Behind the Ivory Veil
20 Into the Night
Monday, 15 August 1955, City of the Gods
WHEN WESLEY AWOKE in the predawn light, he found the air as clear as on those days when they did not go to the city. He felt incredibly refreshed and invigorated. He helped make breakfast and drank of his freshly steeped coffee. He had become accustomed to the Greek method of simply putting the finely ground coffee in the little briki and heating it until the foam formed on top, just before the liquid boiled. He would then pour this into his small cup and sip at it until they were ready to leave for the City.
This morning, they went about their preparations, including lashing together on the guide rope as Pol led them up the mountain. Wesley adhered to all the safety precautions they had taken because he had not been up the mountain while the others explored yesterday. Without the morning fog, the way looked clear and open. The gentle greensward continued up the mountain from the olive tree. Wesley vaguely wondered about that and attempted to locate the spot where he’d fallen when they came down two days ago. He couldn’t find any loose stones like those that had rolled from under him.
As Pol began the trip up, he looked curiously at his friend. Wesley was smiling and looking around. To Wesley and to Pol, there was no fog. Doc and Margaret continued to stumble blindly up the slope.
The fog receded from Wesley’s ears, as well. The chorus of voices were the most beautiful he had ever heard. With nothing around him but the pleasant walk, Wesley could only assume that these were angels singing and he gladly joined his voice with theirs. The musical tongue was so soft and yet so all-encompassing that it did not disturb the natural sounds of the walk. Wesley could see the crest of the hill and pillars visible over the horizon before he realized the voices he heard were not in the air at all, but were centered just inside his ears where no one else would hear. He stepped onto the plateau and took in the truly stunning sight of the pillars and the rostrum in the center of the forum.
The City was tangibly different today. Wesley could “see” more clearly than ever. And what he saw was not the basically monochromatic stone architecture of his previous journeys, but a City that sparkled and glowed like a jeweled crown on the crest of the hill. His entire senses were wrenched out of himself into an ultrasensitivity to the light, sound, smell, taste and feel of the City. Tears drenched his cheeks as he tried futilely to comprehend the scope of his experience. Even Doc and Margaret looked different to him. He could see how much they cared for each other—loved each other.
Doc looked strangely at Wesley and the musician responded before the question was voiced.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” A few feet away, Pol waited with a hand outstretched. Wesley took the offered hand and the two ascended the rostrum together, leaving a puzzled Doc and Margaret to stare after them.
The music. First Pol’s voice singing his greeting. Then Wesley’s own counterpoint in rich tones he did not recognize even as his own voice. The response came antiphonally from every corner of the City as if the pillars themselves were singing the litany. It was more than could be borne standing up. As the sun followed them over the crest of the hill, Wesley sank to his knees in the center of the rostrum. His tears fell on the vivid colors of the dais. The colors themselves rippled with the splash of each tear.
“My tears I leave you, for the price of passage is to leave a part of yourself behind,” prayed Wesley. Yes, prayed. “I believe. Lord, help my unbelief.”
When he regained his composure, Pol knelt beside him. Doc and Margaret had already slipped away to continue their survey of the pillars. Wesley looked at the boy but only said, “It is so beautiful.”
Pol smiled and the two set to work with their project, happily chatting about the slight shifts of the symbols and their relationship to the pillars.
It was a very good day.
Tuesday, 16 August 1955, Kastraki, Greece
Rebecca slept well on a bed provided by Sophia and awoke refreshed in the morning. Her hand still throbbed if she moved wrong, but the cooling salve Andrew had used to dress it the day before had helped relieve the pain a little.
“When everyone comes down from the City this weekend, this house will be available,” Sophia said as they passed one of the four houses around the courtyard that looked empty. “I thought last night you would prefer not to be isolated and alone. I hope the baby did not wake you.”
“Not at all,” Rebecca smiled. “I can see why Wesley has fallen so in love with this area. It is majestic.” She looked around at the towering pillars of rock that made the Metéora. Scarce images of life, one here, one there… The monoliths seemed to be a grown version of her circle of stones at Carles Castlerigg. They joined the others for breakfast in Andrew and Thea’s home, the children having already been fed and sent outdoors. Rebecca gratefully accepted dark Greek coffee from her hosts and sipped it lovingly. If only Scotland had coffee like this.
As they sat and talked, there was a light rapping at the door and a monk entered.
“Rebecca, Mrs. Allen, please meet our old friend, Brother El. El, this is Wesley’s wife.”
