Healer of Carthage (4 page)

“You’ll need a light.” Aisa rummaged through one of the Land Rovers for a flashlight.

What had come over her? When had she become such a coward? She was five when Mama disappeared. She remembered Papa searching the cave and the surrounding desert night and day, refusing to bathe or eat. The whole camp had feared him temporarily insane, but Lisbeth had not run from her responsibilities. She’d combed his hair, held his hand, packed his pipe, and removed his boots when he finally collapsed upon his cot. If only she could stuff her fear and summon a bit of that childish naïveté.

Lisbeth thanked Aisa for the flashlight and set off for Papa’s tent.

She lifted the flap and strode to her bag. She considered changing out of the cargo pants she’d worn all day, but Papa’s open journal caught her attention. Normally she wouldn’t pry into his private life, but this was a medical emergency. She lifted the spiral book from his bed and began reading the shaky script. The entry was dated the day before.

My wife insists that I wait on Lisbeth. But our daughter has her own life now. What if she doesn’t come? Won’t come?

Lisbeth closed the book. What on earth was going on? Had Papa stumbled upon Mama’s skeletal remains? Had the finality sent him into shock? She read the entry again. Had his grief and loneliness from Lisbeth’s recent absence driven him over the edge? It had been Papa and Beetle Bug against the world for so long. It saddened her to think about how hard it must be for him to suddenly be going it alone.

Investigating what Papa’s digging had uncovered in the cave could be put off no longer. Papa had to let Mama go. Lisbeth wriggled into her UT sweatshirt and stepped back out into the darkness.

In the short amount of time it had taken to read her father’s brief diary entry, a chilly wind had crept over the dunes and swept her footprints from the sand. Everyone had deserted the campfire, even Papa. Where was he? Had he returned to his digging? Lisbeth tugged at the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

A full moon made Aisa’s flashlight unnecessary. She flicked the off switch and took a moment to get her bearings. Engulfed in the immensity of the desert, the infinity of the stars, and the peace of so many miles of nothingness, she wondered if Papa could forget what had happened to Mama. Would he soon forget her? Forget himself? If he had Alzheimer’s, the cruel disease could not be buried in the mountainous dunes or stowed away inside a cave, never to be found again. Dementia would carve away his memories bit by bit. She would have to deal with her father’s fragmented mind just as she would one day have to deal with her own failure. Both sounded terribly lonely.

“Lisbeth.”

She wheeled in the direction of the thin, reedy voice. “Papa?”
The sketchy outline of a person backlit by moonlight hovered over the sand. “Papa, is that you?” She blinked, forcing her eyes to adjust to the shifting shadows cast by the moon’s silvery haze. What if bandits had sneaked into camp?

A woman with long, black hair drifted into view. The lower half of the woman’s face was shrouded by a gauzy veil. If this woman belonged in the camp, why had Papa kept her hidden? She’d not been completely truthful with him. Perhaps he could no longer be truthful with her?

“Who are you?” Lisbeth demanded.

“You know me, Beetle Bug.” Despite the internal warnings to run, Lisbeth remained rooted to the spot, desperate to place the voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Long, lacy fingers beckoned Lisbeth closer. “Come.”

Instinctively, Lisbeth reached out. “Mama?” She caught hold of nothing.

The breeze suddenly changed direction, kicking up a skiff of sand. Lisbeth clawed frantically at the burn in her eyes. When her vision cleared, the smoky wisp had disappeared.

“Where’d you go, Mama?”

Peals of intertwined male and female laughter rippled from the cave. Lisbeth didn’t hesitate. She sprinted toward the strange harmonies, bursting into the cave. “Mama!”

Desperation echoed in the musty darkness. Lisbeth fought to stave off panic. She remembered the flashlight in her hand and clumsily clicked on the light. A pale yellow glow illuminated her boots.

Lisbeth raised the beam to her left and slowly panned right, searching for something tangible, something that would explain the impossible.

