The Dig (5 page)

I pull the obolus out of my back pocket and nervously rub it between my fingers as I struggle to make sense of what is going on. How long have I been unconscious? Even if it were for an entire day, though, it still wouldn‘t explain the magnitude of the change in landscape.

Straining my eyes, I peer out over the valley, searching for the camp, but there‘s no sign of it. Whatever freak climactic event tore through the temple and knocked me out must also have washed away the camp. The tents, the stakes, the sawhorses, all of it—gone. Not to mention the people.

The people! Suddenly I imagine a giant tidal wave carrying off a struggling Uncle Alex and Aunt Sophia and the crew and I start to panic.

Be strong, Zoe, I tell myself. Be positive, like the field hockey players or that sophomore with the braces who‘s always smiling and asking girls out.

Good things
do
happen.

It‘s then that I notice a thin wisp of smoke rising way off in the distance.

What a relief. That must be where everyone from the dig site went for cover. It‘s the perfect spot: deep inland, on a slope in the valley so it‘s safe from runoff. I bet Uncle Alex and Aunt Sophia are there now, interrogating Darren about why he left me behind.

I set off downhill at a fast pace. I‘ve never been much of a runner, but within a few strides I feel like I‘m flying. The ground almost seems to push me forward, supporting my thumping feet the way the spongy track at Greeley does. It‘s an amazing feeling. For the first time in my life I‘m starting to understand the phrase ―runner‘s high.‖ After a few minutes, I take a break to drink some water. When I look behind me at the temple, I am astounded. How
fast have I been running?

I‘ve crossed so much land that I could have outpaced Greeley‘s varsity track team. In fact, I could have sworn that I saw a low-flying bird lagging behind me in my peripheral vision.

I had better start walking, I reason, because my senses are going wonky in the heat.

Pushing through the brush, I notice that the ground still feels spongy and supportive, even though I‘m not pounding on it. And I‘m still making huge strides, as if I‘m racing along on a moving sidewalk at the airport.

After half an hour of power walking, I take another break, this time to eat. I pull a granola bar out of my backpack and unwrap it. The packaging looks incredibly iridescent and metallic in contrast to all this natural greenery. I plop down in the dirt and take a bite, laughing at myself for admiring a granola bar wrapper. It‘s official, I think. I really
am
going nuts.

I should start marking my progress in case I get even more delusional.

I finish the granola bar and fold the wrapper into a tiny red and silver triangle, as if it‘s a note I‘m going to pass in class. I tuck the shiny triangle into the base of an olive tree. Only a sliver of it juts out, which will be just enough of a lamppost for me if I come back this way.

I stand up and notice a set of animal tracks that look like they were made by a kangaroo, because each set has only two hoof prints, and I don‘t know of any other animals besides kangaroos that walk on their hind legs.

Only Greece doesn‘t have kangaroos, of course.

Sunstroke, Zoe. Sunstroke.

And then I hear a branch snap.

I freeze.

It‘s the kind of noise that could only be caused by a person. I whip my head around searchingly. Is someone here?

―Hello!‖

No response.

―It‘s Zoe! I‘m with the dig!‖

Silence.

Okay, enough walking. I am getting
out
of here. I break into a full sprint, running so fast that I can feel wind blowing against my face where before there was no breeze.

A few minutes later, I finally arrive at the source of the smoke. Strangely, though, the fire is not the center of an impromptu meeting point, but more like the center of an impromptu
village
.

Instead of Uncle Alex and Aunt Sophia and Darren and the rest of the crew huddled around a makeshift signal fire, there are about thirty clay huts.

I see a woman wearing a toga enter one of the huts. A man follows behind her, similarly dressed. I keep walking, trying not to think about the risky fashion choices these villagers are making, as more and more people dressed in togas appear. I tie my hair back and make haste for the…

festival? Yes, it must be a festival. I look around hopefully for a sign or an information booth.

Then I feel something brush my leg, and I turn around just as an animal on its hind legs races past me.

Okay, Zoe, that was no kangaroo. That was an upright goat.

And did it…was it
talking
?

Two years ago, Uncle Alex and Aunt Sophia took me to New York City for Thanksgiving.

