Dark of the Moon

chapter 8

I AM UP and out of the house before Konnidas finds me a chore that will keep me from my task. The air is still chilly, especially as I draw close to the sea and the winds pick up, bringing a briny smell and the sounds of far-off gulls. Under a gray sky that is starting to turn pink, I test several flat rocks before finding one suited to my purposes, and then I set to work.

The sun is high when I sit back and survey my efforts. I've dug a deep trench along the downhill edge of the boulder. My hands sting; they're already pretty well calloused, but even so, I've sprung a few new blisters with the unaccustomed work.

If someone indeed tipped the huge rock off the ledge above me, surely not much of it is buried in the sandy ground. This means that with some effort I can, in turn, topple it over into the trench I've dug.

I straighten my stiff legs and poke through the shrubbery until I find a long, stout branch. I plant myself on the uphill side of the boulder and work the end of the stick under it. I push down. Nothing. I press harder, finally leaning so much of my weight on the branch that I'm standing on tiptoe. The branch snaps and I fall backwards, my tunic flying up around my waist. I lie there to catch my breath, and suddenly I hear a giggle. I sit up hastily and pull my clothing down.

Three girls are standing on the path. I know all of them, and I also know that I'm in for an uncomfortable time. For tormenting, girls are even worse than boys. I'd rather be punched in the face by the biggest of my enemies than have to listen to the taunts that girls seem capable of throwing from the moment they learn to speak.

"What is he doing?" asks the smallest of them, a pale-faced little thing who I think is distantly related to me. My mother has so many brothers and sisters that I don't try to keep track of who is a cousin, who is married to a cousin, who lives with a cousin's family but isn't related, and all the rest of it.

"Looking for buried treasure," offers an older girl, whose face is heavily marked with smallpox scars. She would be pretty but for that, with a graceful shape, large, dark eyes, and shiny black hair that hangs in braids almost to her waist.

The third, a thick girl with a round face, snickers. "Going to dig himself a hole and hide in it. Then he won't have to worry about Arkas beating him up again." When she laughs, she looks like the Gorgon mask that hangs over the entrance to the temple in town, snaggleteeth and all.

The other girls laugh with her. I stand, resigned to their torment. I'm gratified to see that they shrink back as I rise to my feet, but then, to show that they aren't afraid of me, the two bigger ones straighten. I pretend not to notice them as I search in the brush for a stouter stick.

I find a likely looking pine branch and swing it experimentally over my head. Now the girls scatter, skimming down the path and out of sight. I hear the rattle of loose gravel, then a thud, then an "Ow!" One of them must have fallen. Since they will never know that I took notice of them, I allow myself a grin of satisfaction.

I don't dare to deepen my trench. If I dig too deep, the rock might tip over while I'm in front of it, landing on top of me. Nobody would find me for hours, and when they did, they wouldn't be able to move the boulder any more than I can now. If I survived the impact, that is. Instead, I concentrate on working the end of the long stick under the uphill edge. Once it's in as far as I can push it in the hard ground, I prop a smaller rock under it and then lean on it.

At first, I think nothing will happen, but then the boulder shifts. Not much, but enough to allow me to push my stick a bit farther in, and then farther, and then I hold my breath and heave with all my might. The rock hangs suspended for an instant before crashing over. At the same time, the branch flies out of my hands and whacks me on the right cheekbone. I fall to my hands and knees, dazed and with black mist swirling in front of me. I shake my head to clear it, but that makes me want to vomit, so I stop. I feel something sharp on my tongue and spit out a molar. It lies in a puddle of blood and drool. That's my offering to whatever god looks after those who seek what is lost, I think. I blink the tears out of my eyes. Manly tears are nothing to be ashamed of, as when a comrade falls in battle or at news of the death of a great king, but tears of pain and frustration show weakness. I won't allow them, even if no one can see.