Granite walls arched into a shallow cathedral ceiling twenty feet above her head. Scores of tiny, handpainted figures
decorated the cave walls. Ancient swimmers. Frozen in acrobatic joy. Frozen in time. Silent. Their voices lost some ten thousand years earlier.

“Get a grip, Lisbeth.” Her voice reverberated back to her, complete with the terror tightening her vocal cords. “It’s just the wind.” Those exact words bounced around the tomb-like quiet.

Breathing through her nose to keep from hyperventilating, Lisbeth dragged the beam around the impressive art gallery that had snared her father’s curiosity years ago. She took a cautious step toward the magical world captured on the walls. Some nameless Neolithic artist had painted scores of tiny blood-red swimmers. Ten centimeters from the tips of their outstretched arms to the toes of their graceful legs, it looked as if their rounded bodies were being propelled through nonexistent water.

She knew these pocket-size revelers. She’d intruded into their carefree lives before.

These happy water nymphs were the tormented recollections of her childhood.

The fruity trace of pipe tobacco jogged her senses. “Papa?” Lisbeth lowered the beam and searched the sandy floor in case he’d passed out or fallen asleep.

Against the far wall, she spotted a row of tools arranged in Papa’s precise habit. She eased over to investigate. A whisk broom. Nesting screen. Shovel. Flashlight. Digital camera. And one of Papa’s old record books.

But no Papa.

Lisbeth picked up the ledger and blew away the dust. Except for the brief peek at his diary moments ago, she’d never poked around in her father’s private papers. Curiosity overrode her sense of guilt. Hands shaky, she opened the leather cover and focused her light on the first yellowed page.

February 25, 1988.

Twenty-three years ago. Hungry for clues, she raised her light. The first thing she noticed was the clear, firm hand. So different from Papa’s current journal. She began to read:

Set out for the lost, perhaps mythical, oasis of Zerzura ten days ago. Navigating hostile landscape proved quite the chore. The toll on my wife was great. More than once she mentioned her longing for the sea. No complaints from my Beetle Bug.

Mythical oasis? Lisbeth carefully turned the brittle page.

February 27, 1988.

Found Almásy’s Cave of the Swimmers. Convinced my girls to join me for a cursory inspection of the cave’s cool interior. All of us captivated by the paintings. I surmise the cave was carved by an ancient underground spring. Where did the water come from? Where did it go? Must investigate.

Lisbeth flipped the page, intent to find the common denominator that could possibly string the lost pieces of her life together.

Two weeks later:

My wife threatens to take our precious Lisbeth back to Carthage and resume her practice. The secret to the water source is here. I begged her to give me a few more days . . .

“Lisbeth.”

She whirled. The beam of light hit Papa squarely in the eyes. “You ruined our lives to find a mythical river?” She shook the book at him. “So what if rivers once existed in the Sahara? Who cares?”

“I do.” He took the ledger. “A hidden water source is the only possible explanation for what could have happened to your mother.” He waved his arm toward the plethora of swimmer graffiti. “The secret these people knew.” Papa rubbed the book’s weathered leather. “The secret I intend to find.”

She regretted handing over the journal. Having an expert compare Papa’s old entries to his more recent writings would have been a very useful diagnostic tool.

“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” The conviction in Papa’s voice dared her to lie to him.

“Papa, I—”

“She summoned you here, just as she summoned me. I follow her night after night, as I did years ago, but . . .” His shoulders slumped, and he let his words trail off. He stared at the book, confusion on his face. “I can’t find her.”

“She left us, Papa. I heard you arguing that night. How could you have risked our family for a myth?”

“I’m sorry.”

Lisbeth strode toward the cave opening. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but darn it, part of this was his fault.

The arc of her flashlight beam caught a grouping of three
rather sylphlike swimmers. Sandwiched between two yellow figures was a small, blood-red figure with tiny outstretched arms. A child begging them to take its tiny hand.

Lisbeth moved in, drawn by a force she couldn’t explain, for a closer examination. “Tell me about this family, Papa.”

