The air itself shifted as we drew closer to Delphi, lighter, imbued with a profound sense of ancient power that even I, despite my internal turmoil, could feel. Through a winding mountain pass, past towering cliffs and sacred groves of olive and laurel, the sprawling sanctuary of Apollo finally emerged. My jaw, I realized, had dropped. The sheer scale of it, the way the structures clung to the steep, sun-drenched slopes of Mount Parnassus, rising tier upon tier, was breathtaking.
I had only ever seen temples in our modest village, sturdy but simple. This was different. A complex of buildings, shimmering white marble reflecting the bright sky, seemed to defy gravity. Columns reached towards the heavens, intricate carvings adorned facades, and pathways wound upwards, inviting reverence. The Tholos, a circular temple, stood perfect and graceful, and beyond it, the stadium, a vast expanse for ancient games, carved directly into the mountain. The sacred precinct seemed to breathe, alive with millennia of prayers and prophecies. Even the voices, for a moment, were hushed, replaced by an awestruck silence within me. God, ever the analyst, simply noted: "Structure: Architectural marvel. Function: Centralized religious authority. Data: Scale exceeds expectation for local constructs. Implications: Significant power projection." Goddess, though, offered a whisper of pure wonder. "Beauty! Such devotion! A place touched by the divine!" I tried to ignore them, to simply absorb the magnificence with my own eyes, but their presence was a constant, annoying hum.
As we dismounted our weary mules at the base of the sacred way, I noticed the goat. It was a young, pristine white animal, its fleece soft and unblemished, led by a solemn-faced man. I nudged Father, intending to ask, Why is there a goat? But the words died in my throat. His face was set with a solemn intensity, completely focused on the impending ritual. I knew I couldn't ask such a trivial question now; it would be disrespectful to the sanctity of the place, and to his seriousness. My hatred for the voices flared – they had made me so strange, so out of place, so ignorant of simple, common rituals.
Upon arrival at the outer reaches of the sanctuary, Father guided me through the initial acts of purification. We washed our hands and faces with cold water from a sacred spring, the chill sharp against my skin. We then made small offerings of incense at a minor shrine dedicated to Hermes, the messenger of the gods, and then to other various deities within the broader sacred precinct. Father moved with practiced ease, instructing me silently with a nod or a gesture. We burned fragrant herbs, recited short, murmured prayers, demonstrating our piety and seeking favor from the gods. Each step felt heavy with meaning, a stark contrast to my own inner chaos and the cynical observations of God. "Ritual: Symbolic cleansing. Function: Psychological preparation for sacred encounter. Observation: Subject performs actions by rote, lacking full comprehension." Goddess offered a softer, more understanding note. "It is tradition. It is respect. Even if you do not understand, the intention is observed." I grit my teeth, trying to push them out of my awareness, annoyed by their constant commentary.
We then began to walk the Sacred Way, a winding path that ascended towards the Temple of Apollo. The path was lined with countless monuments and treasuries, small, ornate buildings erected by various city-states throughout Hellas. Each one was a testament to their offerings to Apollo, their gratitude for prophecies, their displays of wealth and devotion. Athenians, Corinthians, Siphnians – their names and their glory carved into stone, forever present here. I tried to absorb it all, to let the history wash over me and drown out the insidious whispers of the voices, but they were still there, commenting, analyzing.
As we approached the inner precinct, Father stopped at a small booth carved into the rock face. An attendant sat within, overseeing a stack of small, round objects. Father produced a small pouch of coins and handed them over. The attendant took the coins, tallied them, and then handed Father a small, carefully wrapped cake. This, I knew, was the pelanos.
Why are we paying for this cake? The question burned in my mind. Unlike the goat, this felt like a practical, comprehensible detail, something I could ask. My inability to question him about the goat had fueled this immediate curiosity, driving me to ask without hesitation.
"Father," I said, my voice low, hoping it wouldn't betray my ignorance. "What is the pelanos for?"
He looked at me, a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps a hint of the same analytical observation he sometimes held for me. "The pelanos, Himerios," he explained, his voice calm, pragmatic, "is a ritual cake, a fee for consulting the Oracle. It ensures the priests' sustenance and the temple's upkeep. And, in truth," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "the size of the offering might determine the priority of the consultation. It is… a practical necessity for the divine." God immediately processed this. "Information acquired: Economic model of religious service. Priority determination based on resource allocation. Efficiency noted." Goddess merely sighed, a soft, resigned sound. "Even here, human concerns intrude." I tried to ignore them, focusing on my father's words, the new knowledge.
