“PRAY TO THE WINDS”
Next week happened what Theria most feared: An important oracle was
required. Theria learned by chance that it was important. Old Tuchè in
her excitement over it forgot how loudly she was speaking in the court.
“This time an oracle they _must_ have,” she was asserting. “It is a
matter of state. The new Pythoness can’t get it. I wonder what they’ll do
with her, anyway.”
Theria was in despair. Should she refuse to try? Feign illness? Then a
new pythia would sit upon the tripod to babble at nothing or to give
some dread, discouraging word. Nikander had placed Theria in the Pythia
House counting upon her prayerful help. Should she step down and leave
him without that help, or was it her duty to go upon the tripod and feign
again for Hellas’s sake?
But gods in Olympos! she did not know the question nor who was asking it.
She could not deceive if she would. She would refuse to try.
Upon this decision Theria found relief for her troubled mind. No more
should they starve her and push her through the smoke. She could rest.
She no longer cared for anything but to be left alone.
That evening, like a light among shadows, came old Baltè again.
Theria’s first question concerned her father.
“Master is sad, very sad,” the old nurse told her, “but so is everyone
sad. It’s like a storm gatherin’ on Parnassos—those Persians coming. And
everybody is afraid like as when they hear thunder and the darkness comes
closer. Oh, darlin’, if I could take you out of this house and keep you
in the fastness of the mountain. There it will be safe. Only there.”
Again the danger brought to Theria its dark and solemn peace.
“Poor Baltè,” she said. “How could I live in the mountain with Delphi
destroyed? Could I be a peasant all my days?”
“You could never be a peasant,” said old Baltè proudly, “and you would
always have one slave. Old Baltè will last long.”
“Dear Baltè,” she answered, and kissed her. Baltè was a Helot from Sparta
and some high Spartan blood ran in her veins.
But Baltè had more to tell.
“Yesterday came a runner. Poor lad, he was sore spent. Your father
brought him in from the highroad and gave him wine and made the slaves
rub him well. Then he sent him on his way to Sparta wi’ another runner to
help in case he fall.”
“Whence came the runner?” asked Theria.
“From Leonidas at Thermopylæ. He was to beg the Spartans to come quick
and help.”
“Those laggard Spartans,” cried Theria. “Why do they not go to help their
king without his begging and summoning?”
“Leonidas is already fighting the Persians—he and his Spartans,” said
Baltè proudly. “So few against so many. Only three hundred Spartans
and a few allies. If the Persians beat they’ll be comin’ straight
here—straight to Delphi.”
“But is there no one to help Leonidas—no one at all?”
“The Athenians be helpin’, so they say. The Athenians’ ships, Missy.
But the Persian ships be twenty to one. Oh, dearie, if only a sea storm
would fall upon the Persians. Medon keeps wishin’ for a storm. Medon was
a sailor long ago and he knows the ways of ships. He says the Athenian
ships would be safe in the Eubœan Strait where they are now. But the
Persians be outside around some rocky points up there. A storm would
wreck them sure.”
Theria suddenly awakened to the fact that her heart was overflowing with
interest. Just as she used to do when she was pent up at home and could
do nothing, would beat her hands together, agonized because she could do
nothing. Now that some power was in those hands, would she abandon it?
She trowed not! Oh, if she only knew the question before the Oracle!
But she could in no wise find this out. Then she must give her oracle as
best she might not knowing the question—trusting that it must in some way
concern the fate of Greece.
She would pray for that storm which was to help the Athenian ships.
Baltè’s word showed her the way.
Theria might doubt the voice of her Golden God, she might almost doubt
the existence of Apollo. But the things of Nature—the sea, the mountains,
the winds—these she could see or feel. These to her were persons,
clear-imaged, well known, and having much power. They were gods nearer to
men in whom all men must believe. To these Theria still could pray.
When the day came she once more mounted the fateful tripod.
This, then, was the oracle which Eleutheria the Pythoness gave to Hellas:
O ye who are born in the bright air,
Driving the ships as thistles in the harvest,
Shepherds of clouds, piping to white flocks so loud a tune,
Children of Thrace
All Hail.
Boreas,
Thine are the whirlwind-footed steeds;
Zephyrus,
Thine are the tossing locks and head full-winged;
Euros,
Thine are the rounded cheeks piping no visible flute;
Notos,
Thine are the blessings and cursings;
All Hail!
Men of Delphi, men in the terrible need,
Men upon whom is descending a host like the sands of the sea,
Pray to the winds!
And ye Men of Athens, men of the swift-moving galleys,
Men of the long oars smiting the hoary ocean,
Pray to the winds!
And pray most of all to your brother by marriage
Because of Orithyia, daughter of mighty Erectheus,
Pray to the winds!
That oracle is famous. Never in all the history of Delphi was an oracle
received in such dire need. Never one which to the Delphians themselves
was more precious. For it was the Delphians themselves who had asked the
question and to whose hearts the oracle gave courage and hope.
They sent messengers at once, carrying the precious words of courage
northward to the ships of Artemisium and to the little band of heroes at
Thermopylæ, and eastward to Athens city, crying:
“Apollo, the Son of Leto, is on our side. He bids us pray to the Winds.”