The Dig (6 page)

She is darting to and fro, dodging every swing of their clubs at the last second, fighting for her life. She moves with the finesse of a ballerina. It‘s incredible—and horrible—to watch. How long until she makes a mistake and those goons catch her?

With an earsplitting scream, she spirals up into the air in a somersault and easily lands on her feet. Okay, that‘s not a little girl, I realize. That‘s a woman. But she‘s no bigger than a little girl, barely three feet tall, with shimmering bendy arms and quick tiny heels. That elfin grin, those larger-than-life disproportionately round eyes—I‘ve read enough Greek mythology in my day to know what she is.

A nymph.

Like any well-adjusted person who knows the difference between real life and fantasy, I realize that nymphs are the stuff of legend. They don‘t actually exist.

Maybe somebody should tell
her
that. Because she looks very real right now as the men keep swinging their clubs at her.

I glance around the crowd, looking for an explanation, or at least some confirmation that I‘m not hallucinating, but all I see are distressed expressions. Those boys from the alley are jumping up and down as if they want to interfere but can‘t. If this is all for viewing pleasure, why doesn‘t anyone look happy?

―Why doesn‘t anyone do anything?‖ I say to the man beside me. He shrugs. At this point I don‘t know if it‘s because my Greek is so bad or because this kind of thing happens every day. I think of the playground in sixth grade, the way everyone would stand around and watch a kid get ganged up on, afraid to compromise the natural order of the schoolyard. It may be because of the concussion or the heat or both, but something clicks in me. I step forward.

―Stop it!‖ I shout.

The men with the clubs pause, obviously bewildered. They turn and look at me. I am close enough to smell the sweat and the dirt on them. But I‘m not backing down.

The crowd hushes. A few laugh—that nervous giggle that you usually hear at funerals. Is this my funeral?

The bigger one wipes his mouth with his arm. The saliva glistens on his forearm. The smaller one reaches into a leather pouch tied to his belt and removes a wicked-looking piece of sharpened stone. He rotates it threateningly in his hand while eyeing me.

―Let her go,‖ I say.

The men exchange a look. The nymph whinnies. The larger man laughs and waves me off, dismissing me with a turn of his back. The nymph blinks, her eyes shining with tears, and teeters backward, shaking her tiny head.

This is the end for her, and you can see that she knows it. Nearby, a woman puts her hand over her daughter‘s eyes. I have nobody here to protect me, and I don‘t want to get beaten down too, but this has to stop.

I clench my fists, take a deep breath, squish my toes in my boots and stare into the ever-shrinking gap of space between the bearded men and the nymph, and I scream.

―Noooooo!‖

I fall backward, as if knocked over by the jolt of my own voice. But when I reopen my eyes,
everyone
is off balance.

The earth is shaking.

I hear screams. And then the deep rumbling of the earth beneath us. Is this an earthquake?

No. This isn‘t an ordinary geological event. I blink and stare at the shaking, spasming ground in amazement.

The earth splits apart. Heavy chunks of rock fly, as light and swift as ash from a volcano, sailing as high as fireworks, until gravity gets the best of them.

This can‘t be happening. This isn‘t something we‘ve ever studied in science class. This is what we read about in books when we‘re supposed to be reading about earthquakes.

This. Is. Magic.

As earth and stones continue to spew into the air, people panic and flee for cover. I just sit there in awe, motionless, as a chasm rips open in the ground and a rock wall comes bursting out of it. The wall erupts from the ground as forcefully as a rocket plunging into the sky. It is about eight feet tall, twelve feet long, and it perfectly separates the nymph from the bearded men.

The rumbling of the earth stops, and there is only stunned silence. I feel someone‘s eyes on me. The nymph. I look at her and she smiles. Her smile says thank you. I rise to my feet. Thank you? For what?

Everyone is cheering now, celebrating and shouting as the bearded men flee down the alley. Shaggy and his friends chase them, pelting them with rocks. The men keep running. Wimps.

All the people who had averted their eyes before are now surrounding me. They paw at my hair and run their hands over my arms, dropping to their knees in prayer. Two little boys run over to me. A vendor, who only moments ago had slapped away the boys as if they were gnats at a picnic, had handed them baskets piled with figs and pointed them in my direction.

He kisses his hands and looks to the sun and bows his head.

