"And tenacious," I added.
Ennis and I had worked together for years. Whenever I traveled on a photo assignment, he handled the logistics, which freed me up to concentrate on taking pictures. We had been everywhere together, from the Blue Mountains of New South Wales to Prince Edward Island to the Great Wall of China. Ennis was Jamaican and though he tried to temper his accent, the lilting island patois usually snuck through. Especially when he was excited.
"It is here, near the town of Messopotamo," he announced triumphantly.
Ennis was a student of history, particularly of Greek history, which is why he was thrilled when I asked him to come along on this assignment. It was a two-week gig to photograph villages along the western coast of Greece for a travel magazine. It sounds exotic but it wasn't particularly exciting work. There are just so many ways that you can shoot a small harbor to make it look quaint and
inviting. But the towns themselves were lovely and the weather was perfect. It was the kind of trip I would have loved to take with Michael and Marsh, but work and school prevented that.
"How did you find this book?" I asked.
Ennis smiled. "As you say, I am tenacious."
I gave him a look that said, "Just give me a straight answer."
"It was in the town library," he answered.
The book showed a drawing of a stone building that looked like an ancient temple with a large dome and arched doorways. The text of the book and the inscription beneath the drawing were in Greek, which meant it looked like gibberish to somebody who had barely passed high school French.
"The building dates back to Roman times," Ennis explained. "The English translation is 'Temple of the Morning
Light,' though over the centuries it was also used as a school and a hospital."
"So it's a temple, not a tomb."
"Originally, yes. But its history is clear. It is what I have been looking for."
Whenever we were headed to a new destination, Ennis would first scour the Internet to research the history of the
place to try and uncover obscure nuggets of information that might slip past the casual traveler. His feeling was that these jobs were special opportunities to visit far-flung locales that
he wouldn't normally get to. It's one of the things I loved about Ennis. He was as curious as I was.
"So you were right," I said. "It's here. Satisfied?"
Ennis gave me a surprised look. "Well, no. I want to see it for myself."
"I was afraid you'd say that. We don't have time."
"But we do!" he exclaimed. "Our flight does not leave Athens until Monday morning and you have already completed your assignment. How many quaint harbors must you photograph?"
He had me there.
"That gives us two full days," he went on. "It is only twenty kilometers to Messopotamo. A short drive. Though I believe we should make the journey as the ancients did."
"And how's that?"
"We should drive to Ammoudia and travel by boat up
the River Acheron."
I took a deep breath and said, "The River Styx."
Ennis smiled. "You know more of this myth than you
let on."
I shrugged. "It's a great story . . . a river that leads to
a portal where you can speak with the dead. I'll bet tour
boats leave every half hour."
"Pilgrims no longer believe in the Oracle of the Dead,
but the ruins of the
Necromanteio
are a popular tourist
destination," Ennis explained.
"Sure. Who wouldn't want to spend valuable vacation
time consorting with the dead?"
Ennis frowned. "From what I have read it was all a
hoax."
"Gee, you think?"
"I have no desire to see the
Necromanteio. I wish to find
the temple."
I stared straight into Ennis's eyes, trying to read him.
"Why are you so interested?"
"How can I not be?" he answered innocently. "To find a
tomb that is thought only to exist in myth and prove that it is real? Those opportunities do not happen often."
"I don't believe in myths," I said bluntly.
"Nor do I," he argued. "My facts are based on history, not fables. And my interest did not begin when you called me about making this trip, Terri. I learned of this story years ago and have done extensive research. It has proven to be a
fascinating hobby."
"Sure. For Indiana Jones."
"I do not seek adventure. Solving a centuries-old puzzle would be reward enough."
"I don't know," I said doubtfully. "You'd think if it was
really there, somebody would have found it by now."
"You assume they would
want
to find it. The story states
quite plainly that what is buried should remain buried."
"Sounds like good advice," I said.
"It does if you believe in myths." He smiled mischievously and added, "But you do not."
I still wasn't convinced.
"Look at it this way," he said.
"At the very least it will be an interesting side trip and you will take photographs that will be more unique than the cliché travel shots you have been making. The temple alone is worth photographing, is it not? But if there is some small truth to the story, you may be the first to bring an image to the world that has never before been seen. I know you, Terri. Surely that intrigues you."
I looked at the sketch in the book that lay open on the bed. I had to admit, it was a unique structure. I wondered what it would look like at sunset with the low, warm light . . . and what secrets it might be hiding within.
"What was the guy's name again?" I asked.
"The English translation is 'Damon of Epirus.' Though he has been referred to as Damon the Butcher."
"I'm guessing that wasn't because he made hamburgers."
"No," Ennis said somberly. "At least not from animals."
Three hours later I found myself on a small boat being powered by a rumbling old smoke-belching engine traveling up the River Acheron, headed for a tiny town that supposedly housed the portal into the next life. As always, Ennis had made all the arrangements. He knew I'd agree to
go and hired the boat long before he showed me the book with the drawing of the Temple of the Morning Light.
Ennis stood at the bow, scanning the shore of the narrow river, soaking up the view and the hot afternoon sun. The water was a deep green-blue and the banks were tangled with grass. There wasn't a building in sight. It was like we had gone back in time.
