Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (4 page)

Germaine brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and pushed her hairpins tight. Years ago, to please Julian, she had worn it down. An unruly mass, her hair fell midway down her back. With her coloring and height, she fit the perceived stereotype of a Celt. Elegant Julian, with his dark hair and roman profile, liked to introduce her at parties as his conquest, his
Boudicca –
that fiery
Iceni
queen of British history. She always felt like some tall, historical relic on display. He had even taken to calling her
Boudicca
in private. Not a good choice of pet names. After all,
Boudicca
was a war queen.

Get over it, Germaine! warned her inner voice. Time to move on!

Now, she always wore her hair braided or pulled back and pinned under. She wanted to be taken seriously in her profession and thought long hair was a distraction. She had considered cutting it, but never did. Secretly, she liked the feeling and weight of her hair.

She closed her eyes. No more thinking of the past. Her head hurt and her body thermostat swung wildly between hot and cold.

Moira gave a loud gasp. Germaine opened her eyes and saw the blond Adonis standing, moving away from a small river running under his chair. Her drink had tipped over. Crushed ice and coke ran around his feet! He sent her a dazzling smile.

“Conan Ryan,” he laughingly introduced himself, as he diverted the flow. “I’ll go and get you another one.” He ignored her protests and returned shortly with another drink.

“For my jet lag,” Germaine explained and immediately felt self-conscious, all too aware of her libidinous thoughts about him, as if they showed. She had just mentally stripped and invited him into her bed. She felt her cheeks warm with a hot flush. Red-heads always had a hard time. Fair skin blushed easily, and there was no way to conceal it.

“Well, caffeine is a wonderful drug when you really need it,” he said, with a grin. One cheek had a deep dimple. “And it’s still legal. I use it all the time. Hope you feel better.”

The house lights lowered and blinked off and on, signaling the end of any further conversation. Relieved, Germaine leaned back in her chair as the speaker mounted the podium. Bryan Sykes had done the ground-breaking DNA work on
Oetzi,
the frozen 5,000-year-old prehistoric body found in the Swiss Alps, and was one of the world’s authorities in the emerging field of Genetic Archaeology.

The big screen behind him glowed bright blue. The title of the seminar pulsed across the screen in yellow:
Mitochondrial DNA: A Road-map from the Past to the Present.
An eight-foot-long, giant DNA strand curled across the bottom of the screen. The red, blue and yellow beads on the double helix rotated. It was attention getting, and the room quieted.

“Whether women wanted it or not—slave or wife, chattel or victim of war—women are the living history books of our world. Their DNA left a clear trail from the deepest past to you.” He pointed to the title with a laser.

“Mitochondrial DNA. It’s the part of our DNA that is passed down through each generation by women and
only
by women. Today, I will show you how most Europeans can trace their ancestry to only seven women who lived a very long time ago. That might seem improbable, but genes don’t lie.”

This was a dramatic claim to make. The room fell silent.

“From seven ancient women,” he continued, and the screen behind him showed seven women’s figures in outline, “I can tell you where your ancestors came from.”

He had the full attention of his audience. This was about universal questions everyone asked at one time or another:

Where did I come from? Who were my ancestors?

Germaine felt a thrill run through her body as though all her cells had just awakened.

“Our DNA does not fade like an ancient parchment; it does not rust in the ground like the sword of a warrior long dead. Our DNA history does not fade or disintegrate like some fragile artifact. It walks around on two legs and pulses through our veins daily. It even lives in ancient bones. Women’s living mitochondrial DNA holds the code that tells us where we all came from.” He nodded toward the screen.

“It is something only women can tell us.”

A smattering of applause broke out. Germaine recognized a few of the more militant feminist archaeologists and anthropologists, anxious to hear any information that supported a larger role of women in history. Historically, women were almost invisible. Patriarchy ruled supreme—even women’s last names were taken from their men.

“Women carry a message of our history from the mother of us all—the first woman, Eve, if you wish to call her that. Eventually, it all goes back to her.”

An iconic image of Eve by some Renaissance painter floated onto the screen behind Dr. Sykes. There was a profound, attentive silence in the room. To some, the story of Eve was Biblical truth, a story recorded by an ancient tribe to explain their beginnings in the deep past. Now, Sykes was saying it might indeed be literal and true, but in quite a different way. One woman, at the beginning of time, could be scientifically traced as the original mother of everyone.

“So what are you today? Where did “you” start? Are you African? Did your blood come from the Saxons? The Vikings? Or, as many people today like to think, from the Celts—those legendary people everyone wants to claim as ancestors? Women are the only way to answer those questions. You don’t always come from where you think you did. But, you are all your mother’s children.

“You are a direct descendent from a clan mother who lived thousands of years ago. You might be from ...”

A new slide flashed on the big screen. It was a map of Europe and the names of seven women were written large in different locations.

“These are the seven clan mothers and the probable locations of their origins.” Each name was highlighted in a different color as he pointed to them with the laser: Ursula, Tara, Katrine, Helena, Velda, Xenia, and Jasmine.

“Of course, these are names we have conjured up to illustrate the scientific reality and show the seven European clans. Mitochondrial DNA traces go back deep in ancient time. And, as you can see, come from many different parts of Europe.”

Germaine nodded. She always felt sure of her heritage. She only had to look in the mirror. Everyone from her mother’s side had been from Germany and the Celtic homeland was thought by many to be in the Alps near the Danube River. Her father’s ancestors all came from Ireland, another Celtic land.

She looked at the names on the map. That would make her clan mother Tara or Katrine.

