THERIA TELLS HER VISION
Nikander’s care was now to save as much of his household treasure as
might be. Before this time his anxiety over his children had so beset
him that he cared little whether anything else was saved or not. But now
he set slaves to packing the family records, the old Nikander drinking
vessels of gold and silver, and the stores of corn, oil, and wine.
Theria’s storeroom soon bore a changed aspect.
Then the most faithful slaves he sent with these things up into the
mountain to the Korykian cave.
But even with this business Nikander found time to go ever and again
to Theria’s bedside to stop perhaps but for a single caress or word or
question.
Theria was sitting up in her couch and keeping poor Baltè busy running
for this and that to occupy her.
“Father!” she said, holding up her five fingers brightly as he came
toward her. “This is the fifth time you have come to me. I have counted.”
“Bless your heart, child, why do you count my visits?”
“Because they are my treasures,” she answered. “I used to see you only
twice in the day and the time between was so long and stupid.”
Nikander bent and kissed her, not quite able to speak. He determined that
this daughter should never again lack his companionship. Then a swift
stab of memory reminded him how soon she must be returned to the Pythia
House, where he could see her not at all.
He sat down beside her.
Baltè, seeing that he was there to watch in her stead, hurried off on
some errand.
Baltè was no sooner gone than Theria bent near him.
“Father,” she said in awed tones, “I was not ill. I was held in dumbness
by what I saw in the mountain.”
“Yes, Daughter,” he responded.
“The god crossed my path. Phœbus Apollo. I saw him!”
Even though Nikander had guessed this, he was startled at her telling.
“Oh, Father, so living beautiful he was, with the dawn in his face and
power shining from all of him! All the statues in the Precinct should be
broken. They are not my god.”
“We must leave them,” said her father gently, “for those of us who cannot
see.”
“First,” she went on, “I saw only a golden light upon my path, which
followed me and frightened me.”
Even as she spoke, her eyes grew starry and her father caught her
shoulder, shaking her.
“No, do not tell me, child. Be still. The dumbness may come again.”
“No, it will not,” she smiled. “Apollo promised.”
“Great heaven, did he speak?”
“Yes, yes.” Then she told as near as she remembered the words of the
message. Oracle it could hardly be called, as it was a revelation for her
alone.
Theria, daughter of Delphi, begone from my temple. My bow shall
not hurt thee, Nay, for I love thee. I shall be able without
thee. I shall care for my own.
And how the god had turned and shot his terrible shaft away from her over
Mount Parnassos toward the north.
Nikander was uplifted, overwhelmed. He went hastily and fetched tablet
and stylus and wrote it down for the temple records. He was hopeful,
fairly trembling from what he guessed this message might mean for his
daughter’s future. Theria herself thought only of the god’s forgiveness.
“Apollo said that he loved me,” she repeated. “He said it. And he laughed
at me because I wanted him to slay me.”
What would the priests think of this message of the god? Nikander hardly
dared hope that they would put upon it the interpretation which he so
desired. No pythia had ever been freed from priesthood. Indeed, if he
told the vision, must it not bring them to a knowledge of her false
oracle, the punishment of which would be death? His face grew set with
thought. But yes, he would risk even that fate in the hope of what the
god’s message might do for her. He kissed his child and hurried out to
find Timon and the other priests.
How changed already were the streets, empty of folk. The houses closed
and locked or left open in the haste of flight, showing the vacant rooms.
He found Timon in the Precinct. But Timon was wholly indifferent to
Theria’s part of the god’s message. It was the hurtling shaft of Phœbus
which interested him. “It was shot toward Parnassos, you say? That is a
good omen,” he asserted. Nikander could not be sure. But he soon saw that
the priests were too beset now with their fears and instant business to
consider Theria’s status as priestess—the matter so dear to his heart.
“A party of Phokian peasants,” said Timon, “came into town this morning,
fleeing from the Persians. Their tidings are horrible. The armies have
overrun all the land of Phokis. They are killing men, outraging women,
burning towns. Drymos is burned. Charadra, Amphikaia, Neon, Elateia,
and many more. They have burnt the temple of Apollo at Abai. Do you not
think, Nikander, that that may mean perhaps that they are headed the
other way toward Athens and will pass us by?”
For Abai was on the eastern road.
“I do not,” said Nikander. “If they burnt the god’s temple at Abai, they
will not spare his temple at Delphi. The Persian prisoners are telling
that Xerxes the king knows more exactly what is treasured in our temples
than he knows the treasures in his own palace. He will not spare Delphi.”
“I have sent my wife, daughters, and slaves to Achaia,” said Timon. “If I
am killed and you spared, Nikander, you will send them word?”
Something in Nikander’s face stopped him.
“I am sorry,” he added, “that you may not send Theria away. No priest
would allow it. The Oracle without a pythia at such a time as this!”
“My wife is staying, too,” replied Nikander, not without pride.
“Then I advise you to bring all up within the Precinct walls as soon as
possible,” urged his kinsman.