Euphemia led the way to the beach where we walked for a half mile before turning into a narrow canyon. At the end of the canyon was a cave. Inside, the air was stifling, thick with the stench of sulfur dioxide. The walls closed in, and I broke into a sweat; I had to fight the urge to bolt.
Euphemia lit a torch. The yellow light of the flame danced over the walls as we traveled deeper into the hot bowels of the cave. The winding corridor opened into a room the size of a three-car garage. In the center was a steaming pool. I was light-headed and I could feel large beads of sweat trickle down my face and back. The stench was overpowering. My stomach rolled, and I thought I might be sick.
Euphemia lifted the torch high enough for us to see a tangle of human bones at the bottom of the pool.
Niki edged closer, her fingers touching her quivering lips. “There are two skeletons,” she said, her voice cracked, shaking, large tears tracking her cheeks. “Is the other … Panagiota?”
Euphemia nodded. “Yes.”
“She … she must have loved him very much,” Niki said. “It is … it is such a sad story.”
I hated the place. “I don’t want to sound disrespectful,” I said to Euphemia, desperate for sunlight and fresh air, “but why did you bring us here?”
“Soon enough we will leave,” Euphemia said. “But first, there is something more you must see.” She walked away with the torchlight. We had no choice but to follow.
We entered a chamber large enough to swallow the light of the flame, a hundred times larger than the first. Euphemia lit a second torch that was mounted in the wall. Another labyrinth, similar to the Labyrinth of Roses, emerged through evil fingers of steam rising in the dim orange light. The spaces between the labyrinth’s paths gurgled with boiling water, superheated, I assumed, by volcanic activity. Hell’s living room. At the center of the labyrinth, there was another statue of the Great Mother, much larger than the one in the Labyrinth of Roses. The poor lighting gave the face of this statue a sinister appearance, like someone holding a flashlight to her chin. A doorway opened to a chamber in the belly. Inside was a huge stone seat, possibly a throne.
Across the labyrinth I saw a large pale figure, a man I thought, though he melted into the darkness so quickly that I could not be sure.
“That was Sargos,” Euphemia explained, noticing that I had seen him. “He lives in these chambers, for how long no one can say. He does not speak but he is friendly; he will do you no harm.”
What kind of freak would live in a place like this? I thought, plagued with the uneasy feeling that we were being watched from the shadows. Could the place get any creepier?
“Aside from Sargos, you are the only outsiders ever to see this,” Euphemia continued. “For two thousand years, only the high priestess has entered. In this room, we will conduct our most sacred of ceremonies.”
“The Walk of the Prophet?” Niki asked.
Euphemia nodded. “The ceremony will mark the beginning of the new era.” She turned to the statue. “You see the throne in the womb of the Great Mother? According to our scriptures, this is where the Prophet will sit to receive the lost knowledge.”
“He has to walk this labyrinth to get to the throne?” I asked, still casting glimpses into the dark looking for movement. I was curious about Sargos.
“Blindfolded,” Euphemia said. “In the same way you walked the Labyrinth of Roses.”
My interest in Sargos instantly evaporated. “Blindfolded? No wonder it’s taking him so long to come back.” I meant it as a joke, but nobody laughed.
“Stuart Adams,” Euphemia said, “the Labyrinth of Roses has never been walked by anyone wearing a blindfold. Many have tried. All have failed.”
“So?” That information meant nothing to me. Why should I care about some offbeat Pialigarian ritual?
“So, the Labyrinth of Roses, it is an exact replica, though smaller, of the Labyrinth of the Cave. And you have walked the Labyrinth of Roses.”
“I think we already agreed on that,” I said. “Why don’t you just get to the …” I stopped. The point she might have been trying to make suddenly hit me like a truckload of gravel. She was trying to tell me that I was the Prophet. “Now wait just a minute. I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
Euphemia’s eyes flashed, and she opened up like a cloudburst. “You, Stuart Adams, you have responded to the whisper of Pialigos. You are the Prophet, come, as the dream of my youth foretold, to return to the people of Pialigos, to the people of the world, the lost knowledge that our prophecies promise.”
The sound of gurgling water harassed the silence. I was too polite to tell her that she was out of her mind. I glanced at Niki for help. Her eyes, wide and searching, were riveted on mine, just like Euphemia’s. No help there. I turned back to Euphemia; tension, like the steady rising of water in a teakettle set to a flame, began to build inside of me. The teakettle started to whistle, a wisp of a laugh that escaped my lips. That turned into a chuckle, followed by a full-blown guffaw. Soon, I was convulsing with laughter, bubbling all over the stove.
“It’s … it’s a joke, right?” The seriousness in both women’s faces made me laugh even harder. “The two … the two of you got together and … and you concocted this whole thing.” I scanned the flickering walls of the cave. “There’s a camera in here. There must be a camera. Like … like one of those practical joke things … on television.”
“Stuart!” Niki scolded. “You are being foolish and very disrespectful. There are no cameras.”