Dr. Sykes stopped that thought. “You may think you can identify your clan mother, but remember, these names represent women who lived thousands of years ago. And people migrated all over the continent. You can’t really tell without a DNA test.” Everyone laughed.

The Adonis leaned back in his chair and made a comment to Moira in a low voice. She giggled, leaned forward and whispered something back. Her hand rested on his shoulder.

Oh! So that’s how it’s going to be, Germaine thought, and felt a twinge of regret. Her sexual feelings had jumped to the alert; this blond Adonis was interesting to her in ways she had not felt for a while.

Later, when they came to the question-and-answer time, someone asked, “Would I recognize a blood-clan relative if I met them?”

“A question everyone asks and ponders sooner or later,” Dr. Sykes said. “Say two strangers enter a crowded room. Their eyes meet. They feel instinctively drawn to each other, but don’t know why. Are they acting under the influence of the subconscious awareness of an ancient connection?

“Every atom of oxygen we take into our bodies when we breath has to be processed according to the formula in our DNA that has been handed down to us by our mothers.” He quickly glided the laser pointer over the seven names on the map.

“That is a very fundamental connection in itself. It silently follows the mysterious essence of the feminine through a thousand or more generations. I think it is the deep magic that connects everyone in the same clan. And sometimes, I believe, we might recognize each other.”

Deep magic. DNA-powered instructions. Probably everyone here had experienced that unexplained recognition. From the audience’s reaction, there had clearly been a connection made. There was a low buzz of conversation all over the room.

“Now, I would like to invite you to participate in our DNA database. It will help in future studies. After we analyze your DNA, our lab will send you the results and, we hope, identify your own clan mother. So if you want to participate, please form one line for women, one for men.”

The lines formed and Germaine hesitated. For some unknown reason, she felt uneasy, mildly threatened with the idea of the test and thought briefly of slipping away. She cast a secret look at the Adonis and decided to stay. Her heart skipped a beat.

No harm done, it was just a test.

CHAPTER 2

“The mysterious essence of the feminine,” Conan Ryan quoted. “And women are the rulers of the world after all! I’m not surprised. I knew it all along.” He gave them a wicked wink. Beside him, his dark friend laughed and shook his head.

The crowd hummed with conversations as they formed lines to take the test. Germaine turned and found herself side by side with Aubrey.

“My girl,” he exclaimed, giving her a big hug. “I couldn’t get across the room to join you.” All her irrational anxiety of a moment ago disappeared and she was glad she had decided to stay.

Conan and his friend were in front of Aubrey. Moira spent the whole time talking to Conan. Her body language was clear. She leaned toward him and tilted her head in a seductive manner. There was a heightened color in her cheeks and a shine in her eyes. Consciously or not, Moira was sending him the most apparent sexual signals that said she was interested.

Germaine had seen her in action before and wondered what it would feel like to be that bold and aggressive. Moira was small with a full-busted figure and dressed in bright revealing clothes. Men were always intrigued by her. She was good at attracting someone when she set her mind to it—like some primitive hunter who was persistent and, in time, could always run down her quarry. Germaine had never been that aggressive; she drew attention without trying; with her height and vivid coloring, she always stood out.

When she met Julian, she thought he was perfect. The one flaw she hadn’t suspected was his inability to be faithful. She still tormented herself with questions. Was it her fault? Her career always took precedence; she left him each summer to go to her archaeological digs. He joined her at first, but hated the rough living conditions of the dig. He gave up going with her after two cranky summers. Their initial sexual passion dwindled after the first few years. Had she been too engrossed in her own work to nurture his ego? She would never know the answers.

It’s in the past, she reminded herself with a shake of her aching head. The line moved slowly in a pleasant way, like an impromptu social hour. Conan Ryan’s friend was opposite her now and Moira stood next to Conan.

“Nicholas Greenwood,” he said, introducing himself. Close up, his dark coloring was even more interesting. His hair had auburn highlights and a few silver hairs showed at his temples. Somewhere around forty, she guessed.

“We’re all lined up to sort our lives out with the great dictator DNA.” He gave her a congenial smile.

Germaine nodded in what she hoped was a pleasant way. Her head was really pounding now. Just talking seemed a huge effort. Her eyes kept drifting forward to Conan.

“And what is your field?” she asked. Always the standard opener at these conferences—both informative and protective. You didn’t want to make a too critical a comment about someone else’s field of interest. At least, not until you knew them better.

“Experimental archaeology.”

Oh, no
.
She knew the text book definition: the modern replication of ancient structures, artifacts and activities. In other words, he built something to see how it was made in the past. Sometimes, it was useful, but she didn’t think much of it and tried to be polite.

“Yes, a very interesting field.” Her head was splitting. The sugar and caffeine remedy had failed, and she considered taking two aspirin. Curing jet lag and a hangover at the same time was complicated, especially if she wanted to stay upright and mobile.

“A very practical method of archaeology,” he said. “Sometimes by recreating things from an ancient time period, we find out how people made them. At Tavistock Farm we try to live as people did in the Iron Age. We live in exact reconstructions of Iron Age roundhouses, grow the same crops and make most everything we use.”

At that, her head pulsing, Germaine found it hard to remain noncommittal.

“That reminds me of that series on the BBC,
Surviving the Iron Age
,” she said. “Modern people trying to live the life of an Iron Age person. It was so contrived. They all looked cross and dirty. I’m afraid I like to get my dirt at a dig and come up with a real artifact or a bone. Something that shines a true light on the past, not made anew by modern people.”