ELEANOR COOKE

The Dollar and the Drachma

nathan sat there, dead still, vines wrapped around his torso and holding him to the ground. He had panicked at first, that his mother’s protections might not recognise him, and he called for help but the vines just held him. There had been a storm, a bad one, and it had brought down the trees onto the temple. It was broken and crushed where one tree had fallen onto the main altar and where the smaller ones had knocked down the walls. He watched as the vines snaked around the trunks, pulled them aside and cleared the debris of branches and twigs.

He flinched as the pillars, no longer supported by the branches, crumbled to the ground. In the new clearing he could see the dust remains of the statue, everything crushed except the head of the goddess. Wind whipped around the temple, stealing the dust and carting it away from its origin. His restraints released and he walked into the shattered temple, missing the faint calling of his name from Matthew.

Matthew thought this archaeology phase might be worse than the stand-up phase; without a doubt it was worse than the musical phase. But just like all the other phases, Matthew had to stand around and wait until Nathan got bored, then finally shout for him so they could leave. Of course, this time Nathan had been shouting for him, on account of the “sentient” vines wrapped around him, but that was beside the point. Matthew had shouted back and received no reply, not unusually.

He had had enough of waiting and walked towards where the temple ought to be, following Nathan’s rather obvious footsteps. Who even walks around an old temple barefoot, anyway? Past the old well that Nathan had insisted Matthew see, apparently having been used by some famous ancient king. Liondas or Leondis? Anyway, past the stupid well and past whatever these little half-columns were meant to be, he continued to where he hoped he’d find Nathan.

Nathan wandered around the temple, eyes glowing white as the rubble and dust lifted and swirled, collecting from all over the floor. Finally, the goddess’s head lifted from the ground and joined the dust storm. The vortex wrapped around the plinth and started to shrink as white light held the larger pieces together and the dust filled the cracks. Nathan’s eyes returned to a dark brown and the light stopped as Themis’s stone eyes looked over the land again.

He knelt by the statue, feeling the vestigial energy from the shattered altar and drawing on the ancient sigils to protect the temple from further decay. Nathan threw a veil over the whole building. Instantly, the wind stopped and the dust settled to the ground once again – no wind, no rain nor storm would penetrate the veil. Nathan became faintly aware of Matthew’s nearing presence, so he picked up his bag and prepared to leave, but not before taking a quick picture of the temple, the statue and trees behind it in the sun.