“Well then,” I said, snickering, doing a poor job of controlling myself, “I do apologize. But … you both”—another smirk—“you both look so … serious. Look, Euphemia, I … I know you want this thing to happen. Real bad. I mean, being a Dream Child and all, it’s … it’s got to be tough, a real big responsibility. You’ve got a deadline. I understand deadlines. But you’re wrong about this—about me. I’m a novelist, not a prophet. I’m not qualified, got no credentials whatsoever. Now, what you need to do is go back and study your prophecies just a little clo—”
“But you yourself said that you have been here before,” Euphemia countered. “Why do you say this?”
The woman was actually serious. “I said I felt like I’d been here. I don’t know that for sure.” I looked at the gnarled fingers of steam rising from the labyrinth. “I’m sure I’d never forget a place like this.”
“But you do remember,” Niki argued. “You have memories. You do not like hot tubs. Why not? How do you explain it?”
“Hot tubs? What do hot tubs have to do with—”
“And you are a writer,” Euphemia said. “Anatolios was a scribe.”
It was time to end this game, even if I had to do it with a firm hand. “Look, you can twist this thing into your … your Zadim, call it the whisper of Pialigos, call it past-life memories; you can call it whatever you want.” I glanced again at the steaming labyrinth. The thought of walking it made me shudder. “If you think I’m going to walk that thing—blindfolded—you’d better think again, because it’s crazy. It’s all crazy. No, it’s absolutely insane!”
“The Prophet, he cannot fail.” Euphemia was unrelenting.
“Yeah? I’ll leave it to you to convince him of that. And when you do, maybe you can sell him some retirement property in the Everglades.”
“Stuart,” Niki said, “what if Euphemia is right?”
“Right? Are you crazy too?” I traded glances between the two unwavering women. “Are you both crazy?”
“Then, why do you say that you have been here before?” Niki ticked off her growing checklist. “On the dock, you say it. The boats, you say you know them. At the top of the steps, you say there was a shelter. You have visions of a man named Marcus. You walked the Labyrinth of Roses. How do you know these—”
“Ah, but I was wrong about the shelter,” I said, raising a professor-like forefinger. “Remember? There was no shelter at the top of the steps, proof, you see, that I’ve never been—”
“The steps?” Euphemia asked. “Above the pier?”
“Yes,” Niki answered. “The place where the old olive grove now stands.”
“Oh, but there was a shelter,” Euphemia assured me. “I used to play there when I was a child.”
“Yeah?” I said, sure that she was lying. “Well, since we seem to like to do tests around here, I’ve got one for you. Tell me what it looked like.”
She cracked off the description. “Four stone pillars and a tile roof. It collapsed in an earthquake. The masons, they carried off the stones for repairs elsewhere.”
“You see?” Niki said, driving a finger through the air straight at me. “Exactly as you described. How did you know it was there?”
My mouth went as straight as Anatolios’s femur. They had me pushed into the corner with four hands on my throat. “I … I don’t know. Maybe I was here. But I was probably one of the workers. Maybe I’m the one that carried off the stones. For that matter I could have been one of the goats.” It was time to end this nonsense. “Look, Niki, it was your idea to come here and talk to Euphemia. The two of you need to get your business done so we can get out of here first thing in the morning. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Forget Kyropos. I’ll move your whole mountain if that’s what it takes to find the scroll. But I’m not walking that thing, so forget it. Both of you. Forget all this … this prophet nonsense. Do your business, get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll be off bright and early. That’s what I signed up for, and that’s all I’m doing.”
I grabbed the torch from the cave wall and lifted it high enough to scan the shadows for Sargos. Friendly or not, I had no desire to meet up with any lunatic crazy enough to live in a place like this. Seeing nothing, I turned in a huff and I started for the entrance.
“It is too bad,” Niki said to Euphemia in an intentionally loud voice, “that this Prophet, he has to come back as an obstinate American.”
I ate part of the evening meal of fish and vegetables, but mostly I just poked around at the food and half-listened to the lively conversation between the two women and Father Jon. My sudden fall from the status of the prophesied messiah to invisible wuss did something to my appetite. I had a desperate need for fresh air, open sky, and a little solitude.
“If you ladies and gentleman will excuse me,” I said, standing, “I think I’ll take a little stroll.”
“Do not fall off the cliff,” Niki said. “You promised for me that you would move a mountain.”
It could have been a Colorado sky: thick and black, streaked with liquid wisps of Milky Way, a countless splatter of stars, the rising rim of a full moon just cracking the horizon, the damp air, warm against my face, sweet with the fragrance of rose and sea.
I walked to the place where the shelter had stood. Far below, I could see the Penelope, a ghostly mist against the black water. I imagined Threader down there, sinking ever deeper into the brain-numbing swirl of a drunken stupor, droning on to his attentive “lady” in a monologue of questions about where his life had gone. We would have made good drinking buddies this night.
I let out a deep sigh and sat on the boulder beneath the mystical interplay of moonlight and the ash-tainted atmosphere. I could hear voices in the surf—Euphemia, Niki, Barnes—clamoring in chaotic disarray, like a symphony tuning. I found some clarity when I thought of Marion—the hikes, bike rides, cross-country ski trips, tender moments of talk, sipping wine, making love before the crackle of a pine fire, impervious to the window-rattling assault of a howling blizzard. The memories rolled through my brain in a thick and depressing fog. If there’d been an airport, I would have bought myself a one-way ticket straight to Dallas. Marion and I would talk, get things back on track, and set the stage for our future. We could make it work; I knew we could.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Startled, I turned. Niki’s voice wasn’t one of the night sounds I expected to hear.
