To Begin With...

To begin with, I hate storms…and spiders…in that order. I’d found the cave in an attempt to get out of storm. I found the spider getting out of the storm. Now all I needed was a trap door to open up under my feet and it would be perfect. Yes...I was that lucky.

Dining in Malta

I’ve never been one to want anything. Really. No, I mean it. I’ve had everything I’ve ever needed my whole life – now, before you express your opinion, I need to state that it’s not my fault I was born to Paul Neith and his lovely wife, Elizabeth. I could have just as easily emerged from the worn-out womb of some poor Xtian on her 17th baby and been called Willow or Winston. I consider it the luck of the draw – in a purely genetic fashion. Anyway, I never wanted anything in my life until I found out about the cipher of Tanit. Right, you’ve never heard of it - neither had I until I ran into Jennie again.

Jennie and I grew up together in a fashion. She lived across the road from our place. Across the road meaning you had to travel 5 miles down our lane to get to the road and then cross it. She was what you expected from her name. How do mothers do that anyway? Jennie looked…well, like a Jennie Caroline Addington…all petite and pink and soft; pretty where pretty is considered most desirable; smart as a whip in hand and her family as poor as mine was not. I’m six foot tall in my bare feet, have hair as dark as Arabian chocolate and have been told way too many times that I need to research the proper definition of the word ‘feminine’. Now, Jennie could get away with murder because of her ‘petite, pink, soft, pretty’ description. I, on the other hand, got away with nothing. Oh, by the by, you can call me A.A. or Mac – don’t ask. Jennie used to meander up the lane every chance she could slip out of her mother’s grasp and we’d have ‘adventures’. Of course I put Jennie up to most of the trouble we got into as children and we got away with most of it. Sometimes she was sly enough to catch me out and I was the one that caught the blame.


Journal Entry, Page 1: Malta

Malta is a nice island. The origin of the term "Malta" is uncertain, though the modern day variation is from the Maltese language. The more common etymology states that it comes from the Greek word μέλι, which means ‘honey’. The Greeks called the island Melite meaning "honey-sweet" possibly due to Malta's unique production of honey. There appears to have been Greek influence on the island as early as 700 BCE, but the island seems to have been dominated by the Greek-speaking Byzantine Empire from 395 to the 800s. Situated in Southern Europe, 93 km off the coast of Sicily; it is located in the Mediterranean. The nation's capital city is Valletta. The streets of Valletta happened to be where I was when Jennie and I became reacquainted.

The sidewalk café was near the Grand Harbour, but set back far enough to keep the ripe smell of seafood from spoiling one’s palate. The waitress brought my meal, setting it beside the stuffed olives I’d almost polished off. Mqarrun il-Forn, a baked dish made with macaroni, Bolognese-style meat sauce, egg, and various other ingredients (I like mine with hard boiled eggs, peas and bacon); “Angels on Horseback”, which were small pieces of liver wrapped in bacon and then grilled; and Zalzett tal-Malti, the traditional sausage made of pork, sea salt, black peppercorns, coriander seeds and parsley. She topped off my wine and bade me enjoy. I’d finished off the Angels and was just beginning on the pasta when a one-horse carriage skidded around the corner and shot down a narrow alley. The only other patron of the café that sunny afternoon, at the round table nearest my own, looked at me; I looked at him; we looked at the alley.

He raised his wineglass towards me and I reciprocated. We sipped and turned towards our respective plates to begin the gastronomic journeys anew. I lifted my fork to my mouth… A second carriage followed the path of the first, in the same ridiculous fashion. This action was soon followed by a horrific crash. My fellow diner dumped his wine completely down his waistcoat and the waitress scurried to help him clean up.