I murmur in protest of all this devotion. I shake off the women, their eyes wet with tears.

Have you ever been to a bat mitzvah and seen the girl hoisted in a chair, high above the crowd?

And everyone gathers around and claps and dances in her honor? Yeah, well, that‘s a cute ritual and all, but this is on a whole other level. These people, strangers, are not treating me like a girl who‘s becoming a woman. They are treating me like a god.

A gray-haired man on his knees cries out to the heavens and careens forward, fighting for an entry into the inner circle at my feet. Three of his fingers graze my left pinkie toe, then he recedes from the crowd, kissing those three fingers, protecting them from anyone who comes close. Is this what it‘s like to be Lady Gaga?

As the crowd continues to swarm me, I shake my head and back away.

The reality of what has happened today suddenly crashes in on me from every direction, all at once, a million little waves. Somehow I have ended up in ancient Greece, three thousand years back in time.

And as if that weren‘t hard enough to comprehend, it seems that I also just willed the earth to split open.

Time travel. Magic. And—can‘t say I saw this one coming either—

peacocks.

Suddenly dozens of the beautiful birds appear, racing from over the hill and into the village center. Like synchronized swimmers, they line up and, in unison, spread their wings, almost curtsying for me. The iridescence is nearly blinding. So many eyes, encapsulated rainbows, and all of them, every one, focused on me.

Shaking my head, I back away from the peacocks and their mysterious, concerted gaze.

There is something vaguely sinister to their attention. What do they want from me?

Before I know what I‘m doing, I have extracted myself from the villagers‘ reverential arms and have started sprinting toward the forest. The peacocks squawk behind me in pursuit, but they‘re no match for my speed.

I lose them at the edge of the tree line and plunge into the forest.

Finally, I‘m free.

Now what?

I rub the scar on my neck, remembering the day I got that bee sting. I learned to trust myself then, and my confidence in my instincts has rarely wavered since; it‘s certainly been stronger than my confidence in my social skills or my hairstyling abilities. But now what? How can I trust myself when I don‘t understand what is happening in my own body?

Somehow I magically caused that wall to crash through the earth‘s crust. Which sounds crazy. Which
is
crazy, I correct. And sitting here now on the edge of a mysterious forest, unsure of where I am or, for that matter,
what
I am, I realize that I don‘t trust myself anymore.

That‘s when I start sobbing.

I‘m not one of those girls who cries pretty, the way girls in movies do.

My eyelids get fat right away and my ribs tighten, as if they‘re pushing their way up to my head. I shake back and forth like a toddler and I get the hiccups within a few seconds. Then I bury my head in my knees, as if trying to make myself small enough to fit in a suitcase.

That‘s why I don‘t see her coming. When I lift my head up for air, the nymph is sitting right in front of me. Naturally, I shriek. For a moment I had let myself hope that all of this was sunstroke-induced hysterical delusion.

―Why are you crying?‖ the nymph asks me.

―I‘m not,‖ I say. ―I just got pollen stuck in my eyes.‖

―Of course you did.‖

―Great, a sarcastic nymph,‖ I mumble.

―I am Creusa,‖ she says. ―And you are…‖

―Zoe.‖

―Well, Zoe. This isn‘t a very safe place for us to cry.‖ It feels so good to hear someone say my name, finally, that I find myself smiling at her.

She stands up, but it isn‘t the way you and I stand up. She just springs up, like a marionette.

She extends her hand, but it isn‘t like any hand I‘ve ever seen. It‘s Easter-egg pink and translucent, like a long slender balloon filled with fireflies. I am afraid to touch it.

―It‘s okay, Zoe. I won‘t break.‖

Surprisingly, she‘s right. I put my human hand in her balloon hand, which has a much firmer grip than I expected. She helps me up on my feet.

We‘re walking now. Well, I‘m walking and she‘s prancing.

―Where are we going?‖

―Someplace safe.‖

I picture my dorm room at Greeley and my tent at camp and all the places I would rather be heading right now.

―Don‘t worry. Those men won‘t follow us. They know better than to travel into the Kocaba forest.‖

―The what?‖

―The Kocaba,‖ she says. ―It‘s where all those that are not human make their home.‖

―Terrific,‖ I say, all deadpan. ―I‘m sure I‘ll fit right in.‖

―Of course you will,‖ she says, smiling.

