The Dig (9 page)

I lie down on the stone raft and stare up at the bright sky. Soon, I am thinking about Greeley again. As bizarre as everything has been today, maybe the strangest thing is finding myself yearning for school. I would do anything to return to the world I know, where people don‘t wear togas and speak in dead languages. Instead I am stuck here, completely and utterly alone.

At least, I used to be alone.

From the shore comes a throaty growl. I jerk up into a sitting position and spot something watching me.

What
is
it?

It has a general human form, with arms and legs, and stands about five feet tall. But even from out here, I can see how inhuman the creature truly is: a pug nose that belongs on a wild hog, enormous flapping donkey ears brushing its shoulders, and a short tail that whips behind. It runs as if on hot coals, its spindly legs lifting rapidly, trot, trot, trot, until it reaches its destination.

My clothing.

―No!‖

It must be at least part human because it does what any punk would do in this situation.

After grabbing my clothes, it flashes me a grin full of crooked pink teeth and takes off, knees bouncing into its chest. I dive off my little raft, which disintegrates back into the water, and swim toward shore as fast as I can. My power over earth gives me no boost in the water, however, and by the time I stagger onto shore, the creature is far gone.

Out of breath and shivering, I hunch over with frustration. I‘ve never felt more vulnerable in my life. The sun will be setting soon, and in time I‘ll be trapped in the dark, wearing nothing but a necklace. And all because I wanted to go skinny-dipping, when everyone knows it doesn‘t count if you‘re alone.

There‘s a rustle in the trees and I expect the punk beast to lunge at me, growling. What emerges, however, is very different. It‘s not a beast at all.

It‘s the cutest boy I‘ve ever seen in my life.

I turn to stone as my legs turn to jelly. I thought boys like this existed only in magazines, airbrushed. Everything about him is gold. There‘s his skin, pure honey flickering under his cape—a cape? Really? And his hair, wavy and yellow with streaks of sunlit gold. Where did he come from? And what does he have in his arms? It looks like…my clothes?

That‘s when I remember that I am naked.

Omigod. I squeal and he quickly covers his eyes with one hand.

―Don‘t worry,‖ he says. ―I didn‘t see anything.‖

Right away I know he‘s different from the boys I‘ve met before. The self-deprecating part of me that would make some crack about there being nothing
to
see is quiet for once.

―Where are you?‖ he asks, trying to walk toward me with his eyes closed.

―Turn left or you‘ll go into the water,‖ I say.

―Thanks.‖

―You can just drop them where you are, you know. You don‘t have to bring them all the way to me.‖

―I really can‘t see anything. I promise,‖ he says.

―Okay, then. A little to the right.‖

He steps to the right. I never even look at the jocks at school. Maybe I‘m biased, but I always assume that if a guy‘s calves are cut like that, he‘ll probably study rocks for jocks on a football scholarship in college and be bald and depressed by the age of thirty-five. But this guy doesn‘t have the trademark impatience of the jocks at school.

Yet, wow. He does have those calves.

―Am I getting there?‖

He‘s standing only a foot away from me now. I step back. I‘ve never felt so naked.

―Yes.‖

I see goose bumps pop up on his arms at the sound of my voice and I bite my lip as he crouches down and lays my clothes on the backpack.

―You go ahead and cover up and I‘ll be over there.‖ He‘s still covering his eyes as he crosses the beach, finagling his way behind a tree. As I dress, I keep my eyes on him. I may not know where I am or why I can summon blocks of silver from the core of the earth, but I do know one thing.

I will forever thank
god
that Darren didn‘t follow me into that tunnel.

And I need to learn how to dress faster.

I don‘t remember my parents very well, but I do remember the story of how my parents met. I‘ve heard it dozens of time from Aunt Sophia and Uncle Alex. My mother had just graduated from college with a degree in philosophy and taken a summer job at a restaurant on an island in the Caribbean. My father was there too, studying to become a veterinarian.

One night, near the end of the summer, my dad went with some friends to the restaurant where my mom worked. They didn‘t talk. She didn‘t even notice him. But when he left with his friends from school, he told them that he was going to marry the waitress. His friends laughed him off, but he insisted that he had never been surer of anything in his life. So for the rest of the week, he kept coming to the restaurant, day after day, trying to talk to her. But my mom wasn‘t interested in a summer fling. On her last night on the island, he pleaded with her to stay, or to tell him where she was going, but she said no. She was too young. She didn‘t want to date until she had a career.

