Chapter 18: Invasion

Thursday, 11 August 1995, Edinburgh, Scotland

Getting out of Scotland and to the Metéora proved more complicated than anticipated. Rebecca spent most of Thursday at the embassy retrieving her updated passport with her new name. She ran to the university and explained to Dr. Reston that she would be pursuing a lead in Central Greece where a form of goddess worship was still practiced at the very foot of the Orthodox monasteries. And that while based in the Greek pantheon, it appeared that a single goddess was the object of reverence. This supported Rebecca’s thesis that both modern Christianity and ancient goddess worship coexisted in the same space. Reston raised an eyebrow at the rather weak connection.

“And, of course, the fact that your husband is somewhere in that vicinity of Greece is entirely coincidental,” he chuckled as he signed the travel voucher.

“I ... uh ... Dr. Reston,” Rebecca started and stopped multiple times, much to the amusement of her advisor.

“Mrs. Allen, I have been friends with Professor and Mrs. Weed for many years,” he said. “Alice and I already discussed the likelihood that you would want to engage in this pursuit. Yes, I am aware that your husband is investigating an ancient site with Doctor Heinrich. Heinrich has been a guest lecturer in archaeology here on several occasions. I am also aware that Dr. McGuire has taken off with intents of cashing in on Dr. Heinrich’s find. McGuire did his undergraduate work here and then moved to the United States specifically to study under Heinrich a dozen years ago. You pursue the pursuer. Good hunting, Mrs. Allen.”

Rebecca left his office somewhat bemused and even a bit confused. Mrs. Weed met her outside the door and took her directly to Waverly train station.

“I packed your bag with everything you should need and expect you to return to me before you return to the United States, dearie,” the old woman said.

“It’s all happening so fast,” said Rebecca. “I hardly know what to do next.”

“Things are likely to slow down once you get to London. I have no idea how you will get from there to Athens, nor from Athens to your husband. But I know you will arrive safely. Your circle will pray for your safe and successful journey.”

“Thank you, Alice. I don’t know how to say it any more heartfelt than that. You have given me both hope and power.”

“You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Oh, my dear mentor! How could I be anything but? You have taught me well.”

“Blessings light and dark, Sadb,” Mrs. Weed whispered. “May the goddess smile upon you.”

Rebecca boarded the night train for London’s King’s Cross station. It was not a peaceful journey. The night train made frequent stops for local commuters, even late in the night. With each jarring bounce, Rebecca cradled her tender hand more carefully. She hugged her walking stick, now her wand, as she was bounced into and out of a restless sleep in which visions of Wesley in a vast temple plagued her.

Friday, 12 August 1955, London, England

Rebecca arrived at King’s Cross with no other intent at the surface of her mind than finding a cup of coffee. Near the busy train station, she found a café that advertised coffee and ordered a full English breakfast to go with it. It was a typically bland and boiled breakfast, but the café did have salt and pepper that she applied liberally to the entire meal.

On Euston Road, Rebecca found a travel agent, but she was much too early for its posted hours. She wandered on, thinking she might stop at the British Library, but realizing that, too, would still be closed. Near exhaustion from her sleepless night, she stumbled into a small hotel and booked a room. Once there, she collapsed into sleep without bothering to undress.

It was after noon when she roused herself and she panicked at the thought of missing the travel agent. Carrying only her purse and staff, she rushed out of the hotel and the two blocks to the agency.

“How may I help you?” asked a stiff man at the main desk. He wasn’t much if any older than Rebecca, but acted as if he were fifty and she a teen. She glanced at her disheveled and travel-weary appearance and laughed at herself.

“I need to book transport to Athens by the fastest route,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve not had much sleep getting here. It is a family emergency.”

“Ah, I see,” he responded, loosening a bit. “I understand your condition.” She was sure she saw an eyebrow lift at the mention. “London to Athens by fastest route. According to the timetables, it appears that you should fly. There is, however, no direct flight. I could send you via Paris or Rome. No. No. The Rome flight is also via Paris.” He busily shuffled through his timetables and belatedly waved Rebecca to a chair. “Ah. I see. You’ll be flying London to Paris, Paris to Rome, and Rome to Athens. You can be on the first flight first thing in the morning and change planes in Paris, but I’m afraid you will need lodging in Rome before a morning flight on Sunday to Athens. Should I book lodging in Athens for you as well?”

Rebecca was overwhelmed. She just wanted to reach Wesley. Paris? Rome? And no time to see either one.

“Just book the flights and the overnight in Rome,” she finally responded. “I will arrange things ... uh ... with family ... in Athens.”

“Of course. And how would you be paying for this Miss... ?”

“Mrs. Mrs. Rebecca Allen.” She handed the agent her travel voucher from the University.

“Passport?” she handed it over and he copied down details. “I must call to verify the voucher and then call the airlines. If you could return at half past three, I should have everything arranged,” he smiled at her. “If I make a suggestion, Mrs. Allen?” She nodded. “You might want fancier dress when you board the aircraft. I understand you’ve been in the north,” he sniffed, “and conditions are different among the Scots. But air travel, you know?”

Rebecca nodded. She might look a bit strange in her hiking gear, but she would need it in Greece. She hoped Mrs. Weed had packed a dress.

Saturday, 13 August 1955, Rome, Italy

None of Rebecca’s destinations were in countries where her limited German could be of help. As a result, the trip was a confusion of different voices and different languages, none of which she understood. A kindly flight attendant had pointed her to the right desk to check in for her flight to Rome. When she arrived at the airport outside of Rome, it was only three in the afternoon, but it seemed to be too great a journey to try to see the Vatican when she couldn’t even tell the taxi driver where she wanted to go. She had simply held out the note with the name and address of her hotel and half an hour later was unloaded on Via Fiumara in front of a small hotel. Inside, a very friendly and talkative desk clerk welcomed her.

“You’re American!” Rebecca exclaimed.

“Zeke Mosely of Corn Crib, Kansas,” he grinned. “Don’t bother looking on the map. They call me out of the cellar whenever a reservation is made in English.”

“How did you happen to end up here?”

“Compliments of the U.S. Army. Arrived just in time for the end-war occupation. A lot of leisure found me in the clutches of my sweet Luciana. Got married and now I’ve got three little Dago rug rats running around. They all speak better Italian than English. I think they are conspiring against me!” Zeke jabbered away.

“Fascinating. I wish I could spend more time here. It’s lovely,” Rebecca said. The hotel was small but filled with a quaint charm.

“It’s the only thing I got during the war,” he laughed. “My wife’s parents owned it. They sent me here to fight the Krauts, but the biggest thing I ever shot was a rabbit.” Rebecca laughed. “It’s on the menu tonight,” he nodded. Rebecca snorted at the admission.

“Before I commit to eating it, what year did you shoot it in?”

“Neither ear. Shot it right in the tail,” he rejoined. “Mrs. Allen, I understand you are under some duress in this journey. Let me get your things settled in your room and then please come down to rest in the bar. I will fix you a Bellini. You will sit and watch the people and for a few minutes, you will let your mind rest from your troubles.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s the Italian way. When you stop and think about it, it’s the way I was raised in Kansas ... except, of course, I wouldn’t have served alcohol. I like it much better here.”

Rebecca took a short nap before taking advantage of Zeke’s offer. It would not do to have any kind of alcoholic drink as tired as she was. What would Wesley think? Sleep claimed her rapidly.