is not easy when you’re zipped into a sleeping bag.

  “What are you doing out of bed? I thought I told you-”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Frederick. “It’s getting light. Hurry.” He walked out of the room.

  It had been too dark for me to see his face. His voice and his walk seemed to be normal; and yet I could have sworn that he had a light heart attack the previous night. I had a hell of a time getting him back to the house after he collapsed on the hotel terrace. He refused help, and anyway, Sir Christopher was too busy fussing over Jim to insist on accompanying us. Frederick was still shaky when I sent him off to bed; the fact that he let me order him around proved how shaken he was. Now the old rat was himself again, and I didn’t know what I was going to do about him.

  I figured he might have another heart attack if I frustrated him, so I dragged myself out of the sack and went to the kitchen. Frederick had boiled water, so I had a cup of coffee, watching him all the while.

  I didn’t like what I saw. He was moving with forced briskness, as if he were trying to prove something. I had not questioned him the night before; I couldn’t third-degree a man in his condition. Now I decided I had to know.

  “Do you feel all right?” I asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “What made you pass out the way you did?”

  “I have attacks now and then. The result of that lung condition, perhaps. Nothing to worry about.”