So he fell into a funk. She was leaving, and he had no way to find her. This was before cell phones and Facebook and all the rest, when flying away truly meant flying away.

The next morning, as her plane was readying for takeoff, my father barged onto the tarmac and stood beside the plane, waving his arms. He couldn‘t let her go. My mother was watching from the window, and she yelled out to the flight attendant to open the door. Then she walked right off that plane and into his arms. And that‘s where they had their first kiss.

It‘s the kind of story that‘s great if it‘s not about your own parents. Most people‘s parents meet at work or something and they go on a few dates and that‘s that. My parents got married one week after they met. One week! So in some way, I blame them for my awkwardness with boys. I‘m burdened with this yearning for romance and magic.

―Okay,‖ I say. ―I‘m dressed. You can turn around now.‖

When he does, he‘s even better than I remembered. I wish I had the power to hit pause and stare at him, his billowy cloak, his blond tendrils climbing about his head. He‘s what CeeCee would call a 10.

―Satyrs are the worst,‖ he says.

―Right. Satyrs.‖

―Are you okay?‖

―Oh I am now,‖ Lame, Zoe. That was
lame
.
―I can‘t thank you enough.

I was starting to think I‘d freeze to death.‖ Stop being so dramatic, Zoe!

―Nah,‖ he says and smiles. ―You seem like someone with a few tricks up her sleeve.‖

―Well, this is true. But it‘s also easier if you
have
a sleeve in which to store your tricks.‖

He laughs. I made him laugh. He thinks I‘m funny!

Oh no, I‘m turning into CeeCee.

―So, you‘re traveling alone?‖ he asks.

I shrug. Maybe I jumped the gun. Not two minutes in and he‘s asking me where my clique is. Maybe boys this cute on the outside really can‘t be that good on the inside.

―Who are you with?‖ I ask.

―I‘m like you,‖ he says, laughing. ―Going solo.‖ I want to ask him if he‘s ever read the Roald Dahl book called
Going
Solo
and then I remember that it‘s thousands of years before that book will be published. Time travel is exhausting. Instead I say something lame and touristy: ―Are you going anywhere in particular?‖ I may as well have leered at him and asked what his sign was.

But there‘s not an ounce of judgment in him. He‘s just listening to me, taking me in.

―I‘m just out for the day. Hunting, traveling.‖ I nod.

―You‘re welcome to join me,‖ he offers.

―Oh thanks, I‘m fine.‖

―Are you sure? Because, you know, satyrs aren‘t the worst of it out here.

They‘re downright nice compared with some of the other little devils in this part of the woods.‖

―Oh yeah, I know,‖ I say, cringing at my reply. I sound like a Greeley girl pretending she‘s one of those girls from
The Hills
. ―I
so
know.‖

―I guess you can take care of yourself all right,‖ he says.

I glance at him, scanning his expression. Did he somehow see me using my powers before?

Creusa warned me not to let anyone know about them.

She also warned me not to trust anyone I met on the way to the Oracle, and here I am falling all over a stranger. But then, she didn‘t mention guys like this running around. I wonder where he goes to school. Maybe he‘s an intern who traveled through time as well. But I don‘t really believe that. He has an old soul. There‘s a wisdom in his eyes, a calmness and patience I thought was reserved for people over the age of forty, people with experience, people who grew up without the Internet, people who know what it‘s like to pick up a phone without seeing the caller‘s name identified on a screen.

And honestly, archeology interns don‘t look this good.

He leans in and says, ―Uh-oh. I think you might have gotten a sunburn.

Your cheeks are really red.‖

―No,‖ I say. I can‘t believe I‘m blushing. Oh, come
on
, face. Be cool!

―I‘m just flushed from the swim. And, uh, thirsty.‖

―Well, in that case, join me for a drink at the cantina?‖

―The cantina? Sure! Why not.‖

And as I follow this mystery man into the woods, I spin rationalizations.

Creusa warned me not to trust anyone, but just because I‘m going with him doesn‘t mean I
trust
him. I‘m just going along so as not to raise suspicions.

I mean, wouldn‘t it be more dangerous for me to admit that I don‘t know what the cantina is, thus outing myself as a time-zone foreigner?