“I am so pleased to meet you. I have enjoyed my visits with your husband,” the monk said.
“Have you any news?” Andrew asked.
“He thinks I’m a spy and always have news to tell him,” Brother El laughed to Rebecca. “Well, there is some news. I will be here only another week, my friends. I am told that the good brothers of Mount Athos need my guidance. It seems they have found a manuscript of questionable origin. I have been asked to advise them.”
“It will be a sad day when you leave Agios Nikolaos Anapafsas,” Andrew said. “We are wondering about the stranger with the injured hand who was in the village this week. Has he, indeed, been visiting the monasteries?”
“Ah, him. I have seen him. It would not surprise me if it was him that attempted to follow me on my supply run Saturday.” Brother El looked at Rebecca’s hand. “There is a connection between the two of you. Is it you that he seeks or do you seek him?”
“Neither,” Rebecca declared, though she asked herself again if she was seeking The Blade. “We are both seeking my husband. I must reach him first.”
“And what does he seek?” Andrew asked.
“He has heard there is a goddess of great power there and seeks to plunder her.” Andrew stiffened at the words.
“You have the essence of power about you. Is this what binds you to the stranger?” asked Brother El.
“There is a blade between us,” Rebecca answered with the words Ryan had used in describing it.
“There was an unusual storm on Saturday evening,” Brother El said. “It seemed unnatural. The nuns at Roussanou say a man stumbled in late Saturday night, fevered and haunted. They nursed him, but by lauds, he was gone. I dare say there are mighty powers at work.”
“He must not reach them before me. I will stop him!”
“Daughter,” Andrew said softly, “we will help. I call you daughter because I have begun to think of your husband as a son. Let us prepare for your journey.”
“I will make the circuit of all the orders and see if there is more news,” Brother El said. “If he has turned away, there is no need to chase him. If I find he is searching for the base camp, I will inform you.” With that the monk took his leave.
“Marcos! Come please,” Andrew called to his son. The taxi driver came quickly from the house. “My son, I believe that you must take Mrs. Allen to the City of the Gods. There is more at work than even Brother El comprehends. She must reach her husband at once. You should prepare to go to the mountain.”
“But, Papa, it has been many years since I have been to the City. I do not remember the way. Should you not take her yourself?”
“I am too old. The fact that my health is failing tells me that the fulfillment is near. What any of us believes will no longer matter. Go to the drop point. You know how to reach it. From there, let the gods guide you. They never truly let you forget.”
“I will go to get supplies,” Marcos said softly. “I am sorry you do not have a better guide for this journey, Rebecca. We will reach them.”
“We will listen to see if Brother El has additional information this evening and you will leave at first light in the morning.”
Wednesday, 17 August 1955, City of the Gods
The City was different today. Expectant. Waiting.
Wesley had taken to swimming in the stream each night after they returned from the City, splashing with Pol and refreshing himself. He could not fathom why he’d been so reluctant to bathe in the stream until Sunday. Now he could not imagine the emerald lawn on which they camped to be any brighter as his vision swept the pathway to the City of the Gods.
Each morning this week, the way had been clear, a pleasant walk up the slope until the green grasses gradually shifted to the paving stones of the City. Pol winked at Wesley conspiratorially as he linked Doc and Margaret to the guide rope. It gradually dawned on Wesley that the fog they had experienced, like the music, was not in their surrounds, but in their minds. The music, he had discovered, was in his ears. The fog was in his eyes. While Wesley’s eyes and ears were clear, it was apparent that Doc and Margaret were still operating in the fog.
Wesley wanted to shout at them and tell them to open their eyes! It was so beautiful here that it made his heart sing. But either his mouth was stopped from speaking the words, or their ears were stopped from hearing them. All he could do each night was strum the chords and finger the melodies on his guitar as his voice praised God for this incredible vision.
And this morning, entering the City had special meaning. He greeted the dawn with music as they approached the rostrum and were washed by the breaking light. This was a very special day.
Wesley glanced toward the sun, unable to look that direction for long. It seemed nearer. If the ancients had this view of the fiery orb, it was no wonder that they pictured a shining god driving his chariot across the sky. Hyperion, the last of the Titans to reign supreme. That was the spirit of this blazing globe that tracked directly between the pillars toward the rostrum. Wesley could see it as clearly as the fireball itself, consuming itself and glowing brighter and brighter as it died of its own consumption.