When my vision clears, I carefully push myself to my feet. The rock hasn't tumbled all the way over but lies at an angle, leaving a space of the span of two or three hands between its bottom and the ground. It partially reveals a patch of earth that is roughly square, each side about as long as my arm. I survey the damp sand and dirt. Snakes sometimes hide under rocks, and I'm not about to risk being bitten. I bend over, but that makes my mouth throb, so I squat and poke my stick around in the darkness and finally put a tentative hand into the shadow.

Nothing strikes, so I kneel down and reach farther, patting the ground. I hope I'm not supposed to dig; it would be hard to work even a small stone, much less a spade, into the tight area. I wish I knew what I was looking for. I pat the cool earth and dig my fingers into it. I brush aside grubs and many-legged cold things that scurry away from the dim light under the boulder.

It would make a better story if I said that a god appeared and told me where to look, or even that I had almost given up when I was dazzled by a light that broke out in the narrow space under the boulder, but after only a few minutes I feel something that is clearly not rock or dirt, not plant or animal bones. Somehow I know it's what I'm looking for. I tug at the edge of what feels like a piece of leather barely under the surface. It comes away easily. I sit back on my heels and pull it out into the light.

It's a pouch, perhaps a saddlebag, and something heavy in it shifts as I pick it up. I tuck it under one arm and pat around a little longer, prying clods out of the hard-packed sandy earth. There appears to be nothing else.

Before I have a chance to inspect my find, I hear voices. I hold my breath, listening hard, not even daring to spit out the blood that is pooling in my mouth. If it's the girls again, I have nothing to worry about.

I recognize a harsh guffaw as being in Arkas's tones and, before I've considered what to do, I've scrambled to my feet and am pelting toward home. I should feel disgraced at running rather than staying and fighting, but while I'm defending myself from one of them, the others will surely grab my leather pouch. I'm not about to risk that.

So I run, each step jolting the hollow place in my jaw.

"I found it!"

Konnidas looks up from the patch he's tilling. He's breaking up clods and mixing the leaves from last year's vines into the earth to make it fertile for the spring planting. It's hard work, and boring, but he doesn't act resentful that I've left him to do it alone.

He eyes the pouch in my hands and turns back to his work. "What's in it?" His voice is careful, like he's trying not to show any emotion.

"Don't know yet." I decide not to tell him about fleeing from the boys. Let him think I ran home out of excitement. "Where's Mother?"

"Resting." Konnidas must mean "pouting." I know what will bring her out, though. She's as curious as a mouse. I go to the house and stand in the doorway. I dangle the pouch from my hand. I feel something shift inside again.

"Mother?" No answer, so I say more loudly, pretending to address my stepfather, "Must be asleep. No matter, I'll show her my find after she wakes up."

"I'm not asleep." Her bedclothes rustle, and then there she is, her light brown hair mussed, her cheek creased where it rested on a fold of blanket. The dog at her side shows the pink interior of its mouth in a yawn. "I was waiting for you to come back." My mother eyes the leather pouch. I move aside to let her out, and then both of us sit on the bench.

Konnidas comes up, still holding his spade. He drops it and smacks his hands on his thighs to knock off the worst of the dirt. He looks at my face, appears to be about to say something (I'm sure my cheek is swollen and purple by now), but doesn't. "Show us," he says.

And although I have worked so hard to find this, and although I know—or at least hope—that it will provide me with a way out of Troizena, where everybody knows me as Theseus the Bastard, Theseus the "son" of Poseidon, still I hesitate. My life isn't so bad, I think. Maybe I don't need to change it.

But then I remember Arkas and his thugs, and the teasing girls. I fumble with the knots holding the pouch closed. I finally break the rotten strings and reach inside, to find two hard packets wrapped in what feels like oiled cloth. One is squarish and light in weight, and the other is long and heavier. I pull them both out and lay them on top of the open pouch. With both my mother and stepfather looking on, I unwrap the smaller packet. I stare at its contents, unbelieving.

"What is this?" My voice sounds harsh as I swallow blood, but I don't try to soften it. "Is this a joke?"