Behind the Ivory Veil
3 City of the Gods
Sunday, 26 September 1954, Metéora, Greece
IN THE BEFORE-DAWN BLUSH of the next day, Doc sat on the ground with the family. They formed a loosely drawn circle around the well in the center of the courtyard. He had agreed to participate in the ritual without further thought after Andrew explained it. It was not unlike those Doc had participated in over the years in countless cultures, including at the stone circle in Northern England. Silently, they watched the old man in the center as he moved about the circle inscribing it with his gestures. Doc felt a subtle barrier at his back after the old man passed him—an intangible wall that defined the ritual space. It had been years since Doc felt the presence as powerfully as he did this morning. Perhaps he was remembering his own initiation. At last the old man stopped moving just to Doc’s left. He turned toward the outside of the circle and faced East. Though the words were in Greek, Doc had no difficulty translating them as they were spoken.
Within this sanctuary cast
Are all the powers of the ancients.
Let the air—
The fire—
The water—
Gaia herself join us
In this circle of power.
The family took up the chant from the old man. “Symmetochí ston kýklo tis exousías. Join in the circle of power.” The old man raised his hands to the East and continued. While the ritual casting of a circle was similar to the pagan rituals of England in which Doc had participated, the words were cloaked in classic references to the powers of Olympus and had the flavor of a Greek play. The old man was Choragus and the family was the Chorus.
“Open, unlidded eye of golden dawn, and cast upon us your rays of life.”
His timing was impeccable. The sun broke over the crest of Metéora glinting into his eyes and filling the courtyard with the sharp light of morning. He turned slowly to his right and stopped with his back to Doc. The family continued the almost sub-vocal chant “Join in the circle of power.” The old man raised his arms to the South.
“Flame within us, Hephaestus, volcano of eternal fire.”
The eldest daughter held a candle. Doc saw no sign of a match or lighter, but the candle flared to life with a crack that echoed in the courtyard. The chant picked up a little volume as the old man moved to the West and held up his hands.
“Rise Poseidon, tide of the sea; flood us in refreshing waves.”
Thea raised a pitcher and a cup and began to pour water. She kept pouring. Doc expected the cup to overflow, but the more she poured, the more water it seemed to hold. She kept pouring as the old man moved to stand in front of Doc and Apollo and raise his hands to the North.
“Demeter, mother of the seasons, dust of our bodies, accept us and fill us with the power of Earth.”
Apollo scooped dust from the ground in front of him and let it filter from one hand to the other. A light wind rose and the dust swirled in the palm of his hand. When he held it out, Doc could imagine that he saw the shape of a woman swirling in the dust.
The old man smiled and ran his fingers through Pol’s hair. “Now, let’s hope this works, eh?” He pointed to Doc’s walking stick and asked, “May I borrow this? It’s not necessary, but it looks so spectacular.” Doc hesitated. Only he and Wilton had used the staff for rituals in at least forty years. It made his hand twitch to present the staff to the old man.
Andrew rapped the staff on the ground setting a rhythm that the clan picked up with soft clapping. When the old man began to chant again, Doc could not understand any of the words but he was able to grasp a sense of it all. It was a summoning. The old man danced and gestured with the staff as he chanted. He swung it above his head and passed it beneath his feet. Doc had seen other summonings in other cultures, but nothing quite like this. It left him with only one concrete image: Laughter. Then he was aware of the laughter of the rest of the family, nearly covering the chant that had been taken up. “Hanistemi udor oste pino. Hanistemi udor oste pino.” Andrew stopped before the well with Doc’s staff held in front of him. Doc felt the chant growing and joined the rest of the group.
How it happened, or even if it happened, Doc could never tell. He saw—or thought he saw—water rise to the edge of the well and brim over. At its edge, the old man resumed dancing, laughing, swinging the stick and splashing water out of the overflowing well at and onto the members of the circle.
At the peak of the excitement, with the well a geyser, the old man shouted and everyone fell silent with a force that knocked them back on the ground. The silence hummed through Doc’s mind. For a moment, he could not even hear his own breathing. But the image of the laughing spirit of the well was firmly imprinted in his mind.
He gradually became aware of the sounds around him—his heart beating, his breathing, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant chirp of a bird. Then came the intonations of the old man, still softly chanting above him. Doc rose on an elbow to look around. The sun was well up now. It was later in the morning than Doc liked to begin traveling. They would need to rest in the heat. The other celebrants were also rising and a loaf of bread was passed followed by a plate of cheeses and olives. Thea and Sophia were making the rounds with a pot of tea and cups. Doc’s stomach rumbled and he broke bread
When Andrew had completed a circle counter-clockwise, he stopped in front of Doc and helped him to his feet.