“Have you noticed,” Wesley mused to his companions, “that the sun does not track south during the day? Its path is always direct from East to West. At noon, when I stand in the center of the rostrum, my shadow is contained directly below me—the smallest I have ever seen.”
“That is curious,” Doc said.
“It fits with our theory that this City is a completely self-contained sphere that operates outside the physical laws of our earth,” Margaret concluded. Wesley was amazed that they could so blithely accept such a preposterous conclusion. It did not take a new understanding of the universe at all. Why, even Joshua had stopped the sun in the sky to give the Children of Israel longer to fight their battle against the Amorites.
And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the people had avenged themselves upon their enemies. Is not this written in the book of Jasher? So the sun stood still in the midst of heaven, and hasted not to go down about a whole day.
It took no bending of the universe in Wesley’s mind. This was the sun of Joshua. Tonight, the new moon would also stand still in the sky. But darkness would not encompass the City. Even starlight would illuminate the great pillars and the moving colors of the rostrum. For some reason, he could see all these images in the strange light of Joshua’s sun in the City.
Wesley, himself, had stood still in the center of the rostrum for so long that the sun was near its zenith when he realized that Doc and Margaret had taken Pol with them to question him about certain symbols they had found. Rather than laying out his strings and drawings on the rostrum, Wesley seated himself in the center and began to play his guitar.
The music today was different than on other days. It was more intense—crystal tones playing in his ears. His guitar and voice joined them as he interpreted the symbols around him on the rostrum. He stood and paced around the dais, almost dancing as he tripped from symbol to symbol. In his head, he imagined the staves of music before him and realized that the music of the gods was being limited by this primitive notation system, confined to octaves and harmonies. Wesley twisted the pegs of his guitar into new tunings and let his fingers run across the strings in harmonics, unbounded by the frets.
Paper was scattered on the podium in front of him as he played, then frantically noted the sequences. This music was so real that it had to be written down—preserved. It was real in ways that orchestras could only hope to attain. The staves were too limiting. The only way he could record the music was to jump into the hieroglyphic notation. Even the symbols that he wrote refused to follow a linear pattern on the page, some completely overlapping others as he filled the paper. If it had been possible, Wesley believed the notes would have leapt off the paper into three dimensions.
And with that realization, he understood the notation of the rostrum. It was a multidimensional instrumentation. He was looking at Flatland, as written by Edwin Abbott. He was a square, trying to grasp a great pyramid while being able to see only a triangle in his plane.
In his ecstatic music—playing, singing, dancing—Wesley grasped that the rostrum was not flat, but that he was viewing only one side of a universe stretched by tensions that defined dimensions he could never comprehend. One tension was motion. Two tensions were a connection. Three tensions were a plane. Four tensions were space. Fifth, sixth, seventh, and more tensions might affect the single point that was Wesley Allen, defining him across the universe and moving him in the web of his network. It was a mere coincidence that he was here at this point of the universe. And the possibility of such a coincidence occurring was always 100%, for he was always here now.
It was a window to a new world that he had been able to glimpse as a curtain was pulled aside and then dropped back in place, cutting out the vision. And then he had only the memory of enlightenment.
He could not, however, stop the images as he played, the page of notations forgotten. He fought them, but they came on stronger and he yielded.
The night. Desperate urgency to conquer the night. Trapped and waiting in timeless suspension. Unable to exercise more than patience over the awesome power that was held there. The empath. The goddess was a prisoner of the night.
Free me!
Wesley collapsed on the rostrum. Perspiration dripped from his forehead, mixing with his tears as droplets created synchronous waves spreading across the rostrum as if it were not merely stone with runes etched in its surface. He looked up to find Pol sitting nearby. The boy was silent, not having attempted to join in Wesley’s ecstatic song. Wesley had a new depth of understanding and a connection with the City. He could envision the position of every pillar and knew precisely how far down which avenue Doc and Margaret were working, oblivious to the meaning that was all around them.
“You heard?” Wesley’s dry voice cracked. Pol handed him a canteen and Wesley drank deeply. The two looked at each other with a mutual sharing of experience that transcended the need to speak. At last, however, Pol nodded.
“It rang throughout the City. I think there were times when even Doc and Margaret could hear it. They would pause in the midst of a question and raise their eyes. Touching one of the monoliths, we could feel it reverberate with the music.”
“You know then. Pol, I must stay. I must be here in the night. It’s in the music.”
Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes and he embraced Wesley, pushing the guitar aside. For generations, staying in the City past sundown had been forbidden.
“Yes,” he finally said. It was such a mixture and outpouring of emotions that flooded them that neither could separate the hope, the love, and the fear. “Be safe, Father Wesley. May our goddess protect you.”
Wesley gathered up his pack and handed the guitar to Pol.
“I’ll not need this tonight,” he said. After thinking a bit, he handed the pack to Pol as well. “I think that I’ll not need anything but my presence. Take care of our friends, son.”
Wesley turned away and selected a route that led him away from where he sensed Doc and Margaret were approaching. He turned, several yards away from the rostrum, to see Pol still staring after him. When he was over the horizon, he slipped behind a monolith and hid.
There he waited.
Wednesday, 17 August 1955, The Metéora, Greece
The old man gave them his blessing and Rebecca climbed into the Jeep with Marcos. Brother El’s intelligence, given the night before, was that the stranger was wandering between the great pillars of Metéora, apparently seeking for something. As long as he was seeking, he had not yet found the way. Marcos was wary as they left the cluster of homes, constantly looking to see if they were being followed.
As much as Marcos was vigilant, his demeanor also thawed toward Rebecca. Happy childhood memories flooded his thoughts and he shared them with Rebecca. He related the story of the goddess, Serepte, who was conceived in empathy and left captive behind the ivory veil. He gave different emphasis to the story than Doc had in telling them in Indianapolis. That seemed so long ago. Rebecca allowed herself to listen to him fully, escaping for the moment her fears for Wesley and her dire fascination with Ryan McGuire. It seemed that Marcos drove aimlessly, with random turns. Rebecca was certain there were landmarks they had passed previously and hoped that Marcos was simply avoiding being followed and was not hopelessly lost. At last, just before noon, Marcos pulled the Jeep off to the side of the goat track they had been following.
She groaned and cradled her hand against her chest. She had been thrown around the Jeep relentlessly over the rough terrain, unable to hang on with her right hand. Even so, she had instinctively reached to grab hold of the roll bar as they went over a particularly rough patch and the action set the pain throbbing up her arm.
“We must walk from here. Let us eat our lunch first so we have the energy for the climb. It should not be too difficult if it has not changed from the last time I was up here, but it is uphill.”
After eating, they began the walk, which rapidly turned into a hike and thence to a climb. Marcos continued talking to Rebecca and she answered as best she could with her shortness of breath. She was thankful for her walking stick and its non-ritual use. At one point, she asked him again if he was a believer.
“It is not quite as simple as that,” he replied. “I will try to explain. When I came here the first time, I was told only to go where my heart led me. The only thing I could think to do was climb, as we are now. I was not a strong boy like my son is. I was just exhausted. There was a stream in my path and I fell into it before I saw it.” He paused to chuckle at the memory and for the two to catch their breath a moment. “I crawled out of the stream, sat under a tree, and cried myself to sleep. The next morning, I simply wandered into the City. It was an awesome sight. There was a voice deep inside me that I still hear as clearly as if a person were standing beside me. It said simply, ‘Go in peace. Leave this to your son.’ I turned and left.”
Marcos paused again to take in his surroundings, trying to pick his way.
“I do not remember it being so difficult.” He stepped up to the top of a ridge and in one smooth motion dropped back down near Rebecca, motioning her to the ground in one swift gesture. Startled, she started to cry out, but he held a hand against her mouth and she stilled. He explained in a hushed whisper.
“There is a man camped on the other side of the ridge, a few hundred yards away. I do not recognize him. Could it be the stranger that my father mentioned?”
“I must see,” said Rebecca, crawling past Marcos to the ridge. He tried in vain to wave her back. Cresting the rise, she looked down on the camp of a lone explorer sitting in front of his fire. It did not take seeing the bandaged hand or blond hair for Rebecca to know that it was Ryan McGuire. As if drawn by a magnet, he turned, catching her eyes with his own. For a moment, they remained locked before she could withdraw, a glowing presence in Ryan’s eyes that nearly hypnotized her. She turned and fled past Marcos in the opposite direction. Marcos followed as quickly as he could, hearing movement in the camp behind.
“Rebecca! Rebecca Allen!” The shout behind them echoed in front and returned again so it sounded like it surrounded them. They rounded an outcropping of rock and came to a halt as Marcos cautiously looked back.
