Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (39 page)

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The Weston Town Crier

December 28, 2020

Famous Geneticist Dies at 85, Son to Carry on Legacy

By Stephen Walsh

John Bennett Phillips, 85, died on Sunday, December 27, 2020 at the Massachusetts General Hospital, following a courageous battle with cancer. Trained at the University of Oxford, Dr. Phillips was highly respected in his international professional community for his innovative theories on genetics and longevity.

Though Dr. Phillips was a reclusive member of his community with his grand house tucked away from town thoroughfare, prominent members of the medical community in Boston were well-familiar with his work.

“We attended several private conferences together in London,” said Dr. Maye at Boston Medical Center. “He was a great risk-taker and put his work above all else. It’s hard not to admire that.” When asked to expound on his risk-taking and why the conferences were private, Dr. Maye smiled and said I was more than welcome to read Dr. Phillips’s publications.

His doctor at Massachusetts General refused to be interviewed.

Dr. Phillips is survived by his only child, William Bennett Phillips. At age seventeen, William is well on his way to following in his late-father’s footsteps, already applying to various pre-medical programs.

“I am going to pursue genetics as well. I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life,” William said, his skin pale and his eyes stained with dark shadows, clearly bereft. “As for your question about my inheritance, I plan to give most of it to the . . . caretakers of the estate here. Them,” he said, gesturing to the various servants who scurried about the grounds and house, cleaning furiously. I asked about their hurried state of cleaning and William explained that he was putting the house on the market as soon as possible. He would share the profits of that eventual sale with the “caretakers” as well.

When I inquired about the responsibility of all these dealings and the subject of power of attorney considering his age, he said his father’s will clearly indicated that everything went to him and that meant his father’s lawyers worked for him now. But what about his extreme generosity toward the “caretakers”? William appeared to hesitate before responding. “They’ve been extremely loyal,” he finally said. “More loyal than they know.”

William accepted no further questions from me.

Most of the caretakers avoided me, but I did note one woman weeping bitterly in a quiet corner of the ornate garden. A man, another caretaker I believe, stopped me from going to her.

“Don’t,” he said. “She’s been through enough.”

“What has she been through?” I asked.

He seemed lost in thought when he responded, “She thinks it’s our fault.” And with that he abruptly left to console her and I, Loyal Readers, was unfortunately escorted from the grounds.

Just before I had to submit this story, however, I received an unexpected boon—a large package from William. The package contained a thick manuscript, which William’s cover letter indicated to be a copy of his father’s diary. He said he thought I might find it of interest and that I was free to write about it. The letter was co-signed by one of his late-father’s lawyers.

William’s intent remains a secret, however—he has not returned any of my calls.

I have received permission from my Editor, pending the nature of the content, to write a short series based on the diary. Keep your eyes on this column, Loyal Readers. Many of us are very curious to learn more about the secluded Doctor Phillips. And, no doubt, the Doctor will have something to teach us as well. Perhaps his diary will enlighten us to the mysterious epitaph on his headstone, which I stumbled upon in a strangely remote area of the house grounds:

Beware of Grand Hubris

In the Guise of Goodwill

Guard the Rights of the Living

For Good or for Ill

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Wendra Chambers
is a psychologist by day and artist by night. She has published op-eds, short stories, and scientific articles, and hoards mostly unfinished screenplays. Most of all she hopes to outline a book in the coming year. When she’s not begging her husband to please read her stories just one more time, she is lavishing adoration on her rescue dogs. She hopes very much that one day the world might operate according to her very nocturnal circadian rhythm but is not holding her breath.

Andrew S. Williams

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An authentic tragedy may be defined as, “A character of high estate who experiences a reversal of fortune, and who is involved in a conflict which ends in catastrophe.” With these elements in mind, Andrew S. Williams invokes a brilliant sense of classicism with his story,
The Talisman of Hatra
. Haunting and epic, the author explores a profound struggle within his character, Princess an-Nadira, who is torn between the loyalties to her family and the loyalties to her people. As with all tragedies, however, there is never a “right” choice . . . all decisions lead assuredly to bitter despair.

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I try to stride unnoticed through the palace forge, but such a task is impossible for a High Priestess. No matter how little noise I make, my presence draws eyes. But only a few apprentices and slaves are still awake this late, cleaning up after the smiths and keeping the fires lit. They notice me, then hurriedly turn away, and for once I am grateful for their fear.

The fires are so bright, they are difficult to look at. The blades forged here have drawn the blood of Romans, of Lakhmids, of Persians, all for the glory of the City of Hatra.

The gems of my robe dance with orange radiance, and the silver talisman around my neck shines brightest of all, the face etched into its surface glimmering with light and heat. From her emerald eyes, I can feel my Goddess watching me, judging me across five hundred years.

I glance at the others in the room; they’re still pretending I’m not here. Good. I slip the talisman from around my neck, and kiss the figure at its center. “Forgive me, Atar’atha. I do this to save your people.”

For half a millennia, the talisman’s magic has protected the city walls, giving us a safe haven from which to reach out and build a kingdom: the Kingdom of Araba, which at its height stretched across the whole of Mesopotamia. From Petra to Palmyra, the Kingdom of Araba—with Hatra at its heart—held sway.

But now the kingdom is swept away, and the armies of the Sassanid Empire swarm unchecked across our lands. The same walls that sheltered us now threaten to become a prison, a place to wither and starve as the world goes on around us.

