The Lost Sisterhood (7 page)

But before that, there was an Amazon springtime of sporadic shoots, the most significant of which grew out of the legendary Lake Tritonis in North Africa. Some claimed this was the homeland of the first Amazons, who were said to have gathered a large army and invaded neighboring countries.

Compared to the later Black Sea Amazons, though, these early shoots came with far less historical framework, and I had often seen Amazon fanatics rolling their eyes at the Lake Tritonis myths, not realizing, perhaps, that to Amazon skeptics it was a little bit like seeing Tooth Fairy believers scoff at the Easter Bunny.

The issue, of course, is complicated by the fact that the climate of North Africa has undergone tremendous changes since the Bronze Age, and that Lake Tritonis—if it ever existed—is long gone. I knew of many archaeologists who were desperate to dig in the area … but where to start? The Sahara Desert is an enormous duvet covering all your sweetest dreams of undiscovered civilizations, but your chances of going out there with your shovel and bucket and finding as much as a bedbug are next to nil.

Therefore, the fact that we were presently on our way to Tunisia, which, according to some, was where Lake Tritonis used to be, was exciting indeed. Was it possible the Skolsky Foundation had found evidence of a matriarchal society with women warriors? The potential payoff was staggering.

“Djerba is where Homer’s Lotus-Eaters used to live,” Mr. Ludwig said, interrupting my thoughts. “Scary zombie types, drugged out on
local foliage.” He put on his eyeshade, but it only partially covered his smugness. “Sounds to me like the perfect place for an academic.”

The observation was so obviously intended to provoke me that I found it quite easy to laugh off. “I have to defer to your expertise on the subject. But you didn’t invite me along for the foliage, did you?” I stared at his face, tempted to peek underneath the eyeshade to make sure he was paying attention. “This is about the Amazons, correct?”

Mr. Ludwig adjusted his inflatable headrest and managed to add a few more layers of chin to his ample jowls. “Don’t ask me. I never have anything to do with the excavations. Not even sure why I’m in Europe when the Amazon jungle is in South America. But”—he folded his hands over his belly with a shrug—”when Mr. Skolsky tells me to do something, I do it. I don’t let my brain get in the way.”

It was probably fortunate he dozed off after this little exchange, for we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. Despite his apparent generosity—or at least his readiness to spend Mr. Skolsky’s money—there was a self-satisfied pettiness to Mr. Ludwig that was truly offensive.

It did not help that I was aching to take out Granny’s notebook. Ever since finding it in the attic a few hours earlier, I had been desperate to test whether any parts of the wall inscription on the photo corresponded with words in the notebook. But between then and now, I had not had a single moment to sit down and break out my magnifying glass.

Perhaps it was silly of me to keep the notebook hidden from Mr. Ludwig, but as I sat there rolling and unrolling the in-flight magazine, listening to all his jerks and snorts as we went through layer after bumpy layer of English weather, I truly felt he was not a man to be trusted. Never mind his worrying flair for secrecy, if not downright dishonesty; was it just my imagination, or had he looked at my bracelet with more than common curiosity?

Shaped like a snake but with a peculiar, doglike head with pointy ears at one end, the bronze band had been forged to coil twice around a woman’s wrist, and, to be sure, I couldn’t blame my travel companion for being intrigued. But the circumstances of my having inherited this
particular piece of jewelry were such as to make me exceedingly uncomfortable with his questioning, however innocent it might have been.

Granny had worn the bracelet as constantly as one would wear a wedding ring, and for all my parents knew she had taken it with her to the grave. I had never dared tell them that one day, about a year into my graduate studies at Oxford, I had found a small padded envelope unceremoniously jammed into my mail slot in the college lodge. The envelope had contained no message, merely this jackal bracelet of hers, which she had once told me “only a true Amazon may wear.”

Receiving this special treasure so unexpectedly from an anonymous sender in Berlin had filled me with a noxious blend of fear and bewilderment. Did this mean Granny had died? Or was the bracelet a summons? If so, surely an explanation would follow.