“Hart of my Heart!” came the shout again. They were silent. “You can’t make it alone. I can show you. Come back to my camp. I’ll show you the way tomorrow. I won’t chase you, Hart. You know I’m here. Come to me. I will show you the way. Come to me.” The echo died away and they listened to the silence.
“We can’t get there without passing him,” Marcos whispered. “His camp is in our path.”
“There must be another way.”
“I know of none, unless we can find the Mouth of Vengeance. It’s a cave where the stream disappears underground. If we can locate it, we can work our way upstream on the far side.”
“What a charming name. Why is it called the Mouth of Vengeance?” asked Rebecca.
“None have ever entered and returned.”
“Then we won’t enter. Let’s just find it.”
“You’d better drink,” Marcos responded. “We won’t dare stop again after we start moving. I hoped we would be there by now. It will be difficult to find the stream in the dark, even if I dare use a torch. Come. It is not safe to stay here.”
They climbed on in silence for an hour. The sky was overcast, blocking out the stars and the sunset behind them. It was getting dark and Rebecca stumbled twice. Marcos switched on his torch, but the light seemed to be consumed by the darkness. Finally, they caught the sound of water running not far away. They stumbled toward it and encountered the deep rushing torrent. Marcos threw his pack on the ground.
“I am sorry, Rebecca. We’re lost. This is the stream, but we’ve hit it above the Mouth of Vengeance. We’re on the wrong side and the only safe way to cross is to go around the mouth. It could be a mile downhill and treacherous in the dark. We’ll have to retrace our steps in the morning and wait at the camp until they come down. I am terribly sorry.”
“If they come down,” Rebecca answered wearily. She was almost too tired to care. In fact, she was almost relieved. The pain of swinging her hand to keep balance, of straining against her stick to help in the climb, and of absently reaching out to grab rocks with her burn had her sweating more than the exertion of the climb itself. “Don’t worry, Marcos. You did your best. We have no choice but to wait until light. If you don’t mind, though, I’ll wash in the stream before I try to sleep. My hand’s killing me. I’m too exhausted to go another step.”
Marcos stepped a respectful distance away to set up camp in the dark. Rebecca pulled her cup from her pack and dipped it into the stream. She laid her staff beside her and relished the cool water in her mouth. Then she unwrapped the injured hand and plunged it into the stream with a gasp at the shock. The water was so refreshing and cool that it made her want to dive in. A moment’s decision and she stripped off her shoes, shirt, and trousers, and was in the water. The current was fast, but she kept hold of the rocks with her left hand as she immersed her body in the water. It was a balm to her body. She dunked again. It was a wonderful feeling. At last she pulled herself out of the water and sprawled on her back on the shore. If she wasn’t careful, she would fall asleep right there.
The beam of a bright handheld light blinded her and she heard a deep chuckle on the other side of it.
“Marcos!” she exclaimed.
“Marcos who?” snapped Ryan McGuire.
Rebecca gasped but acted faster than she could think. She clutched her staff and swung it, smashing the light out of his hands. She rolled out of his path, snatching up her clothes with her cup as he dove at where she had just been. A hand caught her ankle. She beat it with her staff and rolled free into the stream. She heard Marcos shouting at Ryan as her head went under and she was caught in the current.
Must get out of the water. Mouth of Vengeance. She would be in it before she could catch her breath. Her feet hit bottom and she thrust upward and powerfully against the current and found herself in a calm backwash. She dragged herself and her clothes with her out of the water. It had happened so fast. She had clung to the few items as if they would save her. Perhaps they had. She felt in the inner pocket of her shirtsleeve and found her Athamé. She had survived, losing only her shoes.
She nearly called out to Marcos, but caught herself—fearing to bring on another assault by The Blade. She would sneak up on them. Then… She realized with a start that the current ran to her left rather than her right. She was on the wrong side of the stream! Or the right side. She ran uphill as quickly as she could. Marcos had said the camp would be on this side of the stream. Wesley, Doc, and Margaret. Together they would be safe and could deal with the renegade witch. She must move quickly, however. He might have followed her even here.
Rebecca could hear voices, but a rising wind scattered the words before they fully reached her ears. There. Or there. Rebecca stumbled toward the sound and thought she saw a flickering light. She continued. Echoing from hill to hill, someone was calling her name. She no longer knew for certain which direction she was going, uncertain as to where the stream had gone or why all directions seemed to be uphill. Always, voices sang her name in the wind.
Rebecca!
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