Sunrise on the Mediterranean
Available in:
- eBook
- Hardcover
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
Time-traveller Chloe Kingsley wakes up in the Mediterranean, dressed in 1990s party clothes. Mistaken for a mermaid goddess, Chloe soon realises she is in biblical Canaan. She and Cheftu are reunited, only to become vassals to David, the Israelite king.
Release date: May 30, 2009
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 496
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
Sunrise on the Mediterranean
Suzanne Frank
SUNRISE ON THE MEDITERRANEAN
“Colorful … intriguing…. The juxtaposition of modern-day observations and expressions and archaic situations gives a good
shot of humor to the clever, suspenseful narrative.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Suzanne Frank triumphs again with another mesmerizing tale of love and adventure in the ancient world….An exceptionally talented
writer, Frank brings us one thrill after another as she allows us to view history in an amazingly fresh light without sacrificing
one iota of reality.”
—Romantic Times
“A delightful twist on biblical history…. Not since Jean Auel’s Ayla has there been a heroine as resourceful as Chloe….Fast
paced and wildly entertaining, this third book in the series stands alone but makes the reader want to hunt down [the first
two books].”
—Booklist
“A compelling time-travel tale full of vivid characterizations, with historically accurate settings and a picturesque backdrop
illuminating a bygone era …by far the best to date.”
—New-Age Bookshelf
“A perfect combination of fact and fantasy… . The author’s solid knowledge of the Old Testament mixed with her quirky humor
will transport you.”
—Kerrville Daily Times (TX)
“Fans and newcomers alike should enjoy this… . Frank effectively uses her knowledge of the Old Testament in her re-creation
of ancient Israel … recommended.”
—Library Journal
SHADOWS ON THE AEGEAN
“Imaginative. Creative. Ingenious. Engrossing. Suzanne Frank has given her readers a brilliantly written, magical story.”
—Clive Cussler, author of Atlantis Found and Valhalla Rising
“A top pick—4 1/2 stars! … Everything a romance fan would want and much, much more. A treasure indeed!”
—Romantic Times
“An exotic, erotic, breathtaking adventure … wondrously conceived, brilliantly executed. I look forward with great eagerness
to Suzanne Frank’s next book!”
—Barbara Wood, author of The Prophetess
“Part Mary Renault, part Jacqueline Susann, Frank delights in re-imagining … lost rituals of love and religion, but she also
finds moments of refreshing humor in the contrast between Chloe’s modern sensibility and ancient manners… . Fans will stay
tuned.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A tour de force of imagination, Shadows on the Aegean brings a magical world to brilliant life. Masterfully told.”
—Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, authors of The Ice Limit and Riptide
“Suzanne Frank has absolutely surpassed her debut book with this second novel of rapturous romance and high adventure.”
—Bertrice Small, author of The Duchess
“Brings all the splendor and beauty known as Atlantis into our reading world… . If you loved Diana Gabaldon, then this author
is not one to be missed. Ms. Frank is simply a gifted historical writer. Fantastic! 5 bells!”
—Bell, Book & Candle
REFLECTIONS IN THE NILE
“Good storytelling… . Ancient Egypt comes alive!”
—Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of Voyager
“An adventure you won’t want to put down.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Totally engrossing … the characters are exceptional.”
—Midwest Book Review
GLOSSARY
adon/adoni (ad-o-nee)—man, sir, dear sir
akchav (ahk-shahv)—Hebrew for emphatic “now”
Ashdod (ash-dohd)—Philistine city
Ashqelon (ásh-ki-lawn)—Philistine city
Ashterty (ash-téar-tee)—consort of Ba’al and fertility goddess in the ancient Near East
avayra goreret avayra (áh-vay-rah gore-er-et áh-vay-rah)— transgression begets transgression
Ba’al (bah’ahl)—Near Eastern god of thunderstorms, among other things
bereshet (b’ray-shéet)—the first word in the Hebrew Bible, meaning “in the beginning”
b’rith (breet)—covenant
b’seder (bí-say-der)—Hebrew term of agreement
b’vakasha (bih-vak-ah-shah)—Hebrew for “please”
chalev v’d’vash (ha-lev-oo-di-vash)—milk and honey
chesed (hés-said)—lovingkindness
Dagon (day-gone)—fishtailed god of the Pelesti (Philistines)
Derkato (dér-kay-toe)—mythological consort of Dagon
echad (áy-had)—one
el—god
elohim (el-o-heém)—angelic warriors and divine courtiers
Gaza (gáh-zah)—Philistine city , also known as Aza
giborim (gíb-or-eem)—David’s private guards
guf— body/flesh
g’vret (give-rett)—lady
ha—the
hakol b’seder (há-coal bih-say-der)—“everything is all right”
hal (hall)—biblical term for devoting something to God through utter destruction
Hamishah (hám-i-shah)—term for the five Philistine cities of the plain
har—mountain
henti— an Egyptian measure of distance, similar to stadia
herim (háir -eem)—holy war
I AM—the name of God
isha (eé-shah)—woman
Keftiu (kéf-too)—Crete and the Cyclades islands Kemt—Egyptian for Egypt
ken—Hebrew for “yes”
kinor (kéen-or)—ten-stringed harp
laylah (lié-lah)—night
Levim (lév-eem)—the Tribes’ priests
lifnay (leáf-nay)—Hebrew for “before” in the chronological sense
lo—Hebrew for “no”
mah—what
melekh (meh-lehch)—king
Moshe—biblical Moses
nachon (náh-hohn)—enthusiastic Hebrew agreement
nasi (nah-sée)—prince
nefesh (néf-ish)—soul
nishmat ha hayyim (neesh-máht-ha-há-yeem)—the divine breath of God that starts life
Pelesti (páy-lee-stee)—ancient term for the Philistines
qiryat (kir-ee-yáht)—city
Qiselee (kí-see-lee)—Philistine city
Rosh Tsor haHagana (rosh tsore ha-hahg-ah-nah)—leader of the army
sela (sáy-lah)—amen
serenim (sáre-i-neem)—the Philistine leaders
Shabat—Hebrew for the Sabbath, sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday
shalosh (shá-losh)—three
shtyme (shtai-yeem)—two
tani’n (tán-in)—pre-battle pep talk and dance
teraphim (téar-ah-feem)—totem statues Thummim (thóom-eem)—oracular stone
todah (tóe-dah)—thank you
tov (to-ev)—good
Tsidon (sí-don)—modern Sidon
Tsor (sore)—modern Tyre
tzadik (zá-dick)—holy man/prophet Urim (érr-eem)—oracular stone Yaffa (yah-fah)—ancient Jaffa
yam (yahm)—Hebrew for “sea”
yelad/im (yéll-ah-deem)—child/children
Zakar Ba’al—the official title of the ruler of Tsor
zekenim (z’káy-neem)—the seventy leaders of the Tribes
IWAS DROWNING IN SPACE; then space became water.
