A Laurel’s Weight |
Issue 15
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The Temple of Delphi loomed in front of Mount Parnassus. Statues of Apollo and past oracles guarded the entrance, peering into my soul as I walked up the worn steps. Priestesses followed my every move, probably making sure I wouldn’t run away. My stomach growled from the lack of food, and my arms stung from fierce scrubbing moments before. Nobody would want to only hear the rumblings of one’s stomach instead of the glorious wisdom about to spew forth.
“Fasting is the best way to receive a prophecy,” one of the older priestesses told me emphatically. I hadn’t realized these meetings with Apollo would take so long to prepare for. Rituals upon rituals – a cleansing in the Castilian Spring, praying, scourging of one’s body to allow the gods to see your sacrifice. Becoming the oracle was supposed to be the highest honor, a median between mortals and immortals, but the freshly made laurel crown knitting into the furrows of my brow didn’t leaven the responsibility. “You’re doing fine,” Panas said, touching my shoulder lightly, as if he could hear my thoughts. I smiled weakly, holding my head up as high as I could. The courtyard was bustling with acolytes frantically putting the last-minute arrangements of flowers and food. They all had the same nervous, scared expression. An impending doom was going to be upon us. My eyes twinged as I watched them. My father’s weakened frame hammering back and forth, dawn till after dusk, plowing fields with his sweat and blood. Mother pinning herself into whatever work she could find -- mending tunics, waiting on powerful people, making baskets to sell at open markets. Yet, bread and wine were always on the table. Their smiles haunted my dreams; even when they were on the brink of collapse, they smiled until the procession came. Panas, less wrinkled and grey, had come with other Delphic clergymen for me. I watched from behind our front door, unable to hear what they were saying to my parents. They had pleaded earnestly with the priests. My father shook his fists angrily, for the first time in my life. Acolytes pushed them aside and pulled me through the door. I stood in front of Panas. I felt tears begging to flow, but I needed to be strong. I looked him straight in his eyes and pressed my lips together, determined that they wouldn’t move me. “It is the highest of honors for your family,” Panas told my father. “She shall become one of the most influential people in Greece.” Drachmas were placed into father’s shaking hands. He never met my eyes again as the religious parade led me away, kicking and screaming. I could hear my mother’s cries as she was forced to stay behind. I pushed the thoughts into the back of my mind. The acolytes had arranged a chair for me to sit in on the top of the steps. I sat down with whatever dignity I had left as I watched the chaos below. A few servants tripped over each other. Someone yelled directions. A horn screamed from the distance, warning everyone as horses' hoofbeats entered our ears. I leaned over my chair and asked Panas, “Do you know who’s coming?” “A king of some sort,” he said. “The Sacred Way must’ve been long for him, though.” Preceding riders in elegant armor arrived and stood ready at the entrance to the pavilion. Elaborately decorated wagons pulled the last of the king’s offerings to the gods – gold, silver, and animals for sacrifice. The empty carts were pulled at the back of the line. In the middle was an ornate carriage with gold-plated panels, expensive tassels, and silk draping the windows. Inside sat a man with a full beard and what appeared to be a white toga, fitted just so. The carriage stopped at the edge of the steps and out came the king. “King Croesus of Lydia,” cried the announcer. “That’s him?” I asked. He was short and rather stubby for a king, though I had no reference for what kings should look like. His sandal-wearing feet hit the pavement with a thud. An older priestess slapped my hand at this. “Young Pythia, control your tongue! It is not for you to judge, but the gods.” “With those looks, it should be,” I muttered. Panas stifled a laugh. Behind the stout monarch emerged a younger, stronger version. He stood tall with an air of superiority. “That’s the prince?” I asked. “And Prince Atys,” confirmed the royal announcer. The prince came behind his father as King Croesus bowed in my direction. The prince didn’t realize until his annoyed father slapped the back of his head. The prince begrudgingly obeyed. It didn’t take long for the prince to regain his regal composure from bowing to a woman. The king, satisfied, clapped his hands, which resounded to his attendants to take the appropriate offerings to the correct spots around the courtyard. I eyed him as he padded to the edge of the steps. “Pythia, Apollo’s tongue, tell me: will I conquer Persia?” King Croesus genuflected in front of me, just a little too deeply. The son rolled his eyes. Usually, the inquirer would ask his question inside the inner