His eyes met hers. “I call them the Hastings.”

“The Hastings?” Despite the sting, the ironic humor pleased her. If he could understand sarcasm, maybe he could comprehend how demented all of this sounded? “I’ve never been that chubby.”

He smiled. “You’ve always been as beautiful as your mother.”

Was she? Lisbeth couldn’t remember exactly what her mother looked like. Longing drew her even closer to this tiny swimmer family. She placed her hand over the pleading child.

Stone burned beneath her flesh. Lisbeth’s mind ordered her to step back, but her hand refused to let go. A rumble shook the earth. Suddenly the cave floor shifted.

“Run!” Lisbeth dropped the flashlight.

The earth gave way, draining out from under her feet like sand falling through an hourglass. Slowly at first, then the hole grew wider and wider at a greater speed. She lunged for the decaying cave floor, clawing at the crumbling soil. Water roared far beneath her. Her feet pedaled for solid ground, kicking hard against icy fingers tugging at her ankles.

“Papa!” Strangled cries ripped her throat. “Help!”

“Beetle Bug!” Papa ran toward her and dropped to his belly, his hand extended over the growing hole. “Grab hold!”

A large chunk of earth broke loose. Lisbeth lost her grip. She dropped with the debris.

“No!” Papa’s panic echoed in the growing gap, twisted with her screams, then slowly died away.

Somersaulting end over end, she crashed into the sharp edges of a dark shaft, rocks pummeling her from above as she fell.

An eternity later, she plunged headfirst into cold, wet silence.

4

Carthage

L
ISBETH AWOKE DESPERATE FOR
breath, gasping and sputtering as if she’d been submerged in water for a week. Her attempt to sit up sent jolts of pain through her branded palm. How long had she been out? She remembered falling through the cave floor, but how did she end up face-planted against cold stones that reeked of urine? Had bandits raided their camp? Knocked her unconscious?

Red sandals adorned with an ivory crescent on the strap stepped into her line of sight. “This one, Felicissimus? Or the one on the wall?”

From the nasal tenor of the voice she could tell the speaker was male, but the pounding in her temporal lobes garbled his dialect. What did it matter if he was Libyan, Egyptian, or Tunisian? She wasn’t alone. Help had come.

Lisbeth tried to lift her head.

A foot from behind came down hard upon her cheek. “And where do you think you’re going, whore?” The man towering over her spoke the same language she’d just heard. Her mind sorted through her repertoire of languages and landed on a form of Latin, words similar to the ones Aisa used to curse Nigel.

Lisbeth writhed beneath the pressure. Every bone in her body hurt. Bile burned the back of her throat. The foul taste of
regurgitated lamb tortillas mingled with the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.

She freed an arm, made a fist, and hammered the foot grinding into her cheek.

Greater force from the shoe sole threatened to snap her jaw. “Bind this tiger.” Someone grabbed Lisbeth’s free wrist and held it while they yanked her other arm out from under her aching body. Before she could react, her hands were bound together. None of this made any sense.

“You’re gonna regret hurting me,” she ground out.

“I believe you’ve found a spirited one, Felicissimus.” Male. Condescending. Definitely speaking a more refined form of Aisa’s Latin. Maybe he would help, but then again, she couldn’t tell what was real or what was a head-trauma imagining.

“Make them let me go,” she pleaded between pressed lips.

“Inflict any more damage, and I won’t pay you a copper, old boy.” The cultured voice demanded respect. The foot was promptly removed.

Someone suddenly jerked Lisbeth to her feet and crushed her hands while cutting the bindings from her wrists. Freedom. Except for being held in place. That’s when she noticed the tall guy next to her. He had a shaved head and wore only a towel wrapped around his waist. She wondered what Craig would think of some half-naked guy manhandling her. Her fiancé was not nearly as sculpted as this brute, but he was wiry and fast. Craig could at least get in a couple of good punches if he were here. Wherever
here
was. Probably some godforsaken hole across the Egyptian border.