Vial of Tears, page 3
“I worry about you,” Sam countered, keeping her voice in check. “Next time please leave a note. That’s all I’m asking, so I know where you are. I called all your normal jobs. I was starting to think you were dead.”
“Dead!” Mom said. “That’s dramatic.”
“‘Dear Sam, I’ll see you Saturday morning. Here’s how you can reach me if you need to. Have a good week. Love, Mom.’”
“A note,” Mom repeated. “That would’ve been thoughtful. But then you might have come searching for me.”
And she didn’t want to be found.
Sam gave her mother a look. They’d had this standoff so many times, and getting angry only made things worse. Mom was home, with money to spare, so Sam tamped down her frustration and pasted on a smile.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said, picking up the shovel and ducking underneath the branches of the only tree in their yard. Its trunk wore a hundred scars where she and Dad had thrown knives into it. Sam could almost see herself taking aim, see the ghost of her ten-year-old self, of Dad standing by chewing on a toothpick. It’s all in the wrist, he would coach, but more often than not she missed the tree altogether and the knife would land in the grass.
Mom pushed her new sunglasses onto the top of her head. They were Ray-Bans, and they weren’t knock-offs. The wad of gambling money would be gone by next week.
“Yep,” Sam mumbled, deciding for certain that she needed to keep the jug and coins a secret. With a grunt, she jammed the shovel into the ground. She’d worn blisters across her palms last night from digging, and now they flared up again. That part, at least, had really happened—burying the Ziploc bag. Her mind flashed to the smoky mist and the man’s voice, which now felt so dreamlike and impossible.
“Are you okay?” Mom asked. “You really do look sick.”
“The last time I ate was yesterday at lunch.”
“Inside,” she said, putting an arm around Sam. “You’re freezing! I bought bagels. I was just waiting for Rima to wake up.”
“I’ll go play reveille in her ear,” Sam said, but when they turned to walk back to the house, she saw that Rima was standing at the door with a cup of coffee. She lifted a hand toward Mom as if she’d been gone five minutes rather than five days. No big deal. Totally normal.
Mom kissed Rima’s forehead before she could duck away. “How’s my baby?” she asked. “Good?”
“How was the party last night?” Sam asked, following Rima into the kitchen. Her hair was in a messy knot, her face oily with yesterday’s makeup. “I mean, soccer practice?”
Rima shot her a look. Shut up, she mouthed silently.
“Mom won some money at the casino,” Sam added, opening the refrigerator and handing Rima a tub of cream cheese. Mom had bought caramel-flavored, the best, and probably without a coupon. Sam chose a cinnamon bagel from the open box on the kitchen table. “We’re going shopping today.”
“After I nap,” Mom said, stifling a yawn. In the kitchen’s fluorescent light, the skin under her eyes looked purple. She’d probably gambled all night and slept in her car during the day. “It’s hard work winning cold, hard cash.”
“How much?” Rima asked, trailing Mom into her room. “What’d you play? Slots or blackjack?”
Sam swallowed the last bite of her bagel. She showered and dressed, stacking a few bracelets over her wrist and slipping on her old sneakers. The lake was calling to her, but she had econ homework, an entire business plan due on Friday. Plus, if she went to the library, she could search for clues about the coins.
She tucked Jiddo’s letter into her pocket and walked through the house. When she looked inside Mom’s room, she found her already asleep, her cheek pressed crookedly against her half-unpacked duffel bag.
The back door was ajar, and Rima was singing somewhere.
And then Sam heard a noise that made her spine stiffen: the chink of a shovel hitting rock.
Panicked, Sam pressed her fingertips against the window. Rima was on her knees in the yard. She was digging.
Sam threw open the back door. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice cracking as she sprinted toward her sister.
“Mom told me to move all the plants to this one spot.” Rima had the Ziploc bag in her hands, the pieces of the broken jug showing through. The hose was running, creating a thin river of mud around Rima’s bare feet. “But check this out,” she said. “I found this.”
