The Oracle had descended into the adyton. The air in the chamber pulsed with an unseen energy, a tangible sense of the divine. A heavy, ornately carved screen, shimmering with age and sacred oils, separated the inner sanctum from the outer chamber where Father and I stood. We were just outside the adyton, among the shadows cast by the flickering oil lamps, our hearts pounding with a mixture of reverence and apprehension. But as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, a strange thing happened. The screen seemed to thin, to become translucent, as if woven from mist rather than solid threads. My mind filled with images, not of the screen, but of what lay beyond, clear and distinct.
I saw her. The Pythia. She was a young woman, surprisingly so, perhaps not much older than Theano. Her dark hair flowed down her back, unbound, and her skin was pale, almost luminous in the faint, ethereal light filtering from some unseen source. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, yet her body trembled slightly, subtly, as if she were vibrating with an unseen, immense force that permeated the very air.
She sat upon a tripod, a three-legged stool or chair crafted from bronze, positioned precisely within the heart of the adyton. The adyton itself was at a slightly lower level than the main cella of the temple, a sunken pit of prophecy, but within it, the tripod elevated the Pythia, placing her above us, connecting her to the heavens. She was in a slight trance, her breath shallow and even, almost imperceptible. I felt it, somehow, this strange, altered state. A resonance, a connection that hummed deep within my own bones. What was it? Why could I see her so clearly, feel her presence so acutely, when the heavy screen should have completely obscured her? Images flashed in my mind: the sacred tripod, the profound dimness, the young woman's serene yet trembling face. They were not my thoughts, but something else, something… given, imprinted directly onto my consciousness.
God's voice, a low hum of analysis, intruded upon my awe. "Visual anomaly detected. Subject exhibiting enhanced perception beyond expected parameters. Hypothesis: Unexplained neural pathway synchronization with Pythia's sensory input. Data: Visual and sensory input inconsistent with physical barriers. Investigate." Goddess, however, was a soft, awed whisper that resonated with the burgeoning wonder in my own chest. "She is beautiful! So pure! And… open. A vessel for the divine, truly. A connection forged by unseen hands." My familiar annoyance at their constant presence flared, a hot spark in my gut, but I couldn't deny the strange, powerful connection I felt to the Pythia. I could see her, feel her trance, in a way that felt utterly impossible, yet undeniably real.
Before the Pythia, on a slightly lower platform of polished stone, stood Sophos Ochros. His demeanor was one of solemn duty, his eyes, so knowing when they met mine, now focused intently on the veiled figure on the tripod. He was the mediator, the interpreter, the chosen voice that would bridge the gap between the divine pronouncements and the mortal ear.
Father Karteros stepped forward, his face grave, etched with worry, yet composed. His hands were clasped before him, a gesture of deep respect. He began to speak, his voice formal, measured, each word carefully chosen to convey both his plea and his reverence for the sacred space.
"Revered Sophos Ochros," Father began, his voice resonating with a quiet dignity, "we come before Apollo, Light-bringer and Truth-teller, seeking wisdom and understanding for a great troubling that has befallen my son, Himerios." He paused, gathering his thoughts, his gaze briefly flickering to me, a silent reassurance. "As you may have heard, or perhaps witnessed, a grave incident occurred during the recent sacred ceremony in honor of Apollo in our village. My son, in a manner utterly unlike his gentle nature, suffered a sudden, inexplicable outburst. His voice, usually quiet and contemplative, swelled with uncharacteristic anger; his actions became disjointed, as if controlled by an unseen hand. He fell into a profound disorientation, a detachment from his own self, and appeared deeply distressed."
Father's voice deepened with paternal concern. "Since that day, a shadow has fallen upon him. He suffers from moments of profound confusion, a deep disquiet within his spirit, as if a part of himself is no longer his own, but swayed by an unknown influence. We, his family, are at a loss. We fear divine displeasure, or perhaps the manifestation of a burden too great for a mortal youth to bear. We pray to Apollo, the Healer and the Revealer, to shed his divine light upon this mystery. What afflicts my son, O wise Prophetai? What divine displeasure have we incurred, or what hidden destiny, what arduous path, awaits him in the weave of fate?" His voice trailed off, a silent plea hanging in the hallowed air.
Sophos Ochros listened intently, his gaze fixed on Father's earnest face. Then, with a slow, deliberate turn, he faced the Pythia, his expression transforming into one of profound reverence. His voice changed too, becoming more lyrical, almost poetic, echoing with the cadence of ancient prayers. He was no longer merely relaying a problem; he was petitioning a god.
"O radiant Phoebus Apollo, whose golden arrows pierce the veil of night and whose eternal flame illuminates the shadowed paths of destiny," Sophos Ochros intoned, his voice swelling, "hear now the supplication of Karteros, a man of humble faith, concerning his son, Himerios. This youth, pure of heart and keen of mind, yet troubled by an unseen weight, has been afflicted. In your sacred precinct, during rites held in your very honor, his spirit was seized by an unknown force. Words that appear not his own erupted from his lips, disrupting the sacred stillness, filling the air with discord where harmony should reign."
Sophos Ochros's voice softened, becoming a melodic plea. "His waking hours are now touched by profound confusion, his spirit clouded by an unseen influence he cannot comprehend. Is this a test of his resolve, O divine Archer? Is it the shadow of past transgression, known or unknown? Or is it the stirrings of a destiny yet unrevealed, a burden unforeseen? We lay bare this mystery before your omniscience, great Apollo. Grant us, through your sacred vessel, the Pythia, the clarity of your divine word, that this young spirit may find peace, and his path be made manifest."