My brother is dead, and I am bound to inherit a useless throne. There is only one way for Hatra to live in this new world.

I kiss the goddess on the cheek and hurl the talisman into the fire.

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Have you ever seen the walls of Hatra from the East, when the dawn sets the red walls aflame, and the gem on the temple dome sparkles as though we were witnessing the birth of a second Sun? I have never laid eyes on Rome, or Alexandria, but surely there is no greater sight than Hatra and her mighty walls towering over the desert.

When I was young, my father would take my brother and I outside the city just to see it, to be awed in the same way countless merchants and peasants and would-be-conquerors have been over the past centuries. He would tell us stories of how those walls had withstood Syrian armies, Lakhmid raiders, even the fearsome Roman legions. I fell in love with the stories and the city at their heart—my city.

I joined the ranks of the priestesses on my tenth birthday. And of all the gods and goddesses of Hatra, I dedicated myself to Atar’atha: goddess of love, and beauty, and war. She was Ishtar to the Babylonians; Astarte to the Syrians; Aphrodite to the Greeks. But she has been with Hatra from its birth, and it was her talisman that held the city walls secure.

Atar’atha rewarded my passion: as I blossomed into womanhood, I began to feel her power flowing through me. My prayers were no longer merely words: I could spread sickness among opposing armies, or bring needed rain to our fields. I was no longer merely a priestess; I was a sorceress.

Some even said I was Atar’atha come to life, with bronze skin and long raven hair that grew down to my waist. Suitors came from across the world to seek my hand in marriage, and my father, bless him, turned them all down. I was bride to my goddess and my city; how could I take a husband?

By the age of sixteen, I was the High Priestess of all Hatra. And my father did something unprecedented: so loved was I by the people, and so blessed by my goddess, that he placed the Talisman of Hatra in my care.

My brother was away, leading the armies of the north, or I’m sure he would have protested—he was the heir, and the talisman was his by rights. But for me, the weight of Atar’atha’s icon around my neck felt like the most natural thing in the world. The Kingdom of Araba may have belonged to my father and my brother, but in every way that mattered, the City of Hatra belonged to me.

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Now I watch through the flames, eyes squinted, as the talisman turns red and molten. The necklace chain has turned to rivulets of gold, and tears stain my eyes, whether from the light of the fire or the hurt of my own betrayal, I do not know.

I leave the forges and walk alone through deserted streets. The great inns, once famed for their roaring fires and hospitality, are shuttered and closed; we have seen no traders for months. When I was young, I could stand on the palace wall and look out across the streets at night, and the city seemed every bit as alive as during the day—even more so on summer nights, when the heat made the air almost unbearable. In those months, as Shamash led the Sun over the Western horizon and Sin’s disc lit the night, people would emerge onto the streets. And as the city came alive, the songs of bards mixed with the shouts of merchants into a beautiful cacophony that filled the night.

Can this truly be the same city as that Hatra of old? The temples look no less grand; as I walk, I pass shrines to a dozen different gods from a dozen different countries, all of them residents of Hatra, now.

Or, at least they were. Now the temples look as deserted as the rest of the city. There are no priests outside offering blessings, or asking for alms. There is only darkness, and nothing but silence echoes from between the massive stone pillars. Perhaps even the gods have fled.

Beyond the walls, the sky is lit with a faint orange glow from a thousand campfires: Shapur is coming with his armies. Only one thing can save us now . . . invasion.

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The first time I heard the name of Shapur was in a letter from my brother. He wrote in his usual arrogant manner about an upstart faction—the Sassanids—fighting for control of the Persian Empire. The Parthians, long the rulers of Persia, were struggling, and my brother committed our armies to defend them. We had relied on the Parthians for many years, joining forces to keep both Araba and Persia free from Roman invaders.

Besides, Parthian gods resided in Hatra, and it would not do to anger them.

But the Sassanids were unstoppable. And Shapur, son of their king Ardashir, was their commander. He was a brilliant tactician, a ferocious fighter, and he inspired a loyalty in his men that verged on fanaticism. The Sassanids won their Empire, and then they came for us.

The armies of all Araba, united under my brother, met them in a terrible battle at Shahrazoor. Aided by my prayers, we killed Ardashir and drove their forces from our lands. But in the process, our army was devastated. And two weeks later, my brother’s body returned to the city, resting in a palanquin and wrapped in a burial shroud. It was said that he had been stabbed by Shapur himself, driven to rage by Ardashir’s death.

My father, with the death of his only son, was consumed not with rage but with grief. He stopped holding open court, and as the pleas of the people went unanswered, rumors began to spread through the city that the king was sick, or dead, or that the Sassanids were already marching on us. Shapur was their king now, and no one held any illusions that he was gone for good.

Shapur did return, swiftly and violently. He rebuilt his armies with astonishing and disturbing speed, and his men fought with a zeal we could not match. He plucked away the cities of Araba one by one, leaving Hatra stranded and alone, its invincible walls protecting us from the Sassanid storm.

Amidst the despair, I heard one bit of news that gave me hope. Despite the fact that Hatra was cut off, I still held a fearsome reputation as the beautiful and powerful Sorceress of Atar’atha. And from the few travelers who still arrived, I heard an interesting rumor indeed: of the suitors who were still enamored of me, one of them was Shapur himself! He was mustering an army, determined to stake his claim, to conquer the unconquerable and take me as his bride.