Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
As we arrive at the port of Katakolo in rowboats with all our gear, the clear turquoise waters sparkle in the bright sunlight around us.
I’m tempted to jump in for a swim, but we have a tight schedule and cannot afford to lose any time.
The scent of sea salt lingers in the air as we draw closer to the lush green hillside along the coast.
I wish I could offer the same grand compliments about the journey from Katakolo to the excavation site.
The roads are bumpy and rough, but I manage to survive—intact—in the back of a wooden wagon pulled by two donkeys.
At least I will only have to endure it once more, when we leave after excavating the site where the Temple of Artemis resides.
The warm Mediterranean sun hits my exposed arms as we walk from the campgrounds toward the excavation site, all of us eager to begin.
As we climb the small hill leading upward, my heart begins to thump erratically with anticipation and excitement.
In a few yards, I will see my first—and hopefully not my last—dig site.
As I reach the top of the hill, my breath catches in my throat.
Slowly, I take in the sight before me, hoping none of this is an elaborately long dream.
I remove my sun goggles, mouth agape, as if it will help me absorb the view.
Scanning the site, I count at least a dozen crewmen digging inside the enormous pit, nearing the seven feet we requested.
The magnitude of the operation takes me by surprise, knowing all of this exists for us—for our research.
Still half-convinced I am dreaming, I pinch my right arm hard, the sting assuring me I am wide awake.
“What a sight,” Grandad marvels beside me. The sound of his voice jolts me back to my senses.
“I still can’t believe this is happening,” I say, eyes still on the dig site.
Grandad reaches for my hand, giving it a light squeeze. “You and I both, dear.”
We stand like this for a moment, silent. For weeks, our expedition has existed only as theories scribbled on paper. Now, despite gathering a team of academic experts and sailing on an ocean liner for several days, I finally accept this is real.
My heart drops when I no longer feel his warm hand in mine. I finally meet his gaze and see a bright grin on his face.
“Come on, Thena. It’s time for us to uncover history,” he announces, then makes his way into the pit.
Without hesitation, I follow him, taking careful steps down the hill before climbing the shaky ladder into the pit.
Dry dirt floats around me as my feet hit the ground, my pants and boots already coated in dust. I’m still in shock as I reach the center of the pit, surrounded by the commotion of everyone moving around me.
“What do you think?” Henry says from behind me. I turn to see his hands over his chest, a smirk on his face.
“I honestly never felt more alive.” I grin, my body humming with uncontained energy.
“There’s no better feeling than being on a dig site.” He walks toward me, plopping my toolkit into my arms, then heads toward one of the paths on the east side of the pit.
“Come along. It’s time for your first lesson,” he calls over his shoulder.
He guides me to a quiet area of the pit, kneels on the ground, and unravels his kit on the dirt floor. Henry motions for me to kneel beside him.
“First, it’s important to understand that excavating is more than just digging and seeing what we can find.
” His hand runs through the dry soil, letting the dust fall back down.
“All of it is useless unless you read the soil you are working with. You see here,” he points to a discolored spot, “these abnormalities in color and texture can indicate there’s something buried or nestled inside. ”
Slowly, Henry grows more animated as he speaks. How lively he blooms when he talks about archaeology, as if it too is his life source. I wonder if this is what Grandad sees whenever we discuss the Seven Wonders.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s an artifact, right? It could be a rock or even just bones from a dead animal.”
Henry smirks. “That’s very true. Yet we still treat the area carefully as if there is an artifact hidden beneath it.
” He glances behind us at the vast dig site.
“As you can see, we have a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of archaeologists to treat the whole area with such intensity. Following this rule guides us to know where we should put our focus.”
He explains the uses of the instruments in my toolkit and instructs me to take the shovel and start digging. I can’t contain my shaky hand gripping the shovel as it hovers over the ground. I’m too petrified I’ll make the wrong move—or worse—damage an artifact.
“Accidents happen,” Henry assures, sensing my hesitation.
I peer up at him, seeing nothing but patience and understanding in his eyes.
“Mistakes happen, which is why we proceed with extreme caution. Pressure is the key to ensuring we extract any relics in pristine condition. The pressure you apply with your tools—and even the pressure from your hands and feet as you move around the pit—is how we ensure the environment isn’t drastically disrupted.
I learned this the hard way after damaging an Egyptian chalice in my first expedition. ”
Taking his advice into consideration, I slowly and carefully dig into the soil, creating a small, deeper hole in the pit. The rest of the lesson goes more in-depth about the soil’s abnormalities, and by the time we finish looking at this one small hole I dug up, the sun is about to set.
My first two weeks on the site proceed the same as my first day. Henry assists me as we scour primal spots, as he likes to phrase them, and slowly I become more comfortable with the tools and confident enough to start excavating areas on my own.
“You’re a natural,” Henry comments as we sift through a pile of dirt gathered from a primal spot.
