Mythical ...Noah's Ark, Amazons and a man battered by a living myth

Myths aren’t fairy tales or legends—they’re an honest attempt to explain mysteries—at least, that’s how I’ve always seen them.

So, when Garth Winter from National Geographic asked if I’d mount an expedition to recover Noah’s Ark from Ararat, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

I had to remind myself—I believe in myths.

True, I succumbed to many wild goose chases in the past with Astrid Simpson, but then I had many successes—not the least of which was marrying her, and she becoming Mrs. Paul Rutledge.

Just seeing that title now written on envelopes in the morning mail, brings tears to my eyes.

Astrid, despite all her faults, is certainly no Suffragette or Lucy Stoner—her feminism is an equality-based justice where I willingly accept her as my equal in every way.

And I have no problem with that, because she is.

Now, as for my vision for our future—it’s for us to settle down and raise babies—and she promises it’s her dream too.

But, when Jerrod Mason of the Smithsonian calls, Astrid answers.

This time she’s off pursuing lost Inca gold in Peru—leaving me to stay at home and nurse our dream.

But why shouldn’t I be a gypsy too, and jet off to Turkey to pursue the Ark?

Maybe I’ll show Astrid I can have an adventure of my own.

And maybe this time when I get back home, she’ll be waiting, ready to start making babies.

But then again, maybe that’s just my own myth—

The life-lie I use to sustain my dream.

“Your ticket’s waiting at the airport,” Garth yelps, “ and I managed to secure the best Ararat guide.”

“There’s only one I’d trust,” I tell him.

“I hope you’re referring to Berk Kaplan and his two cousins—Nazli Asker and Simay Celik.”

I can’t believe my good fortune. I’m over the moon with joy.

Berk speaks fluent Turkish, Kurdish, Arabic and ancient Greek—and his cousins are the loveliest flowers that ever graced a mountainside.

Okay, perhaps I’m trying to get a little revenge on Astrid—dreaming about tantalizing her with morsels about the expedition, until jealousy drives her crazy.

I know, it sounds childish—but so too is taking off for Peru when your husband wants to decorate a nursery.

Still, all fantasizing about cousins aside, the truth is, tit for tat never works and I’m missing her already.

Berk and the girls meet me at Arrivals. The cousins are dressed in dark robes with colorful headscarves accentuating their beauty.

I don’t know why western women forsake the allure of mystery when it comes to dress.

Whether it’s an attempt at modesty, or simply an eastern tradition, Nazli and Simay wrapped in robes, succeed in holding my attention from the moment I see them.

We sit sipping dark, bitter Turkish coffee and watching planes like fireflies taking off and landing.

I’m lost in Simay’s eyes.

“Does your name have a meaning?” I ask.

“It means bright, silver shining moon,” she says softly.

How appropriate, I muse. Lying at nights on the slopes of Ararat looking into those eyes will be so exciting.

Berk brings me back to reality.

“Which route do you want to take to make the ascent?”

“Do we have a choice?” I ask stupidly.

The two girls smile.

“What’s so amusing”?” I ask, coloring, and feeling awkward.

The girls are teasing you, my friend,” Berk explains. “We have to take the easy route. The climb is long but we can make it using axes and crampons.”

I begin to feel like a wimp—as if they’re babying me. “Why can’t we take the alternate route?”

The girls giggle and whisper in Arabic.

I look at Berk. “What are they saying?”

“They’re saying, you’d make a good husband for an ha-mazan.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an Arabic word for warrior—although in English, you would say, an Amazon.”

“You mean the mythical female warriors of ancient Greece?”

“Berk’s countenance alters. He gets very quiet.

“I would rather not use the word mythical to refer to the ha-mazan. The nomads believe they still exist in small groups in the mountains—and they capture men to use as husbands to procreate their race.”

“Do they also believe the left breasts are removed?”

He colors, “that is one meaning of their name—a mazos, without breast.”

The girls giggle again, recognizing the word.

I feel cuckolded. It might be a long trip after all.

Out on the mountains though, all thought of romance and legend evaporates in the harsh reality of the climb.

We walk single file, Berk leading the way, and struggle upwards for about four hours. At last, Berk signals for a rest.

We eat a simple lunch of berries, cheese and bread. I look around at the plateau.

“Is this one of the areas used for a base camp?”

He shakes his head. “This is the first of two areas where people camp when taking the easy route up the mountain.”

“But I want to take the harder route and come up closer to where the Ark was sighted.”

Again, titters from the girls. Berk silences them with a sharp look.

“I told you, Paul—that’s a dangerous route—one, even I haven’t taken.”

“But it will bring us closer to our objective, won’t it?”

“Yes,” he admits grudgingly, “ but Garth Winter made it clear, we were to take no unnecessary risks.”

“Yes,” I smile, “but Garth doesn’t have to climb with a forty-pound backpack up steep terrain.”

He hesitates, staring off into the distance, and then finally, comes to a conclusion.

“Very well, we’ll try it your way.”

He says something in Arabic to his cousins and they exchange worried glances, but say nothing.

