Writing for Fun
Oracle - Pete Norman
November 2013
The path was too narrow and too steep for a cart and he had been advised that a horse would be unable to cope with the treacherous terrain. He had declined the offer of a sure-footed donkey – he could never allow himself to be seen on a peasant's mount – and now the only assistance to his tired legs was a gnarled old stick, for which he had exchanged a small brass coin with an old beggar man at the bottom.
He raised his weary eyes to the summit of Mount Parnassus, to the hamlet of Delphi, which seemed scarcely any closer to him than it had the last time he had looked; he trudged onwards.
When he eventually reached the top the Temple of Apollo was truly as magnificent as he had expected, its columns the spiritual ladder which reached upwards towards the wondrous realm of the Gods. Diogenese was a God fearing man, but he was also a merchant, and a very successful one at that, and the cold logic of the trader found it barely credible that a powerful God would take the time to answer mundane earthly questions. However, he was about to embark on his most perilous venture yet and if it was possible to invoke divine guidance, then he was prepared for anything.
Above the entrance of the temple a simple but profound inscription read, 'Know thyself' but entrance to the temple was barred by a grim looking priest. He announced, brusquely, that the Oracle was not yet ready to receive supplicants, that she was bathing in the Castalian Spring, purifying her mortal body in the sacred waters.
Irritably Diogenese turned his back on the man and for the first time took notice of the world around him. Above the sun had risen significantly, burning away the wispy morning clouds; the azure sky now stretched unbroken to the horizon, where it joined with the deeper blue of the sea. Three sleek Triremes patrolling the coastal waters were the only disturbance on the mirror surface, shimmering silver foam from dozens of oars marking their wake. In the harbour his own more modest vessel awaited his orders. From this height the boats might well have been the toys of a child, they were so tiny and insignificant and in this serene moment Diogenese knew exactly why the Gods insisted their temples were built on such high ground, for even a humble merchant could feel immortal when faced with a view as spectacular as this.
He glanced upwards towards the heavens and far, far above him circled a dark shape. It was not a God, it was a bird, but a bird so huge that, even so high above him, it dominated the sky. It was not flying, it was soaring effortlessly on massive wings; Diogenese wondered how the world must appear from the viewpoint of this lesser god on the wind.
From behind him the priest gave a shrill whistle which made him spin around in surprise, but his mouth gaped in amazement as the great bird appeared to answer his call, beginning to drop in wide, lazy circles down towards him. In flight, on wings the length of a tall man, the bird was the embodiment of elegance, as one with the universe, but on reaching the ground it was a different creature; it landed heavily, folded its wings and then waddled across towards the temple with all the sophistication and grace of a turkey. The priest tossed a few pieces of meat which the eagle expertly snatched from the air, devouring them in an instant, before disappearing into the entrance of the temple.
It was some time later, with the golden chariot of the sun riding fast towards its zenith, when Diogenese was finally admitted. Once out of the glare of the sun the interior of the temple was cool and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. In the centre of the room, in a massive stone chair which threatened to engulf her diminutive frame, sat a young maiden draped from head to foot in swathes of golden silks which mirrored the golden hair which framed her perfect face and cascaded around her shoulders. Beside her sat the eagle, great sharp talons gripping a wooden perch, two golden eyes fixed intently upon him, the evil hooked beak open and . . . hungry.
Wispy clouds of pungent gases escaping from a rough opening in the rock behind her were swirling around the Oracle and her eagle, creating an powerful aura of mystique, his senses were enveloped in the overpowering mist. The soft blue pools of her eyes were so deep he felt he could drown in their exquisite depths, but the priest's harsh voice broke into his thoughts, demanding that the merchant prostrate himself before the Pythia. He needed no further urging, he dropped a handful of coins into the bronze bowl at her feet and then knelt before the Oracle, pressing his forehead into the thick weave of the rug, into which the image of the lyre of Apollo, the God of music, had been woven, encircled by a golden laurel wreath.
Pythia's voice was gentle, so soft that he had to strain to hear her words. 'Who is he who seeks the wisdom of the Oracle?'
Diogenese mumbled his petition into the carpet, identifying himself and telling her of his humble merchant ship lying idle in the harbour, laden with wine, oil and pottery, waiting for favourable winds to carry him across the seas to faraway lands. He told her of his concern for the vulnerability of the ship and its valuable cargo from the predatory Persian warships. He pleaded for guidance from the great God Apollo.
A silence fell, in which he waited patiently, while his head swam with the heady aroma of the gases. He felt a little ridiculous. He risked an upwards glance. Pythia appeared to be frozen in a state of ecstasy, her hands elevated before her, her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites were visible. She began to moan, her voice almost inaudible and then a series of strange guttural sounds escaped her lips. Diogenese let his forehead fall back onto the carpet. Finally the Oracle fell silent and the harsh voice of the priest grated in his ears. 'The inscrutable wisdom of the Great Oracle of Apollo is before you: Take your ship across the sea before the old moon dies and a great fortune will be made.'
The audience was over. He was ordered to stand. Pythia had slumped back, lifeless in her chair, overwhelmed by the effort of her supplications. Outside the temple Diogenese saw a handful of hopefuls patiently awaiting their own turn for the wisdom. He would take the favourable words of his prophesy back to the docks and prepare for departure without delay.
The journey down the mountain was on the same rock strewn path, but the downhill slope proved a much easier journey. It was only when he neared the bottom that the Oracle's words became clear in his mind. Had he been taken for a fool. Had it all been a deception? The mysterious vapours, the theatrical performance of the girl, the all too convenient interpretation by the priest . . .
He had been duped, and as a result they were richer and he was poorer.
Of course 'a great fortune would be made' – it would be made whether his ship was attacked by Persian warships or not. What the Oracle had carefully avoided revealing was the knowledge of just who would make the great fortune – the merchant or the Persians!
Enraged he stormed back up the mountain, but this time he carried, concealed in the folds of his robes, a small dagger. If these charlatans thought they could prey on the vulnerable and treat them as witless fools, fleecing them of their hard earned gold, then their days were numbered. He would ensure that no one else would suffer the same fate.
The second climb was easier because his sense of purpose was strengthened; he was relishing the opportunity of righting this wrong for the benefit of the rest of humanity.
As he neared the temple the sun drifted behind a black cloud; the skies darkened; a sinister glowering light illuminated the summit and a sense of unease crept through him. It was not unusual in the late afternoon for clouds to gather over the mountain when the wind was in the right direction, but this cloud seemed to be gathering above the merchant alone. Nevertheless he struggled on against the strengthening winds until the final turn when the charlatan's temple was before him.
The priest appeared in the doorway and for a moment Diogenese wondered why his own clothes were billowing furiously in his own personal maelstrom, while the robes of the priest were hanging limp and inert. His mind beyond reason he drew his dagger and, with a cry of fury, charged towards the temple.
Pythia's eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites were visible, her hands elevated before her. Out of the black cloud a dark shape dropped, sharp talons outstretched, hooked beak open as if mouthing a single word, 'Prey!'
The dagger slipped from his fingers.
Down in the docks a single bolt of lightning struck; a merchant's ship engulfed in flames . . .
This time Diogenese needed no instruction – he threw himself to the ground before the temple doors, before the Oracle, before his God, and screamed out a desperate plea for mercy.