The Healer's Daughters

by Jay Amberg

  “The Sekhmet amulet,” Iskan says, “had nothing to do with the attack on your mother. The planning would have been well along by then.”

  “Since she received the Galen letter?”

  “Yes. They assumed she had additional, specific information about the gravesite.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “You would know.”

  Still holding the figurine, Elif leans over and slides the water bottle onto the floor next to the leg of the workbench.

  “Look,” Iskan says, “the Hamits believe that she, that your family, will ruin their business. Outsell them. Turn them into losers. They think it’s already happening. And they’re obsessed with controlling the market. They’re already making mistakes. Especially the son. Their obsession is their weakness. And you, Elif, have the power to destroy them.”

  Elif stares at the figurine in her hand. She turns it slowly and then gazes at Iskan. “And this,” she says, “is why you’re here.”

  Iskan nods again. “Did you hear your mother’s speech at the Aesklepion? The speech she was giving?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. Tears are welling for the first time since the night of the attack. “Why were you there?”

  “A friend asked me to go.” Iskan picks up the brown ceramic cup, draws water, and drinks. “You should listen to it, the speech. It came from inside her.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ll know what to do.”

  55

  BERGAMA

  Özlem Boroğlu strokes toward light. Just as she reaches the surface, she is sucked under again, towed into darkness. She swims toward sky, and the backwash yanks her down. She is worn out, utterly enervated, but she will not let herself drown in the pitched void. Each time, she moves a little farther into the brightness, and each time darkness reclaims her.

  Finally she treads in light. The gleaming world around her begins to take shape. Sharp corners. Hot spots. Yellows and greens. Blues. Whites. But she hears no sound. Only a ringing in her ears. And an odor. A scent too clean, too strong. And no feeling, nothing tactile at all. The taste is metallic—copper? Bronze?

  And no pain, no feeling at all. And no memory. Only of her starting a speech at the Aesklepion’s theater. Standing before an audience of psychologists and psychiatrists. Talking about her work at Allianoi, the tedium, the red tape, the discoveries, the honors, the exhilaration. And, ultimately, the loss, the destruction of her work, of her site, of the ancient spa that healed so many. Everything swallowed by the flood.

  Yes, the flood. Images are returning, swirling. An inundation she herself has submerged for years. But the flood this time was light not water, and instantaneous not gradual. A breaking wave of light.

  Özlem feels something—a hand pressed on hers, clasping her. But silence still, except for incessant noise in her ears that annihilates all other sound. Softer light, and another dark shape that has no sharp corners. A flowing of energy above her, energy streaming through her, energy that is holding her, pulling her free of the undertow. Her eyes blink, but it’s too bright to see, like staring at the sun on Dikili’s beach.

  And now a form, two forms, in the light flowing darkly but not dark. Gradually, one form becomes her mother standing over her and the other, Elif, her mouth moving but no words emerging, no meaning, no sense. Özlem has no memory of anything except the tsunami of light.

  The stark brilliance exacerbates the headache, the throbbing pain that doesn’t hurt but steals her focus, her concentration. She is safe, out away from the flood, but the world is blinding and nothing works, neither her body nor her mind. And maybe that’s good, though it doesn’t feel good—doesn’t feel at all. She has no idea where she is or what she is doing or why she is lying here. She wears a flimsy gown decorated with inscrutable glyphs. For fleeting moments, she can move her eyes but nothing else. She doesn’t seem to need to move her arms and legs. Doesn’t really care to. Her mother and daughter are with her but are merely mimes, unable or unwilling to speak. The swimming into light has exhausted her, the light itself blinded her.

  When she wakes again, she is in a hospital bed, hooked to silent machines. Or, maybe machines she cannot hear over the ringing. Her mother is here, weeping silently, and Elif is holding her hand in both of her own, a tranfusion of energy. Everything is still too bright—the shining machines and gleaming walls and glowing sheets that cover her. An antiseptic odor scrapes her nostrils. And the bitter taste of metallic shavings.