“Your staff,” the old man said, handing Doc the walking stick. Then he pulled Apollo up to his feet and embraced the boy. “It was very good. Go and travel safely.”
Without a further word, Doc and Apollo shouldered their packs and left. Doc paused at the gate for a quizzical look at the old man and the dry courtyard. Andrew smiled and waved.
Doc and Apollo were on the road and moving quickly on the outskirts of Metéora before they spoke to each other. Preparing himself, Doc thought. A memorized ritual must be performed. Doc wondered what his part in the ritual would be this time. Quiet observer, he hoped. Perhaps this journey—simply finding one’s way to the sacred place—was the entire ritual. There was data to support that among Native American tribes. Perhaps this would be a parallel—a spirit quest. When they stopped for lunch, the conversation was casual and Doc felt free to ask questions of the boy.
“Apollo, are you a believer in the ancient religion?” The boy laughed.
“I believe. But I believe like a child believes in Agios Vassilis—you say Santa Claus. When we grow up, we understand that Agios Vassilis was a saint who lived centuries ago and we commemorate his day the last night of the year by giving gifts. He does not actually visit. So, many of the stories Papou—Grandfather—tells are hard to understand. I don’t know if they are real or if they represent something. In school, we are told that the myths were teaching stories, but my teachers often don’t know what the stories teach. Papou says that when I make my journey, I will understand and will be able to decide for myself what to believe.”
“Is your father a believer?”
“No. My father does not believe. He is a good Christian. He taught me the stories of our ancient way.”
“He taught you to be a believer but is not one himself? I don’t understand.”
“Like Papou, he wants me to make my own decision. In kindness to me he has taught me the stories so that I would know the choices.”
“In my country, parents teach only what they want their children to believe,” Doc grumbled. “As do teachers.”
“Oh, he taught me that, too,” Apollo laughed. “I had to memorize half the Bible.” Doc joined the laughter.
“And if you choose wrong?”
“There is no wrong choice—only different ones. The important thing is to choose.”
The words seemed old for a boy so young and Doc reminded himself that though well-schooled, he was dealing with a child. The boy’s long black hair and simple clothes would make it impossible for a stranger to tell if he was a boy or a girl.
The way became more rugged as they began to climb gradually and the two lapsed again into silence. For a while, Doc had kept track of the general direction they were headed, but by noon the sky was so unnaturally overcast that he could no longer identify east from west by the sun.
As they traveled, the boy became more reticent about talking. He was carefully checking every landmark. There had been no identifiable trail for several hours. On a slope of rocks, indistinguishable one from another to Doc, Apollo selected one and walked straight toward it. Then he abruptly changed his course just slightly and walked on to another rock. The sound of running water gradually broke in on Doc’s senses. He looked up beyond Apollo and saw a broad swath of green as the slope evened off beside a mountain stream. The stream and broad greenway were an oasis in the midst of a rocky terrain. As he stepped onto the soft grass, Doc felt he was on very old ground, like walking through a rainforest where thick mulched leaves coat the ground for generations. It was springy and almost alive to the touch as they turned upstream. There was one tree, however, which dominated the greenway like a patriarch of nature. Here, Pol stopped and tossed his pack on the ground.
“We’ll camp here for the night.”
Heinrich tossed his pack down beside the boy and set up camp near the ancient tree. He worried about the threatening sky that grew ever darker, but detected no scent of rain in the air. The tarp made into a hasty lean-to would protect them from any mild rain.
Doc had an irresistible urge to remove his hiking boots, recalling older passages of Exodus concerning holy ground. Yet, here there was no burning bush, no voice of God—only an old gnarled tree and a small boy.
“You’ve never been to the City of the Gods, yet you know the way so well. You don’t have some secret map that someone sold you, do you?” Doc asked.
“It is an ancient holy place,” began Apollo. “There are no maps. All the members of my family have made this trip on or about their twelfth birthdays. My father, my aunts and uncle, my grandparents, and as far back as we can tell. When we marry, the new spouses are invited to make the trip with their mates. All receive the blessing of the holy place and all make their choice.”
“I’m honored to accompany you on such an important occasion,” Doc said. “Why are you willing to show me the way to the holy place? Isn’t it a secret?”
“I can take you to ta hagia hagion. I cannot show you the way. You will go with me, but even if you found your way back to this spot, you can only enter the city if invited. The dangers are many and stories of those who have tried and failed are also many. That is why we rest now. Tomorrow we will be shown the way to ta hagia hagion.”
