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Authors: Dusty Miller
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skin tones, not stiff at all but very
expressive, was off in a corner in a side chapel. He had a
strangely modern face, one not without warmth and intelligence. The
work was very good, and had recently been cleaned. The fellow
reminded her of her Uncle Leo. The resemblance was uncanny. He had
the same long head, the same long nose. There was something
familiar about the shape of the eyes and the humorous, sensual
mouth. Even the beard, the hair, the mustache were the same. She
grinned for what seemed like the first time in days. Maybe even
weeks.
Jayne agreed with the experts that
Byzantine mosaics were the highest artistic achievements of the
culture, and, were as equally worthy of being considered a fine
style as the Baroque, or French Expressionism for
example.
She might not be able to put it into
the proper words, but she probably knew as much about this stuff as
their guide, who had no doubt read up on it and committed his spiel
into off-by-heart memory. He was there for the money and the tips,
living a life she had once contemplated.
“ Oh.” She looked around in
confusion.
They were right there a minute ago,
and now the silence was unnerving to say the least.
***
Jayne stood at the end of the jetty
and cussed in a rather unladylike manner as the bright yellow blob
that was the back end of the boat slowly receded off into the warm,
hazy distance. There were clouds on the eastern horizon and the
moon was rising. Looking at her watch, insects sounded all around
her and the heat of the day was beginning to abate. It was a hot
country, but the nights could get chill this time of year. She
already knew that from their arrival yesterday.
It was the elevation.
“ Drat.” This was sheer
disaster.
Jayne looked around at the uninhabited
island, which to all intents and purposes sat smack dab in the
middle of Lake Kanritsar, high up on the barren plateau of eastern
Anatolia, thinking that the frickin’ monks had loved their privacy
perhaps just a little too much.
She silently cussed Melanie, who in
her own inevitably flaky way, had come down with a bad case of
boyfriend-itis, a mysterious malady that would hit her whenever a
new and particularly troublesome drummer or hip-hop producer came
onto the scene. With Mel that was a crowded one to begin with.
Melanie begged off at the last minute, more likely money problems
than anything else. The conversation had been an unusually short
one for them, what with Mel calling up at the last minute and
all…Mel had been planning to pay with cash, but like a fool Jayne
put it all on her credit card weeks in advance. Mel wasn’t going to
lose a cancellation fee if she didn’t go. Jayne really wasn’t known
for swearing, but at the time she sure felt the
temptation.
She shook her head and stomped her
feet, kicking at the loose yellow dust of the path. She’d wondered
once or twice if it was a pure set-up. Mel wasn’t vindictive, and
probably not that clever. Still the thought persisted.
“ Damn you, Melanie
Pringle.”
The sun was setting in the west. She
prayed that someone would soon miss her, either on the dock or when
they got on the bus. Surely they would at the hotel. The bus was
leaving at ten tomorrow morning after a free-for-all buffet
breakfast at eighty-thirty or nine. All she could think of was to
go back to the ruined old church with its crumbling roof, a corner
missing and heaps of rubble on three sides and wait it out. That or
the dock was the first place they would look. Maybe that
Bartholomew twerp would say something. Surely he would miss her
presence. He would remark upon it.
When the sun fell into another dark
band of purple cumulus to the west, she was glad of the decision.
It was getting darker out by the minute. She cursed not bringing a
sweater or a jacket, but of course they’d left hours before, in the
heat of day.
She didn’t even have any matches to
start a fire with.
***
She sat inside on a flat slab of
rubble, with her
expressive, was off in a corner in a side chapel. He had a
strangely modern face, one not without warmth and intelligence. The
work was very good, and had recently been cleaned. The fellow
reminded her of her Uncle Leo. The resemblance was uncanny. He had
the same long head, the same long nose. There was something
familiar about the shape of the eyes and the humorous, sensual
mouth. Even the beard, the hair, the mustache were the same. She
grinned for what seemed like the first time in days. Maybe even
weeks.
Jayne agreed with the experts that
Byzantine mosaics were the highest artistic achievements of the
culture, and, were as equally worthy of being considered a fine
style as the Baroque, or French Expressionism for
example.
She might not be able to put it into
the proper words, but she probably knew as much about this stuff as
their guide, who had no doubt read up on it and committed his spiel
into off-by-heart memory. He was there for the money and the tips,
living a life she had once contemplated.
“ Oh.” She looked around in
confusion.
They were right there a minute ago,
and now the silence was unnerving to say the least.
***
Jayne stood at the end of the jetty
and cussed in a rather unladylike manner as the bright yellow blob
that was the back end of the boat slowly receded off into the warm,
hazy distance. There were clouds on the eastern horizon and the
moon was rising. Looking at her watch, insects sounded all around
her and the heat of the day was beginning to abate. It was a hot
country, but the nights could get chill this time of year. She
already knew that from their arrival yesterday.
It was the elevation.
“ Drat.” This was sheer
disaster.
Jayne looked around at the uninhabited
island, which to all intents and purposes sat smack dab in the
middle of Lake Kanritsar, high up on the barren plateau of eastern
Anatolia, thinking that the frickin’ monks had loved their privacy
perhaps just a little too much.
She silently cussed Melanie, who in
her own inevitably flaky way, had come down with a bad case of
boyfriend-itis, a mysterious malady that would hit her whenever a
new and particularly troublesome drummer or hip-hop producer came
onto the scene. With Mel that was a crowded one to begin with.
Melanie begged off at the last minute, more likely money problems
than anything else. The conversation had been an unusually short
one for them, what with Mel calling up at the last minute and
all…Mel had been planning to pay with cash, but like a fool Jayne
put it all on her credit card weeks in advance. Mel wasn’t going to
lose a cancellation fee if she didn’t go. Jayne really wasn’t known
for swearing, but at the time she sure felt the
temptation.
She shook her head and stomped her
feet, kicking at the loose yellow dust of the path. She’d wondered
once or twice if it was a pure set-up. Mel wasn’t vindictive, and
probably not that clever. Still the thought persisted.
“ Damn you, Melanie
Pringle.”
The sun was setting in the west. She
prayed that someone would soon miss her, either on the dock or when
they got on the bus. Surely they would at the hotel. The bus was
leaving at ten tomorrow morning after a free-for-all buffet
breakfast at eighty-thirty or nine. All she could think of was to
go back to the ruined old church with its crumbling roof, a corner
missing and heaps of rubble on three sides and wait it out. That or
the dock was the first place they would look. Maybe that
Bartholomew twerp would say something. Surely he would miss her
presence. He would remark upon it.
When the sun fell into another dark
band of purple cumulus to the west, she was glad of the decision.
It was getting darker out by the minute. She cursed not bringing a
sweater or a jacket, but of course they’d left hours before, in the
heat of day.
She didn’t even have any matches to
start a fire with.
***
She sat inside on a flat slab of
rubble, with her
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