  She still cannot move anything other than her head, or won’t try. A tube runs into her arm. A plastic bonnet squeezes her head. A straw shoots a cutting wind up her nose. When she closes her eyes to dim the glare, images flash. Elif’s figurines battle in the rooftop garden among her mother’s herbs…blades slice limbs, and truncheons crush skulls…dogs yelp and geese squawk… Iskan’s photographs of Serkan and the handsome young man come alive and leap about in the melee stomping animals and statues alike…water nymphs scream in a deepening gyre…young boys hurl themselves into the battle only to be slaughtered…she pleads for calm, for sense, but the chaos escalates… Recep, mammoth and terrifying in his bearskin cloak, lumbers among the others until he turns with a maniacal gaze toward her as though he might tear out her eyes and rip out her throat. He instead flings her aside and crushes a young boy holding a bouquet of venomous snakes. Recep…Recep?

  Serkan has left the battlefield, though the handsome young man continues his rampage. Serkan stands here now in the room with Elif and her mother. Time’s stream is disrupted, dysfunctional, but Özlem is aware that her son is present. He weeps, the tears real, but they fall away from rather than to her. He mouths words, silent words, empty words. Although both her children linger above her, each has very different energy. Elif’s sluices into her, nourishing her, but Serkan’s spirals about, only touching her tangentially, barely brushing here and there. And something ominous lurks beyond, perhaps not in him, but around him. She is upset with him, deeply angry, but she doesn’t know why and can’t seem to care.

  If Özlem could think at all, she might welcome darkness. Instead, she drifts in and out of moments. Other forms, male and female swathed in pale shimmering tunics, hover about her. They speak, seemingly soothingly, but their words don’t reach her. They are at once too close and too far. There is not even an echo, only monotonous droning. A whiteboard is thrust in front of her, but the board glints with dark lettering in a language she once knew. Or didn’t. The world out there is far too brilliant for her, the darkness inside too excruciating, though she still can’t actually feel the pain.

  Something, both fair and foul, orbits beyond her mother and children, at the far edge of her world. It comes into view, passes overhead, slips away. Returns. Within her world, the battle rages, the fire and the fury, the mayhem and the butchery. It should matter. She should care.

  56

  BERGAMA

  The hammering on the studio door is hard enough that Elif hears it even with her earbuds in and the music thundering. She has been sitting here at her work table for well over an hour, thinking, not really working. She has not begun anything new since her mother was attacked, cannot yet concentrate on anything other than her mother and her brother and what must be done.

  Elif’s hair is pinned back and piled loosely on her head. She is wearing the same black jeans and bright-blue tank top that she has worn after her hospital visits both nights since her conversation with Serkan was interrupted by the earthquake out in the Aegean Sea. She glances at her phone to see that it is 1:01 in the morning, takes a long breath, removes her earbuds, and slowly, deliberately goes to the door.

  The pounding continues.

  “Who is it?” she shouts through the wooden door.

  “Open up!” The voice is male, deep, angry.

  “Who is it?” she repeats even though she knows.

 
; “Mustafa Hamit! Open the damn door or I’ll kick it in!”

  She takes another deep breath, leans against the door for a moment, takes a step back, braces herself, and turns the deadbolt.

  Mustafa opens the door slowly and scans the studio to see that there is no one there except Elif. “Shit!” he mutters and then turns to her and, his voice cold, asks, “Where is that bastard?” He is wearing clean, creased blue jeans and a tight, green short-sleeved shirt that accentuates his biceps and complements his eyes. He is, though, unshaven, and his hair is tousled.

  “Serkan?” she asks.

  He glares at her. “Yeah! Who do you think? Burak Özçivit?”

  She steps back as though she’s frightened. “He’s not here.”

  “Obviously.”

  She wrings her hands but doesn’t say anything.

  “What was that fucking call about?”

  “What call?” she asks, though she is the one who told Serkan to make it.

