Behind the Ivory Veil
2 The Metéora
Saturday, 25 September 1954, near Kastraki, Greece
The staff in his hand was still alive, though it had never again burst into flames. Doc felt it vibrate with each step through the canyons of the Metéora, the fire of the Mediterranean sun beating on his back. He’d been back every summer since the war. Though the staff had never again called fire, Doc had found other uses for it and felt it resonate with the land around him.
The goat track that locals called a road was as dusty as the foothills had been. A preternatural awareness of his surroundings prickled at his senses. Turks, communists, still a few Nazi sympathizers, and local city chiefs all vied for the privilege of being the most feared threat. A lack of vigilance could be fatal.
As he stepped through the narrow passage, hands grabbed at him from either side. Doc responded automatically. If it no longer spit fire, the walking stick still moved with a mind of its own. His right hand worked as a fulcrum as he swung the top of the stick down with his left. Its ironclad heel struck one assailant in the groin. Not stopping, Doc spun on the other attacker and struck out with the butt of the stick. A quickly raised hand deflected the blow, but Doc won his freedom.
He turned on his attackers and slipped the pack from his back, the staff grasped firmly in both hands. What he saw made him sick. Children, not more than fourteen or fifteen years old. One already had a knife in his hand. The other gathered up a rock to throw. God damn this land of misery! Maybe he already had.
The boy threw his rock and Doc no longer felt sorry for them. He picked it out of the air wielding the staff as a bat and crashed down on the charging knife hand in the same move. The bigger youth screamed in pain but dropped the knife into his other hand and attacked again. Doc parried the knife neatly but failed to dodge the next rock. The missile struck him squarely in the chest. He staggered back a step, tripped over his discarded pack and fell.
The knife-wielding youth yelled in triumph and leapt to a rock above Doc. He brandished his knife ready for the kill. His accomplice shouted above the noise. Doc watched the boy’s focus shift as silence fell in the wake of the echo. The boy backed off the rock and joined his companion. Then both ran back the way Doc had come.
The sudden change in behavior piqued Doc to alertness for new danger. A predator abandons prey when faced with a superior predator. Struggling to regain his lost wind, he rolled, planted his staff and pulled himself upright to face whatever challenge might now appear.
A monk.
And an old man leaning on a short cane. Doc breathed a sigh of relief. A coarsely woven robe and pillbox hat identified the religious as a monk of one of the monasteries gracing the pinnacles of Metéora. It was he who spoke first.
“Are you injured, sir?”
“Bruised but not broken,” Doc answered in nearly flawless Greek. “Nothing serious.”
“An American,” laughed the older man, identifying the accent in spite of Doc’s facility with the language. “Didn’t I tell you, El?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the monk. “How you know these things…” Turning his attention back to Doc he continued. “May we help you, sir? We will escort you to the village if that is your destination; or gladly offer hospitality among the brethren if you are not afraid of heights.”
The monk raised his hand and pointed to the top of one of the sheer cliffs nearby. It towered at five hundred feet above them. About halfway up, a net swung at the end of a long rope. An unfortunate but long-standing joke restrained Doc from accepting the invitation: “How often do you change the ropes?” asked the tourist. “Whenever they break,” answered the monk.
“Thank you. I was on my way to Kalambaka,” Doc answered. The monk held Doc’s eye for a moment flicking back to his staff.
“Is that not the staff of the Vagabond Poet?” the monk asked in English, so softly that Doc barely heard him.
“Merry meet,” Doc whispered.
“Merry part, and merry meet again,” the monk intoned. He glanced at the old man and nodded slightly.
What were the odds? He was in the middle of the Plains of Thessaly talking to an old man and a monk and greeted with words from an English cult. A sign of recognition Doc had not heard outside The Lake District. And this monk was not Greek.
“May I offer my home, Doctor?” the old man broke the silence between Doc and the monk. “It is not so highly exalted as the monastery.”
“How did you know I was a doctor?” he asked immediately. In thirty-plus years of not strictly academic work, enough scavengers dogged his footsteps to keep Doc suspicious of any familiarity. First the monk and then the old man.
“Don’t ask Andrew how he knows anything,” interrupted the monk. “He will probably tell you that he has been expecting you all day.”
“All week,” the old man confessed.
“You have the advantage of me,” Doc said skeptically. “I’ve only expected to be here for the past three or four hours.”
“I have reached that age where I am always expecting a visitor,” the old man smiled. “I’m Andrew Pariskovopolis,” he said, extending a hand. “You looked like a scholar to me.”