I picked up my linen napkin, dabbed at my mouth to remove any trace of my failed meal, left more than sufficient funds to cover said failed meal and walked towards the alley. I could hear quite the brouhaha as I made my way down the cobbles of the alleyway. I stepped up my pace at the sight of two men engaging in rather clumsy fisticuffs beside two carriages – one tipped over on its side (yes, the horse was quite safe; it had broken its harness and was munching on something probably unmentionable in one corner of the mews). A gentleman, and I use the term loosely, was leaning against the fallen carriage and watching the two cabbies out of dark, sardonic eyes. I strode up to them and rapped each fighter sharply alongside the temple with my walking stick. They stopped and rounded about with fists and angry faces. I pulled a thin, rather wicked-looking blade out of the stick and held it before me.

“I’d say it’s a queen against two jacks,” the dark-eyed watcher quipped, “and give it up if I were you gents. Lady or not, I think she’d skewer you in a bluestocking-hued moment.”

I looked at the speaker. “I don’t like you,” I stated, then to the cabbies, “and what in Medusa’s Curls is going on here?”

The shortest of the pair scowled at his adversary. “He sideswiped me in the square – nearly took off my wheel!”

“I was only doin’ what he wanted!” the other argued, “and look what you’ve done to my hack!”

They raised their fists to one another again. “Gentlemen,” I pointedly stated – the pointed part being my sword pinking the pair of them to get their focus once again, then spoke to the second, “Someone wanted you to wreck his cab? Who?”

The cabbie turned and pointed to where the fresh-mouthed man had stood. Yes, had stood. He was gone.

That’s when the sky fell on me.


Journal Entry, Page 2: Malta

Well, not literally, but it certainly felt like it. A shadow and then I was flat on my back; the cobblestones digging quite painfully into my…well, my ass, to be indelicate. Shadows should not be heavy; this one was. I pushed the person off me and was assisted to my feet by one of the men. I brushed off my smartly-tailored khakis then walked towards my antagonist – who, by the way – was trying to dash off down the alley. The taller cabbie reached out and nabbed her by the arm. As she swung about and dealt him a smart blow in the solar plexus, I started back in surprise. “Jennie! Harrington’s Blades, is that you, Jennie?”

She was dressed to the nines; the perfect Regency silhouette with blooming, exaggerated skirt held out by crinolines and quite the tiered frill bustle bringing up the end of this fashion locomotive that stood before me. Her dark hair was pulled back very smartly from her appealing features and the emerald-green eyes that used to snap in the most audacious mischievous manner when we were young were now filled with two things: rage and desperation. The cabbies started to fight again when the taller of the two started to drag Jennie off towards the main street, cursing loudly in Maltese, and the shorter leaped on his back to stop the abduction. I let them have at each other and pointed towards the way I had come. “My rooms are this way. You have some explaining to do, Jennie Caroline Addington.” Jennie acted as if she was thinking of bolting again, but I nixed the idea in my own fashion. I grabbed her firmly by the elbow and pulled her after me.

Once we were ensconced in my chamber overlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean and I’d ordered a fine Hockenheim wine to take the edge off, I looked again at the beauty sitting at the bay window. “I suppose we should start by your telling of how you managed to literally land in my lap. Where the hell did you come from?”

“Originally or just now?” she asked back coolly.

“Don’t start with me, Jennie,” I returned, holding out a glass of hock for her, “This obviously isn’t the time for one of our word games. You appear, seemingly out of nowhere, in the middle of a miniature disaster and you look quite put out. While neither is unusual for you, it is remarkable that it should occur the one day I decide to visit Malta. Out with it, girl.”

Jennie took the hock and availed herself quite handsomely of it. I refilled her glass and the second was as quickly down. I sipped at my own - one mustn’t abuse Reisling grapes - and waited without another word. In fact, I turned about, unwrapped my leathern journal and began writing. I heard her arise to avail herself of more wine. The cry of the gulls and the fishermen mixed in a discordant musical floated in through the window and finally she spoke.

“I was working at the Albert,” she began. I didn’t turn, just kept writing, as she continued, “I catalogue the artefacts as they’re received from the archaeologists out in the field.”

“They aren’t archaeologists,” I noted crisply as I spun about, “they’re grave robbers.”

Her eyes flared greener, “And what do you call yourself then?”