Okay, at least drowning in water was logical.
Of course, logical wouldn’t matter much if I were dead. Dead?
I opened my mouth to scream in protest, only to gag on the aforementioned water. Light surrounded me, blue to one side, pink
from the other. Which direction was up? I kicked reflexively, propelling myself toward the pink, away from the blue.
I broke through a salmon-tinted glass ceiling, gasping for air, swallowing huge lungfuls of it. All around I saw rosy water,
ruddy sky. What on earth? Then I felt it, throbbing through my bones and blood: recognition.
There are few places one knows instinctively; this was one of mine. I had played in these waters on almost every coast: Turkey,
Greece, Italy, Israel, Lebanon, Morocco. The colors were unmistakable, the taste unforgettable.
I was in the Mediterranean. Sunrise was embracing the now blue black sea with fingers of rose, gold, and lavender.
I wasn’t drowning.
Nor was I comforted to find myself in the middle of the Med, with neither land nor ship from horizon to horizon. My legs hadn’t
stopped moving, keeping me afloat. Shivering, I moved through the water, looking for a warm current. I passed through one,
then turned around to return to it.
“Dagon be exalted!” I saw them at the same time I heard them. Before I could kick away, a wide, flat thing flew at me, covering my head, my arms,
imprisoning my movements. I flailed, tried to get free, but I was caught. I cursed as I went under, able to use only my legs
to surface again. In the back of my consciousness I heard a chant, “Dagon, Lord of the Sea, we bow to thee.” My brain was refiring the image I’d seen: a canoe carrying four bearded men in dresses. The thing tightened around me, slipping
lower, stopping my legs from paddling.
I really was going to drown.
“Dagon, Lord Dagon, we bring—” The rest of it was submerged with my ears. Water burned in my nostrils, familiar briny Mediterranean seawater. How could
I have ever known it would be my last—my thought was interrupted as someone yanked my head above water, his hands in my hair,
half ripping it from the roots.
“She is beautiful as benefits thee. Take her, Dagon—” The chorus continued as I shrieked, then inhaled, desperately forcing myself to not fight off my pseudorescuers. Some factoid
in my military training reminded me that more people drowned while being rescued. Don’t struggle, Chloe. Don’t. I was coughing up water, my eyes streaming, blurring the world around me.
Arms grabbed me as I was going under for the third time. A hand covered my mouth, another voice crooned for me to be quiet
and still, they had caught me so that I could be honored. I didn’t want to be honored, I wanted to be free!
It took every ounce of effort not to scream as they pulled my head again, using my hair as a handle. Then they grasped me
around the elbows and hefted me into the canoe.
“Ha der-kay-toe glows with the beauty of Lord Dagon’s love,” they sang. The vibrations of landing hard on the wood resonated through my body, knocked the wind out of me, left me motionless
for a moment. I couldn’t see because my hair, wet and heavy, covered my face.
“HaDerkato delights the heart of the Lord of Corn.” I coughed up more water, spewing it through the—net?—I was caught in. I was outraged. I was snared in a net? Like a fish?
“Dagon, Master of the Sea …” I fought to catch my breath. I twisted within my bonds, then stopped for a moment. Nearly drowning was hard work. I was exhausted.
I sneezed.
“HaDerkato blesses us,” they said. “Lord Dagon embraces her.” Quickly I did a body inventory. Everything seemed to work—arms, legs, torso, neck. Though my head felt disconnected, still
I understood the words of the … sailors?
“Dagon, Lord of Corn, this gift we bring to thee… .”
Daybreak had turned the sky blue, with misty clouds above us. Through squinted eyes I saw that I was dumped in the back of
the canoe—but it wasn’t really a canoe, it was more like a skiff—and I was lying across a plank in the back, my feet trailing
an inch above the water. Strapped as I was in the net, I saw only my legs, the sky, and the odd sandaled foot.
Sandals, dresses on men.
“We implore thee to accept this propitiation.”
My eyes popped open at that.
“She’s waking!” someone shouted.
“Where is her tail?” another male voice asked.
“Get her before she returns!” The net was ripped off, my wrists and ankles tied, despite my silent struggling.
Too much of a battle and I would find myself overboard, definitely drowning. “Don’t look in her eyes,” one of them said. I
opened my mouth to scream.
“Silence her before she calls to Dagon,” someone said. They gagged me with salty rags.
“Keep your ears blocked, beware of her gaze!” said another, the chanting to Dagon uninterrupted throughout.
“Why does she have legs?” one of them asked. “As a consort of Dagon, should she not have a flipper, or fins, or a tail?”
A tail? I stopped struggling and trying to gnaw through my gag, I looked around, wincing as the gag tugged at my hair. I saw
them, upside down.
Men in dresses, colored and embroidered dresses with sandals. Short hair. Beards. Swords at their sides.
Okay, men in dresses. However, my mental processes didn’t say, “Okay,” they said, “B’seder.” Were they equivalent?
“Dagon, Progenitor of the Fields …”
Who was that? Where was Cheftu, my beloved husband, the reason I was here to begin with? I was here with men in dresses. I
sneezed—no mean trick with a gag—then looked up again, bewildered.
The sky was suddenly tinted red; when I looked down at my legs, the water beyond them, it was also red. Then I realized my
hair, which was framing everything I saw, was red.
“Dagon, Rapist of the Rivers, creator of the sea-maids …”
My hair was red?
My world rocked, canted at a definite forty-five-degree angle. My hair was red! Omigod.
A shudder coursed through me as I tried to look at my clothes, at my body. Then I felt them—signs of the twentieth century
in this obviously ancient world: the rayon miniskirt drying in the December breeze, the edge of a pushup bra digging into
my ribs. Straps around my ankles attached to a ridiculous pair of sandals. The edge of a Day-Glo necklace gleamed spectrally
in the morning light.
Around my neck! On my body!
I forced myself to breathe slowly, tried to still the racing of my pulse. I was a redhead with parchment pale skin— again—dressed
like a cheap hooker. And only my thoughts were in my brain!