Creusa seems remarkably calm for someone who just moments ago almost lost her life.

With a shudder, I recall the vicious glint in the eye of the smaller one as he toyed with the wicked-looking sharpened stone. ―So, um, are you okay? You must be pretty shaken up.‖ She laughs. ―Shaken up? I am ecstatic! What an honor to be saved by you. Zoe, I prayed that you would intervene. The moment I first saw you, I believed that you were one of them.‖

―One of who?‖

She looks at me the way CeeCee looks at me when I don‘t know who a famous teen mother is. ―The gods.‖

―Wait…the gods?‖

―Of course I didn‘t understand how it could be. Everyone knows that there are only six goddesses and six gods. But then I realized, who am I to question the workings of the gods? If a seventh goddess should appear, it is not my place to wonder. Only to show reverence and sweet gratitude for your mercy.‖

―Creusa. I‘m not—‖

―Please, before you say anything else,‖ she interrupts. ―I have a confession to make.‖

She‘s starting to remind me of a nervous freshman girl, the way she can‘t stay on topic. For someone who looks so exotic and otherworldly, at the end of the day, she acts like a Greeley girl venting about some exclusionary trauma with the lacrosse clique.

Creusa locks her little arms and looks down sheepishly. The word

―confession‖ makes me nervous.

―What is it?‖ I ask.

She shakes her head rapidly, shamefully. Sparkles fly from her hair and dissipate.

―Creusa, tell me.‖

―No. No I can‘t.‖

―Yes you can. You have to, okay? I think I‘m going crazy here.‖

―But…I‘m afraid. You won‘t punish me for my impudence?‖ I grab her shoulders, and by some miracle they don‘t burst apart into pixie dust. ―Creusa, I won‘t punish you. Now tell me.‖

Biting her lower lip, she reaches into the tiny satchel strapped over her shoulder and slowly rifles around inside. For such a tiny satchel, the search seems to be taking a long time. I can feel myself getting impatient. I mean, the key to unlocking all the mysteries could be in that satchel. Maybe she has a letter from my uncle. Maybe she has a plane ticket to modern-day Earth. Maybe she has magic fairy powers and my aunt and uncle are going to materialize before my very eyes.

Instead, she hands me my granola bar wrapper, still tightly folded in a shiny red and silver triangle.

―I stole your treasure. Do you forgive me? ‗Stole‘ isn‘t the right word. I knew it was of value and worried when I found it just lying there. And then when those men attacked and I saw you in your unusual garb, I hoped that it was yours. I know how possessive the gods are about their belongings.

Oh, Zoe, can you ever forgive me?‖

All this heartache for a discarded wrapper is dizzying. ―Of course I can, Creusa.‖

She does a backflip and lands smiling like a cheerleader, except she isn‘t annoying like real-life cheerleaders. And then she walks up to a tree, hunches over slightly and races like a squirrel, up and down the trunk, three times. The expression on her face changes to one of serious focus, as if she‘s trying to remember something.

―Do you need help with something?‖ I ask her.

She looks at me curiously. ―Only nymphs can run the code,‖ she says.

―That‘s why only nymphs can come into the vale and people can only enter with an invitation from a nymph.‖

She slaps a hand over her mouth. ―Silly me. You are a goddess. Of course you can run the code.‖

Before I can explain again that I‘m not a goddess, the trunk of the tree pops open, sending Creusa flying onto a bed of pine needles. She sits up and asks, ―Shall we?‖

―You first.‖

She looks me over thoughtfully. ―I don‘t mean to speak out of turn, but it would be wise to pack your treasure in your sack. I wouldn‘t want you to lose it.‖

―My treasure?‖

She points at the granola bar wrapper in my hand.

―Right,‖ I say.

So this is just another day in the life of your average goddess: magical granola bar wrapper management and nymph worship. But as I bury the wrapper in the bag, my amusement gives way to sadness. On a certain level, Creusa is right; that wrapper
is
a treasure to me. I intended to pick it up on my way back to the temple, on my way back home. I feel farther from home than I ever have in my entire life. My eyes start to burn, tears threatening to flow down my flushed cheeks.

Creusa flutters over and bows at my feet.

―Please,‖ I say. ―I‘m only going in if you promise me you‘ll stop bowing.

I can‘t have you or anyone worshipping me. It just…it makes me really uncomfortable, you know?‖