The Immortal (12 page)

'Yes."

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Minos raised his hand. The image of a man appeared in midair in the center of the hall, in colorful detail.

The gods leaned forward to see better. Even Apollo stirred. Sryope couldn't understand what Phthia's death had to do with mortals. Surely no one on Earth could have harmed her.

"I know him," Sryope said. "He is a writer. He lives in America."

Minos moved his hand. A young blond woman replaced the image of the man.

"That is the man's daughter," Sryope said.

Minos again tilted his fingers. A young brunette replaced the blond girl.

"That is a friend of the daughter," Sryope said. "I know all three of them."

Minos allowed the last image to fade. "Have you given your stories to the man? Is that how you know him?"

"Yes. Since he was a young man, I have been helping him."

"Have you helped the daughter in any way?" Minos asked.

Sryope considered. "I have helped her, occasionally, with her homework. For example, when she had to write a paper for school, I gave her a touch of inspiration."

"Does this particular girl have a passion for her homework?"

Sryope almost laughed. "No. Few mortal girls do."

"But you said that you are drawn to those who have

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passion for their work. Why would you go out of your way to influence this girl?"

"She lives in the same house as the writer I help. While there, I couldn't help but be attracted to her. She is a bright girl and has interests in many things." Sryope shrugged. "I did not influence her as much as I gave her some fresh ideas."

"Could you tell us the nature of the ideas you gave her? That is, if you remember?"

"I have an excellent memory. I can give you one example. I inspired her to write a paper for her class on things mortals could do to help curb the pollution of their oceans and forests."

"Have you ever inspired her to hurt someone?"

Sryope felt a flush of anger. "That is an absurd question. And you have already asked it and I have already answered it. I help mortals, I do not hurt them."

"That remains to be seen, Sryope. The third image, the picture of the friend—have you ever influenced her?"

"No."

"How do you know her then?"

"Since the girls were young, they have occasionally spent nights at each others' houses. I observed the young brunette girl at the writer's house and I recognize her from there."

"Would you say, from what you have observed, that the girls are friends?"

"Yes."

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"You are sure of this?" Minos asked.

"Yes."

"What would you say if I told you the daughter of the writer had tried to kill the other girl?"

Sryope was shocked. "I would have trouble believing it."

"Why?"

"I have already answered that question. They are friends. Why would one try to kill the other?"

Minos leaned close and once more pointed a bony finger at her. His eyes were as cold as black stones on a winter night.

"That is what we are trying to find out, Sryope. When we have the answer to this question, we will have the answer to how Phthia was killed, and why she was killed, and who killed her."

"I did not kill Phthia," Sryope repeated for the third time.

Minos grinned. He had no teeth. "You did worse than kill her."

I AWOKE TO A DULL ACHE IN MY ABDOMEN. EARLY MORN-

ing light shone through the windows. Helen slept silently on her bed. I got up and went to the bathroom, then returned to bed. But I couldn't go back to sleep because the ache remained. I assumed I had gas from Silk's special sauce. I decided to go for a walk along the water. After dressing quickly, I slipped out of our room without disturbing Helen.

The morning was chillier than previous ones. There were high clouds, and even though the sun was up it couldn't be seen. I headed down the beach, away from town. The foam of spent waves rushed over my sandals. I didn't enjoy my walk. The pains in my stomach wouldn't go away. I began to wonder if it really was gas pains.

Half an hour later found me back at the hotel,

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sitting in the lounge and drinking coffee I didn't want. I felt lousy and tired. My attention was evenly divided between my aching body and my dream of Sryope's trial. I didn't know if I was disappointed or relieved that I had awakened before the verdict was delivered. The memory of Minos and his questions made me shiver. And those foul-smelling Furies sitting up front and giggling over Sryope's discomfort—what a disgustingly ugly bunch of bitches. But I would have liked to have the whole dream business over with and settled. I knew I had one nightmare left to dream.

I decided to call Tom. He'd told me he was an early riser. I'd memorized his number when he'd given it to me. I have an excellent memory for details.

Pascal answered the phone. I knew the two of them lived together. "Pascal," I said, "this is Josie. Is Tom up?"

"Yes, Tom is awake, but he is—ill."

"What?"

"Sick." Pascal's voice was anxious. "I am thinking to take him to health center in town, but I don't know.

He says he will feel better soon."

"Can I talk to him?"

"He is in toilet now."

"What are his symptoms?" I asked.

"Excuse, please?"

"Ah, never mind. Can you give me directions to your place? I think I should come over."

"Please come."