  He glowers at her more harshly. “That complaint he made to the Istanbul police about two Georgians mugging him in Tünel Square.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t…”

  He looks at her, seeming for the first time to actually notice her in her tank top. “Does he want to die?” As with the statements he made the first time he was in her studio, it’s not a question.

  Wide-eyed, she shakes her head. “He…hasn’t talked to…me…people since Mom… I don’t know what he wants…what he’s thinking.”

  “He wants to fucking die.” There’s disgust in Mustafa’s voice.

  “Maybe I can…” She takes her phone from her work table. “I’ll try…,” she adds as she taps numbers.

  As she lets the phone ring, he looks around the studio. The work table is clean, the centrifuge covered, and the kiln off. At least a dozen of the figurines are gone. The cat is nowhere around.

  “Nothing,” she says. “He won’t answer my…anybody’s calls. He wasn’t at the hospital when I was there.”

  “I know,” Mustafa says. “I’ve got a man waiting for him there.”

  “Maybe… He’s been drinking. A lot.” She pauses. “All the time.”

  When he spots the squat goddess with the single-edged sword and severed head, he picks it up. “You’re here late,” he says as he runs his finger along the sword’s blade.

  She looks away from his eyes. “I can’t sleep,” she says, careful not to sound flirtatious. “My work…” She pauses, seeming to be thinking, and points at the figurine. “Do you…do you still want that?”

  His smile is grim.

  “I’ve…” She rakes the back of her left hand with the fingernails of her right hand. “You… You can have it.”

  The corner of his mouth curls up. “I thought it can’t be bought.”

  “It can’t. Not with money.” She pauses again, apparently still thinking. “But my brother… His life…”

  “Is he in danger?” The question is anything but a question.

  “He’s broken. No danger to anybody. But he thinks he is.”

  Still holding the figurine, Mustafa takes a step closer to her. “And what about you? Are you in danger?”

  “Of course.” She looks down at the squat goddess in his manicured hand. “You’re here.” Before he can say anything, she adds, “But I do have something to trade for my safety. And my brother’s.” She fully understands the risk she’s taking.

  “This?” he laughs, holding up the figurine. His watch glints in the overhead light. “You’ll need a lot more than this.”

  She looks down at the floor. “I’ve been walking, hiking in the hills around here since I was a little girl.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve discovered two sites. Not worked, not disturbed like Marmurt Kale or Molla Mustafa Tepesi. Ancient sanctuaries still unknown to others.”

  “Sanctuaries never hold anything of value.” His tone is gruff.

  “True.” She glances at his face and then turns away quickly. “Nothing of monetary value. But the sites were…are sacred.”

  Shrugging, he moves a step closer to her so that the figurine is almost touching her. “Trash,” he says. “Broken bits of terra-cotta.”

  She finally looks into his bright eyes. “But I’ve also found a number of undisturbed gravesites. Ones of wealthy Pergamene citizens.”

  “Bullshit!” He stares back at her. “You would have told your mother.”

  “I did…if they were already desecrated. But not the ones that are undisturbed. They’re sacred. She doesn’t understand that. I’ve left them be.”

  “You expect me to believe—”

  “No!” she cuts him off. “I expect you to believe me when you put on the rings and hold the gold coins and jewelry. That’s what I’ll trade for my life. For my brother’s life. For me, it’s an easy choice.”

  “So what exactly are you offering?”

  “I’m offering to show you four undesecrated gravesites, each containing a fortune in artifacts.”

  He shakes his head and smirks. “And all you want is…?”

  “A guarantee of my brother’s safety—and mine.” She doesn’t trust him at all, but she keeps herself calm.

  “No,” he says flatly. “We…I don’t make deals like that. I don’t need to.”

  “But you’re here, aren’t you. You’ve come to me.”

  He grabs her arm tightly enough that it will leave a bruise. “Why don’t I have friends of mine convince you to to give the information?”