“I don’t smash precious historical evidence in pursuit of gold and baubles. I want to preserve it all, not make money off it; not show it off to my posh pals so they consider me haute ton.”

“Whatever,” she stated.

“Continue,” I urged, “it’s more important for you to tell me why you’re running from whatever it is you’re running from than to quibble; except if you say ‘whatever’ to me again, I’ll wale you like I did when we were eight years of age.’

She stood and looked out the window at the sea, “Who says I’m running? Maybe I’m just taking in the beauties of the Mediterranean. Like you.”

"Jennie," I laughed shortly, "Don't try to bounce me; I know you too well. It's not like you've off and stolen something and are on the run..."

She turned and looked at me with a faint, enigmatic smile. "Mac, it's exactly like that."


Journal Entry, Page 3: Malta

I put down my pen and lifted my fingers to rub my jaw-line (I know, but I do it when I’m thinking). “Exactly like you’ve off and stolen something and you’re on the run or exactly like…” I prompted further.

Jennie began pacing the short span between me and the window. “As I said before, I catalogue the artefacts that come in from the field. Edwin Mosley has been in Anatolia for utterly years. He finally left that dig and –“

“And came to Malta to begin another desecration,” I finished, “In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

“And why I’m here too,” Jennie told me, still pacing, “You see, I noted something curious on one of the ciphers that came across my desk. It was an unusual symbol and one that no one seemed to be able to identify.”

“Intriguing, but not horribly atypical; we’re just beginning to learn about most ancient cultures, let alone read them.”

She stopped in front of me. “Mac, it’s not the reading of it. I know what it means.”

Jennie reached into the waist of her skirt and pulled out a small, square object. It was the size of a pack of playing cards and the colour of sand. She handed it to me. I studied it; noting the glyphs upraised thereon. One was composed of a circle with an inverted ‘v’ beneath it; two small lines jutted out just below the circle and on either side of the upside down point of the ‘v’. The other glyph looked somewhat like the rudimentary rendition of a flower and stalk. Underneath the other two symbols were what might have been two very small lightning bolts and a single horizontal slash. I lightly brushed one finger over them, feeling the grit of millennia-past as I did so.

“Mosley found this in Anatolia?” I queried.

“Yes,” Jennie answered, “It was buried near what he believed was a temple, but instead of continuing the excavation, he stopped the dig and came here.”

“I’m not certain, but this looks to be several thousand years old; possibly predating Sumeria.”

“It may predate everything,” she stated, “That symbol has been used by women since time immemorial.”

I looked up at her with what I know, unfortunately, was probably disbelief. Jennie took the artefact from my hand and shoved it back into her waistband. “Fine, I’ll be on my way then.”

I stood and blocked her way to the door. “I think not. Jennie, first you must know that I’d never let a friend in difficult straits go without my aid; second, I’ve followed your success in your field and consider you one of the best, so I want you to explain further; third, you haven’t told me how you fell from the sky.”

Her gaze met mine with equal stubbornness and strength. It was always that way between us. My governess, Kate, used to say that Jennie and I were so much alike that we’d either end up killing each other or end up ruling the world together one day. I still don’t know which one it will end up being, but at that moment I’d say Jennie was leaning towards the former. We stood there almost literally toe-to-toe with one another until she sighed and went back to sit at the window. “I’m tired, Mac. I’m tired of running.”

“Yes, that’s what I want to know. Jennie. You know, know, that no matter what it is…” I said as I joined her by the window, “I mean, I realize that we’ve not had a lot to do with one another since Penelope, but I’m here and you’re in danger. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She stiffened perceptively at the name. I touched her hand. She started to draw away then stopped. “You were an idiot, you know; a total idiot.”

Hard as it is for me to admit when maybe I may not be accurate, I nodded. “I know,” I admitted, “Jennie, talk to me.”

“I’m not ready to talk about that.”

“Then tell me about the cipher. Tell me who’s after you and why.”

Jennie smiled at me carefully.

That’s when the door was kicked in.