“Don’t open it,” Sam warned. She was breathless from running.
“But there’s a bunch of coins in here.” Rima pointed through the clear bag. “They look old.”
“Give it to me,” Sam said, thrusting her hand out.
“Finders keepers,” Rima replied, pulling the bag toward her chest.
“You don’t understand,” Sam said. “Jiddo sent that to me. It’s mine.”
“Huh?” Rima made a face. “Jiddo?”
Sam nodded.
“So why is it out here?”
“Because,” Sam said. “I needed to hide it for now.” She put her hand out again, but instead Rima opened the bag and pulled the two chunks of pottery out. Three or four coins fell to the ground. “You’re going to lose something!”
“Is it from Lebanon?” Rima let out a low whistle. “This stuff looks ancient.”
“One of the coins is…” Sam’s voice trailed off. She wanted to say “magical” or “cursed,” but that seemed ridiculous in the broad daylight of their backyard. Birds chirped, and the clouds were ribbons across the blue sky.
Rima picked up the coins and set them in the palm of her hand. “Do you think they’re worth something?” She smiled and her eyes lit up with excitement. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Sam felt herself smile back.
“We have to research everything first,” she said. “Don’t tell Mom, okay? She’ll just take them to the pawnshop. I need to go to a museum or find a guidebook or something, so we can sell them for the right price.”
“Yeah,” Rima said. “That makes sense.”
“They might not be worth anything,” Sam cautioned. “And they were from Jiddo, so part of me thinks we should just keep them anyway. Maybe they’re family heirlooms. I thought I’d glue the jug back together, at least.”
Rima nodded. She took the last few coins from the bottom of the bag and placed them alongside the others in her cupped hand. Her posture turned rigid. “C-cold,” she gasped.
It was happening again.
A small patch of soil seemed to turn loose at Rima’s knees.
“Drop them,” Sam cried. “Hurry!”
She grabbed Rima’s wrist and shook until the coins fell to the ground. Sam knelt over them, guarding them, counting them: five, six… There were supposed to be eight. The seventh coin was nestled next to Mom’s gardening gloves. Where was the last one?
“D’you hear that?” Rima asked, her words slurred. She looked around the yard. “A flute.” Smoke rose from the twisting earth.
“Are you still holding one?” Sam demanded, horrified. She dragged Rima back, away from where the ground was moving, turning, becoming a dark spiral that widened and reached toward their toes. “Drop it! Drop it!”
Rima’s eyes, so full of life a moment earlier, were glazed over.
“Look at me.” Sam snapped her fingers in front of Rima’s face, but she was somewhere far away. “Listen to me. Let go of the coin!” She shook her by the shoulders.
Rima slumped into her arms, but her fingers held the coin like a vise.
Sam peeled them back, one by one, and plucked the coin from her sister’s palm. She pinched it between two fingertips, and the mesmerizing, eerie music of the flute filled her head once again. The inky fog rushed to embrace her, twisting, pulling, shushing her. Sam felt her voice trapped in her throat. The world was unfurling.
It’s going to take us.
“Mine,” a man’s voice said.
Sam turned to look. There was no one in the yard—other than wide-eyed Rima—but now there was the smell of incense burning. Her fingers refused to open. The coin’s icy poison was spreading, making her entire arm brittle.
“My obol.”
The man’s voice was closer… and then Sam saw him.
Bearded and cloaked and made of the dark clouds that spun across the yard. His breath spilled from his mouth in cold currents. He lunged with dizzying swiftness, his hands going to Rima. I have the coin, Sam wanted to say. Leave her alone!
Rima cried out as the ghost gripped her by the wrist and yanked her away. He looked at Sam, his face full of fury. His eyes were golden, but his pupils were all wrong. One of them was the shape of a keyhole.
Stop! Sam silently screamed over the sound of the flute, a drumbeat also rising. She desperately crawled after Rima, her fingers finding a belt loop in her sister’s jeans. They were at the cusp of the dark, revolving funnel.