He uses his rolled-up sleeve to wipe the sweat that has accumulated on the back of his neck and forehead.
“In less than two weeks, you know how to use every tool and carefully excavate a few spots without any accidents. A marvel student, one of our professors back at Oxford would say.”
“Are you surprised?” I quip, suddenly aware of the sweat on my face and body, hoping I don’t look like a wreck, or worse, smell like one of the transport donkeys.
“Not even the slightest. In fact, I would have been surprised if it were the opposite.” A wide grin flashes across his face. He chuckles, placing his hand on the top of my shoulder. “You truly are a marvel, Clara. Don’t let those callous heads at Oxford try to convince you otherwise.”
Aware of his gesture and words, I move my gaze to his hand. A sudden rush of heat forms on my cheeks, and thankfully, I can blame it on the hot sun. “Thank you, Henry…for everything you’re doing for me. It isn’t something I’m taking for granted.”
Henry slowly takes his hand off my shoulder and rubs the back of his neck. He clears his throat. “I believe some of the others are taking a rest at the lounge tent, in case you need one, too. I think luncheon should be served by now.”
Needing a moment to collect myself, I graciously grasp my things and leave the dig site for the lounge tent.
“Let me know if you find anything,” I call as I climb the ladder.
“Will do,” he replies.
I glance down to see his head bent over the bowl of sifted dirt we were sorting through, almost as if he is avoiding looking at me.
Trekking up the hill to the lounge tent on top, I push aside our uncomfortable moment and relish my surroundings.
I am truly living my biggest fantasy, and I can confidently call myself a true archaeologist. For the first time in my life, I know without a doubt that this is truly what I was meant to do.
“Does this feeling ever go away?” I ask Grandad and Dr. Alarie as we rest under the canopy tent, cooling down from the afternoon sun and overlooking the dig site.
My excavation notebook rests open beside me, several pages filled with notes and my poor attempts at drawing diagrams. In my hands, I hold one of the language books Amina lent me for additional readings as she teaches me ancient Greek, thinking it might help when we uncover any artifacts, while also allowing me to become the novelty she speaks of.
My boots, pants, and shirt are stained from several days of brown dirt, a welcome sight to my eyes. “This feeling of excitement and anticipation burning inside you from being so close to unearthing ancient history.”
“No,” Dr. Alarie says with a smile, smoking his pipe. “In fact, Miss Fairfax, that feeling keeps getting better every day that passes us by.”
“Even if you get disinvited to an archaeological excavation that ends up becoming humanity's biggest historical discovery?” Grandad questions with a smirk.
Dr. Alarie laughs and gives Grandad a playful smack on the shoulder. “Yes, you old fool. Even when that happens.”
“Which discovery was this?” I ask, knowing all about Dr. Alarie’s previous excavation trips that led to momentous archaeological finds, and having never heard of him being disinvited, especially from one that seems to be the grandest of all.
“The discovery of King Tut’s tomb,” Grandad answers.
My head perks up at his answer, recalling that they had talked about this very expedition on our first night on the S.S Charlotte, unaware then that Dr. Alarie had some connection to it.
“Mr. Ritcher and I were butting heads about where in the Valley of the Kings the entrance could possibly be,” Dr. Alarie recalls, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking down at his feet.
“We bickered so much that we made no progress, stalling the entire effort for days—weeks. Lord Everon had to step in and demand that we get on the same footing, or he would have to let one of us go.”
Dr. Alarie looks back up at me. “We couldn’t get past our own egos, and Lord Everon picked the man he thought was right.
My ego was further bruised when Richter and Everon did find the entrance, which is why it’s equally important to know that you are not the only expert—nor the only archaeologist—who devoted their life to studying and finding ancient history.
If you learn one thing from my mistakes, Miss Fairfax, let it be this: as much as you may think you are right about one thing, we must never be foolish enough to think that we can never be wrong. ”
“If only all men thought as you do, Dr. Alarie, then dare I say, civilization would have endured much less violent and bloody conflict.” I jump slightly in my seat at the sudden sound of Amina’s voice. I had not noticed that she had left the dig site and walked up the hill to join us.
When our eyes lock, we both smirk.
“And to that, Dr. Baccar, I think we shall have a drink,” Dr. Alarie says.
Rising from his seat, he reaches inside the wooden chest filled with provisions for the team and takes out a bottle of whiskey and four glass cups. He pours an inch and a half of the brown liquid into each cup.
Dr. Alarie raises his glass, and the rest of us follow suit. “To those we have tragically and unnecessarily lost across humanity's existence. May their brave souls rest in peace, and their history never be forgotten.”
We all down the drink in one go after clinking glasses.
As I look back over at the dig site, I wonder how many have stood on this same patch of soil and how many of their stories have been left untold—left forgotten and unknown, like the location of the Temple of Zeus.