“Ta hagia hagion. The holiest of all. Is it so to all people or only to your family?”
“The way was given to us a long time ago by a strange visitor. We have never met others there—at least not others we recognize.”
“You mean your family owns this place?”
“No one owns ta hagia hagion.”
“But all these years your family has passed it on from generation to generation?”
“Over the years, much of the story has been lost,” Apollo answered. “It is difficult to live apart and guard the mysteries. We believe and hope but do not understand. May Apollo, my namesake, enlighten us.”
With that, Pol pulled off his clothes and dove into the stream. There he swam and bathed as Doc looked on from the shore. It was tempting, but Doc was too reserved to join in. Too old for such a childish pleasure. Ritual bathing was not unknown to Doc. He thought of the stone circle in England and his initiation. Soon Pol brought water out of the stream and bathed Doc’s feet. The water was refreshing and the gesture was one of sincere respect and affection.
“Doctor Heinrich, do not be mistaken. Tomorrow, you must also make your choice,” Pol said softly.
Doc fell asleep listening to Apollo sing softly a few feet away, a lilting, enchanting hymn.
Winter, give me peaceful rest,
Quiet heart within my breast
Yours the gift of solitude,
Grant a silent interlude.
Spring, like dawn, replace my sleeping
Constant ever in your keeping.
Grant that I might turn my face
To worship in your holy place.
Summer baking, heat my soul
And let my mind in pastures roll
Where bitter herbs cannot be found
But passions sweet lie all around.
Doc slept before he heard the verse about autumn.
Monday, 27 September 1954, City of the Gods
FOG SHROUDED THE CAMP when Doc awoke to Pol’s urgent prodding. He found it difficult to focus his mind where he couldn’t focus his eyes. He repeatedly checked to see that his glasses were properly situated.
Pol took Doc’s hand and they began moving slowly up the slope. It turned rapidly to scree, but Pol picked out a stable path. Doc was hesitant to proceed in the fog, but it was either go with Pol or stay behind.
Doc tripped over hidden boulders in the scree. Gusts of wind swirled the fog but would not clear it. He pushed at his glasses again with the butt of his walking stick. The fog seemed to hang in his eyes instead of in the air.
And shadows moved there. Just beyond the range of his vision, he could sense the movement. He wanted to ask questions, but could not bring his voice above a whisper, which Pol could not or would not hear. His voice was masked by the fog as much as his eyes.
Beside his own constant mutterings, Doc imagined other voices wandering in the fog like echoes of his own thoughts. But silencing himself to listen sent the echoes fleeing. He became painfully aware of a spot where his pack was rubbing his back raw. Each step of his unsure feet shifted the pack again He reached with his free hand to adjust it, but his walking stick caught in a strap and he had to concentrate on untangling himself while maintaining the steady pace that Apollo set.
Finally, the spot in his back irritated him past his endurance and Doc jerked his hand free from Pol to adjust his pack. He started to move again and felt his foot slipping on the loose scree. The ground beneath him was giving way in a shower of cascading gravel. He shouted as he lost his balance and sent his staff flailing in front of him. He came to a jerking halt, flat on his stomach with his staff stretched out up the hill in front of him. Pol held the other end, wedged behind a rock, pulling him back to safety. Doc regained his footing on the loose rock, took Pol’s silently outstretched hand and did not let go again.
The transition came slowly. First Doc sensed singing in the air and recognized Pol’s voice. The terrain leveled and the loose shale turned to wide flat areas of rock, almost like broad stairs. The gray half-light of dawn now illumined the way. Pol released Doc’s hand and moved ahead in the clearing fog. Heinrich followed.
He could feel the shadows of monoliths not quite seen. Gradually, the shadows took substance, materializing around him as pillars in an ancient temple, so tall he could not see the capitals in the early morning light. He walked on a few steps behind Pol to the forum where a circular rostrum stood isolated in the center. It was this to which Pol walked.
What followed was more solemn and awesome than Doc could anticipate.
Pol went to the far edge of the rostrum before making his ascent. He stood there, facing down the forum toward Doc. Doc fidgeted uneasily for a moment and muttered something about having been inadequately prepared. He shuffled off to one side where a pillar partially hid him. He turned the direction the boy faced and saw a flash of light as the sun burst suddenly into view. Its rays sharply outlined the pillars and isolated the rostrum at the end of the forum. Pol stood in the center of the circle now and began to sing an odd combination of vocal patterns, rhythms, and accents. Sometimes, Doc understood words, and yet there were times when he was sure there were no words at all. It was sound beyond language and music. Images of history and mythology raced through Doc’s mind faster than he could comprehend them. Pol sang a message of greeting to the dawn and to all the countless dawns preceding him.