With a last, desperate effort, Sam flicked the coin away. Over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of it flipping through the air, as if someone had tossed it to call heads or tails. It landed in the black soil of their garden, behind them.
No. Above them.
It was too late. The three of them were sinking down, down, down; the backyard had become something like a raised stage they’d fallen from.
Sam closed her eyes and spun.
3
I rolled off, she decided.
It’s okay. I rolled off.
That’s all.
She’d fallen asleep on Rima’s top bunk and slipped over the railing. She’d hit her head when she landed on the floor. She was dizzy, but fine. She just needed a minute to breathe. There was the smell of food; Mom must have gone to get pizza for lunch.
Everything was fine.
“Rima?” Sam whispered, opening her eyes and squinting.
Her neck was stiff, and her fingertips ached as if they’d been stung by bees. One of her shoes lay on its side nearby, and she put it back on with trembling hands. Slowly, her foggy vision cleared.
And she saw that everything was not fine.
There was no carpet underneath her; the floor was the right shade of gray, but it was stone. This was not her bedroom. Not home.
Around her, hidden in dark cubbies, statues of round-bellied women squatted as if giving birth. Rectangular columns created a maze of passageways. She looked up and found there was no roof, just a dusky sky, a smudge of blue and purple. Music carried faintly on the air.
There was nothing familiar about this place. Not one single thing.
Sam stood up and gulped down a whimper, remembering.
The funnel.
The ghost.
Desperate, she turned in circles, taking jagged breaths.
“Rima,” she whispered, terror pounding its way through her. She realized she was panting, hyperventilating, so she sat back down on the hard floor, her head spinning. Is this a dream?
“Where am I?” she murmured.
She put her fingers to her lips. Her voice—the words—sounded strange. They felt strange.
Waves of fear threatened to wash her back under and into unconsciousness. But she fought it. She had to figure out what had happened. Slowly, she forced herself to her feet. Forced herself to walk.
She had to find Rima.
On either side of her, the walls were inlaid with hundreds of little colored tiles—mosaics. There was a woman wearing a feathered headdress, staring at her with orange, glassy eyes. A sailboat overflowing with fish. A golden sun. A field of flowers. A man with a beard surrounded by half-naked women.
Sam took a slow, long breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth, hoping the dream would dissipate. But the longer she looked, the more intensely real it all became.
“Rima? Are you here?” she called tentatively. And then she clapped a shaking hand over her mouth, her tongue turning dry with fear.
Now she knew why the words felt so different in her mouth. Whatever language she’d just spoken wasn’t English.
What is wrong with me?
She was afraid to speak again. It was probably best to be quiet anyway.
She tiptoed through the corridors, the music growing louder. It was the flutelike instrument she’d heard both times she’d touched the ancient coin. Women sang in high voices that warbled with sharp notes.
The smell of sweet tobacco smoke, laced with incense, filled the air. She had reached an enclosed courtyard, where the small fires of candles and clay lamps made a constellation of light across the floor.
Sam hid behind a column and gaped at the scene before her. A crowd of young women mingled, all holding drinks, all with hair cascading down to their waists. Some were costumed with robes and soft-looking hats; others were all but naked, wearing sheer wraps around their waists. A table of food towered nearby. A circle of girls drank from a large jug and then passed it along. It seemed to be some sort of party.
She scanned the crowd, looking for Rima, but then the music turned rhythmic and someone howled a high-pitched ka-la-la-la-la!
Others joined in until the air was filled with it, echoing like a war cry. A line of women linked hands and started to dance, each raising a knee and then stamping the ground in unison. It made a percussive sound, and Sam saw that they wore little tambourine cymbals around their ankles. Someone chanted strange sayings over the music, lines of poetry or prayers.
“Bi`urpāti, šitiyī bikâsī ḫurāṣi, maḫmūdu ḫurāṣi.”
In the clouds, drink from cups of gold, the choicest of gold.
