He gazed a moment at the thatched hut outside the temple, between the Sacred Way and the place where the Sanctuary of Poseidon had once stood. Doumas had told him that it was built in such a way that several men could carry it to the edge of the fissure where he and Pythia would hold court for the king and others who requested their service. Later, when Delphi's renaissance was widely recognized, there would be plenty of money available to build a new temple. As far as Panos was concerned, the remains of the old buildings could be cleared away for the new.
More than anything, Panos was anxious to hear Pythia speak. He knew he would instantly recognize what others heard only as babbling. The cryptic language of the gods was the legacy of the Order. It wasn't taught like an ordinary language, but learned at a deeper level. For sixteen hundred years, generation after generation, centu ry after century, the Order had served as the caretaker of the sacred knowledge and the secrets. At times, the Order had fallen to one or two members, but always the knowl edge and the secrets had survived.
Panos had no doubt that the gods had watched over the Order, guiding its members, always instilling them with the understanding that the Oracle would return one day to the world. The gods and destiny after all were one, and the return of Pythia was inextricable. Now, at last, after all the centuries of awaiting, the new epoch was about to begin.
At that moment, he saw Dorian Belecamus—Pythia— walking away from the hut. He stopped and watched as she entered the temple and disappeared into the mist. He wanted to shout for joy. He had puzzled over how he would draw her into the vapors to prove to her that she was truly Pythia. But she was doing it on her own, and that made him even more confident that everything was work ing out just as it was meant.
He hurried down the stone steps, Grigoris just a step behind him, and as they neared the base of the theater two more figures moved into view, trailing after Pythia. "They're going into the temple," Grigoris shouted.
Then, before Panos could tell him to watch and wait, Grigoris called out to Doumas. He and Indy stopped and turned toward the theater.
"You have no sense of caution," Panos snapped, even though as he said it he knew Grigoris was right. It was time to act, not watch.
"Panos," Doumas yelled. He waved his hands frantical ly. Grigoris charged ahead, and Panos hurried to keep up with his son. When they reached him, Doumas explained what they already knew. Belecamus was in the mist and there was no sign of her. Jones stood several steps away and watched them with curiosity.
If the incident at the taverna had frightened him, he didn't show it.
Grigoris stepped between Jones and the temple. "I'll watch him, Father."
"What's going on?" Jones demanded.
"None of your business," Doumas said. "Do not forget what I told you last night."
Grigoris took a step closer as if to reaffirm that he was the one who had attacked Jones.
Panos turned his attention back to the temple, and asked Doumas the exact location of the fissure. The wide-girthed archaeologist waddled forward and pointed. Just then an eerie shriek pierced the veil of mist.
The sound sent shivers up and down Panos's spine.
"Stay here and wait for me," Panos said, and rushed toward the temple. He climbed over a rope and the remains of the wall, and hastened toward a mound of rubble that was partially enveloped in the mist. He knew that the vapors would only affect those who were suscepti ble to trance states and that as a priest of the Order he was protected. Still, he took a deep breath and held it as he climbed the mound.
He reached the top and glanced around. No sign of her. He expelled his breath, and cautiously sniffed at the air. There was no odor to the mist, and no immediate effect. He took a step forward and gazed down into the yawning mouth of the abyss. His heart plunged in his chest as he realized that the scream he had heard might have been her last utterance as Pythia plummeted into the void. There would be no return. Not in his lifetime. Belecamus was the one; no one else could replace her now. But how could he have been so wrong?
He suddenly felt dizzy, the way he would if he stood quickly after drinking a couple of glasses of retsina.
Dizzy, yet his head was clear. He felt acutely aware, and sensed that something was about to happen.
Cautiously, he took a step back from the chasm; a hand gripped his elbow. He turned, startled, and jerked his arm free. It was Belecamus
and her hands were raised as if she were about to shove him into the hole. Then he saw her face. Her eyes were rolled back, her mouth hung open, and her tongue lolled to one side.
He gaped, astonished. "Do you know who you are?"
Her mouth moved, her head rocked back and forth, but no words came out.
"You are Pythia. You must understand. The Oracle is returning, and you are Pythia."
She took a wavering step forward, shook her head from side to side. Her jaw was working up and down, but no sound came out. Then, with a wild burst of energy, she whirled in a circle, flailing her arms, and tottered near the edge of the crevice. She was going to jump.
Panos grasped her firmly around the waist, pulling her back. "You must accept; you must accept."
She rocked back and forth in his arms. Then, from deep within her, a wail rose, a bellow of uncontrollable pain, of a mother giving birth. She shuddered violently and collapsed.
Panos lifted her, and as he did, he realized that the air was clearing. He carried her away, knowing that the transformation was complete. Dorian Belecamus was Pythia, and the next time the vapors rose she would be drawn into the mist again and he would be there, her guide, her interpreter, and her voice to the world.
13
READINGS
Dorian stood beside a bench in the platia overlooking the valley. She was wearing a cotton peasant dress instead of the baggy pants she'd worn since they'd arrived. Her hands were braced against her hips.
As Indy crossed the park toward her, she reminded him of a Greek statue.
He stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. "How are you feeling today?"
"Much better." She didn't turn her gaze from the valley.
The intensity in her eyes led Indy to believe she was watching something in particular. But all he could see was scenery. Great scenery, yes, but nothing that he or anyone else would stare at like she was. "What do you see down there?" he asked quietly.
She didn't hesitate. "History... culture... the past." Her voice was soft, distant.
Indy glanced out over the valley. It had been two days since Panos had carried her from the temple. She had slept for eleven hours and when she awakened, a doctor examined her, but found nothing wrong. He'd said she was probably suffering from stress and overwork and needed a rest. However, by noon the following day, she'd gone to the workshop, which was near the ruins, and had stayed until nine.
She seemed detached, as if only part of her were
present. Was it just exhaustion, or the vapors? He'd been thinking a lot about it. It was both, he'd decided.
She must have been fighting off exhaustion for days, and the vapors, or at least Dorian's suspicions about them, had triggered her collapse, a nervous breakdown.
"Well, Jones," she said, turning away from the valley. "We can't just spend our entire morning in the park. We've got work to do."
"You sure you're up to it?"
She straightened her back. "I'm feeling fine. Make that great. I'm feeling great."
The sudden change in her mood, her energy, surprised him. It was as if she'd just awakened from a dream.