My head swam with the beauty of his words, even as my stomach twisted with apprehension. I observed closely, trying to understand what was happening, this elaborate dance of supplication and divine response, but I was lost in the strangeness of it all. I didn't know what was truly happening, only that it felt immensely significant.
Then, a voice, low and clear, cut through the formal pronouncements, startling me. It was the Pythia. I heard it as clearly as if she stood beside me, not veiled behind the separating screen, not in a trance within the inner sanctum. "I can see him," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, yet resonating with an otherworldly power that bypassed my ears and settled directly in my mind. Then, louder, her voice gaining strength, echoing faintly within the adyton's walls, "He can see me, too."
A jolt went through me, a shock of recognition that reverberated through my very core. She knew! She knew I could see her, that my mind had pierced the veil! My breath caught in my throat. God, for once, was silent, as if even its analytical mind was stunned by this unprecedented recognition. Goddess was a surge of pure, terrified wonder. "She sees us! She knows! How can she know?"
The Pythia's eyes, which had been closed, now snapped open. Her gaze, startlingly direct, fixed on me, though I knew instinctively she looked through me, at something beyond me, something residing within or above. She seemed to be staring into my very soul, seeing something I could not, a truth hidden from my own eyes. Then, her gaze shifted, moving slightly above my head, focusing on something behind me, something distant, something unseen by mortal eyes. Her face was filled with awe, with a sense of immense, surging power, as if she felt the very presence of the god descending. It appeared to me as if she was looking distantly, seeing something that existed far beyond the confines of the adyton, something intrinsically linked to me.
"Remove the curtain," the Pythia commanded, her voice ringing with newfound clarity and profound force that filled the chamber, making the lamps flicker. "It is not needed now. Himerios, step in."
My father, though visibly surprised by the direct command that bypassed the usual protocol, immediately placed a reassuring hand on my back. His eyes urged me forward. "Go, Himerios," he urged, his voice firm, pushing me gently towards the opening.
I stepped into the adyton, the air growing denser, charged with a profound, almost electric energy that made my skin tingle and my hair stand on end. I stood before her, just feet away from the tripod, my eyes fixed on hers. The scent of laurel and something metallic, almost ethereal, filled my nostrils. She continued to stare at me, then above my head, as if she felt Apollo's very presence directly above me, an unseen force no one else could perceive but her.
And then, she began to speak. But it was not normal speech. It was a torrent of words, a rush of sounds, a chaotic jumble of syllables that defied all comprehension. It was not in any language I knew, not Greek, not any tongue of man. It was a primal sound, a raw force, the guttural, ancient language of the divine, filled with echoes of creation and destruction. "Khaos... Ouranos... Gaia... Nyx... Erebus... Aion... Chronos... Phanes... Ouketi prosopon en to skoto... Fos! Drakon! Kyrios! Himeros… Pneuma... Sema... Astramenon... Enteleia... Melas... leukos..." She was speaking like she was talking to Apollo, a dialogue beyond human understanding. Sophos Ochros, the interpreter, the bridge, looked utterly bewildered. His brows were furrowed, his mouth slightly agape. He had never heard anything like this before. Even he, a seasoned priest, a translator of the Oracle's often cryptic but ultimately decipherable pronouncements, was lost. He had never heard words that were not interpretable and such confusing.
I felt it too, this chaos, this overwhelming, incomprehensible force that vibrated through my very being. The voices within me, God and Goddess, were strangely silent, their usual chatter silenced, as if even they were stunned into quiet by the raw power of the Oracle, by Apollo's direct channel. I felt the raw energy of her words, the crushing weight of their incomprehensible meaning. I felt the power, immense and terrifying. But I didn't understand. I couldn't understand.
Finally, after a long, agonizing moment that stretched into an eternity, after the torrent of gibberish, after the incomprehensible rush of divine sound, she spoke again. Her voice, still filled with power, but now clear, distinct, and terrifyingly direct, cut through the silence like a sharp, cold blade. She looked directly at me, her wide eyes piercing through my confusion. "You…," she said, her voice ringing with an unearthly authority that vibrated through every cell of my body, "...are the Oracle."
Sophos Ochros recoiled, his face a mask of utter confusion. "You are the Oracle?" he stammered, looking from the Pythia to me, his voice incredulous, disbelieving what he had just heard. "What does she mean?"
I stood there, frozen, rooted to the spot, the Pythia's impossible words echoing in my mind, resonating with something deep within me. I am the Oracle? What did it mean? What could it possibly mean? The voices within me, finally breaking their unnerving silence, were a storm of confusion and terror. God was a frantic barrage of questions, a logical system thrown into complete disarray. "Incomprehensible. Illogical. Contradictory. Reassess all data. Immediate threat assessment required. Primary function override initiated." Goddess was a cry of profound bewilderment, her usual emotional resonance now tinged with a deep, unsettling fear. "Oh, Himerios. You are the Oracle? This is… bewildering. What does it truly mean? This was not foreseen!" I tried to process it, to understand, to grasp the impossible weight of her pronouncement, but the words were too heavy, too impossible. I am the Oracle? What does it mean?
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The Pythia's eyes rolled back in her head, her body went limp, and she slumped forward on the tripod, unconscious, collapsing into the arms of the attendants who rushed forward. And so, I stood there, reeling, trying to make sense of her impossible words, feeling the weight of a destiny I could not comprehend settle upon my young shoulders.