It took me some time to understand the directions,

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but eventually I felt that I could find their apartment without getting lost. I returned to my room for the keys to my motor scooter. Helen continued enjoying the repose of Pan, I thought, and didn't ask myself how I knew Pan had been a deep sleeper. Picking up my keys, I realized I was leaving without taking my statue of Sryope. I found it under the blankets where I had left it. With the pain in my gut, I hadn't even bothered to look at it when I had gone out earlier.

I almost dropped the statue when I picked it up. I was lucky I didn't let out a cry. The marble material was now almost entirely gone from the goddess. She now appeared to be made out of a clear crystal of some kind. I studied it more closely. The crystal appeared to encase a colorless liquid. The statue was hollow.

I stuffed Sryope into one of my jeans pockets.

I'd show her to Tom, I thought.

But I still wasn't going to let him touch her.

I left a note on the chest of drawers explaining that I had gone to Tom's and that he wasn't feeling well. I left Tom's phone number for Helen.

It was approximately eight o'clock when I climbed onto my motor scooter. I had my windbreaker on; my camera was in the side pocket, where I had zipped it during my first visit to Delos. Like I really needed the thing. Tom wasn't going to want me to take his picture while he was feeling sick. I transferred Sryope to the opposite pocket in my windbreaker. I thought she'd be safer there.

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On the ride over to the guys' apartment I felt really sick. My pain had moved. I was feeling more discomfort in my back than in my abdomen. I tried taking long, slow, deep breaths, but they had no effect at all on it. I wondered if Tom and I had caught some kind of flu bug. We had kissed enough to have the same germs.

Tom and Pascal's place was a tiny apartment located above a clothes shop at the other end of town. I parked my scooter in the back as Pascal had advised and took the rickety wooden steps up to the second floor. Pascal was at the door before I finished knocking. My anxiety leapfrogged when I saw how anxious he was.

'Tom is ill," Pascal said quickly.

He showed me in. The apartment was tidy and lined with books. There was a small living room attached to an even tinier kitchen. Two box-like bedrooms squared off a two-step hallway in the back. Tom's bedroom door was open. He was turning over in bed as I entered. He had his underwear on, nothing else. There was a gray pallor to his skin. He tried to smile for my benefit but it was strained.

"Hi, Josie," he muttered. "How do you like our place?"

I sat on the bed beside him and took his hand. He was soaked with sweat, although I couldn't detect a fever. "Your place is wonderful. What are your symptoms?"

He grimaced. "I ache all over."

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"Does your throat hurt?"

"Yes. My head, my back. My legs and arms even hurt. I've never felt like this." He struggled to take a breath. "It started during the night."

"You have to go to the doctor."

"I don't want to go to the doctor. I hate them."

"It doesn't matter what you want," I said firmly. "You could have meningitis or something weird like that for all we know. You're going and that's settled. Don't even bother to argue with me." I glanced at Pascal, who stood worrying in the doorway. "Do you have your truck?"

He nodded vigorously.
"Le camion
parked in the street."

"Go get it. Park it at the end of the stairway. Keep the engine running. We'll be down in two minutes."

"In two minutes," Pascal repeated as he left.

"What kind of hospital do they have on this island?" I asked Tom as I searched for a pair of pants in the closet.

"They call it the health center. It's small and the doctor on duty usually doesn't speak English."

"I don't believe you. This is a tourist island. Any doctor here should speak English."

He smiled again briefly. "You should be a nurse when you grow up, Josie. You have the knack. You—"

His face suddenly contorted in pain and he doubled up. "Oh, God," he whispered.

I jumped to his side and wiped the sweat that poured from his forehead. "What is it?" I asked. A stupid question.

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"Pain, incredible pain," he gasped. "It's like there's something inside me trying to kill me."

I continued to stroke him and spoke gently. "I won't let it kill you, Tom. Remember, I owe you for saving my life. It will have to kill me first to get to you."

I didn't feel as bad as he did, but I did not feel so hot myself. Now was not the time to talk about myself, but I did wonder if we had the same thing. Of course, I also wondered what it was.

That it should strike so swiftly.

The Mykonos health center was tiny, but the two doctors impressed me as extremely competent. One was old, the other middle-aged. They took Tom in immediately. If anything, his pain was getting worse, but he was aware enough to describe his condition. Pascal and I sat down in the reception area to wait.

Not long after that the old doctor came out and said they'd have to run a few tests. It looked as if it would be a long wait. I asked the man if he had any idea what the problem was and he just shook his head.

"This is not the way I had this day planned," I told Pascal.