We continue our trek, now laboring up a more arduous route.

By sundown, we’re exhausted and barely have strength to pitch our tent and gather the few stray branches and sticks of wood that we’ll use to cook our meal.

Within minutes though, the girls manage to have a good fire going. The smell of coffee consoles me.

The stars are already out. During the daylight climb, I actually was able to see some of the brighter ones, as we made our way higher up the slope.

Simay brings me a mug of coffee and hands it to me, staring deeply into my eyes. She’s incredibly beautiful—an unspoilt beauty—as lovely as the wild heights we’ve attained.

“Be careful,” warns Berk, “it’s hot.”

I nod and take that as a warning on two levels.

After supper, while Berk smokes Turkish cigarettes, I lie back and stare at the stars.

Simay comes and lies down beside me, so quietly, I don’t know she’s there, until she speaks.

“That constellation is my favorite,” she says, pointing upwards toward Libra. “What is it called?”

“Virgo,” I tell her.

Of course, it’s Astrid’s cluster.

I smile to myself—that’s where Astrid fled as a goddess to preside over the Golden Age—where she now presides over my fate, like Daisy’s huge eyes rising over the Valley of Ashes.

Clang! There’s a clash of metal on rock and Berk and his cousins freeze.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“Don’t move, Paul—we’re surrounded.”

Slowly, one by one, about a dozen women emerge from the shadows. Some are carrying bows—some swords.

The leader’s a tall, statuesque, blonde-haired girl in her mid-twenties.

She gives the cousins a withering look and they shrink back like frightened children. Simay practically hides behind my back.

Berk speaks to the leader in Turkish and she shakes her head. Then he speaks again and the woman immediately replies.

“She speaks ancient Greek,” he tells me. “They’re staying the night.”

“Can they just do that?” I blurt out, “I mean, they come into our camp with weapons—”

He stops me, holding up his hand. “Don’t you get it, Paul? —They’re the warriors we warned you about.”

The realization goes off like a flare inside me, and the word Amazon is emblazoned in my brain.

Berk and the leader talk again—back and forth, they speak for about two minutes.

Berk keeps shaking his head, but the blonde girl is insistent.

He looks at me helplessly.

The girl comes over, towering above me. She gives Simay a kick with her foot.

Simay rolls a couple of feet, ending up beside her sister. The two of them scurry closer to Berk.

The girl now takes Simay’s place beside me.

It’s weird. I never felt menaced by a woman before, particularly, a beautiful one, but now, I feel totally intimidated.

She puts an arm around my waist and leans in close to me.

I can smell the scent of lilies and raspberries. When I turn to look at her, she’s smiling, her face half-silhouetted by the fire.

My skin crawls. Esthetically, she’s beautiful—flawless. Yet, there’s something cold and harsh about her.

She whispers to me. I can’t make out what she’s saying.

“Helene,” Berk hisses. “Her name’s Helene.”

I nod.

I turn to the girl and point to my chest. “Paul,” I say.

The other warrior women burst out laughing.

I look bewildered at Berk.

“They say your name means small.”

I feel indignant. I now know how women feel running the gauntlet at a construction site.

Anger flares inside me.

The woman reaches out and touches my cheek. I angrily slap her hand away.

Six swords are at my neck. I can’t even swallow without risk of being cut.

The girl barks an order and the swords fall away. She then laughs delightedly. I amuse her.

She grabs me by the collar and forces me to my feet. The other warriors train their weapons on Berk and the cousins while Helene forces me into the darkness.

We’re in a pool of shadows on a ledge.

I see her head above me, haloed by stars. Suddenly, her fist connects with my jaw and little white stars fall into blackness like fireworks.

I lose consciousness and awake to her astride me in the moonlight.

It continues all night—if I don’t co-operate, her fist beats me.

By morning, she’s taken what she wants. She leaves me bruised and bleeding on the slab.

The next thing I remember is Simay’s kind eyes above me as she gently bathes my face with a cold cloth.

For two days, I don’t speak—I refuse to move. Berk is inconsolable.

“It’s my fault,” he keeps moaning, “it’s my fault.”

We don’t ascend Ararat, but the slow descent to the base is the most painful and humiliating of my life.

Berk puts me up in a luxury hotel, but I want none of it.

Simay hovers over me like a consoling angel, but I detest her every touch.

Finally, my return flight back to the States is booked and I leave Berk and his cousins at Departures without even a backward glance.

When I arrive in New York, Astrid’s still not home. I’m glad.

I sit out on our penthouse terrace, sip Shiraz and stare at the stars.

I stare at Virgo.

I wince as I touch the swelling round my eyes and mouth.

I want no more adventures seeking after treasures—no more jaunts beneath foreign stars.

As for the mythical—it’s not pretty or charming—it’s more like poetry translated.

What gets left out is the blood and guts—in this case, my own.

I laugh bitterly. I often wondered what it would take to stop—to cease the quest. Now I know.

All it takes is a living myth—and a harsh lesson dealt with blows.

Read Self-sacrifice - Part Two of this story

Image source: Pinterest, Getty Images, National Geographic