Ennis never wore a hat, no matter how hot it was. He had on a short-sleeved striped shirt and long khaki pants and looked about as fresh and cool as if he were hanging out on our porch in Stony Brook sipping lemonade. A backpack was
slung casually over his shoulder that I hoped held a thermos with the aforementioned lemonade.
Unlike Ennis, I was sweating like we were slogging up the Amazon. I wore the same wide-brimmed khaki hat that I always took on such adventures. My light skin didn't take kindly to the burning sun. Marsh called it my bwana hat because he said it made me look like I was going on safari. He wasn't far from right. I never shot a gun in my life, but I was always on the hunt . . . for images. I wore shorts, my hikers, and a lightweight T-shirt. I wanted to travel light so I was armed with only my Nikon digital SLR with a single 10-to-120-millimeter zoom lens.
At the helm of the boat was an elderly captain with skin as dark as my boots. He didn't speak English, which wasn't a big deal because Ennis knew enough Greek to get us where we were going. As he piloted our course up the quiet river, I got the feeling that he had traveled this route many times before, ferrying tourists to the
Necromanteio. I wondered what he would have thought if he knew our destination was someplace entirely different.
Ennis joined me by the rail and said, "Imagine how many pilgrims traveled this very same route in the hopes of speaking with their departed ancestors."
"But it was all a sham."
"That is the popular belief. People would stay at the
Necromanteio
for days while sorcerers prepared them to get a glimpse through the gate into the afterlife. But that preparation meant taking large doses of hallucinogenic
herbs. After a few days of that, the visitors believed anything they saw."
"So they thought they were looking into the next life because they were stoned out of their minds?"
"Apparently. A pulley system was discovered that
would levitate the sorcerers, who would pretend to be spirits."
"How very
Scooby-Doo."
"But the pilgrims believed and I wonder if there might have been some truth to it."
"Seriously? A doorway to the afterlife? You'd think something like that would make the evening news." Ennis chuckled. "I do not think it is so simple but I accept that some places hold spiritual significance. I do believe that there is life after death and perhaps it is easier to connect with spirits in some places than others."
"That's pretty—I don't know, what's the word? Cosmic?"
"Perhaps the word you are looking for is 'nutty,'"
he said.
"I was being nice."
He smiled and shrugged. "I simply believe in possibilities."
"What's so important about this tomb? The guy was a soldier, right?"
"Damon was a general in Alexander the
Great's
army," Ennis explained. "The accounts I've read claim that Damon was responsible for slaughtering thousands, most after the battle was complete and victory assured."
"So he was a murderer."
"Of epic proportions. He was not satisfied with simply
vanquishing an enemy. He wanted to wipe them out and
often did so by his own hand."
"Seriously? He personally killed these people?" I asked.
"From what I've read he never took part in the battles himself. He was strictly the tactician and quite brilliant at it. Then, once the fighting was complete, he would line up the prisoners and behead them himself."
"That's barbaric," I said.
"And not the worst of it. I have read accounts where he
would practice ancient pagan rituals to increase his power."
"Do I want to know what those were?"
"No."
"Tell me anyway."
"He would lick the blood of his victims from the sword
that killed them and sometimes go so far as to eat the heart
of an opposing general."
"He'd eat
their
. . . ?" I exclaimed. "Oh my god."
"Only of the generals. Those who had the most power."
"Well, of course, that makes it all okay," I said. "What
a monster."
"Some said he was simply sadistic. Others felt he was
justified and it was all in the heat of the struggle. I've even read some accounts that said he was trying to outshine the deeds of Alexander. Slaughtering their common enemies
was his way of proving his worth."
"And eating their hearts," I said with disgust. "So he
really was a butcher."
"And he made enemies among his own people. He had
a loyal band of followers but the grander army realized he
was dangerous.
"
"And crazy.
"
"When Alexander died at the young age of thirty-three,
many feared Damon would attempt to control the army. So he was assassinated, along with many of his loyalists."
"Yay. Good guys win. Cannibals lose. So why do you want to find his tomb so badly?"
"Curiosity. From the accounts I've read it was not an ordinary death. Or burial. This was the dawn of modern civilization. Mystical beliefs and practices were common. Many feared that Damon's evil would not end with his death."
"What did they think he would do?" I asked, scoffing. "Rise up from the grave and take his revenge?"
"Well, yes."
"Oh."
"It is why he was buried here, in a place imbued with mystical power. He was not simply laid to rest. He was imprisoned."
"Uh . . . what?"
"I do not fully understand the implications, the translations are not specific, but from what I can gather he was brought here so that the sorcerers could bury him in a tomb near the
Necromanteio
and use their knowledge of the afterlife to create a seal that his spirit could not break."
"What kind of seal?"
"That is what I would like to see. I have never come across a story even remotely like this one. The idea that a living being was so feared that priests were asked to imprison his spirit is
unprecedented. Most scholars do not believe the story to be true or that a tomb even exists. But I have pieced together bits of information from many sources and believe I have located the spot that could very well be Damon's tomb."