Another Dagon verse. Dagon. Dagon. A king? A god? A priest? I was drawing total blanks. Fear bottled in my throat.
Where was Cheftu?
The skiff began cutting through the water at a fast clip. I get the world’s worst motion sickness on small vessels. Being
petrified didn’t help my stomach, either. Dagon’s praises continued, like Muzak. I took a firm grip on my mind.
No Cheftu, and you’re a redhead: the rules have changed. I bit back panic again and reasoned with myself. One, you woke up
in the Mediterranean. Literally in the Mediterranean. Then it struck me: They hadn’t been surprised to find me, they’d apparently been looking for me.
“Dagon, Showerer of the Plains, thy—”
Dagon. Dagon. My thoughts derailed as we pulled up to a big ship, complete with sails, oars, and cast of hundreds. More men
in dresses. More Dagon verses. I’d been rescued by some type of sailor. An ancient sailor. I was thrown over a man’s shoulder
like a catch of tuna, and I bumped against him as he braced himself in the skiff. My head was pounding with all the blood
flowing to it. After a few shouts, a rope was thrown down.
“Is haDerkato secure?” one of them asked.
The oaf carrying me patted my thigh and shouted back, “Ken! She is secure, but if she falls, haYam will provide another.”
The muscles beneath my stomach shifted as the man began climbing up the rope hand over hand. “You are a weighty goddess, haDerkato,” he huffed.
I had gone stiff as a board to stay over his shoulder: he certainly wasn’t holding me! I tensed my legs and tried desperately
to keep from swinging out. He grunted and groaned as he pulled us up the ship’s side. Beneath me, the sea, the sailors, and
the boat grew smaller and smaller. Suddenly a cold breeze blew across me.
“Watch out for her gaze,” the climber gasped out as he tossed me down on yet another wooden deck.
When next I opened my eyes, they were grouped around me. Men in dresses, with hairy knees and fish cologne.
“HaDerkato,” one of them said slowly, as if speaking to a foreigner. “Welcome aboard Dawn’s Battle.”
I insulted his heritage beneath my gag; my head was killing me.
“She curses you,” one of them said.
I looked at him immediately and they all stepped back, averting their eyes.
What the hell was going on? “Where’s her tail?” one of them whispered, staring at my bare white legs. Thanks to my streetwalker
attire, there was plenty to see. Why was everyone concerned about my tail? How many people actually had—
Oh, duh, I thought. They pulled me from the sea, they are scared of my voice, they think I’m a mermaid? I couldn’t help it;
I started laughing, drooling around my gag as I realized they thought I was a sea siren. I doubled over, howling, deaf to
their reactions.
A mermaid? Oh, this was rich. Priestesses and oracles I have been. Never been a mermaid before.
Then I sobered.
Why were they pulling me out of the sea, and who was Dagon?
And what was this about propitiation?
As another verse of the Dagon song trickled through my understanding, I remembered. Before I stepped through the red sandstone
portal, its lintel inscribed with the words of passage, the words of my final prayer in 1996 were, “Please God, let me find
Cheftu. Give me everything I need, especially language, to be with him again.”
“Dagon, Lord of Corn and Sea …” I understood! My body ran hot, then cold. So if that part of the prayer came true, then Cheftu was here? Somewhere?
With a shout, we set sail. Still trussed up like a Cornish hen, I watched the sails fill with wind. I heard the slow beat
of the timekeeper as the oars creaked and groaned, speeding up. Big ships, square sails, and men in dresses—it was all vaguely
familiar.
But who was Dagon?
The rhythm of the ship rocked me quietly, even though I was spinning with confusion and discomfort—gags are not comfortable.
Then I heard the whispers. They must have thought I was asleep.
“I don’t understand. Where is her tail?” one man hissed. “She only has it when she’s in the water. How else would Dagon be
able to stump her?”
The first man grunted, “Are you certain she is ha Find?” Although I’d never heard ha before today, somewhere between hearing it and understanding it, I learned that it was “the.” In this case the “the” was
a term of honor, as in “the Big Kahuna.”
“She answered to haDerkato, did she not? Besides, who else would be in the middle of haYam on the day of the Find, if not Dagon’s intended?”
Ha, the big “the,” and Yam? Yam was sea. Again, the translation was taking place somewhere between my ear and my brain. This time the internal translator
wasn’t only explaining the words, but giving me a cultural context as well. To these people the Mediterranean needed no other
name, for there was no competition. It was the Sea.
“Look at her jewelry; do you think she is less than that? No one save the bride of the king of the seas would have such a
thing as that. It glows with the light of the moon.”
“Colorful, too,” the other man mused.
They must have been talking about my neon jewelry. I fought not to smile.
“She is very pretty,” the suspicious one said. “Ken.”
I tried not to blush. “Pity she will die.”
What? “Ach, well, the desires of Dagon.” “B’seder.”
They walked away, discussing ropes, as I lay there trying to still my racing heart. Pity about me dying? What was going on?
I grappled against my bonds for a moment, irrationally trying to get free, though there was nowhere to go.
I opened my eyes when it got quiet and was surprised to see that it was dark, yet we were still sailing. Did these people
sail all night? Ancient Egyptians were notorious for tying up their ships at dusk, I knew this from personal experience. The
Nile was treacherous enough without compounding the problem with a lack of visibility. But the Egyptians didn’t have ships
like this.
A low buzz of activity came from over my shoulders and behind my back. The sailors were moving around the ship quickly, shouting
orders—drop sail, double time, then the anticipated drop anchor.
Stars were sprayed across the blackness of the night. The temperature had dropped too, so now I was freezing. The bonds I
wore were almost warming. I lay there shivering as the men ran to and fro. The sound of a skiff falling to the water below
startled me. Just seconds later I was hoisted across another man’s shoulder and carried down another rope ladder. I kept my
eyes closed. What was unnerving going up in daylight was petrifying going down in the dark with a sailor whose odor of alcohol
mingled disagreeably with his aroma of fish guts.
They stood in the skiff, sailing into the harbor. Consequently my first view of the city, this time, was upside down between
a set of hairy knees. Lights sprinkled the hills, lending the scene a sense of being 2-D, like a matte painting for a stage
production. Again blood rushed into my head, giving me a headache that throbbed in time with his step. Between my head pounding,
his bony shoulder digging into my stomach, and being in a small boat on a rocky sea, upside down, I felt way sick.
