Road to Hyperborea

Part 1 - The Oracle

Shadows were dancing on the walls as the flames of the torches flickered in the tenebrous depths of the cave.

They were all gathered in the primordial bosom of the earth to receive oracles and blessings.

They had come in adoration of the all-seeing god, omnipotent maker, and organizer of the infinite cosmos.

Together, at once, they bowed before the god.

Together, in the presence of the chthonic daemons, they recited the words.

Kallistos kissed the earth and kept chanting.

He could feel the sounds being reverberated around him, echoing hypnotically. It was as though he was as much a part of the earth as the rocky walls themselves.

He was the vibrating string of a lyre, and the rhapsode was Pythagoras the Samian.

Pythagoras the bright, son of the great god, speaker of truth, purveyor of knowledge, revealer of prophecy, was standing before them with his eyes closed. Kallistos had come to Croton seeking his wisdom; his knowledge of the stars, and of medicine, and of the will of the gods.

After years of study, of meditation, of prayer and ritual, he still felt hollow, like the empty and broken shell of a man who had once been whole. His heart was still beating to a haphazard rhythm. At all times, his innards felt like they were being torn. He could feel his will to live ebbing away day after day.

Perhaps today, the god would answer his prayer.

Pythagoras opened his eyes and looked at his disciples assembled. He stood there for a long moment, his gaze penetrating, and his voice clear and steady.

The master went to the altar, took an amphora in hand and poured pramnian wine in a number of skyphoi, before sprinkling every single one with grated goat cheese and herbs known only to him. He then gave the cups to the disciples closest to him so that they could pass them to those among them who were being initiated.

Kallistos had been fasting for six days, the perfect number, and breaking the fast with the kykeon would bring him closer still to the gods. He drank the entire content of the skyphos in one long swallow to prevent the cheese and the herbs from piling up at the bottom of the cup.

When every initiate had finished their kykeon, they started chanting again, calling to the gods, praising them in their greatness and eminence, pleading for clemency and benevolence.

As he was reciting the words, his feeling of resonating, of being one with the stones and the other disciples was becoming stronger. His hands, his arms, his legs, his heart were not his own anymore. They were an extension of the earth itself vibrating with the unified voices of the disciples.

The shadows on the walls seemed softer to him, blurrier and deeper. In the darkness, he could see the forms and shapes of bodies and faces.

The invisible was visible to him.

The chthonic daemons were smiling and grimacing, swirling and spiraling in the dark, like smoke and fog bearing the face of man. He could barely see them through the obscurity. They were shadows in the shade.

The light seemed fainter, while the flames themselves looked more powerful and concentrated, white, bright, and pure.

Were the chants fading or was he so profoundly possessed by their tune that he could not hear them anymore? That he did not know. But he could hear another voice above all the others, like a murmur that flooded the air. It had the strength of a rumbling chariot and yet was soft and warm as the dawning sun.

He raised his head and blinding light burst forth from the flames.

His eyelids could not shield his eyes against such radiance.

When he could see again, there stood before him a figure of divine beauty: a young man of countless years. His body lean and athletic, his hair braided exquisitely, and in his hands a golden lyre, and on his back a quiver holding a silvery bow.

Apollo.

Luminous Apollo, son of Zeus and Leto, born of Cynthus, bringer of light, healer of man, averter of evil, guardian of roads and protector of shepherds.

Delphian Apollo, slayer of Python and destroyer of mice.

All-seeing Apollo, lord of Muses.

"I have heard your prayers, mortal," the god thundered softly. "I have come with a gift of prophecy."

"I thank you, great god. I am on my knees and I praise you in awe and gratitude."

"Hearken to my words, Kallistos, son of Ekhekratides, and be hopeful. To the north of Lake Maeotis lies the land of the horse-taming Scythians, still further north that of the man-eating Issedones. Beyond them live the one-eyed Arimaspi, tamers of horses, who fight without end against the griffins in their golden nests in the snowy Riphean Mountains, where dwells Boreas, born in Aether, and beyond still lies the country of the Hyperboreans where my mother, sleek-haired Leto, was born. It is there that you shall find the soothing balm to your soul that you seek."

And then, there was nothing but light.