“Forgive me,” she said, emerging from the shadows of the olive grove. “I did not mean to frighten you.” She stepped around the boulder, arms crossed, the softness of her moon-splashed beauty instantly lifting some of my fog.
I wanted her to sit, and I wanted her to leave. Just then, I was too screwed up to know what I wanted. I moved to give her room on the boulder.
She sat down, crossed her legs, and laced her fingers over a knee. Her light perfume drifted into my head. Scanning the sky, she said, “It is the most beautiful night, no?”
“I guess that’s one thing we agree on. But to tell you the truth, right now I’d rather be watching the moon come up over the mountains.”
“Your Colorado nights are as beautiful as this?”
I remembered a night, Christmas Eve, when Marion and I had sat out on my front steps sipping hot toddies, snuggling. “Winter’s best. Moon, bright as day, coming up over snowy peaks. Deep black sky. Stars shimmering in the dry, thin air. You can almost hear the crackle of your breath freezing in front of your face. There’s no place quite like it.”
“And your Marion, you miss her too?”
I glanced at Niki, but she didn’t look back. “Yeah. I miss Marion.”
“Then, you … you wish to go back … to her?”
It was wrong to let feelings between Niki and me go unchecked. I’d gotten caught up in her exotic beauty, entangled in the mystery of her islands. But I knew now that I couldn’t just toss out my life with Marion as if it had never even happened. We both needed a jolt back into reality.
“That’s the plan,” I said. “I’d leave tonight if I could.”
“I have angered you. I should not—”
“Look, Niki, this … this whole prophet thing—it’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t have told you what I was feeling about this place. It’s crazy. I don’t know if I’m having past-life memories or if I’m just looking for an excuse to run away from a life I’m not really happy with.”
“But, if you are not happy with your life, why do you wish to go back?”
“I’m an American, remember? Always wanting to be someplace I’m not. When I’m there, I want to be here. When I’m here, I want to be there. It doesn’t make any sense, but it doesn’t have to. Right now, that’s what I want. I want to be there. More than anything, I want to be there.”
The sigh of a breeze hissed through olive leaves. Niki took in a long breath of her own. “I was … I was wondering about something. The labyrinth. How did you know?”
“Beginner’s luck? Or maybe this place sparks some psychic streak I didn’t know I had. Whatever it is, I don’t want to read too much into it.”
“And the pier? The boats? Kyropos? This man named Marcus?” She turned and looked straight at me, moonbeams sparkling like diamonds in her eyes. “You read nothing into these as well?”
She wasn’t asking about boats and volcanoes. She was probing, trying to get me to talk about the feelings I had for her. I wasn’t ready to go there.
“Maybe it’s just me looking for bluer seas, brighter skies that don’t exist. I don’t know.” And I truly didn’t.
“I believe it all means something,” she insisted. “There is too much going on inside of you to deny it. This, I feel.”
“Well, you sound a lot more certain about it than I do. What if we get to the Rock and it’s empty. You still going to enjoy this little journey of yours?”
“Of course,” she said, turning back to the sea. Refusing to let go of her optimism, she added, “If we find nothing on the Rock, then so be it. Like you say, we lose little time overall. As I explained to you already, archaeology is a slow and meticulous process. One learns patience. Disappointment frequents my profession, so you get used to it. Yes, I enjoy the journey. Here, now.” She turned back to me. “With you.”
Damn her!
She took my right hand and, like a gypsy palm reader, traced a soothing finger over the places where injuries should have been. “Incredible that there are no wounds. There should be wounds.” She locked her eyes on mine, lifted my hand, and kissed it. I felt the softness of her lips in my palm, the warmth of her breath through my fingers. Damn her! Damn her! I was screaming inside, but I couldn’t pull away. I didn’t want to pull away.
After another kiss, she stood abruptly and took a few steps toward the sea. Her hair floated like black smoke in the breeze. “I am sorry,” she said. “I will go if you like.”
I was in meltdown. I gulped enough air to resemble a breath and wondered what either of us would do next.
“Niki. I—”
“No, say nothing more. I should not have come. I … I am sorry.” She turned and quickly disappeared into the shadows of the olive grove.
“Niki?” I called out. “Niki, you don’t have to …” I started to go after her.
Let her go.
I stopped, stunned by the abrupt clarity of the message. It wasn’t a voice, just words that blasted into my mind, the pop of a flashbulb in absolute darkness. I blinked. Zadim? I wasn’t sure, but the message carried too much authority to ignore it. I eased back to the boulder, sat with my elbows resting on my knees, pushed fingers through my hair, and looked across the sea as though something in that pale distance held the key to what had just happened. All I could see was the moon scattering glimmering fragments of itself all across the water’s restless surface.
I closed my eyes, buried my face in my hands, and took a deep breath. I let her go. It was the only sane thing I could do.
J Douglas Bottorff 