NIKANDER’S NEAREST OF KIN
Meanwhile, Nikander and Dryas of the easy confidence came to the temple
of Athena Forethought where this time no Theria was to be found. Dryas
looked into his father’s grieving face.
“Theria ought to be ashamed of herself,” he said stoutly, “to give you
such trouble now.”
“Be silent, Dryas,” said his father sternly. “You know nothing about your
sister or her reason for this. Try to find her. Try.”
“Father, I am sorry,” said the wondering Dryas, taking his father’s hand.
“I want you to search now in the slave quarter,” said Nikander hurriedly.
“I will go to the Precinct whence I will send messengers to Daulis.”
Wearily Nikander climbed the Precinct hill. His memory was playing him
curious tricks. His harsh words, which at first he could in no wise
recall, now came back deadly clear, “No place in the Pythia House. No
place for you at the home hearth, Bringer of vile tales.” Great Zeus! he
had been god maddened, blind! The girl had risked her life and reputation
to save her brothers from disgrace.
Theria was always doing the unexpected, poor child, always bringing
down wrath upon her own head, and as he now saw it, doing something
either interesting or noble. What a Nikander she was, how true in every
instinct to her ancient race.
While these thoughts beset him Nikander was hastening from treasury to
treasury, hastening through the hidden paths and secret places of the
Precinct. Each familiar statue, tripod, each quiet, chapel-like treasury
room pierced him with the thought of her intense love of everything in
Delphi. Her very deceptions on the tripod had been only from her too
great love for Delphi and for Greece.
And her lover; poor little daughter, if he had but kept closer to her in
daily life (ah, she had tried so wistfully to keep close to him), she
would have told him of this lover long ago.
Why had he not warned his child when he was making her a priestess? He
had put her on the perilous seat of the tripod without one thought of
her. He had left her aidless and lonely. He was to blame, to blame!
Near the Great Temple Dryas met him again, saying that his search had
been fruitless—asking where now to go. Nikander caught his son’s hand
convulsively.
“Go nowhere,” he pleaded. “Stay with me.”
But even as he clung to his boy he thought how impossible it would be for
Theria to do what Dryas had done. No spies could have dragged her away
on such an errand. And oh, dear Paian, she would not have companioned
with them at all nor left her father lonely through these terrible days.
She would have entered with him into every struggle for Delphi’s honor
if her father had only allowed her. How wistful she was when she met
him returning from Council. What a sly little puss in her questioning,
finding out his problems which he did not mean to tell! Nikander smiled,
but in his smiling found himself blinded with tears.
Dryas was sure that it was anxiety for Lycophron which unmanned his
father thus.
Long after nightfall the two came home again. The slaves brought supper,
and all unwilling they sat down to eat. Then footsteps were heard in the
doorway—Eëtíon and the slave with Theria white on her litter.
Nikander ran to her, lifting her in his arms as though she were a child,
calling her endearing names, weeping with relief. He laid her on a couch
in the aula while they brought the torches.
But one look at Theria’s face and wide-open eyes sobered him.
“Theria, Theria,” he called to her terrible silence.
“Oh, Nikander, don’t you see that she is dying?” cried Eëtíon,
brokenhearted.
Nikander rose solemnly to his feet. “She has beheld a god,” he said. “She
is yet in the vision.” He turned to Eëtíon. “Has she spoken any word?”
“She called upon Apollo thrice, but since then this silence. Oh,
Nikander, what does it mean?”
Nikander bowed his head. Knowing what he knew of Theria’s sacrilege, he
fully believed this state to be a doom from Phœbus himself. He believed
that she would die. And when he lifted his head, trying to speak,
Eëtíon’s anger melted before the anguish in his face.
* * * * *
Nikander as a worshipper of Apollo had recognized at once the mantic
ecstasy. He knew also the accepted means of breaking the ecstatic state.
He had Baltè bathe Theria in warm water and gently rub her body. He
himself brought his lyre and sitting at the bedside played strong, clear
music in the Doric mode.
Then fearing that he might have omitted some act, he went out and fetched
in the priests to look at her. They gazed, awestruck. “Yes, you are doing
all you can,” they said. “The maid is certainly in a vision. But she is
far gone toward Hades.”
So Nikander resumed his post. Sitting there, patiently playing, he was
the more convinced that she would die. Even his anxiety for Lycophron
faded before this unlooked-for sorrow. Nikander’s two sons were only by
some physical chance his children. This girl was the child of his mind
and heart. She loved what he loved, hated what he hated. She was his
nearest of kin. His own! Why had he not known it before?
At last, as Theria’s wide-open eyes half closed, he tried to believe she
slept. So he lay down on a couch near at hand while the old slave Baltè
watched.
It was full morning when Baltè woke him.
“Karamanor and Agis are in the andron to speak with you.”
These were the young kinsmen whom Nikander had sent in pursuit of
Lycophron. Nikander rose and went to hear what he must hear.
The two young men waited solemnly.
“It was midnight, Nikander, when we came up with the spies on the north
road,” said young Karamanor gently. “They gave battle so quick that we
had just time to fend ourselves even though we so outnumbered them. And
Lycophron, even though we called and kept calling to him to come over
to our side, that we had only come to save him, Lycophron laughed us to
scorn. And, oh, Nikander, he fought splendidly, fiercely, like a wild
boar. And so he fell. Two of the spies fell. The rest fled to the hills.”
“He was fearless always,” said Nikander in a low voice.
The young man put his arm pityingly over his uncle’s shoulder. He could
not know that just now Nikander felt only relief in the death of his son.
“We took an oath among us, we kinsmen,” said Karamanor. “All of us, an
oath not to tell this thing. We will say that he fell in a skirmish with
the Persians. Men are too troubled now to think. His absence will not
be marked. Our words will be believed, if any of us, after the Persian
onslaught, be left alive for beliefs or doubtings. Can we do anything
further for you, Nikander?”
“No,” said Nikander quietly. “May the Son of Leto bless you for saving my
son’s honour. I must go now and tell his mother.”
Dryas, who had been playing the lyre at Theria’s bedside, had stopped
playing when his father withdrew. He sat awestruck, waiting.
Presently Melantho’s death-wail for Lycophron sounded through the house.
“Oh, look, Baltè,” whispered Dryas, through his tears. “Poor Theria does
not even hear it.”
Baltè bent over her nurseling. “She hears it well enough,” she answered
sadly. “She hears, but she is too far to care.”