“Phillip Heinrich,” Doc replied, returning the handshake. “Professor of archaeology at Farrington University. Most folks call me Doc.”
“Well then, Doc. My invitation is genuine. If you would share bread with my family this evening, my home is open to you.”
“I feel that I already owe you for rescuing me from those young hoodlums.” Doc winced as he rubbed the sore spot on his chest and retrieved his pack.
“It’s a sad thing,” broke in the monk. “They are refugees from their own homes, forced to steal in order to live. The communists raid the villages and kidnap the children they find. To escape, some flee into the hills. They become hungry enough to attack travelers. Finally, they will give themselves up to the communists for the offer of a good meal. We will never see them again.”
“You seem to have influence over them, Father,” said Doc. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
“Just ‘Brother’,” the monk corrected him. “Is it a good thing that children should fear the church? I must leave you now, but I leave you in good care, Doctor.” The monk turned off down the path after a parting word with the old man. Doc and Andrew were left alone to make a short climb up the edge of the canyon.
“Brother El has tried many times to help our children. He is one of the few monks who do not stay on their mountain tops,” the old man told Doc. “But the children fear the monks as much as they do the communists. Nothing is here but confusion these days.”
“I must thank you again for your offer of hospitality, then,” Doc responded. “It must be dangerous to invite unknown guests into your home.”
“Sometimes there is danger,” the old man answered looking at Doc carefully. “But Zeus commands and he protects.”
Doc’s suspicions melted into curiosity. A dozen images swept through his mind. Embodied in that phrase was the heritage of Dionysian sects predating civilization. In Zeus’s name, the wayfarer seeking lodging could not be refused. Doc added up the possibilities of such a sect surviving in the relative isolation of Metéora, even among the Christian monasteries. They equaled a treasure. The title for the paper that he would write after this visit was already forming in his mind.
“You keep the ancient ways?” Doc asked tentatively.
“They keep us,” the old man affirmed.
They came upon four small dwellings surrounded by a low wall. Here the old man stopped. As soon as he opened the courtyard gate, several children and two yapping dogs descended on them.
“My grandchildren. All except those two,” the old man laughed, pointing at the dogs. “Children, tell yiayia we have a guest for dinner.” The two walked on into the courtyard and the old man drew water from the central well. This is my home, Doctor. Welcome. My wife and I live in the little house. My children and grandchildren occupy the other three. We change places from time to time as our families grow and change.”
“All your family lives right here?” Doc asked, trying to tabulate quickly how many people might form the cult he was sure existed here.
“No. I am sorry to say.” Andrew paused and drew a pained breath. “I lost my youngest son in the war. It was very hard. My eldest son and his wife moved to Athens some years ago. Where others talk, he charges in to see what will happen. They could not have been happy here. But their son is visiting for the summer. Maybe longer.”
A little woman emerged from the first house and bustled across the yard toward them. “He’s come?” she asked Andrew with her eyes questioningly intent on Doc. “You found him?”
“And this is my wife, Thea,” laughed the old man. “Thea, this is Doctor Heinrich, our guest,” he said gently to her.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, critically surveying her guest. Whatever the old man’s generosity, Doc was not what she expected. She glanced at her husband and he nodded. “I beg your pardon,” she sighed heavily. “I thought… well! I’ll put dinner on the table. You will join us.”
“Thank you,” Doc answered to her back as she retreated.
He joined his host and followed the woman into the house which rapidly filled with the rest of the clan. The dinner was shared in common with all the families. Doc couldn’t separate one household from another. They noisily fell to their meal and told stories around the table. Doc was not the expected guest, it seemed, but was certainly not unwelcome. He spun yarns about his travels and adventures, sticking to the ones of his younger years when he adventured as far as China, South America, and Africa.
The meal ended and the storytelling grew more spirited. Doc sensed a subtle shift. As he told of an adventure, the old man would turn it into a lesson in the ancient myths. Finally, one of the children was asked to tell a story.
The child was well-versed in mythology, apparently the fruit of his grandfather’s teaching, but the story was all his own woven into the fabric of a classical myth. It was a romantic story, though some of the romance was lost in an over-exuberant description of Apollo’s glory and in the child’s enthusiasm for the magical qualities that the gods exhibited. The boy was especially enthused in his description of the muses.
Following in Apollo’s entourage, his heavenly muses
Listen to the sun-god’s lyre and fawn over him.
That pleases Apollo.
Polymnia, singing praises to her patron god Apollo.
Calliope, still reciting the epic poem she had composed just last year.
Clio, correcting the historical allusions in her poem.
Thalia, making fun of the proceedings and laughing at
Star-gazing Urania, falling over her own feet.