As the revolting taste of hot bile filled my mouth, thump, we were docked. I was handled with the tenderness of a ton of potatoes. I could barely hear the surrounding sailors and
merchants compliment the men who had captured me. My ears were ringing as I was dumped into the back of a cart. My hair once
again covered my face, and the smell and taste of near vomit stayed on my gag. I was lying on my side, unable to pull myself
upright. The cart moved slowly, dragging across rutted dirt paths. Cats, no surprise with our fishy odor, trailed us, swatting
at my hair hanging over the edge of the cart.
Cart. Think, Chloe, you could be figuring out where you are. Why the hell should that matter? I groused back at myself. Cheftu isn’t here, at least not yet, and I’m in my own body with
no mental tour guide to wherever I am. Moreover, I think I’m scheduled to be some kind of sacrifice.
The word propitiation haunted me. I’d spent too many summers attending vacation Bible school to not be nervous. Propitiation was compensating for
doing something wrong, trying to work your way back into someone’s good graces.
I noticed, despite myself, that I was in the back of a two-person, chariot-style cart. I couldn’t tell how many horses it
had, I couldn’t see them. All the elements were here, though. Men in dresses, sandals, gods, and horse-drawn chariots.
I was back in ancient times.
Cheftu had to be here. He had to be. I just needed to keep my eyes—
The vehicle stopped so suddenly that I was pitched out, into the dirt. I felt the abrasion on my face, my shoulder. I wanted
to cry; I’d been here less than twenty-four hours and already I was bruised. Not to mention tired, hungry, and confused.
Another man threw me over his shoulder—my stomach was getting sore from this treatment—and carried me from the cart into a
building. Suddenly the flooring was different, as was the lighting, the smell, and the sound. He tossed me down, cracking
my head against the floor so loudly that I heard the echo.
The sounds around me slowly unfolded into decipherable words. I heard a woman’s voice. “You’re supposed to set her down gently!”
she shouted at him. “She isn’t a catch!”
“I was being gentle,” he said defensively.
“I hope you didn’t kill her, then we’ll be in worse trouble than we are now!”
He mumbled something, but I couldn’t discern the words beyond the aching of my head. She told him to get out, he was a lug
and an oaf. Cool hands touched me. “Sea-Mistress, he shall be punished. He is a sailor; sea urchins have been his parents!
Please do not hold him against us.”
A pillow was slipped beneath my head—which hurt. My hair was brushed from my eyes—which also hurt. My bonds were cut, and
as the blood flowed back into my limbs, they hurt, too. My face and shoulder were cleaned off and a salve put on them—which
hurt. I felt tears squeeze from beneath my lashes.
Silence fell, blessed peace. When the throbbing in my body had settled down, I cautiously opened one eye.
Holy Isis, here we go again!
All I had wanted to do was find Cheftu, to be with him. Instead I was in a temple, not like any I’d seen before, but identifiable
by the smell, the layout, and … the twenty-foot-tall statue of a merman with food, gold, and jewels strewn at his, uh, tail.
This was not Egyptian artwork. Not Aztlantu. Neither Greek nor Roman. Pillars rose up on all sides of me, providing the studs
for a wall that went up only seven or so feet. Incense clouded the air, filled it with the cloying odor of … coriander? Burned
coriander? The acrid smell took me back to my childhood in Morocco. Definitely coriander.
The colors were the tints of the sea and sky, blues and greens that blended like watercolors from one into another. A braid
pattern wrapped around the columns and edged the ceiling. The floor was a mosaic of shells and colored sand. The room was
pretty, very gentle and soothing.
Where was this temple? My head still throbbed, but the nausea had passed. I was lying on my back, on the top part of a set
of stairs. To my left was the idol.
He was carved from one piece of marble. It had been broken at least three times around his waist and each arm. Stone must
be very expensive, I thought as I looked at him. Why else would they use such a blatantly flawed piece? He was kind of clunky
and block shaped, recognizable as a merman but nothing that would set the art world on fire.
Marks had been pressed into the base of the statue. An ancient language. Then, before my eyes, the duck foot– looking wedges
re-formed into letters that I understood. Dagon, Lord of Thunder, King of the Sea, Ruler of the Cornfield, Father of Ba’al, Beloved of Derkato.
Dagon was the merman?
How did this relate to reuniting with Cheftu? Why else would I be here, in my own skin, unless my prayer had been answered?
I’d been looking for him. Instead of finding him, though, I’d been fished out of the Mediterranean and left in a temple. Maybe
Cheftu was a fisherman; or a priest?
However, that would be odd. Cheftu had always been an Egyptian. Always arriving from Egypt. Then again, I’d always been someone
else, and now I was myself. In my experiences—of which I’d had two, vivid, life-changing ones, when I went back in time, when
I stepped into history—I had stepped into another person, her body, her voice, her life; I would put on some ancient woman’s
skin like a cloak.
I felt dazed, because suddenly everything was new— even the rules seemed different. But I’d time-traveled again, despite these
differences. I noticed the red hair falling over my white-skinned shoulder; I was cloakless. Hello? I asked my echoing cranium. Anybody in there? Yoo-hoo?
Would Cheftu look the same? He always had before. Now it would be up to me to identify him, for he’d never seen me in my own
twentieth-century “cloak.”
“Sea-Mistress Derkato, would you care for refreshing?” Glancing up, I saw a young girl, her head bowed, her robe covered in fabric scales. “Water,”
I said, suspicious of anything else. I didn’t think they would try to poison me, but I wasn’t positive about that.
She looked up at me, then ducked her head and backed away. Unlike the citizens of both other cultures I’d lived in, where
black hair and dark eyes were the norm, this girl was honey colored. Though she was on the tall side, she was slightly built.
Long, straight gilded brown hair that matched her eyes hung in elaborate braids to her waist. She gleamed like well-polished
wood.
“Please,” I called after her. While I thought “Please,” what came from my mouth was b’vakasha. Was that “please” in this language? I lay back down on the mosaic floor, staring up at the ceiling. Flat roof with clerestory
windows; it was good to be in a place with an architecture I knew.
I was in the Mediterranean. In a temple of Dagon. As a mermaid/goddess who was going to die. When I raised a hand to tuck
my hair behind my ear, I saw the neon on my arm. I glowed.
Neon. The priestess RaEmhetepet, who had had my body for the past two years, had been on her way to a Ramadan/Christmas party
in 1996, dressed with her customary bad taste, which I was now wearing, when she had wandered by the portal and gotten sucked
back. Or something like that, I guessed. In modern times RaEm had become obsessed with neon and electricity and things that
glittered, which is why I now glowed like some B-film alien.