Pascal kept shifting uneasily in his seat. His nerves were wound tight. "Not a good day," he agreed.

I had begun to perspire heavily. The pain in my back had moved into my neck and shoulders, although it hadn't actually left my spine. This wasn't a good sign. Still, I wanted to leave the doctors to concentrate on Tom. My decision wasn't entirely noble. I hated doctors poking at me.

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"Tom said you two met here," I said. "Was it really in a bar?"

Pascal shook his head. "We meet in town. There is bad man there—takes
legumes
and say I cheat him.

But I no cheat anyone. I tell him that and he shove me to ground. I get mad, I don't like to be shoved. I am no ... afraid. I hit him but he pull out knife." Pascal measured a foot and a half with his hands and shook his head again. "Big knife. He go to stick me with it. But Tom suddenly there. He kick knife from man's hand. Then I hit man in the face and he fall to the ground." Pascal smiled at the memory. "His face all bloody."

I remembered on the beach how smoothly Tom had kicked the book from my hands. I wondered if he had taken martial arts training, and made a mental note to ask him.

"How long ago was that?" I asked, putting a hand to my head. The pain was not stopping. There was suddenly pressure behind my eyeballs that was record setting. It was as if I had a tiny alien in the center of my brain that wanted to hatch.

"Two years," Pascal said.

I coughed. "And you've been friends since?"

"Yes. Tom is good friend."

I smiled. "I know. He's a great guy."

Pascal looked at me strangely. "Are you sick?"

He had enough to worry about. "No. I'm just— tired."

"You sweat."

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I had to brace

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my arm on my knee to steady myself. "That's just something American girls do when we get hot," I mumbled.

"Josie?"

I bent over but managed to give him a smile. "Yes, Pascal?"

"You are not well."

I nodded. "I feel a bit off. Maybe I will just go to the bathroom and then I'll feel better. OK?"

"Let me help you," he said, taking my arm. I brushed him aside.

"In America girls go to the bathroom by themselves." I stood up, with great effort. "You just stay here. I'll be back in a minute. I'll be fine—don't worry about me, Pascal. OK?"

He was scared. "OK," he said.

It made me chuckle to hear him say that word.

I started for the restroom.

A pain, as thick as the trunk of a tree and as bright as lightning, shot through my body from my feet to my head. My vision exploded in red. Then everything went black and I felt myself falling. Yet it seemed I never hit the floor but simply bypassed it on my long descent into the Underworld, where Minos and the others waited to judge the souls of mortals.

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"Have you ever dreamed of becoming a mortal?" Minos asked Sryope.

"No," Sryope said. "Why should I have such a dream? It is not possible for an immortal to become mortal."

""But if it were possible, would it be something you'd desire?"

"Is this another of your foolish questions?"

"You will answer it, Sryope, lest we all assume you are afraid to answer it."

Sryope spoke proudly. "I am afraid of nothing. No, I would not choose to be one if it were possible."

"Why not?" Minos asked.

"Because mortals are mortal. They grow old and die. Their lives are beset with calamities. They suffer illness, wounds to their bodies, the limits of being

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confined to the surface of the Earth. These are not things any god or goddess would desire."

Minos nodded. "Your answer is reasonable. This court will now move to the heart of the accusations against you."

"Thank Zeus for that," Sryope mumbled.

Minos spoke bitterly. "You are proud, Sryope. You spend your gifts freely over the surface of the Earth, where your fellow gods have counseled you not to walk, and then you dole out what favors strike your mood on Mt. Olympus."

"You are not from Mt. Olympus and know not what I do here," Sryope said. "You know only the dead."

Minos nodded. "I know the dead. Unlike the gods, I have a record of each day, each minute of a mortal's life. I have the record of that writer you say you inspire, and his daughter, and the friend of the daughter. I can show these records to this assembly."

Sryope was undaunted. She understood what Minos was doing. He did not, could not, have a record of a god, who never died, and who would never stand before him in the Underworld for judgment. But Minos could follow her actions where she had interacted with mortals. There she would be revealed on his moving images.

"Go ahead," Sryope said. "My relationship with them is above reproach."

Minos spoke to the whole assembly. "We will now see images from the times Sryope troubled the lives of these three mortals."

The pictures appeared in midair in the center of the

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hall like holograms. Sryope nodded to herself as they swiftly swept from one scene to the next. Most of the images showed her sitting still beside the father as he worked at his desk, whispering ideas and words into his mortal mind. On occasion, though, she was shown touching the daughter, the blond girl, on the head. At these touches, the girl would always smile. Never was there an image of Sryope with the friend of the daughter.