Then the dawn responded.
Someone or something from the depths of the ancient past answered and Doc felt Hyperion’s chariot ride through his soul on a flood of music.
Then calm and quiet.
The whole event lasted only minutes—perhaps seconds. When it ended, Pol knelt in the center of the circle and drew a small knife from his belt. With it, he cut his long, black hair. When he was raggedly trimmed all the way around his head, he gathered up the locks, and held them toward the dawn. Then he flung the hair into the air where it was blown away by a wind Doc hadn’t felt blowing. Pol left the rostrum.
Heinrich did not move. Eventually, Pol came to him. “I must go to be alone. You are free to explore. Learn what you can of this place. Perhaps you can teach me about it,” he said. “All paths lead to the orchestra. We must leave before sunset. I will meet you at the center.”
Pol left silently without giving Doc an opportunity to respond. It was not a time for questions. Doc began to examine the architecture and surroundings. The massive pillars formed even avenues extending from the orchestra outward like spokes of a wheel. Doc braced himself for the first test and began walking directly down the eastern avenue, examining the pillars as he went. He checked frequently behind him until the rostrum was out of sight then quickly and resolutely walked onward. Just when he thought he should turn back, the rostrum appeared ahead of him, not quite directly in the avenue down which he walked, but just to the left of it. Doc searched in his pack for a marker of some sort. He laid his staff in the center of the avenue pointing the direction he was traveling. He walked to the rostrum and debated with himself but could not justify laying anything directly on it.
He drew an arrow on a piece of paper and anchored it under a dislodged flagstone near the rostrum.
He returned to the path and walked on, determined to test Apollo’s statement to the limit. A short time later, the rostrum appeared again, this time on his right. He marked his place on the path with his staff and approached the rostrum. He put another scrap of paper with an arrow on the ground and then walked around the platform to verify that his original marker was on the other side. Shaking his head, he returned to the path and continued.
This time, the rostrum appeared directly in front of him. As he approached it he made several calculations in his mind but could not map the configuration in his head. He skipped several steps of logic and assumed he must be approaching from the west, opposite the direction he started. He muttered something about having failed to mark his origin. He would have to retrace his entire path to confirm his finding. He’d walked some miles by his calculations and ended up where he started. Yet he’d always walked in a straight line. It was incredibly disorienting and had to be the result of an optical illusion. And if the paths all led back to the rostrum, where was the one he and Apollo had originally entered from?
For the third time, he knelt at the rostrum to mark his place with a slip of paper. He dislodged another flagstone and heard a pebble drop beneath it striking a hollow note below. After a moment’s struggle, Doc removed the stone completely from its resting place. A foot beneath the surface lay a thick leather folio. Doc abandoned his attempt to map the avenues and unearthed the folio.
He examined it carefully, observing it was of an ancient design but was not more than 50 years old at the most. The leather cords that tied it were supple and showed no wear. Inside were papers, but not ancient by any means. Across the bottom of the first page was scrawled the signature of Benjamin Wilton. The papers in his hand were his mentor’s journal.
I’ll leave you a sign. You’ll know it when you see it. When that day comes, your doubts will disappear.
Doc remembered his mentor’s words as he sat, mesmerized by the material in his hands. He was so absorbed in the discovery that he did not even notice the sun setting in his eyes as he sat with his back against the rostrum. He heard a sound and turned to see Pol standing on the rostrum leaning on Doc’s heavy staff. The boy pushed the stick toward Doc.
“You left this over there,” he said. “It is time to leave. We should put the stone you moved back in order.”
“This journal… It’s my…”
“Yes, it is yours. The price of passage is to leave a part of yourself behind,” Pol said. “I left my hair as an offering to my goddess. Perhaps another pilgrim left this book. You will leave your doubt.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Let us go. You will need the papers before you return.”
“Return?”
“Will you not return to ta hagia hagion?”
“Will I be permitted?” Doc had already allowed himself the fantasy of bringing a small and discreet team to the site next summer if he could persuade Pol to guide them. Pol was suggesting the expedition himself.
“You are expected,” answered Apollo. His voice seemed to echo in the vast empty forum.
Doc hastily gathered his scraps of paper, and stuffed them along with the journal and portfolio into his pack. As they moved away from the rostrum, a misty fog began to roll in with the sunset. Heinrich took Pol’s hand to avoid being separated on the treacherous trip down. He reminded himself constantly.
I will return.
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