Ladies of Lincoln

The road up Mount Elati has no guardrails. Curves come suddenly and Ana was not ready—not ready to be alone in Greece at age 18, not ready to be speeding up a mountain in an unfamiliar car with a black SUV chasing after her. It started with two SUVs: one had skid off the road at the last sharp turn; Ana saw it airborne in her side mirror.

Ana came to a straight stretch of road. She hit the gas, putting some distance between her and the SUV. She didn’t know who they were or what they wanted, at least not exactly. She knew it must have something to do with the black-and-white photograph sitting on the front passenger seat, a picture of her grandmother and President Abraham Lincoln. On the back was written: “Mt. Elati. Ladies of Lincoln. 1965.”

The picture was in a box of keepsakes her grandmother left to her after she died. There was jewelry, a dried flower, among other things. Then there was the photograph, her grandmother—her Yia Yia,—side-by-side with Abraham Lincoln 101 years after he was killed by an assassin’s bullet.

The night before Yia Yia died, she tried to speak. Her breathing was labored and her voice was weak. No one at her bedside could understand her mumbles. Frustrated, she held her arm out to Ana, and on a strained breath, said with clarity: “Go to Elati. Take my place.”

Yia Yia sunk back into the mattress, exhausted. She would say no more.

The straightway began to curve to the right. Ana hit the breaks and turned the wheel hard, felt the backend sliding out from under her as she hit the gas and pulled out of the skid. She glanced into the rearview mirror, watched the SUV slide through the turn, skidding to the edge but staying on the road, then accelerating.

“It’s not him, Ana,” her mom said dismissively the night Yia Yia died.

“This is real, Mom. They didn’t have Photoshop back then. This is real. And what about what’s written on the back? Mt. Elati? Ladies of Lincoln? Something’s up here.”

“No, Ana. Nothing’s up. This is a man who looks like Abraham Lincoln. That’s all. He could be a relative, an actor. Who knows. But I do know that it’s not President Lincoln still alive in 1965.”

The road curved again, a wide arc that Ana took easily. The road straightened and the two lanes merged into one. Up ahead no on coming traffic; behind her the SUV was gaining ground with another riding close behind it—then another.

Ana’s cell phone rang. She took her right hand off the wheel, shaking as reached for the phone. She answered, put the call on speaker but said nothing.

“Ana,” a man said in a thick accent, maybe Italian. “Ana, this is dangerous. All we want to do is talk.”

Ana was silent, gas pedal to the floor.

“Come now, Ana. Your Yia Yia is gone. Go home. Grieve. This is not your story.”

“What is this story?”

Silence, then a woman’s voice, mature and strong, Slovak accent. “Ana, please dear. This is no place for you. Your Yia Yia has made a terrible mistake involving you. Please, pull over before you get hurt.”

“She wanted me here for a reason.”

“What reason?”

Ana said nothing. She knew nothing.

“It’s ok,” said the woman. “You came charging up here with no clue as to what this was. But now you’ve revealed a century-old secret, all because of your grandmother’s stupidity.”

“She’s not stupid!” Ana screamed, voice filled with rage.

“I’m giving you the chance to live, child. Penelope was a worthy adversary. I honor her by keeping her granddaughter safe. Let me do this for her.”

“Who is this?” Ana asked, but there was no time for an answer. She was speeding toward a wall of rock.

Ana hit the breaks. With precipice to the left and mountain to the right there was no where to swerve. She held the wheel firm with one hand and open her car door with the other. She jumped from the car moments before it smashed into the wall.

Ana rolled along the ground, waiting for freefall at any moment. It never came. She tumbled down a sharp decline and landed on an outcrop of rock unseeable from the road. Lying on her back, she saw a black SUV come sailing off he mountain road, over her and dropping out of sight. The sound of crunching metal and explosion came from below. 

Ana rolled to her stomach, got to her feet. A few paces ahead was a wall of corn stalks, parted in the middle with a pathway leading deeper into the field.

“Ana!” A mature woman, beautiful and fit, wearing a dark green satin dress that clung to her form, gunmetal bangle bracelets prominent on her wrists. “Stop.” Two men in cliché black suits armed with military rifles stood at her side. “I cannot let you go—”

Ana ran into the gap in the corn, sprinting down the path as bullets ripped through the stalks. The path ended; given the choice between right or left, she dove to the right. She heard the woman scream. “Find her!”

Another abrupt end to the path, right or left; Ana chose left. The path continued straight and to the right. She stopped. “A corn maze?”

“Ana, straight.” It was a young woman’s voice, British accent. Ana froze, looking all about for the source. “They’re coming. Run straight, then left.”

Heavy footsteps and rustles came from behind, getting closer. Ana ran straight.

“Halt!” A man’s deep voice yelled, followed by a shriek of pain.

Ana glanced over her shoulder as she ran to the left. A crossbow bolt was sticking out from a black-suited man’s chest.

“Now right and right again” spoke the British woman’s voice.

Ana turned right as gunfire cracked the air. Again bullets ripped through the stalks followed by another deep shriek of pain.

“Almost there. Straight, left, right, right. Hurry”

The sound of gunfire and death cries pierced the sound of Ana’s heavy breathing as she followed the instructions the mystery woman gave her.

After the last right, the path ran toward an opening in the corn-stalk wall. Then, the satin-dressed woman’s voice, almost a whisper.

“Ana.”

Ana turned and the woman was on the path behind her. How had she evaded the battle unscathed?

Then a man’s voice called her name, a back-country drawl oozing kindness.

Standing at the opening was Abraham Lincoln. Tall, bearded, hair messy as in the pictures of old. He wore linen clothes, no 19^th century suite or stovetop hat.

“Come to me, Ana. It’s alright.”

Facing the woman, Ana walked backward toward President Lincoln. The woman’s face poorly disguising her frustration.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” said the woman to the President.

“Because you can’t let it go.”

From the stalks emerged several women in black combat uniforms, crossbows aimed at the woman, ready to loose at the President’s command.

“Ladies of Lincoln,” she sneered. “Go ahead. End it.”

“It never ends, Liz.”

“Countess, please.”

“I don’t believe in royalty.”

The woman laughed. “You won’t kill me and you won’t couple with me. You create endless battle and yet you are the compassionate one!”

“The fight is the victory. So it must be.”

The woman breathed in deep, running her finger seductively between her breasts down to her abdomen. “Not really.”

The President bowed. “Good to see you Liz.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she said, then disappeared into the maze.

Ana stood next to the tall man. He was stoop-shoulder, as if enormous weight were borne by them. His kind eyes sparkled.

“Hello Ana. I’m Abe.”