“I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming,” Sam repeated under her breath, still trying to convince herself. And then she blurted in her new language, “In the name of the gods!”
A peacock had brushed past her feet, startling her. She stumbled into the wall, her bracelets clattering against the stone; the bird peered up at her as it sashayed away, its display of feathers trailing behind it like a wedding veil.
Sam’s vision began to darken at the edges. She squatted, putting her head between her knees, willing herself to stay conscious.
Stand up straight, Dad would say. Get your shit together.
But instead she pulled her shoulders in, making herself small behind another rectangular stone column, glad the corridors were dimly lit. She breathed in deeply. Exhaled. Then dared to peek around the column to watch the party once again. No one had seemed to hear her.
At the front of the dance line was the only man in the room. He stood with his hairy chest thrust forward proudly, and he wore an elephant-hide mask with tusks, sandals that roped up his muscular calves, and tight leather gloves pulled up to his elbows. All eyes were on him.
The music, the singing, and especially the rhythmic dancing were mesmerizing. The drumbeat penetrated her; her hand throbbed in time, aching down to the bone where she’d held the coin between her fingers. She rubbed it and moved soundlessly away from the party, keeping herself hidden as she went.
Soon she found another courtyard with a vacant swimming pool, its waters glimmering in the fading sunlight. She wondered if the party would move to the pool later, after dark; it seemed like it had been prepared for visitors. Around the rim, small tables were set with vases of flowers, and on the ground lavish blankets had been spread. In the corners of the yard, statues of stone animals held pots full of blossoms in their mouths; Sam could smell the small white blooms of jasmine from where she stood.
“Rima!” she whispered, but there was no reply.
Long wooden tables were filled with food. Bowls brimmed with bright green pistachios. Pomegranates were broken open, their shiny seeds spilling out like dark gemstones. There were figs, dates, lemons; eggs so large she couldn’t imagine what had laid them; fat grapes were strewn all over the tables like little party balloons. It all smelled good—spicy and sweet.
There was something that looked like the baklava Mom made every Christmas Eve. It was sliced into diamond shapes, and Sam reached out to take one.
“Šlama ‘lekh,” a velvety voice said, and Sam jumped.
She pulled her hand back from the food and turned to find a young woman standing there, smiling with brilliant white teeth.
The woman wore a sheer dress cut in a low V all the way to her belly button, which was pierced with a golden hoop. On her head was a soft hat, dyed a dramatic shade of purple. Her skin was an odd color—gray—and she nearly blended in with the stone walls. Even her long silky hair was gray.
“Šlama ‘lekh,” Sam choked. Somehow, she understood that the greeting was layered with meaning: hello and peace to you. She wondered how long the woman had been silently watching her before she’d chosen to be seen.
“Welcome to Melqart’s temple,” she said, spreading her arms wide. She was exquisitely beautiful, despite her gray skin. Her eyelashes were so long they looked like feathers.
“Wh-where…?” Sam stammered. “Who are you?”
“I could ask the same question.”
“What language are you speaking?” Sam pressed. “Why can I understand you? Why can I speak it, too?” She could feel the vowels rolling in her throat.
“Such very odd questions,” the woman said. “Is this some sort of trickery?”
“No,” Sam said. “I am… I am simply…” It took her a moment to decide what she was. “Lost.”
The woman’s kohl-blackened eyes swept over Sam, coming to rest on her bracelet set. “Pretty baubles,” she said. She herself wore a gold pendant around her neck in the shape of a crescent moon—or maybe the hull of a boat?—dotted with blue stones.
“Who are you?” Sam asked again.
“The question is who are you?” the gray woman asked. “A spy from Gadir? A messenger from Ugarit?”
“Ugarit…?”
“Judging by your fine kid leather, you have come from afar.” Her eyes were on Sam’s scuffed shoes. “Such unusual workmanship.”
“Afar? I come from…” Sam faltered, feeling like she was paging through a thick dictionary, the paper stiff. There was no word for it. “… Michigan,” she finally finished in English.