Minos stopped the moving images for a moment.

"Are these scenes accurate, Sryope?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You were there in the mortals' house? That was you we saw?"

"Yes."

"While you were in their house, did you ever once see another god?"

"No."

"You are sure of that?"

"You have a habit, Minos, of asking the same question again and again."

He did not like her. "And you have a habit of answering these same questions differently each time.

Answer this one."

"I am sure I was never in the house of these mortals when another god was present. I would have known if another had come."

"We will continue." Minos held up his hand. The images resumed.

At first Sryope noticed nothing unusual with the records. There were more pictures of her helping the 165

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father and the daughter. Then came one scene where the daughter had the brown-haired friend over for the night. As they settled down to rest, in the blond girl's bedroom, Sryope was not present. But when the light was turned off, a goddess suddenly entered the room through the ceiling. Sryope peered closely.

It was her, she could see it was herself.

But Sryope didn't remember entering the bedroom that night.

On the record, Sryope did not stay in the room long. But she did pause long enough to touch the forehead of each of the sleeping girls. The girls grimaced with the touch and stirred uneasily. Then Sryope left.

Minos halted the images.

"Was that you in the bedroom?" he asked.

Sryope was confused. It was true she had a fine memory, but occasionally things happened that she had trouble recalling. Yet she was almost sure she had never touched the girl with the brown hair.

"I don't know," Sryope said.

"You don't know?" Minos asked. "It certainly looked like you. It must have been you."

"Yes, I suppose," Sryope said. "But—"

"Yes?"

"I have no recollection of having touched the friend's forehead."

"But we have just seen you touch her, Sryope," Minos said. "What inspiration did you pour into her sleeping mind?"

"I have already stated that I don't remember having done anything ..o her."

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"Earlier you stated that you had definitely never influenced the friend. Is that not true?"

Sryope shrugged. "It's possible I made an error."

"It's very possible you made a grave error," Minos said. He raised his hand. The images continued.

This scene was almost identical to the last one. The friend of the daughter had come over to spend the night. They talked together for some time and then turned off the light. When the girls were asleep Sryope saw herself again enter the bedroom through the ceiling. This detail struck Sryope as peculiar. Ordinarily she entered a mortal house through the window. Once more she had no memory of what was being shown.

The Sryope in the hologram put her hand on the forehead of the daughter, who shook violently in bed at the touch and let out a soft moan. Before she awakened the goddess moved on to the friend and touched her on the head. The friend also cringed under the immortal fingers. But the goddess soon let go and stood staring down at them both. Several minutes went by.

Then the friend climbed out of the bed and walked to the window. She raised the window. The bedroom was on the second story of the house. The friend began to climb out the window. The goddess smiled.

The daughter, still in bed, awoke with a start and let out a cry.

The daughter saved the friend from climbing out the window. The friend seemed to awaken as if from a 167

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trance and acted embarrassed. The goddess vanished, and the girls went back to sleep.

Minos stopped the images.

"Was that you in the room that night, Sryope?" he asked.

"No." Now she was certain. She would have remembered such a night.

"We just saw that it was you."

"It was not me. I am certain. I never influenced the friend of the daughter to try to climb out the window."

"Then who was it in that room with those girls?"

"I don't know. Someone who looks like me."

Minos was amused. "Is there anyone in this assembly who resembles you that closely?"

"No. But—"

"Yes? Speak your mind, Sryope. You have never hesitated to speak it before."

"I don't know where these images have come from."

Minos was angry. "You challenge me? These are the records that are used to judge a mortal's soul at the end of his life. Even Apollo himself would not dispute them." Minos turned to Apollo. "Is that not so, my Lord?"

Apollo nodded. "The records are not to be questioned."

Sryope drew in a deep breath and trembled. Her confusion deepened. Apollo could not be lying, yet she had not done these things.

"Do you have anything to say?" Minos asked.

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Sryope drew herself up once more. She must not appear frightened, she knew, or the assembled gods would be sure of her guilt. "Yes. I insist that there was an impostor in the room that night with those girls, someone posing as me."

Minos laughed long, his voice like the cackle of a jackal. When he was done, he said, "Who is this impostor, Sryope?"

"I don't know."

"Who do you know who has the power to appear as you?"

"I don't know."

"If you do not know these things, then how can you say that there is such an impostor?"

"Because I know I would never have done anything to hurt those girls," Sryope said.

"Because you are not a hateful being? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yes."