Well, it didn’t just fall on the first kick; it took quite a few, actually. However, the need to kick repeatedly gave enough time for me to reach my valise. With a crack somewhat reminiscent of Krakatau erupting, the door fell apart and three rather unclean-looking men rushed in. They found themselves with my 20-ga. Howdah pistol pointing and my swordcane blade (I’d tossed it to Jennie just before arming myself) at the ready. They stopped short. “Well done, gentlemen,” I noted in French, “Now if you’ll just tell me why you’ve ruined a perfectly good door.”

“Give her over and we’ll leave,” the one that was the far ugliest growled at me, “We’ll let you be.”

“Let me think about that,” I answered back then smiled, “No.” They moved forward and I cocked the double-barrelled weapon. “The last time I used this pistol was on a tiger that was scaling the side of my elephant in India. It’s full of buck and ball, therefore I’d advise caution on your part. In fact, why don’t you just turn around and go back to where ever it is you came from. The lady is safe with me and I give you my solemn word that we’ll leave on the next boat to the mainland.”

“Give us the piece.”

“I do hope you’re not referring to me,” Jennie interjected, stepping forward, the end of the sword just under the nose of the leader, “I’d just leave off if I were you. Lady Hawkwell is quite the crack-shot. Tell whomever sent you that I returned the item in question to Edwin Mosley.”

The blackguards were not to be dissuaded and moved forward. I took the hat off the leader with a well-placed shot and pulled a second pistol from my waistband. “There’s a 20-ga. ball ready for whoever wants it and a .44 slug apiece for those who don’t. Any takers?”

They scrambled out like mice in the morning when the gaslights are brought up. I walked out into the hallway just as the concierge was running up the stairs. I instructed him to get someone to fix the door and bring us tea then turned to look at Jennie. “I can’t believe you just called me Lady Hawkwell.”


Journal Entry, Page 4: Malta

After the aforementioned incident, we took our tea without another word about the artefact and made the boat by early evening. As it pulled away from the shore, I stowed my gear away then sat on my berth and regarded my travelling companion. “Now, let’s talk at length, my Jennie.”

She opened one eye. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow, Mac? I’m exhausted.”

“Let’s see,” I surmised, “Since you descended upon me – in a most literal way, a cabbie tried to abduct you and then we had to stand off three malcontents who were trying to do the same thing. No. Start with the cipher and we’ll just go from there.”

Jennie sat up and took up the small square artefact. She gazed at it a very long time, then spoke, “The symbol with the circle represents Tanit. Tanit was a Phoenician lunar goddess, worshiped as the patron goddess at Carthage. Her name was the title rabat, the female form of 'rab' or ‘chief’. In North Africa, she was also a heavenly goddess of war, a virginal mother goddess. She is the goddess Astarte. In Egyptian, her name means Land of Neith. Neith was a war goddess. She has always been there. She was the start; she was at the beginning. Religion; organized religion, it’s just a front, you know. There is no vengeful, male god with a long beard and lightning bolts. It’s always been Her. And I found out something else…”

I remained silent and just watched her.

Jennie just stared at the piece of sun-baked clay for the longest time. The sound of the ship crashing through the waves and the sway of the vessel nearly had me nodding out when she spoke again, “There’s another glyph. All I’ve seen is a drawing of it, but it’s a male figure. I’ve seen them before on some other representations and one mural. They’re always separate from one another; never together…they’ve been with others.”

“Others,” I echoed.

She nodded. “Others. The symbol for woman is always linked with another female symbol. The male symbol when paired is shown only with another male.”

This definitely perked my interest. “And this was found in Anatolia?”

“This particular one was,” she answered, “As I said, I’ve seen the symbol before.”

“Where?”

“France, Scotland, Ireland, Denmark - to name a few.”

“Okay, so I know what the symbol represents and that there’s a bit more to your tale – which we will get to by and by, believe me; but the next question I’d like answered is why you’re running.”

Jennie shook her head in amusement, “You never let me finish my paragraphs, you know.”