But none came, and I eventually squirreled the envelope away in my underwear drawer without a word to anyone. Once or twice I toyed with the idea of showing it to Rebecca in the hopes she might be able to subject it to some scientific analysis or other … but then, that would have meant reopening a troublesome subject. And for all our shared childhood secrets, the truth about Granny’s disappearance was something I could never share with anyone, not even her.

I
T WAS DARK BY
the time we landed in Djerba. As soon as we emerged from the plane and started down the narrow staircase, we were enfolded in a warm, fragrant breeze that made me almost giddy, despite the hour. It had been many years since I had last felt the thrill of the southern climes, and until this moment it had not even occurred to me how much I missed it.

Rebecca always blamed Oxford for turning me into such a tea-toddling homebody, and I never contradicted her. The truth was, I should have liked nothing better than to jet off regularly like everyone else, to read ancient scrolls in Jordan or scrutinize disputed folios in a grand old library in Rome … but I couldn’t afford it. Writing convincing applications for funding, apparently, was not my strong suit. And so
I stayed where I was, limiting myself to subjects within bicycle range and living vicariously through the postcards on the shared fridge.

“Hanging in there?” asked Mr. Ludwig, as we walked together through the sleepy airport. “Don’t worry, it won’t be long before you’re rid of me.”

A brief taxi ride later, we pulled up in front of a white building that looked rather less majestic than most of the mushrooming resort hotels we had passed along the way. But despite appearances, the modest front door of Hotel Dar el Bhar opened into an alluring realm of elegance and tranquillity, and although its whitewashed walls and porticoes had none of the gargoyle gothic of Oxford, I felt immediately at home.

Beyond the reception area was an inner courtyard with tall trees growing in large flower beds and flickering lanterns sitting directly on the tile floor. Here, more than ever, the air was full of spices, and from somewhere in the darkness of this enchanting garden came the trickling sounds of a fountain.

I am not sure how long I stood there, staring at a potted plant with large yellow fruit and wondering whether I was looking at my first lemon tree, but eventually Mr. Ludwig passed me a room key and said, “You are registered under the name of Dr. Mayo. Just a precaution. If I don’t see you tomorrow”—he stuck out his hand—”good luck. My colleague will take over from here.”

I looked around, thinking he was going to introduce me, but saw no one.

Mr. Ludwig smiled. “We never connect in person.”

“Let me guess: Skolsky protocol?”

His smile turned wry. “More of a scheduling thing. Ahmed lives in his own private time zone.”

M
Y ROOM WAS UPSTAIRS,
off the portico that went all around the courtyard and offered a unique treetop view of this private jungle. It was a beautiful junior suite, complete with tasseled red pillows and a welcoming bowl of dates, but at this point I was so tired my eyes were cramping closed. It was only just midnight, but then, excitement had prevented
me from sleeping much the night before, and the night prior to that I had been busy into the wee hours finishing my conference paper.

Still, ever since leaving my parents’ house that afternoon I had been anticipating the moment when I could turn to Granny’s notebook. And so, after a light room service meal of bread and hummus I splashed water on my face and sat down to scrutinize Mr. Ludwig’s photo yet again, this time looking for specific sets of symbols that might be individual words, in order to search for them in Granny’s dense, handwritten list.

But it was a greater challenge than I had imagined, and my initial excitement at concluding that the two writing systems were, indeed, completely identical was soon squashed by the enormity of the task at hand.

Even with the help of the magnifying glass I was unable to identify any dots or dashes that might have functioned as word dividers. All I had was a long string of letters or syllables in a language I didn’t know. Furthermore, Granny’s “dictionary” was not alphabetical, neither in English, nor, it seemed, in the other language. The whole thing was, in other words, frustratingly random, and I couldn’t ignore a little voice reminding me that I was—perhaps in vain—trying to impose reason on the obsessive scribbles of a lunatic.

After two hours’ focused work I was beat. If I were to trust Granny’s notebook, the first word of the inscription was either “moon,” “water,” or “woman.” I decided to be content with that and got up to brush my teeth.

Mystery inscription aside, the biggest puzzle of all was how Granny had come to know this ancient language. Perhaps her delusions were simply the unfortunate side effects of once having studied archaeology or even philology like me. It was not unthinkable this writing system had been discovered before, and possibly even deciphered by some obscure university team who never got around to publishing a report. Or maybe they did, and no one ever bothered to read it.