We stayed at their friends‘ apartment downtown in the West Village. One night, I was sleeping on the pullout sofa when Aunt Sophia suddenly appeared, whispering, ―Zoe. Wake up. Something wonderful has happened.‖ That‘s an exciting thing to hear at any time, but especially in New York City in the middle of the night.

I slipped on my parka and stepped into my boots and followed Aunt Sophia down four flights of stairs.

―What happened? What happened?‖ I asked.

―No, no,‖ she said. ―You must see with your own eyes to believe.‖ Part of me expected a celebrity to be passed out on the stoop or something. Then again, Aunt Sophia and Uncle Alex aren‘t exactly the best at knowing about that stuff, so it was sort of a silly notion.

It seemed like we would never reach the foyer, but when we did, I stopped dead in my tracks. Parked right outside the building was a vintage 1940-something Studebaker. I‘m not a gearhead, but Uncle Alex, who seems to know everything about everything (aside from celebrities), is obsessed with cars.

―Did Uncle Alex see this?‖

―Are you kidding? He‘s the one who found it. Come on, Zoe.‖ She pushed the heavy door open and I ran out onto the stoop. It was stunning. Bright lights lit the sky. Cars like the Studebaker lined the entire block. Snow was on the ground even though the temperature had been in the fifties that afternoon.

―Aunt Sophia, I don‘t understand.‖

―It‘s simple. We traveled back in time.‖ Uncle Alex whistled, ―Zoe! Come see this one!‖

He was standing beside a mint green station wagon. I clomped through the snow, still confused, and looked up at the neighboring buildings. They were all different now, all old-fashioned. Our hosts had shown us pictures of what the neighborhood looked like years ago, and here I was, walking through the neighborhood in those black-and-white photographs. Only it was real. Colors abounded. Cars were definitely more flamboyant in that period.

―Is this a dream?‖ I said.

Uncle Alex laughed. ―Where‘s that silly phone you always carry?‖ I reached for my iPhone but it wasn‘t there. ―Okay. Now I know this is a dream because otherwise I would have my phone.‖

―It doesn‘t matter,‖ he said. ―Sometimes it‘s more fun to have memories than pictures.‖

―Uncle Alex, what is all this?‖

Aunt Sophia approached then, throwing an arm around me. ―You mean you don‘t believe in time travel.‖

―Um, no.‖

―Funny, you like to watch old movies so much, and yet you‘re the last one to know when you‘re on a film set.‖

I took it all in again. Upon closer examination, the fronts of the buildings were facades. The snow wasn‘t melting because it wasn‘t actually snow. The cars were real, but so were the headset-wearing guards on the corner. We all huddled together laughing, listening to Uncle Alex tell us more than we wanted to know about cars. I wasn‘t a little kid or anything.

I mean, it wasn‘t
that
long ago. But I remember feeling that I must be very naive, because for a split second on Charles Street, I believed that my aunt and uncle and I had traveled through time.

And apparently, they are playing that film set joke on me again. I look around for the makeup guy responsible for the talking ―goat‖—whoever is in that costume must be roasting in this heat. That‘s when I realize that there is no one wearing a headset, no director‘s chairs, no giant klieg lights.

Okay, then it‘s an ancient Greece festival, as I‘d first guessed, I reassure myself. And the goat…that must be some kind of remote-controlled toy to lend mythical ―authenticity.‖

For the record,
authentic
is the key word here. Everyone is dressed in weird, dirty togas.

And as for the children, they run wild—no shoes, no nannies chasing them, no parents hovering. I search for a banner or a sign reading welcome to classical times! (PARKING VALIDATION

AVAILABLE AT ENTRY POINT), but find nothing. That‘s because these people are really hard-core and passionate about their fun, I tell myself. That would explain why a mother is dragging a large jug of water into what appears to be her kitchen. And why men are trading hunks of meat for scraps of wool.

Nearby, a few women stand in a circle talking. I try to eavesdrop, but they aren‘t speaking my kind of Greek. Like the stonemasons in the temple, they speak in sentences peppered by ancient words that throw me off.