“By all means finish your paragraph; in fact, you may produce an entire essay, my dear, if it will explain why I wasn’t allowed to finish my dinner this afternoon.”

“What if I told you that women were once in charge of this world and will be again one day in the future?”

“I’d say,” I said, “that while the former is quite believable – albeit not acceptable theory in most circles; the latter is tantamount to blasphemy in the eyes of those presently in power and the theory that presents itself when you describe the female and male symbols never being linked to one another could be quite fascinating, if true. I assume you’re going to tell me what specifically this theory is?”

“Deep down inside every culture’s history I’ve read yet, the perfect human was considered by them all to be a combination of male and female. Not like a literal half man-half woman, but a person whose personality and talents were a mix of feminine and masculine strengths. A person who was not a fainting society dame but not a hulking mass of ignorance and aggressiveness either.”

“That describes most of the women I attended university with, actually, but pray continue,” I urged, “because I have a feeling you’re going to tell me who’s after you and I have a feeling that they follow a particular mountain god and enjoy doing nasty things like burning people at the stake.”

Jennie laughed shortly, albeit with no humour. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Mac. You cut right to the chase, never taking the care to peep about the corner just in case the quarry has claws. These men are dangerous who’re after me. They’ve killed three people already; all for a piece of clay.”

I got up and walked over to her berth, sat down beside Jennie and smoothed her errant hair from her brow. “It’s not the piece of clay they kill for; it’s the knowledge inside that pretty head and, I'll tell you now, I'll not let them touch a single, soft hair that decorates you.”


Journal Entry, Page 5: Malta

We made Italy the next day without further incident – meaning the unpleasant, unwelcome kind, thank you very much. Jennie and I did quite a bit of catching up on the carriage ride into Rome. I found out that her father had wished her to marry the local cleric back in our childhood lands after I’d left for London. She demurred and set off rather hastily to university where she studied hard - and worked harder as a seamstress to gain the monies needed - to receive a degree in archaeology. I must admit that I was a bit puffed up to think that she had chosen the same field as myself, but Jennie told me that she’d begun her studies long before she’d found out that I was an archaeologist.

“They told me you were off to university, but you’d always had such an affinity for the stars that I figured that’s what you went into,” she remarked, “Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the dauntless adventuress who discovered the Golden Shield of Insitius was, in fact, you.”

“Heh,” was about all I could manage. Well, not all. “And yourself; how many sites have you worked on?”

“I’m prefer the quiet, and relatively clean, habitat of the university,” she answered, “The first time I got sand…well, in a place that was most unpleasant…rather helped me decide to stick to research.”

“Tell me why the Church is after you.”

“Really, Mac, isn’t that obvious? I have information that would absolutely set them on their collective, supposedly celibate ears.”

“No,” I shook my head in the negative, “they could just discount it like so many other so-called ‘myths’ and the vast ignorant majority would believe. I mean, come on; it’s not like women in academia are taken even semi-seriously. No, there’s something more here - something that has brought the little buggers out of their abbeys and after you. What would make that bit of dried earth worth killing over?”

“You want to know what I know?” Jennie said, “The Virgin Mary is merely Tanit or Neith. The Church took her up when the worship of Christ was fast declining because they knew that people would always worship a Mother Goddess. The church doesn’t want people to slide back into the old religions which would negate their power and livelihood. Tanit/Neith didn’t care who loved who. Homosexuality is part of the nature of all humans. Every human begins as a female; it’s on a wash of testosterone that mutants the female into a male – and that is merely for the continuance of the species. She planned for those who thought alike to love one another because obviously this would produce harmony and happiness was what she wanted for her creations. The male and female aspects were simply to continue a mix of ‘new’ in order to help the species to evolve. She wanted people to learn, love, laugh and live, but the testosterone-poisoned male appeared and greed took over.”

“Makes sense,” I replied, “So you’re telling me that you’ve got the Church Proper after you; little priests?”

“Well, actually they’ve not been too little and they’re mean as witch hunters.”

“Great. Just what I didn’t want for Christmas this year.”