“Sea-Mistress, yo
“Colorful … intriguing…. The juxtaposition of modern-day observations and expressions and archaic situations gives a good
shot of humor to the clever, suspenseful narrative.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Suzanne Frank triumphs again with another mesmerizing tale of love and adventure in the ancient world….An exceptionally talented
writer, Frank brings us one thrill after another as she allows us to view history in an amazingly fresh light without sacrificing
one iota of reality.”
—Romantic Times
“A delightful twist on biblical history…. Not since Jean Auel’s Ayla has there been a heroine as resourceful as Chloe….Fast
paced and wildly entertaining, this third book in the series stands alone but makes the reader want to hunt down [the first
two books].”
—Booklist
“A compelling time-travel tale full of vivid characterizations, with historically accurate settings and a picturesque backdrop
illuminating a bygone era …by far the best to date.”
—New-Age Bookshelf
“A perfect combination of fact and fantasy… . The author’s solid knowledge of the Old Testament mixed with her quirky humor
will transport you.”
—Kerrville Daily Times (TX)
“Fans and newcomers alike should enjoy this… . Frank effectively uses her knowledge of the Old Testament in her re-creation
of ancient Israel … recommended.”
—Library Journal
SHADOWS ON THE AEGEAN
“Imaginative. Creative. Ingenious. Engrossing. Suzanne Frank has given her readers a brilliantly written, magical story.”
—Clive Cussler, author of Atlantis Found and Valhalla Rising
“A top pick—4 1/2 stars! … Everything a romance fan would want and much, much more. A treasure indeed!”
—Romantic Times
“An exotic, erotic, breathtaking adventure … wondrously conceived, brilliantly executed. I look forward with great eagerness
to Suzanne Frank’s next book!”
—Barbara Wood, author of The Prophetess
“Part Mary Renault, part Jacqueline Susann, Frank delights in re-imagining … lost rituals of love and religion, but she also
finds moments of refreshing humor in the contrast between Chloe’s modern sensibility and ancient manners… . Fans will stay
tuned.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A tour de force of imagination, Shadows on the Aegean brings a magical world to brilliant life. Masterfully told.”
—Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, authors of The Ice Limit and Riptide
“Suzanne Frank has absolutely surpassed her debut book with this second novel of rapturous romance and high adventure.”
—Bertrice Small, author of The Duchess
“Brings all the splendor and beauty known as Atlantis into our reading world… . If you loved Diana Gabaldon, then this author
is not one to be missed. Ms. Frank is simply a gifted historical writer. Fantastic! 5 bells!”
—Bell, Book & Candle
REFLECTIONS IN THE NILE
“Good storytelling… . Ancient Egypt comes alive!”
—Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of Voyager
“An adventure you won’t want to put down.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Totally engrossing … the characters are exceptional.”
—Midwest Book Review
GLOSSARY
adon/adoni (ad-o-nee)—man, sir, dear sir
akchav (ahk-shahv)—Hebrew for emphatic “now”
Ashdod (ash-dohd)—Philistine city
Ashqelon (ásh-ki-lawn)—Philistine city
Ashterty (ash-téar-tee)—consort of Ba’al and fertility goddess in the ancient Near East
avayra goreret avayra (áh-vay-rah gore-er-et áh-vay-rah)— transgression begets transgression
Ba’al (bah’ahl)—Near Eastern god of thunderstorms, among other things
bereshet (b’ray-shéet)—the first word in the Hebrew Bible, meaning “in the beginning”
b’rith (breet)—covenant
b’seder (bí-say-der)—Hebrew term of agreement
b’vakasha (bih-vak-ah-shah)—Hebrew for “please”
chalev v’d’vash (ha-lev-oo-di-vash)—milk and honey
chesed (hés-said)—lovingkindness
Dagon (day-gone)—fishtailed god of the Pelesti (Philistines)
Derkato (dér-kay-toe)—mythological consort of Dagon
echad (áy-had)—one
el—god
elohim (el-o-heém)—angelic warriors and divine courtiers
Gaza (gáh-zah)—Philistine city , also known as Aza
giborim (gíb-or-eem)—David’s private guards
guf— body/flesh
g’vret (give-rett)—lady
ha—the
hakol b’seder (há-coal bih-say-der)—“everything is all right”
hal (hall)—biblical term for devoting something to God through utter destruction
Hamishah (hám-i-shah)—term for the five Philistine cities of the plain
har—mountain
henti— an Egyptian measure of distance, similar to stadia
herim (háir -eem)—holy war
I AM—the name of God
isha (eé-shah)—woman
Keftiu (kéf-too)—Crete and the Cyclades islands Kemt—Egyptian for Egypt
ken—Hebrew for “yes”
kinor (kéen-or)—ten-stringed harp
laylah (lié-lah)—night
Levim (lév-eem)—the Tribes’ priests
lifnay (leáf-nay)—Hebrew for “before” in the chronological sense
lo—Hebrew for “no”
mah—what
melekh (meh-lehch)—king
Moshe—biblical Moses
nachon (náh-hohn)—enthusiastic Hebrew agreement
nasi (nah-sée)—prince
nefesh (néf-ish)—soul
nishmat ha hayyim (neesh-máht-ha-há-yeem)—the divine breath of God that starts life
Pelesti (páy-lee-stee)—ancient term for the Philistines
qiryat (kir-ee-yáht)—city
Qiselee (kí-see-lee)—Philistine city
Rosh Tsor haHagana (rosh tsore ha-hahg-ah-nah)—leader of the army
sela (sáy-lah)—amen
serenim (sáre-i-neem)—the Philistine leaders
Shabat—Hebrew for the Sabbath, sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday
shalosh (shá-losh)—three
shtyme (shtai-yeem)—two
tani’n (tán-in)—pre-battle pep talk and dance
teraphim (téar-ah-feem)—totem statues Thummim (thóom-eem)—oracular stone
todah (tóe-dah)—thank you
tov (to-ev)—good
Tsidon (sí-don)—modern Sidon
Tsor (sore)—modern Tyre
tzadik (zá-dick)—holy man/prophet Urim (érr-eem)—oracular stone Yaffa (yah-fah)—ancient Jaffa
yam (yahm)—Hebrew for “sea”
yelad/im (yéll-ah-deem)—child/children
Zakar Ba’al—the official title of the ruler of Tsor
zekenim (z’káy-neem)—the seventy leaders of the Tribes
IWAS DROWNING IN SPACE; then space became water.
