"Ha! again." I changed the subject. "Any word on the Vegan?"
"No."
"You want his head."
"I'm not civilized.-Tell me, was Phil always such a. fool, back in the old days?"
"No, he wasn't. Isn't now, either. His was the curse of a half-talent. Now he is considered the last of the Romantic poets, and he's gone to seed. He pushes his mysticism into nonsense because, like Wordsworth, he has outlived his day. He lives now in distortions of a pretty good past.
"Like Byron, he once swam the Hellespont, but now, rather like Yeats, the only thing he really enjoys is the company of young ladies whom he can bore with his philosophy, or occasionally charm with a well-told reminiscence. He is old. His writing occasionally shows flashes of its former power, but it was not just his writing that was his whole style."
"How so?"
"Well, I remember one cloudy day when he stood in the Theater of Dionysius and read a hymn to Pan which he had written. There was an audience of two or three hundred-and only the gods know why they showed up-but he began to read.
"His Greek wasn't very good yet, but his voice was quite impressive, his whole manner rather charismatic. After a time, it began to rain, lightly, but no one left. Near the end there was a peal of thunder, sounding awfully like laughter, and a sudden shudder ran through the crowd. I'm not saying that it was like that in the days of Thespis, but a lot of those people were looking over their shoulders as they left.
"I was very impressed also. Then, several days later, I read the poem-and it was nothing, it was doggerel, it was trite. It was the way he did it that was important. He lost that part of his power along with his youth and what remained of what might be called art was not strong enough to make him great, to keep alive his personal legend. He resents this, and he consoles himself with obscure philosophy, but in answer to your question-no, he was not always such a fool."
"Perhaps even some of his philosophy is correct."
"What do you mean?"
"The Big Cycles. The age of strange beasts is come upon us again. Also, the age of heroes, demigods."
"I've only met the strange beasts."
"'Karaghiosis slept in this bed,' it says here. Looks comfortable."
"It is.-See?"
"Yes. Do I get to keep the plaque?"
"If you want…"
I moved to the proskenion. The relief sculpture-work started at the steps, telling tales from the life of Dionysius. Every tour guide and every member of a tour must, under a regulation promulgated by me, "…carry no fewer than three magnesium flares on his person, while traveling." I pulled the pin from one and cast it to the ground. The dazzle would not be visible below, because of the angle of the hillside and the blocking masonry.
I did not stare into the bright flame, but above, at the silver-limned figures. There was Hermes, presenting the infant god to Zeus, while the Corybantes tripped the Pyrrhic fantastic on either side of the throne; then there was Ikaros, whom Dionysius had taught to cultivate the vine-he was preparing to sacrifice a goat, while his daughter was offering cakes to the god (who stood aside, discussing her with a satyr); and there was drunken Silenus, attempting to hold up the sky like Atlas, only not doing so well; and there were all the other gods of the cities, paying a call to this Theater-and I spotted Hestia, Theseus, and Eirene with a horn of plenty…
"You burn an offering to the gods," came a statement from nearby.
I did not turn. It had come from behind my right shoulder, but I did not turn because I knew the voice.
"Perhaps I do," I said.
"It has been a long time since you walked this land, this Greece."
"That is true."
"Is it because there has never been an immortal Penelope-patient as the mountains, trusting in the return of her kallikanzaros-weaving, patient as the hills?"
"Are you the village story-teller these days?"
He chuckled.
"I tend the many-legged sheep in the high places, where the fingers of Aurora come first to smear the sky with roses."
"Yes, you're the story teller. Why are you not up in the high places now, corrupting youth with your song?"
"Because of dreams."
"Aye."
I turned and looked into the ancient face-its wrinkles, in the light of the dying flare, as black as fishers' nets lost at the bottom of the sea, the beard as white as the snow that comes drifting down from the mountains, the eyes matching the blue of the headcloth corded about his temples. He did not lean upon his staff any more than a warrior leans on his spear. I knew that he was over a century old, and that he had never taken the S-S series.
"A short time ago did I dream that I stood in the midst of a black temple," he told me, "and Lord Hades came and stood by my side, and he gripped my wrist and bade me go with him. But I said 'Nay' and I awakened. This did trouble me."
"What did you eat that night? Berries from the Hot Place?"
"Do not laugh, please.-Then, of a later night, did I dream that I stood in a land of sand and darkness. The strength of the old champions was upon me, and I did battle with Antaeus, son of the Earth, destroying him. Then did Lord Hades come to me again, and taking me by the arm did say, 'Come with me now.' But again did I deny him, and I awakened. The Earth was a-tremble."
"That's all?"
"No. Then, more recent still, and not at night, but as I sat beneath a tree watching my flock, did I dream a dream while awake. Pheobus-like did I battle the monster Python, and was almost destroyed thereby. This time Lord Hades did not come, but when I turned about there stood Hermes, his lackey, smiling and pointing his caducaeus like a rifle in my direction. I shook my head and he lowered it. Then he raised it once more in a gesture, and I looked where he had indicated.
"There before me lay Athens -this place, this Theater, you-and here sat the old women. The one who measures out the thread of life was pouting, for she had wrapped yours about the horizon and no ends were in sight. But the one who weaves had divided it into two very thin threads. One strand ran back across the seas and vanished again from sight. The other led up into the hills. At the first hill stood the Dead Man, who held your thread in his white, white hands. Beyond him, at the next hill, it lay across a burning rock. On the hill beyond the rock stood the Black Beast, and he shook and worried your thread with his teeth.
"And all along the length of the strand stalked a great foreign warrior, and yellow were his eyes and naked the blade in his hands, and he did raise this blade several times in menace.
"So I came down to Athens-to meet you, here, at this place-to tell you to go back across the seas-to warn you not to come up into the hills where death awaits you. For I knew, when Hermes raised his wand, that the dreams were not mine, but that they were meant for you, oh my father, and that I must find you here and warn you. Go away now, while still you can. Go back. Please."
I gripped his shoulder.
"Jason, my son, I do not turn back. I take full responsibility for my own actions, right or wrong-including my own death, if need be-and I must go into the hills this time, up near the Hot Place. Thank you for your warning. Our family has always had this thing with dreams, and often it is misleading. I, too, have dreams-dreams in which I see through the eyes of other persons-sometimes clearly, sometimes not so clearly. Thank you for your warning. I am sorry that I must not heed it."
"Then I will return to my flock."
"Come back with me to the inn. We will fly you as far as Lamia tomorrow."
"No. I do not sleep in great buildings, nor do I fly."
"Then it's probably time you started, but I'll humor you. We can camp here tonight. I'm Commissioner of this monument."
"I had heard you were important in the Big Government again. Will there be more killing?"
"I hope not."
We found a level place and reclined upon his cloak.
"How do you interpret the dreams?" I asked him.