Melpomene, weeping for a hero lost in battle, fatally flawed.
Erato, reciting a love poem written for Asklepios and his bride.
Behind them all dances Terpsichore, celebrating,
And encouraging the lagging Euterpe to speed up the tempo with her flute.
But Euterpe, lyric muse, sees not the joy of this occasion
The day on which her one true love will be bound to another.
If only she were as beautiful as Health.
If only she could heal.
What good is music and lyric poetry when people still fall ill.
But fair Asklepios sees her not.
So, as Health is conferred on the new godling,
Euterpe, a mere muse, creeps away.
Far from the celebration she pipes her mournful tune
And from her flute issues gossamer tones weaving a veil
As if of ivory silk between the lyric muse and Olympus.
Unknown, unmissed, the muse weeps for her lost love.
She imagines herself the very picture of Health,
Taking her lover in her arms and welcoming him to her bosom.
As Asklepios consummates his marriage to Health,
Euterpe feels him part her temple gates
And plant within her the seed of their love.
Behind her Ivory Veil,
Euterpe’s empathic pregnancy advances apace with Health’s.
In the fullness of time, Hygeia is born of Health.
But behind the ivory veil another child gasps her first breath.
Euterpe calls her symbiont child Serepte.
Anon, times change.
An instant as gods measure time.
Men cease offering the sweet scent of burnt flesh.
Starving from neglect, the ancients give way to new gods
And flee Olympus
As the Titans gave way to the Olympians.
Apollo gathers his muses to him and numbers them.
But one is missing.
“Euterpe!” he calls and she must answer his summons.
But behind the ivory veil, the child goddess Serepte is held.
“One day, my child,” the muse sings out,
“One day a hero will come. A mortal will release you into the world.
And on that day, you will be the goddess you were born to be.”
And here we wait.
Millennia are but an instant to the immortals
But eternity to men.
Her story is forgotten by all but a hand of faithful
Who await the mortal hero to rise
And free the goddess from her prison
Behind the Ivory Veil.
Doc was surprised by the frank descriptions of sensuality given by the boy. Even at the University, Doc would take flak if he recited such sexual details. Such was America. The character of the empathically conceived child was left a mystery, but Doc thought it might bear a resemblance to other known goddesses or be a key to a local legend. There was no clue to her special characteristics in the story. Doc found that strange. The pantheon always had function associated with deity. If the goddess was to prove a legitimate piece in mythology, she must have a function. The story ended with the empathically conceived goddess shrouded behind the ivory veil that bound her to old Olympus awaiting a mortal savior as the other gods took flight to the heavens.
Doc applauded with the rest of the family and Andrew hugged the boy. Doc smiled and reached to shake the boy’s hand.
“Well, Doctor Heinrich,” said the old man, “what do you think of my Apollo and his story?”
“A very talented young man,” answered Doc. “It’s a beautiful story. May I ask questions? I’ve never heard anything quite like it and I’m curious. Of course, if it’s not appropriate, I certainly understand…?” He left the sentence hanging in an unspoken question that belied his own impatience. The old man laughed.
“There are no secrets to our faith, Doctor. Only the blindness of those who will not ask. Even the priests and monks of the monasteries know. It is that alone that keeps us concealed from the rest of the world. ‘Knowing, they know not; Seeing, they see not; Understanding all, they understand nothing.’”
Doc was certain the old man’s quotation was not quite scriptural. But it added to the incongruity of the whole setting.
“At the moment, I admit that I am too taken by the story to question the roots of belief. It seemed… incomplete.” Doc began. “Why did the story end before the goddess—I assume goddess is an appropriate term for Serepte?—before the goddess was freed from her captivity? What mortal ultimately came along to deliver her and how?”
“Ah, that is the heart of the matter,” the old man responded. “The end of the story. We don’t know the end of the story, Doctor Heinrich. My family has passed it down from generation to generation in hope of the mortal savior. It is the basis of our faith. For that reason alone, the legend has been preserved.”
“You may be isolated and alone, but you have a great faith.”
“Well, the time cannot be far off now,” he answered.
“What?”
“When I came of age, it was prophesied that the deliverer would come in my lifetime. I am getting old,” Andrew chuckled. Apollo wrapped his arms around his grandfather.
“Age is a matter of the heart,” Doc assured him. “You strike me as very young of heart.”
“I thank you,” said the old man. “But there is another reason I believe the time is at hand. No doubt you have seen many religions in your travels, of which our faith is simply an anachronism. You must surely know that this faith can survive only in relative isolation. You and I have twice seen the entire world at war. We have seen manmade acts that exceed all the myths of deities from all the ages. If we have become gods ourselves, what need is there of a pantheon that no longer shows itself to mortals?”