  In this moment, she understands Serkan’s fear but, more importantly, that Mustafa likes to have others do his dirty work. She wonders if he also likes to watch. “Sometimes, Mustafa,” she says, her tone becoming as cold as his, “I like it rough.” She looks hard into his eyes. “But that won’t work here. Even if I told you or your friends where they are, you couldn’t find the sites. They have gone undiscovered for two thousand years. Until I found them.” She smiles angrily and yanks her arm free.

  “The Galen cache,” he snarls. “You know where it is?”

  “No. As far as I know, it doesn’t exist.”

  “Bullshit! Your mother’s letter—”

  “The letter. It’s from Galen. And, it’s real. But—”

  “I’ve seen the evidence!”

  “No, you haven’t.” She’s not sneering, but she lets her voice become even colder. “Evidence, as you know better than anybody, can be faked. There is no Galen cache!”

  “You don’t think so just because you’ve never seen it!” He starts to grab her again but stops. “Who do you think you are, the god of these fucking hills?”

  She holds his gaze. “No. I’m the person who’s spent her life in, as you say, ‘these fucking hills.’” Raising her arms, she adds, “I’m the one who’s found a number of tumuli. Including four undisturbed sites with immense treasure. And I’ll give them to you for a price, the right price, my price. Take it or leave it.”

  He rubs his free hand through his hair. “Suppose I want to do the deal? When do we start?”

  She shakes her head as though she’s trying to figure it out. “Next week. Maybe. And then a new one every six months.”

  “No. Too late.” His voice is calming, becoming that of the tough-minded, big-time dealmaker again.

  “My mother’s in a coma! ISIL—”

  “It’s still too late.” His voice may be under control, but his eyes are gleaming.

  “Tomorrow…night?” She hesitates. “After visiting hours.”

  “Tonight. The first one. The proof that you’re not lying to me.”

  “Right now? I can’t—”

  “Yeah. Now. Or no deal.”

  She looks down at his Sketchers. “Getting to the tomb is difficult! Getting into it is really
tough! You’re not… It’s too tough!”

  “I’m…” His smile is frozen as he glares at her. “Tonight or never. Take it or leave it.”

  “You’re not… You can’t…” She seems to stumble over her words. “You’re not even dressed for—”

  His smile twists. “Do you want to save your brother’s precious fucking life?”

  57

  KAIKOS VALLEY

  The black Range Rover stops on a deserted road far out in the Kaikos Valley. As Elif Boroğlu gets out of the vehicle, she is careful not to leave any fingerprints. She circles behind the Range Rover, pulls on her black hooded sweatshirt, and points toward the escarpment beyond the hills. The sky is star-swept, the Milky Way clear, and the sliver of moon low in the west. The day’s heat has dissipated fast, and the breeze feels fresh and dry. A couple of farmhouses are nearby, she knows, but none has lights burning.

  “It’ll be easier and faster if we follow the streambed,” she says as she leads him back along the road. After almost three hundred meters, she swings from a culvert and drops onto rocks in the dried streambed. He pauses for a moment before following her. They do not speak as she guides him farther into the hinterland. Their eyes gradually adjust to the dark, and she keeps up a brisk pace, strenuous but not exhausting, for half an hour until the Range Rover is nowhere in sight. She does not rush, and she does not rest. Twice they climb steep rock faces that would make their trail difficult to follow even for a trained tracker. She has one miner’s lamp with her, but they won’t use it until they reach the tomb.

  Elif begins to breathe deeply and regularly as she loves to do when she is out here on her own at night. Mustafa keeps pace, but in this terrain his Sketchers work far less well than her lightweight hiking boots—and the climbs are taxing. They hear lizards skittering, though they can’t see them. Elif misses her two dogs, but she has deliberately taken Mustafa on a different, more circuitous and difficult route toward the escarpment she is seeking. The earth does not sing to her as it often does, but the land whispers, urging her on. They trek along the ridge that rises toward the high, dark wall of rock. From where they are, they have a clear sightline back to the acropolis above Bergama, but she only furtively glances in that direction and he does not look at all. “Careful,” she says. “Watch out. The rocks slide a lot.”