I can hear CeeCee‘s voice in the back of my head, reminding me of the rules of dating: If you really like a boy, Zoe, you say no when he asks you to hang out. And if he asks you a second time, it means that he likes you as much as you like him and you say yes.

Let‘s just hope that still applies in ancient Greece.

There‘s that moment in a conversation with a stranger when you‘ve exchanged too many words to ask their name. Asking it would cause a hiccup in the flow of conversation. So when the host at the cantina hops off his stool as we approach and says, ―Blondie and Curly, you need a table?‖ I go with it.

―After you, Blondie,‖ I say.

He smiles. ―A table would be great.‖

The cantina is essentially a shack held up by a few tree trunks, like some bar that couldn‘t decide if it wanted to be Caribbean- or tiki- themed. The host is an equally wondrous sight. Unlike the skinny nymphs at the vale or the wiry satyr in the forest, this creature is shaped like a snowman.

He looks like he lives on onion rings and bowls of kettle corn and might float away at any moment.

He escorts us to a tree stump, with two smaller tree stumps serving as chairs. It‘s like sitting at a kids‘ table at a preschool. But Blondie‘s acting like this is perfectly normal, so I play right along.

―What a funny little nymph,‖ I say.

―Nymph?‖

―The host.‖

―No, that‘s a cartawall.‖

―A cartwheel?‖

―Cartawall. You know, they live in the underground hovels.‖ My eyes bulge. Oh no. Could I have upended a family of cartawalls when I used my powers to pull the silver to the surface?

―What‘s wrong? Now you look pale. You need something to drink.‖ Blondie motions to the bar, where a polar bear pours drinks. Oh wait.

This is Greece; that can‘t be a polar bear. But the beast is jovial and white, with powdery limbs that could be foraged from snowbanks at Greeley. It‘s yammering with some sort of giant elf at the bar, and when it laughs, its teeth are revealed to be soft and rounded, very un-bearlike. I should really stop staring, I remind myself. But how can I stop staring? Where I come from, polar bears don‘t tend bar and laugh out loud.

―They‘re my favorite too, the duttspots.‖

―They look like polar bears.‖

Just as he‘s about to ask what I mean by ―polar bears,‖ a loud, charged-up collection of cartawalls enters, and for the moment it‘s impossible to hear anything except their squawking and cheering. Wow, they‘re an unruly bunch. Then, alongside our table appears the forest‘s answer to a worn-down waitress at a diner on a desolate strip of Route 66.

She‘s spindly, like a spider, with multiple long arms decked with bangles. Yet you can‘t call her a spider because, well, for one thing, she‘s about five foot eight. And for another thing, she has a face. Although, to be honest, it‘s a face that would be more at home on a cat. She‘s whisking tray after tray our way but none of them has our order. I would think life as a waitress would be easier with extra arms but apparently not.

―That‘s us,‖ he says and I‘m smitten with his manner. A lot of guys would have gotten rude and impatient waiting for their drinks. We take our goblets from the correct tray and the spider waitress makes a little clicking sound in the back of her throat. Blondie reaches into his cape to pay. I remember the obolus coin thingy from the temple.

―Let me help,‖ I say, I reaching for it.

But before I can retrieve it, Blondie says, ―No, I got it,‖ and lays two square coins in the palm of the waitress‘s hand. They look nothing like my obolus, and I sigh. My obolus isn‘t commerce, at least not in this joint.

I drink my hot pink foam and he drinks his hot pink foam and we both sit here, the only two full-blown humans in the whole place, with our matching pink mustaches, grinning at each other.

I‘m almost relieved that it‘s too loud to talk much, because frankly, I‘m running out of words.

A fight breaks out behind me, and Blondie wipes away his pink mustache and leaps into action. He pulls the two cartawalls apart.

―Gentlemen,‖ he says. The room quiets. Maybe he‘s a cop or something.

Or maybe it‘s just the fact that he‘s so handsome. Or, you know, maybe it‘s the fact that he‘s a human. ―Whatever the problem is, you don‘t really want to solve it by spilling drinks all over the cantina.‖

―Oh,‖ the smaller, older-looking cartawall barks. ―You humans think you know everything, huh?‖

The even smaller, friskier one chimes in, having now sided with his enemy of only seconds ago. ―Yeah. Just like a typical human. No fur on you and you think you‘re so superior.‖