If there‘s one skill I‘ve picked up on my excursions with Aunt Sophia and Uncle Alex, it‘s navigation. It‘s more than just a sense of direction; it‘s a sense of people. If you‘re lost or disoriented, you have to be cautious about who you approach for help. A very old woman smiles at me. Her thick gray hair is tied back with a piece of straw, something I thought women stopped doing once mirrors were invented. But her smile is open, her teeth crooked, as if they all dream of fleeing her mouth and running in different directions. She nods. I wipe my hands on my shirt and cross the dirt road.

Here goes nothing.

―Hello,‖ I say.

She furrows her brow with confusion. Seriously? Everyone knows what

―hello‖ means, even if they don‘t speak English. Okay, let‘s try this again. I make like a game show hostess and direct her eyes toward the activity in the street, the wild children chasing each other, the men clapping and carrying on in song. ―Is this a celebration for the discovery of the temple?‖ I ask in my best Greek, grateful for the first time for the lessons Aunt Sophia forced on me each summer.

―Discovery?‖ asks the woman in Greek, turning to look where I‘m pointing. The wind shifts and carries her scent right into my nostrils. Whoa.

You‘d think they would make an authenticity exception for deodorant.

―I am with the team that discovered the temple,‖ I say slowly with a smile.

The woman shakes her head and gathers her shawl.

It occurs to me that there might be other nearby temples, so once again I point. This time she doesn‘t turn her head. She only stares at me. It‘s the way some of the girls at school look at me when I talk about what I did on my summer vacation, as if I‘m speaking in tongues.

―The temple has not been discovered,‖ the old woman says. ―The temple has just been built.‖

She shakes her head, having grown bored of me, and shuffles away toward her friends.

What happens next is no different from what happens at school. The lady is telling her friends about me and they‘re laughing and whispering. So rude, right?

I sigh. Some kid bumps into me and keeps going and it‘s all I can do to not run after him and make him apologize. Deep breaths, Zoe. You‘re grumpy and thirsty and you‘ve never had a concussion before, so go easy on yourself and the people around you. I look back at the temple in the distance for some reassurance, but seeing it sparkle like a McMansion only upsets me even more.
Just been built
.
That can‘t be true. If that were true, then it would have to be 1000 BC.

And that‘s impossible because we all know that it‘s the 21st century AD. Right?

In eighth grade, our history class took a field trip to a living history museum where actors pretended to be pilgrims. If you asked them about TV shows, they asked you, in colonial English, what a television set was.

It was a really fun field trip and I was impressed by the way the actors held their ground. A couple of the sarcastic boys tried to break them. They asked them what they were
really
having for dinner over and over again, but the actors didn‘t break character. Thinking about the field trip helps me to stay calm. All I need to do is find a gift shop. That‘s the one question that anyone employed by a living history museum will answer honestly.

I hear laughing. Three young boys are roughhousing in a nearby alley.

The boy with shaggy brown hair never seems to get a chance to kick the rock. I decide that Shaggy will be my tour guide. I smile at him with my best American-tourist grin and wait for him to notice me. He catches my eye and quickly turns his head, as if I could only have been looking at someone behind him. We laugh. He‘s a good kid. He will surely direct me to the gift shop.

Everything is finally going to be all right.

I start toward the alley and am just about to introduce myself when a blaring alarm erupts.

I clap my hands over my ears and wince. Ouch. I realize that alarms are necessary, but do they have to be
that
loud? I whip my head around to make sure I‘m not in the way of an ambulance.

Instead of an ambulance, I see a crowd, all eyes on some sort of event.

I look back to the boy in the alley to gauge his reaction, but he and his friends have taken off. The dust is still settling and the toy rock skids across the dirt. That obnoxious alarm sounds again and I cover my ears. Nobody else seems that bowled over by it. Are my
ears
playing tricks on me now too? Because I‘ve never heard a sound like this. And it‘s becoming clear to me that the unbearably high-pitched wail isn‘t coming from a machine.

No, this noise is coming from…a person.

I maneuver my way into the crowd, following the sound of the scream.

Two big guys stand in the center, brandishing weapons. Frankly, they look like your standard bad guys in a school play: grizzly beards, heavy clubs, gladiator sandals and gnarly grimaces. They‘re the kind of guys I expect to gang up on someone. But what I don‘t expect is their victim.

It‘s a little girl.