Yildiz says something more, and again Kelebek translates. “The stories say the star men first came many centuries ago. They brought with them secrets that they shared with the people here. They taught them to build cities.”
“Has she ever seen one?” I ask.
Kelebek says something to Yildiz. Yildiz shakes her head and replies.
“No,” Kelebek says. “She says she is not that old. They stopped coming long before that. But she has seen lights. When she was a girl. Lights from their ships in the heavens.”
I don’t contradict the old woman. Perhaps she has seen lights. Many people have. I doubt very much they belonged to spaceships of any kind.
“Why are we looking at this?” Ott asks, sounding impatient.
“We’re looking at this,” Brecht says, walking to another part of the painting. He points to another group of brown-and-yellow figures. Some of them are holding what appear to be weapons, which are aimed at one of the tall blue-and-white figures. Yellow light appears to be bursting from the weapons and surrounding the taller figure.
Yildiz speaks.
“The people turned against the star men,” Kelebek says. “They called them demons and killed them with the star men’s own weapons. But then they turned against one another as well, arguing about what should be done with the weapons and the other technology the star men left behind. Many died. And so some of them who were wiser than the others destroyed the weapons to stop the fighting.”
Again Yildiz says something. Her voice never wavers, as if she has told the story many times before.
“But two of the people—sisters—hid what was left of the weapons, each putting some of the parts in a secret place known only to her,” Kelebek translates. “Along with the instructions for building it. In case it should be needed again. One of the sisters was our ancestor, and her story has been passed down from mother to daughter until now.”
“I believe one set of pieces was hidden in the other city, where we found the first set of plans,” Brecht tells us when Kelebek is finished. “I believe the second set is here, hidden somewhere below.”
“But how do we find it without a map?” Ott says.
“A map would be helpful, yes,” Brecht says. “But perhaps we don’t need one. Before the map was destroyed, I was able to identify one point of interest, what I believe is a door. But I couldn’t figure out how to open it.”
“And now you have?” I ask.
“I had a lot of time to think while I was in Taganka,” Brecht says. “And it occurred to me that the answer might be right in front of us. Do you have the box with the pieces?”
I nod. We’ve brought it with us, and I’m carrying it in a pack on my back. Now I set the pack down, open it, and remove the box.
“Open it, please,” Brecht says.
I unlatch the lid and raise it. Inside, the pieces of the weapon rest inside their compartments. Brecht comes over and looks at them, then takes one out.
“All this time, we thought these were pieces of the weapon,” he says. “But I think this one may be more than that.”
“What do you think it is?” I ask.
Brecht turns the piece in his fingers. “I believe it is a key.”
Ariadne
“You believe it is a key?”
I look at Brecht, who is gazing at the piece in his hand with a peculiar expression. I wonder what he’s thinking. Myself, I am thinking that we might have come a long way for nothing. I hope I am wrong.
Brecht holds the key up as if it’s a holy relic. “I do,” he says. “Of course, we won’t know until we put it in the door.”
“Which is where?” Boone asks him. He sounds impatient, and I can tell he is annoyed. As am I. Brecht has just made our mission even more difficult.
Brecht points a finger toward the floor. “Down there,” he informs us. “In the underground city.”
Boone sighs wearily. “Don’t tell me,” he says. “You’re not sure exactly where it is.”
Brecht shrugs. “I have an idea,” he says. “The map was not entirely specific, so we might have to try a number of possibilities.”
Suddenly I feel very weary. These are questions Boone and I should have asked before we even began the journey here. That we didn’t is worrying to me. It suggests that we are losing our edge as Players. Or perhaps we are afraid to admit that we are running out of options, and are hoping that if we only keep moving forward, everything will be all right. More and more, I am finding it difficult to separate my personal feelings from what I should do as a Player of Endgame. Then I remind myself that as far as my line is concerned, I am not a Player anymore. Now I am Playing for myself alone, or perhaps for myself and Boone. Maybe even for humanity itself. But to what end? I still don’t know. But something keeps me Playing. I want to win, even if I don’t know what winning means anymore.
“I know where it is.”
We all look at the girl, Kelebek. She is standing beside the old woman.
“The door,” she says, in case we have not understood her meaning. “I know where it is.”
Yildiz says something in rapid-fire Turkish. I don’t understand all of it, but I get that she’s telling the girl to be quiet. She sounds almost fearful. Kelebek silences her with a curt nod of her head, then says, “My friends and I have spent many hours here. I can take you to the door.”
“You play here?” Brecht says. “Despite the legends?”
“I am not afraid of legends,” Kelebek says.
Brecht laughs. “Brave girl,” he says. “Very well, then. Let’s be on our way.”
Kelebek shakes her head. “It is getting dark,” she says. “We must wait until morning.”
“What difference does it make?” Ott asks. “Underground it’s always dark. We’ll have to use flashlights whether it’s day or night.”
“We won’t,” the girl says. “You’ll see. Tomorrow. Tonight, we camp.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply from any of us, but turns and walks out of the room and down the stairs. Brecht laughs again. “I suppose we have no choice,” he says, and starts off after Kelebek.
Ott looks at me and Boone. “Are we taking orders from a child now?”
“Unless you know where the door is, I think we are,” he says.
Ott grunts. I look over at Yildiz, who still seems upset by what’s happened. “Are you all right?” I ask her in Turkish.
She nods, but the worried expression is still on her face. She leaves the room, followed by a still-fuming Ott. Boone and I are alone. “Do you think she really knows where this door is?” I ask him. “Or that there’s really anything down there anyway?”
“I don’t know,” Boone says. “I guess we’ll find out.”
This doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m used to Boone being the optimistic one, the one who believes everything will work out. In only a short time, I’ve come to welcome his particularly American attitude. Or maybe all the months I spent with the dour Russians rubbed off more than I realized. Whatever it is, I suddenly need him to tell me it will be all right. I take his hands and hold them tightly in mine, staring into his eyes.
“Don’t