Okay, at least drowning in water was logical.
Of course, logical wouldn’t matter much if I were dead. Dead?
I opened my mouth to scream in protest, only to gag on the aforementioned water. Light surrounded me, blue to one side, pink
from the other. Which direction was up? I kicked reflexively, propelling myself toward the pink, away from the blue.
I broke through a salmon-tinted glass ceiling, gasping for air, swallowing huge lungfuls of it. All around I saw rosy water,
ruddy sky. What on earth? Then I felt it, throbbing through my bones and blood: recognition.
There are few places one knows instinctively; this was one of mine. I had played in these waters on almost every coast: Turkey,
Greece, Italy, Israel, Lebanon, Morocco. The colors were unmistakable, the taste unforgettable.
I was in the Mediterranean. Sunrise was embracing the now blue black sea with fingers of rose, gold, and lavender.
I wasn’t drowning.
Nor was I comforted to find myself in the middle of the Med, with neither land nor ship from horizon to horizon. My legs hadn’t
stopped moving, keeping me afloat. Shivering, I moved through the water, looking for a warm current. I passed through one,
then turned around to return to it.
“Dagon be exalted!” I saw them at the same time I heard them. Before I could kick away, a wide, flat thing flew at me, covering my head, my arms,
imprisoning my movements. I flailed, tried to get free, but I was caught. I cursed as I went under, able to use only my legs
to surface again. In the back of my consciousness I heard a chant, “Dagon, Lord of the Sea, we bow to thee.” My brain was refiring the image I’d seen: a canoe carrying four bearded men in dresses. The thing tightened around me, slipping
lower, stopping my legs from paddling.
I really was going to drown.
“Dagon, Lord Dagon, we bring—” The rest of it was submerged with my ears. Water burned in my nostrils, familiar briny Mediterranean seawater. How could
I have ever known it would be my last—my thought was interrupted as someone yanked my head above water, his hands in my hair,
half ripping it from the roots.
“She is beautiful as benefits thee. Take her, Dagon—” The chorus continued as I shrieked, then inhaled, desperately forcing myself to not fight off my pseudorescuers. Some factoid
in my military training reminded me that more people drowned while being rescued. Don’t struggle, Chloe. Don’t. I was coughing up water, my eyes streaming, blurring the world around me.
Arms grabbed me as I was going under for the third time. A hand covered my mouth, another voice crooned for me to be quiet
and still, they had caught me so that I could be honored. I didn’t want to be honored, I wanted to be free!
It took every ounce of effort not to scream as they pulled my head again, using my hair as a handle. Then they grasped me
around the elbows and hefted me into the canoe.
“Ha der-kay-toe glows with the beauty of Lord Dagon’s love,” they sang. The vibrations of landing hard on the wood resonated through my body, knocked the wind out of me, left me motionless
for a moment. I couldn’t see because my hair, wet and heavy, covered my face.
“HaDerkato delights the heart of the Lord of Corn.” I coughed up more water, spewing it through the—net?—I was caught in. I was outraged. I was snared in a net? Like a fish?
“Dagon, Master of the Sea …” I fought to catch my breath. I twisted within my bonds, then stopped for a moment. Nearly drowning was hard work. I was exhausted.
I sneezed.
“HaDerkato blesses us,” they said. “Lord Dagon embraces her.” Quickly I did a body inventory. Everything seemed to work—arms, legs, torso, neck. Though my head felt disconnected, still
I understood the words of the … sailors?
“Dagon, Lord of Corn, this gift we bring to thee… .”
Daybreak had turned the sky blue, with misty clouds above us. Through squinted eyes I saw that I was dumped in the back of
the canoe—but it wasn’t really a canoe, it was more like a skiff—and I was lying across a plank in the back, my feet trailing
an inch above the water. Strapped as I was in the net, I saw only my legs, the sky, and the odd sandaled foot.
Sandals, dresses on men.
“We implore thee to accept this propitiation.”
My eyes popped open at that.
“She’s waking!” someone shouted.
“Where is her tail?” another male voice asked.
“Get her before she returns!” The net was ripped off, my wrists and ankles tied, despite my silent struggling.
Too much of a battle and I would find myself overboard, definitely drowning. “Don’t look in her eyes,” one of them said. I
opened my mouth to scream.
“Silence her before she calls to Dagon,” someone said. They gagged me with salty rags.
“Keep your ears blocked, beware of her gaze!” said another, the chanting to Dagon uninterrupted throughout.
“Why does she have legs?” one of them asked. “As a consort of Dagon, should she not have a flipper, or fins, or a tail?”
A tail? I stopped struggling and trying to gnaw through my gag, I looked around, wincing as the gag tugged at my hair. I saw
them, upside down.
Men in dresses, colored and embroidered dresses with sandals. Short hair. Beards. Swords at their sides.
Okay, men in dresses. However, my mental processes didn’t say, “Okay,” they said, “B’seder.” Were they equivalent?
“Dagon, Progenitor of the Fields …”
Who was that? Where was Cheftu, my beloved husband, the reason I was here to begin with? I was here with men in dresses. I
sneezed—no mean trick with a gag—then looked up again, bewildered.
The sky was suddenly tinted red; when I looked down at my legs, the water beyond them, it was also red. Then I realized my
hair, which was framing everything I saw, was red.
“Dagon, Rapist of the Rivers, creator of the sea-maids …”
My hair was red?
My world rocked, canted at a definite forty-five-degree angle. My hair was red! Omigod.
A shudder coursed through me as I tried to look at my clothes, at my body. Then I felt them—signs of the twentieth century
in this obviously ancient world: the rayon miniskirt drying in the December breeze, the edge of a pushup bra digging into
my ribs. Straps around my ankles attached to a ridiculous pair of sandals. The edge of a Day-Glo necklace gleamed spectrally
in the morning light.
Around my neck! On my body!
I forced myself to breathe slowly, tried to still the racing of my pulse. I was a redhead with parchment pale skin— again—dressed
like a cheap hooker. And only my thoughts were in my brain!
Another Dagon verse. Dagon. Dagon. A king? A god? A priest? I was drawing total blanks. Fear bottled in my throat.
Where was Cheftu?