sanctum, but I assessed that this king was in a hurry to get an answer, no matter the other formalities. Some of the acolytes and priests giggled to themselves, knowing the rites better than I did. After the king asked his inappropriately spotted question, the priestesses took my arms and led me back into the inner sanctum. The king followed with his attendants. Only there would the god speak to this traveler. The smoke from the incense burners mixed with the gases of Mount Parnassus poured into my sinuses, burning down into my lungs. My ears rang as the council prayed to Apollo for guidance. I chewed on laurel leaves, ceremoniously given to me by one of the high priests, as I waited for the god to whisper in my ears. I could tell the king and his son grew impatient, Croesus’ hair dripping from his dip in the Castilian Spring, kneeling before the altar as I tried to conjure a prophecy, allowing whatever spirit to take hold of me. I could see droplets of blood on the hem of his toga, most likely from the unfortunate goat sacrifice he made on the Sacred Path. “Why is this taking so long?” Prince Atys exclaimed. The priests and his father shushed him. My eyes grew heavy from the fumes, and I felt them roll back. The burning sun blinded me. Apollo stepped into view, cradling a golden harp. I wished I could cry. His eyes were pure sunshine; his hand open and welcoming, but a looming dread crept into my heart. It seeped into my pores and flooded into my shivering hands. A maniacal grin spread over his face as a snake snuck around him, coming for me. I tried to run, but my feet were caught in the ground below. It slithered. Closer. Closer. The snake writhed over my taut skin, rough and burning hot. It flicked its tongue into my ear, whispering. Then, without any warning, it pried my mouth open and spilled down my throat. My mouth opened, body spasming, and the words spilled out before I could stop them: “King of Lydia, you ask for victory. You ask of the fates of empires.” Croesus grew silent as the voice spilled into the heavy, interested stillness. “If you cross the Halys, a great empire will fall.” I took in a heavy, gasping breath, but the god wasn’t finished. “Seek no answers in certainty. Seek them in the turning of the wheel. The lion that leaps does not know which spear will fly. The laurel tree that bends may yet outlive the forest. What falls may rise again.” The message resolved into a low hum in the back of my throat. As quickly as it came, it stopped. I heaved myself over my knees, palms slapping the stones beneath me. King Croesus remained silent -- for once, since coming into the adyton -- trying to find the meaning in the words before anyone else. Priests and maidens talked in hushed tones as I regained the rest of my senses. The metal tripod cut into the backs of my trembling knees. I tried to catch my breath as my assistants ran to my side. A fan beat air against my sweat-beaded brow. Panas touched my hands gently. “You did amazing, Pythia,” he whispered. He dabbed my forehead with a small piece of cloth. I bobbed my head solemnly. King Croesus rose from his knees. “What does this mean?” He threw his hands down to his sides. “Tell me immediately.” Panas stepped forward. His thin white hair shone like a halo in front of the firelight. With simple words and a clear voice beyond his years, he told the king: “We do not know yet. Give us time.” “We don’t have time,” the prince shouted, going back to his usual tone. “If we don’t make a move, Persia will surely take Lydia, and you all will be next.” “If the gods will it, then so it shall be,” Panas said. King Croesus pressed his lips together so tightly they became invisible behind his soggy beard. “How dare you speak to my son that way, priest!” “I shall speak to those as they have spoken to me.” Panas gestured for the king to kneel while they consulted among themselves. “Wait and be quiet as we work.” The king huffed as he begrudgingly kneeled again. I could see the prince’s hands itching to reach for where his sword would have been. An animalistic instinct, I thought. Men were always ready to pounce on whatever they believed to be a threat, even another old man. I regained my composure from the fumes and was led down the worn steps from the dais. I was given wine from a chalice, thinned with water. “Was I okay?” I asked quietly. Panas nodded. “Very well. I don’t think they could tell it was your first prophecy.” The muttering priests and priestesses went on for ages. Scribes scribbled on long pieces of parchment, frantically racking their brains for the exact words that had burst uncontrolled from my mouth. I clasped my hands, nervously rubbing my thumbs across my knuckles. |
G. B. Croissant is a part-time teacher, stay-at-home mom, and self-proclaimed “master of Latin.” She has a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing with Honors from NAU. She lives in Mesa, Arizona, with her husband, toddler son, three absurd cats, and a dog who pretends to be a cat.
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