Utterly exhausted but unable to relax, I lay in the darkness, enjoying the soft breeze from the open window. A remarkable variety of insects
and birds was already anticipating sunrise with hectic rustling and all manner of shrieks and squawks, and beyond this cacophony of wildlife, from somewhere out there, came the steady, pulsing sound of the sea.

O
NE SUMMER AFTERNOON, WHEN
I was nine years old, my parents had hosted a garden party for all their neighbors. Several nights before the event, I had sat on the staircase and overheard the discussion about whether Granny should be allowed to attend. “You know it will be a disaster,” my mother kept insisting. “She is bound to insult someone or say something wildly inappropriate. And … imagine the looks on people’s faces when they realize we have a madwoman living in our attic!”

But for once, my father’s stubborn practicality had held sway. “Surely,” he said at length, “introducing her to the neighborhood in a civilized manner is the best way of ensuring that she does
not
become some kind of invisible monster living in their own imagination. As soon as they see her with Diana, our neighbors will realize she is completely harmless.”

So it came about that I was tasked with escorting my new grandmother throughout the party, introducing her to people and helping her at the buffet. By and large, the scheme was a success. Our guests addressed her the way they would a normal person, with polite inanities about the garden, and Granny smiled and nodded, as if she cared.

At one point, however, we found ourselves in a lively group of ladies who had succeeded in driving the new unmarried churchwarden up against a pear tree. “And you, my dear,” the poor man asked Granny, eager to branch out and open up the conversation, “did you also grow up here?”

“No,” she replied, calmly taking another sip of the wine I was supposed to have exchanged with lemonade. “I come from the Hodna Mountains. My name is Kara. I am the second in command.”

The churchwarden stuck a finger into his collar, possibly to let in a little fresh air. “Of what, exactly? If one might be so bold—”

Granny cast him a disgusted frown. “Of the Amazons, of course. Who taught you about the world? You know nothing. Why are you talking to me? Men like you—” She snapped her fingers dismissively and marched away.

Later, safely back in the attic, I asked her if it was really true she had once been an Amazon named Kara. I quite liked the idea of Granny as a young warrior woman, armed and on horseback, chasing churchwardens and gossipy ladies with arrows and war cries.

According to Rebecca’s mother, who, being the vicar’s wife, considered herself an expert on all things paranormal, the colorful Amazons were nothing but the spawn of pagan ignorance. “The mere notion,” she had said, at one particularly memorable Sunday school meeting, “that a group of women should be able to live together without men is both wicked and absurd. I have certainly never heard of such abnormal behavior—”

“What about nuns?” I had countered, sincerely trying to understand, but Mrs. Wharton had pretended not to hear me.

“So is it true?” I asked Granny once more, bouncing up and down on the chair with anticipation. “Were you really an Amazon?”

But now, to my dismay, she brushed it all aside with a groan and started walking about the room, adjusting and readjusting every piece of furniture, every little trinket, with obsessive accuracy. “Don’t listen to me. I’m a crazy old woman. I forgot rule number two. Never forget rule number two.”

I deflated with disappointment. “What’s rule number two?”

Granny stopped, her hands on the back of a chair, and looked straight at me. “Always make sure,” she said, slowly, to ensure I paid attention, “that
they
underestimate
you.
That is the key.”

“But why?” I insisted. “And who are
they?
”

The question made Granny flinch, and she tiptoed around the chair to kneel down at my feet. “The men in green clothes,” she whispered, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “They look inside your head and cut out the things you’re not supposed to think. So you must learn to think nothing. Never let them know who you are. Can you do that?”

I was so frightened by her intensity I nearly started crying. “But I’m not an Amazon—”

“Shush!” Granny squeezed my shoulders so hard it hurt. “Never say that word aloud. You mustn’t even think it. Do you understand?” Only then, when she saw that all I could manage was a tearful nod, she cradled my head with her hands and said, more softly, “You are brave. I have high hopes for you. Don’t disappoint me.”