"Phthia, if she was here, might disagree." Minos turned to speak to the assembly. "These records are indisputable. There is no impostor. What we are seeing is the truth." He paused and raised his hand.

"Now we will see the last two records, what happened five and four days before Phthia's body was found floating lifeless in the River Styx."

The images sprang to life. The scene had shifted. Sryope did not recognize it at first, but as it unfolded she came to understand that they were now in the bedroom of the friend. This time the daughter of the writer was sleeping over at the friend's house.

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The friend had a smaller house; the bedroom was tiny. The friend offered the daughter her bed and the daughter accepted it, while the friend spread blankets on the floor for herself. They spoke for a while, then turned off the light and slept.

Sryope entered the room through the ceiling again.

"No," Sryope whispered. She had never been to the friend's house.

The goddess went first to the daughter of the writer. This time she put one hand on the girl's forehead and the other over the girl's heart. The goddess closed her eyes and the girl began to writhe on the bed. Then the goddess released her and stood watching for several minutes. The blond girl settled back down. It seemed she had gone back to sleep. But then suddenly she sat up in bed. Her eyes were open but empty as a night sky filled with clouds of smoke.

The blond girl climbed out of bed and went into her friend's bathroom, which adjoined the bedroom.

Leaving the light off, she removed a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet and began to pull open the capsules. One by one, she emptied the powder in the pills into a glass of water. She did this until all the pills were gone.

Then the girl picked up the glass and began to carry it toward her friend, who slept on the floor. The goddess watched all this with a smile on her face.

But the blond girl suddenly stopped and the vacant expression in her eyes was replaced by awareness.

As she took in the poisoned glass of water in her hand,

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her arm shook. She started back toward the bathroom.

The goddess was on her in a moment.

The girl, no longer asleep now, was difficult to lead. The goddess had to use ten times the power to influence her to give the poison to her friend, who continued to rest undisturbed on the floor. The goddess thrust both her hands deep into the blond girl's chest and the girl weakened under the attack, sagging against the wall, the glass of poisoned water still in her hand. The girl let out a cry and began to choke as if she were having a heart attack. But she held on to the glass because the goddess wouldn't let her drop it. Slowly, steadily, she stood back up and walked toward her friend, who had finally begun to stir.

The goddess didn't let go of the blond girl's heart. Sryope saw she had no intention of releasing her until the girl had given the drink to her friend, until she was fully implicated in the crime that was taking place.

But Sryope watched with a measure of pride as the blond girl once more began to resist the evil power of the impostor. Even as the goddess gripped the mortal's heart as tightly as she could, and whispered spells woven with obscene words, the blond girl was able to turn away from her friend and set the glass on a bookshelf.

When the blond girl let go of the glass, the goddess became incensed and released her. The girl was panting hard and clutching her chest. She looked around the room as if seeing it anew and not liking how it

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had changed. Then she fled the room in her pajamas. The record did not show the daughter of the writer leaving the house, but the sound of a slamming door was heard.

The goddess swore bitterly and turned her attention to the friend, who had sat up on the floor awake with the sound of the slamming door. The goddess did not give the girl a chance to catch her wits. She plunged her hands into the girl's heart and the girl let out a whimper and turned toward the glass of poisoned water resting on the bookshelf above her. The goddess dragged the girl to her feet. The goddess made the girl pick up the glass. Then the goddess—she must have been a demon, Sryope thought—made the girl drink the poison down to the last drop.

The goddess released the mortal. It was not long before the girl collapsed on the floor. The goddess left.

Minos halted the images.

"Did you do these things to these girls, Sryope?" he asked.

Sryope shook her head. "Never."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"Your claims of innocence sound weaker and weaker."

"I didn't do any of these horrible things!"

"You did worse things!" Minos yelled. He raised his hand.

Another scene of evil unfolded for the gods to judge her by.

The friend, the girl with the brown hair, lay in a

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hospital bed. She was obviously very ill. Tubes led into her body. Wires were attached to her head and heart, and monitors that traced green lines and emitted annoying beeping sounds stood on both sides of her bed. The girl had a plastic mask over her mouth and nose. She was hardly breathing.

The impostor Sryope plunged through the ceiling.

She had Phthia with her.

"No!" Sryope cried in the midst of the assembly.

The pictures didn't stop. The goddess had Phthia's neck in a thorny noose. Phthia struggled, terrified, with the noose, but could not break free. The goddess appeared all powerful. Dragging Phthia with her, she strode to the dying girl and spat on the mortal's chest. The saliva came out blood-red.

The monitor beside the bed began to emit a high-pitched beep.