The skiff began cutting through the water at a fast clip. I get the world’s worst motion sickness on small vessels. Being
petrified didn’t help my stomach, either. Dagon’s praises continued, like Muzak. I took a firm grip on my mind.
No Cheftu, and you’re a redhead: the rules have changed. I bit back panic again and reasoned with myself. One, you woke up
in the Mediterranean. Literally in the Mediterranean. Then it struck me: They hadn’t been surprised to find me, they’d apparently been looking for me.
“Dagon, Showerer of the Plains, thy—”
Dagon. Dagon. My thoughts derailed as we pulled up to a big ship, complete with sails, oars, and cast of hundreds. More men
in dresses. More Dagon verses. I’d been rescued by some type of sailor. An ancient sailor. I was thrown over a man’s shoulder
like a catch of tuna, and I bumped against him as he braced himself in the skiff. My head was pounding with all the blood
flowing to it. After a few shouts, a rope was thrown down.
“Is haDerkato secure?” one of them asked.
The oaf carrying me patted my thigh and shouted back, “Ken! She is secure, but if she falls, haYam will provide another.”
The muscles beneath my stomach shifted as the man began climbing up the rope hand over hand. “You are a weighty goddess, haDerkato,” he huffed.
I had gone stiff as a board to stay over his shoulder: he certainly wasn’t holding me! I tensed my legs and tried desperately
to keep from swinging out. He grunted and groaned as he pulled us up the ship’s side. Beneath me, the sea, the sailors, and
the boat grew smaller and smaller. Suddenly a cold breeze blew across me.
“Watch out for her gaze,” the climber gasped out as he tossed me down on yet another wooden deck.
When next I opened my eyes, they were grouped around me. Men in dresses, with hairy knees and fish cologne.
“HaDerkato,” one of them said slowly, as if speaking to a foreigner. “Welcome aboard Dawn’s Battle.”
I insulted his heritage beneath my gag; my head was killing me.
“She curses you,” one of them said.
I looked at him immediately and they all stepped back, averting their eyes.
What the hell was going on? “Where’s her tail?” one of them whispered, staring at my bare white legs. Thanks to my streetwalker
attire, there was plenty to see. Why was everyone concerned about my tail? How many people actually had—
Oh, duh, I thought. They pulled me from the sea, they are scared of my voice, they think I’m a mermaid? I couldn’t help it;
I started laughing, drooling around my gag as I realized they thought I was a sea siren. I doubled over, howling, deaf to
their reactions.
A mermaid? Oh, this was rich. Priestesses and oracles I have been. Never been a mermaid before.
Then I sobered.
Why were they pulling me out of the sea, and who was Dagon?
And what was this about propitiation?
As another verse of the Dagon song trickled through my understanding, I remembered. Before I stepped through the red sandstone
portal, its lintel inscribed with the words of passage, the words of my final prayer in 1996 were, “Please God, let me find
Cheftu. Give me everything I need, especially language, to be with him again.”
“Dagon, Lord of Corn and Sea …” I understood! My body ran hot, then cold. So if that part of the prayer came true, then Cheftu was here? Somewhere?
With a shout, we set sail. Still trussed up like a Cornish hen, I watched the sails fill with wind. I heard the slow beat
of the timekeeper as the oars creaked and groaned, speeding up. Big ships, square sails, and men in dresses—it was all vaguely
familiar.
But who was Dagon?
The rhythm of the ship rocked me quietly, even though I was spinning with confusion and discomfort—gags are not comfortable.
Then I heard the whispers. They must have thought I was asleep.
“I don’t understand. Where is her tail?” one man hissed. “She only has it when she’s in the water. How else would Dagon be
able to stump her?”
The first man grunted, “Are you certain she is ha Find?” Although I’d never heard ha before today, somewhere between hearing it and understanding it, I learned that it was “the.” In this case the “the” was
a term of honor, as in “the Big Kahuna.”
“She answered to haDerkato, did she not? Besides, who else would be in the middle of haYam on the day of the Find, if not Dagon’s intended?”
Ha, the big “the,” and Yam? Yam was sea. Again, the translation was taking place somewhere between my ear and my brain. This time the internal translator
wasn’t only explaining the words, but giving me a cultural context as well. To these people the Mediterranean needed no other
name, for there was no competition. It was the Sea.
“Look at her jewelry; do you think she is less than that? No one save the bride of the king of the seas would have such a
thing as that. It glows with the light of the moon.”
“Colorful, too,” the other man mused.
They must have been talking about my neon jewelry. I fought not to smile.
“She is very pretty,” the suspicious one said. “Ken.”
I tried not to blush. “Pity she will die.”
What? “Ach, well, the desires of Dagon.” “B’seder.”
They walked away, discussing ropes, as I lay there trying to still my racing heart. Pity about me dying? What was going on?
I grappled against my bonds for a moment, irrationally trying to get free, though there was nowhere to go.
I opened my eyes when it got quiet and was surprised to see that it was dark, yet we were still sailing. Did these people
sail all night? Ancient Egyptians were notorious for tying up their ships at dusk, I knew this from personal experience. The
Nile was treacherous enough without compounding the problem with a lack of visibility. But the Egyptians didn’t have ships
like this.
A low buzz of activity came from over my shoulders and behind my back. The sailors were moving around the ship quickly, shouting
orders—drop sail, double time, then the anticipated drop anchor.
Stars were sprayed across the blackness of the night. The temperature had dropped too, so now I was freezing. The bonds I
wore were almost warming. I lay there shivering as the men ran to and fro. The sound of a skiff falling to the water below
startled me. Just seconds later I was hoisted across another man’s shoulder and carried down another rope ladder. I kept my
eyes closed. What was unnerving going up in daylight was petrifying going down in the dark with a sailor whose odor of alcohol
mingled disagreeably with his aroma of fish guts.
They stood in the skiff, sailing into the harbor. Consequently my first view of the city, this time, was upside down between
a set of hairy knees. Lights sprinkled the hills, lending the scene a sense of being 2-D, like a matte painting for a stage
production. Again blood rushed into my head, giving me a headache that throbbed in time with his step. Between my head pounding,
his bony shoulder digging into my stomach, and being in a small boat on a rocky sea, upside down, I felt way sick.
As the revolting taste of hot bile filled my mouth, thump, we were docked. I was handled with the tenderness of a ton of potatoes. I could barely hear the surrounding sailors and
merchants compliment the men who had captured me. My ears were ringing as I was dumped into the back of a cart. My hair once
again covered my face, and the smell and taste of near vomit stayed on my gag. I was lying on my side, unable to pull myself
upright. The cart moved slowly, dragging across rutted dirt paths. Cats, no surprise with our fishy odor, trailed us, swatting
at my hair hanging over the edge of the cart.