It was then, as Father placed the pelanos into his pouch, that I saw him. A priest stood nearby, overseeing some preparations, his back initially to us. As he turned, my eyes met his. He was a man of Father's age, with intelligent, kind eyes, and a scholarly demeanor. He had a knowing look about him. My breath hitched. I know him, I thought, a jolt running through me. But how? From where?
He looked directly at me, a soft, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, and then, he raised a hand and waved. A small, familiar gesture. My blood ran cold. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. He was the man who had found me crying in the olive grove after the incident, the one who had called out, "Boy, I've been searching for you."
Goddess's voice, a sudden, almost breathless gasp, confirmed my dread. "It's him! The one from the olive grove! He knew even then, didn't he? Oh, Himerios, what does this mean?" My mind reeled. He was the person who came to me after the incident! The realization hit me like a physical blow. Why was he here? A priest at Delphi? What did he know?
He began to walk towards us, his movements slow, deliberate, his gaze fixed on me. As he approached, his voice, deep and resonant, reached us. "Greetings, travelers. I am Sophos Ochros, a Prophetai here. We knew you would come, Himerios. And we know why." His voice was calm, almost soothing, but his words sent a fresh wave of ice through me.
Freaked out was an understatement. My heart hammered against my ribs. Who is this person? I thought wildly, my mind racing. What more does he know about me? How could he know why I came? He knows about… the incident. Does he know about the voices? My hatred for the voices intensified – they had led me to this, to this terrifying, knowing stranger. God's voice, however, remained cool and analytical. "Observation: Sophos Ochros, identified previously, is a Prophetai. Data point: Prior knowledge of your arrival and purpose. Conclusion: Sophos Ochros has access to information beyond common channels. Warning: High-level data source implicated. Exercise extreme caution in disclosure." Goddess was a frantic flutter within me. "He knows! What does he mean? How? Danger! Revelation! But… a Prophetai! He understands!"
Sophos did not wait for a response. He turned, gesturing towards the pure white goat, which stood patiently beside the altar. He moved with a practiced reverence as he bathed the goat's head with consecrated water and then adorned its pristine fleece with brightly colored ribbons, tying them carefully around its horns and neck. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I didn't know why, but I did not feel good about it. The goat looked so innocent, so pure.
He then led the goat, its ribbons fluttering, to the altar, a large, ancient stone block that stood before a smaller, inner chamber. Sophos took a small silver bowl filled with cold water and sprinkled a few drops on the goat's head. The goat shivered, shaking its head instinctively.
Sophos turned to us, his face solemn. "A good sign," he intoned, his voice echoing in the sacred space. "Apollo has accepted the sacrifice. He is ready to communicate."
My blood ran cold. Sacrifice. The word hit me, making the knot in my stomach twist tighter. I knew, intellectually, that sacrifices were part of these rituals. But to see it… Sophos, with a swift, practiced movement that belied his calm demeanor, placed the goat's head upon the altar. Then, with a flash of metal, he sacrificed the goat.
A guttural sound, a gush of warmth, and the goat convulsed once, then lay still. My entire body recoiled. I freaked out. The sight, the suddenness, the raw reality of it, was sickening. I hated it, hated the violence, hated that it was necessary, hated that I was forced to witness it. But I couldn't do anything about it. I was just a boy, standing in a sacred place, forced to witness an ancient rite I barely understood. My stomach churned. God was silent, observing the event. Goddess offered a deep, mournful sigh, a resonance of sorrow. "Life given. Blood spilled. For knowledge. For prophecy."
Father Karteros, seeing my horrified reaction, reached out and placed a large hand on my shoulder, patting it gently, his touch firm and reassuring. It was as if he was saying, There's nothing to be worried about, Himerios. This is how it's done. This is tradition.
We stood there, the scent of blood mingling with the lingering incense, and prayed to Apollo, Father leading the murmured supplications. Sophos oversaw the final preparations, his face serene.
After a few minutes, he turned to us. "The Pythia is undergoing the purification ritual," he announced, his voice low. "She prepares herself for the god's voice."
The anticipation in the air was palpable, thick with the weight of centuries of prophecy. My stomach still churned, but a new tension replaced the revulsion. What would she say? What would Apollo reveal? After a few more minutes, Sophos Ochros returned, his eyes holding a profound gravitas. "The Oracle," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "has descended into the adyton."
My heart hammered. This was it. The moment. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. We moved towards the opening of the inner chamber, a small, dark entrance. And there, veiled in the dimness, was the Oracle herself. We finally saw the Pythia.