The face was barely visible in the reddish-brown soil. Lena
swept away the dry crumbly dirt with her brush, gently revealing deep set
almond-shaped eye sockets. Three pale stubby horns protruded from the head like
a crown. Removing her sun hat and wiping her sleeve on her brow, her hands
began shaking. End of May in Türkiye was uncomfortably warm for working in
confined cuts in the earth. Her dig permit expired in two days. The heat she
felt was not just environmental but also financial. Out of time, out of money
and in three days, out of Şanlıurfa province for what could be a long, long
time. With a cautious smile, she prayed internally “Please hamingja, bring me luck”.
Trowelling back and forth, creamy-white striations in the
earth had initially caught her eye, distinctly different from the usual calcium
nodules. Switching to her less abrasive brush to clear finer material, her
excitement grew. A full metre lower than
the enormous tee-shaped pillars on the site, she knew at this depth any object
made by human hands must be over 12,000 years old. This could be her return
ticket, a find that opened doors to new funding. “Please” she repeated out
loud.
“What you say Miss Lena?” called out Ekrem, the local dig
worker crouched at the far end of the trench.
“Oh. Sorry Ekrem. Listen, can you please go up top, fetch
Miss Halet. Tell her to bring Mr Huseyin and his camera. If Mr Huseyin gives
you any trouble, tell him these photos are worth 7,000 lira or more to the
right newspaper. That’ll get him out of his chair.”
At the mention of lira, Ekrem fairly flew up the ladder.
Kneeling in the shadows, Lena heard his excited voice carrying across the site,
echoed quickly by other workers like a call to prayer. It wasn’t long before
the trench was full of people.
Miss Halet Inan, in contrast to Lenas’ slim Swedish frame,
was stoutly built and well proportioned, requiring some assistance from Ekrem
and two others as she descended the wooden ladder. Ekrem winked playfully to
Lena as he gentlemanly handled Miss Halet to the floor of the trench, her
horn-rimmed glasses almost falling from her nose. The weasel-like assistant
Huseyin followed quickly, his camera bag swinging loosely from his shoulder, a
flash unit grasped in his left hand.
“What is it Lena?” she barked, “What cannot be brought to
the surface?”
Lena inwardly shuddered and calmly pointed to the corner of
the trench formally stating “Please Halet-hanim, for your pleasure”.
She backed up to let her pass, the strong smell of Miss
Halets’ patchouli oil wafting by. The workers pushed forward, craning to see
for themselves. Huseyin met resistance and unable to follow, was forced to
climb on the ladder to look over their heads. Miss Halet hitched her skirt
fabric and waddled hen-like into a lower position to study the find.
“Brush!” squawked Miss Halet and held up her hand. The crowd
passed one forward and it disappeared swiftly. The trench went silent again.
“Knife!” she squealed and then loudly “Huseyin bey! Please come.” She shifted
position and Lena heard her murmur “It is, or could be…Yelbeghen or Al Basti”
followed quietly, as if to herself, “Ah, whatever. What’s in a name?”.
At mention of Al Basti the crowd released a collective
fearful wail, abruptly grabbing Huseyin, dragging him off the ladder. They
wailed again and rushed each other to scramble up out of the trench. Lena
watched a number of them pushing their open palms forward towards Miss Halet
and exclaiming “Beş!", which she knew meant “five”.
She’d seen the same reaction in Mosul. A trio of black
draped Iraqi women accosted her, making the “five fingers in your eye” gesture.
Brown henna eyeball tattoos on their palms and the words "khamsa fi
ainyk" screamed violently again and again in her face. Rather than ward
evil and bad luck away, it served her nightmares for days afterwards.
“What just happened Miss Halet?”
Miss Halet leaned on the edge of the trench and slowly rose
to her feet. Her face was flushed from exertion, but Lena saw a flicker of
something else in her face, a micro-movement that disappeared as she smiled and
turned over the small ivory statuette in her hands. “Lena. This is a most
intriguing find. Most intriguing.” As an after thought, she mused “I must call
Dr Bosch at the von Humboldt Research Institute. Right away.”
Lena knew of the von Humboldt. Exclusive collectors club
masquerading as a university. Rumored to deal in illegal antiquities and very
secretive about their activities.
“Huseyin bey, wrap
it, quickly!” Miss Halet demanded, handing the object towards him. Quietly she
added “Lena. Tell no one else about this. Not until I say so. Do you
understand? No one.”
Huseyin enclosed it with a black cleaning cloth from his
camera bag. Lena glimpsed the head of the statue, a smiling three-horned man,
and its’ back, with a long-mottled ridge or tail carved upon it. ‘He’s terrified of it as well’ thought Lena
as she watched him frown, storing it in the bag and zipping it away quickly
from the world.
Lena shrugged “Okay. But why…”
The words died on her lips as Miss Halet swept firmly past
her to the ladder, turning swiftly and staring her dead in the eyes. “Very
good. Tell no one! You are leaving in two days, yes?”
“I was. I’ll cancel my flight.”
“No need. Your work here is done. The dig is now closed.”
Miss Halet and Huseyin scurried upward. Lena slumped down in
the trench with a sigh. The heat and disappointment was exhausting. She
wondered if her prayer “please” had reached the ears of the wrong gods.
“Bitch.” she cursed.
Opening her mobile phone she scrolled her contacts to B and
found the number listed with nickname as “The Crook”. Climbing the ladder to
get a better signal, she didn’t quite know what to say, but it wasn’t going to
be pleasant. After three rings, it picked up with a crackly reception.
“Dr. Bosch, guten abend”.
- - - -
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