Cart. Think, Chloe, you could be figuring out where you are. Why the hell should that matter? I groused back at myself. Cheftu isn’t here, at least not yet, and I’m in my own body with
no mental tour guide to wherever I am. Moreover, I think I’m scheduled to be some kind of sacrifice.
The word propitiation haunted me. I’d spent too many summers attending vacation Bible school to not be nervous. Propitiation was compensating for
doing something wrong, trying to work your way back into someone’s good graces.
I noticed, despite myself, that I was in the back of a two-person, chariot-style cart. I couldn’t tell how many horses it
had, I couldn’t see them. All the elements were here, though. Men in dresses, sandals, gods, and horse-drawn chariots.
I was back in ancient times.
Cheftu had to be here. He had to be. I just needed to keep my eyes—
The vehicle stopped so suddenly that I was pitched out, into the dirt. I felt the abrasion on my face, my shoulder. I wanted
to cry; I’d been here less than twenty-four hours and already I was bruised. Not to mention tired, hungry, and confused.
Another man threw me over his shoulder—my stomach was getting sore from this treatment—and carried me from the cart into a
building. Suddenly the flooring was different, as was the lighting, the smell, and the sound. He tossed me down, cracking
my head against the floor so loudly that I heard the echo.
The sounds around me slowly unfolded into decipherable words. I heard a woman’s voice. “You’re supposed to set her down gently!”
she shouted at him. “She isn’t a catch!”
“I was being gentle,” he said defensively.
“I hope you didn’t kill her, then we’ll be in worse trouble than we are now!”
He mumbled something, but I couldn’t discern the words beyond the aching of my head. She told him to get out, he was a lug
and an oaf. Cool hands touched me. “Sea-Mistress, he shall be punished. He is a sailor; sea urchins have been his parents!
Please do not hold him against us.”
A pillow was slipped beneath my head—which hurt. My hair was brushed from my eyes—which also hurt. My bonds were cut, and
as the blood flowed back into my limbs, they hurt, too. My face and shoulder were cleaned off and a salve put on them—which
hurt. I felt tears squeeze from beneath my lashes.
Silence fell, blessed peace. When the throbbing in my body had settled down, I cautiously opened one eye.
Holy Isis, here we go again!
All I had wanted to do was find Cheftu, to be with him. Instead I was in a temple, not like any I’d seen before, but identifiable
by the smell, the layout, and … the twenty-foot-tall statue of a merman with food, gold, and jewels strewn at his, uh, tail.
This was not Egyptian artwork. Not Aztlantu. Neither Greek nor Roman. Pillars rose up on all sides of me, providing the studs
for a wall that went up only seven or so feet. Incense clouded the air, filled it with the cloying odor of … coriander? Burned
coriander? The acrid smell took me back to my childhood in Morocco. Definitely coriander.
The colors were the tints of the sea and sky, blues and greens that blended like watercolors from one into another. A braid
pattern wrapped around the columns and edged the ceiling. The floor was a mosaic of shells and colored sand. The room was
pretty, very gentle and soothing.
Where was this temple? My head still throbbed, but the nausea had passed. I was lying on my back, on the top part of a set
of stairs. To my left was the idol.
He was carved from one piece of marble. It had been broken at least three times around his waist and each arm. Stone must
be very expensive, I thought as I looked at him. Why else would they use such a blatantly flawed piece? He was kind of clunky
and block shaped, recognizable as a merman but nothing that would set the art world on fire.
Marks had been pressed into the base of the statue. An ancient language. Then, before my eyes, the duck foot– looking wedges
re-formed into letters that I understood. Dagon, Lord of Thunder, King of the Sea, Ruler of the Cornfield, Father of Ba’al, Beloved of Derkato.
Dagon was the merman?
How did this relate to reuniting with Cheftu? Why else would I be here, in my own skin, unless my prayer had been answered?
I’d been looking for him. Instead of finding him, though, I’d been fished out of the Mediterranean and left in a temple. Maybe
Cheftu was a fisherman; or a priest?
However, that would be odd. Cheftu had always been an Egyptian. Always arriving from Egypt. Then again, I’d always been someone
else, and now I was myself. In my experiences—of which I’d had two, vivid, life-changing ones, when I went back in time, when
I stepped into history—I had stepped into another person, her body, her voice, her life; I would put on some ancient woman’s
skin like a cloak.
I felt dazed, because suddenly everything was new— even the rules seemed different. But I’d time-traveled again, despite these
differences. I noticed the red hair falling over my white-skinned shoulder; I was cloakless. Hello? I asked my echoing cranium. Anybody in there? Yoo-hoo?
Would Cheftu look the same? He always had before. Now it would be up to me to identify him, for he’d never seen me in my own
twentieth-century “cloak.”
“Sea-Mistress Derkato, would you care for refreshing?” Glancing up, I saw a young girl, her head bowed, her robe covered in fabric scales. “Water,”
I said, suspicious of anything else. I didn’t think they would try to poison me, but I wasn’t positive about that.
She looked up at me, then ducked her head and backed away. Unlike the citizens of both other cultures I’d lived in, where
black hair and dark eyes were the norm, this girl was honey colored. Though she was on the tall side, she was slightly built.
Long, straight gilded brown hair that matched her eyes hung in elaborate braids to her waist. She gleamed like well-polished
wood.
“Please,” I called after her. While I thought “Please,” what came from my mouth was b’vakasha. Was that “please” in this language? I lay back down on the mosaic floor, staring up at the ceiling. Flat roof with clerestory
windows; it was good to be in a place with an architecture I knew.
I was in the Mediterranean. In a temple of Dagon. As a mermaid/goddess who was going to die. When I raised a hand to tuck
my hair behind my ear, I saw the neon on my arm. I glowed.
Neon. The priestess RaEmhetepet, who had had my body for the past two years, had been on her way to a Ramadan/Christmas party
in 1996, dressed with her customary bad taste, which I was now wearing, when she had wandered by the portal and gotten sucked
back. Or something like that, I guessed. In modern times RaEm had become obsessed with neon and electricity and things that
glittered, which is why I now glowed like some B-film alien.
“Sea-Mistress, yo
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Sunrise on the Mediterranean
Suzanne Frank
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