Doc absorbed what the man was saying. His religion was doomed and he addressed the matter as a calm student of his own demise.
“What will happen if—or I should say when—the mortal savior actually reaches the veil and releases the goddess? Is it to be a time of cataclysm? Is she to reestablish the ancient religion? Do you expect a revival? A war? Anything?”
The old man drew a deep breath and for a moment Doc was afraid he had crossed the barrier of good taste. But when the voice reached his ears it was one of sorrow and question.
“Your faith is a faith of answers. Ours is one of questions. Those which you ask are the deepest. I do not know the answers. It may signal the end or beginning of another age. We may loose a power that we do not understand on a world that it cannot comprehend. And it may be that we will simply set at liberty a captive spirit that has no other purpose than to take flight—to reunite with her own. But it will take a mortal not of my family to work the release. This we do know.”
“Well, may your gods send you a fine strong young man to do the job.”
“We will settle our minds on whomever is sent to us by the gods” nodded the old man.
Doc nodded unconsciously then cocked his head to one side as he realized the weight of the old man’s statement. “Certainly, you can’t expect that I’m the one you are waiting for? I’m not a keeper of your religion.” The old man smiled. Doc continued. “I don’t see how I could possibly be of help to you.” The last thing he wanted at this stage of his life was to become involved in a mystery rite about which he knew nothing. He had had his share of that.
“Perhaps the name Benjamin Wilton, known also as the Firebrand, means something to you, Doctor Heinrich.” The old man leaned forward trying to connect with Doc’s averted gaze. Wilton. He could not let out the depth of meaning that the name held for him. “You need not answer, the old man continued. “You carry his staff, though your way of using it is different than his.”
“I’m afraid that I do not have the same talents that my… he did. How do you know of him?”
“And have you heard of the City of the Gods?”
“If you profess to have a map to the ancient city, Mr. Pariskovopolis, you engage in a cruel and outdated jest. I have purchased no less than twenty such maps over the years. They were elaborate hoaxes. Some I purchased because I thought it might indeed be possible. The rest, simply to get them off the streets. I am a scientist and am no longer prone to wandering around with unchecked pieces of parchment as my only guide.” Doc was irritated and close to bidding his host goodnight and returning to the village. Wilton’s alleged fraud had marked the end of an illustrious career for Doc’s one-time mentor. The old man stopped him with a gesture.
“And what do you think? Was Wilton a liar?”
Doc said nothing for a moment. He had never quite believed the allegations, but couldn’t bring himself to believe that Wilton had found a path to Old Olympus.
“I think that Professor Wilton believed in his discovery,” he said finally.
“You are pained by the mention of his name for reasons that I do not know. I will share with you my own pain. In 1943, my youngest son was killed fighting the Italians in the North. Two years earlier he made a sacred trip to this fabled city and was followed by a man that I believe to have been Professor Wilton. That man desecrated the holy place. How, I do not know. There are many rules. My son could never say. But he witnessed the gods’ revenge and that was more than he could bear. Within a week he ran away to join the army. He was too young, Doctor, but it was believed that a boy was better off in the army than in a reestablishment camp. At 14 the son of my old age was killed. I do not know what Professor Wilton did, but my son is gone.”
“That would have been 1941,” Doc said. “Wilton disappeared four years before that. I saw him…” The image of his mentor in the firelight was burned into Doc’s memory. With fire still rushing in his veins, he watched the professor step to the edge of the cliff and dive off—an impossibly long way to the water. “It simply can’t have been him.”
“I would like to believe that, Doctor Heinrich, as much as you.”
It was late and Doc’s exertions of the day were catching up with him. His chest ached from where he’d been struck. He winced as he yawned.
“If Wilton desecrated the holy of holies, why would you share this with me?” Doc was certain none of this would make sense in the morning.
“Doctor Heinrich,” the old man smiled at him, “we must have an ending to our story.”
“And you will take me there?”
“You will go in the morning. Apollo must be in the city on his twelfth birthday—the day after tomorrow.”
“A ritual?”
“A redemption,” nodded the patriarch.
Doc rose to retire for the night. At the door Doc turned once again to his host.
“Do you really believe in the ancient gods?”
“Do you believe in stones, Doctor Heinrich?” Doc paused at the question. “You may build with them, throw them, shape them, use them, stumble over them, or ignore them. Or even cast them at your enemies. They are beyond the realm of belief.”
Doc slept a short and restless night.
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