Theoi

Theoi

(An In-Dreams Story)

By: Adam Alexander Haviaras

“The sky looks strange, Ion,” Thalos said as we walked along the dirt track. “I don’t like the look of it. Something is wrong.”

     “Of course something is wrong, brother. A god has died this day. How often does that happen?” I too did not like the look the sky as I glanced up. “We must hurry. They will begin without us.”

     Overhead, the heavens seemed to boil, black and grey, laced with silent lighting. In the pit of my stomach, I felt wary. Of course I did, a god was dead, our father. I still could not believe it, but it was. 

The gods' messenger had flown to our village, black clad and terrible. He had said that the impossible had happened and that any mortals related to the deceased deity were to attend the ceremony in the cave within the black mountain. 

     “Why the mountain?” I had managed to ask. “Should the rites not be at the sea, our father’s own realm?”

     “No,” he answered, his eyes flaring, as though we had done the deed. “You will attend with all the others within the mountain.”

     “But there is no way across the gorge!” put in my brother.

     “All will be arranged.” And with that, he bounded down the slope of the hill, through the olive groves, a rush of wind in the morning. 

Now we were on our way to the heart of the mountain, our black tunics sweaty and clinging as we climbed the steep slope amid dry, scattered boulders. The large squash I carried, the traditional offering, was growing heavier with each step, but the dead needed to be fed and food from the earth was what was needed. 

     There was a low rumble deep beneath our feet. Not a quake, no. Quakes had been our father’s tool. This was a chant, an earth-bound keening. We stopped for a moment to drink from a small pool. Thalos went first.

     He cupped his hands but in that grey and crimson light he could not tell that it was blood he held until it touched his lips.

    “Bah!” he spat and wiped his mouth with the edge of his tunic. “What’s this?”

    “Looks like we’ll not be drinking any time soon, brother. It seems that all the pools on the plateau have turned.”

     As we walked along we could see that it was indeed true. All water had been bloodied. Our father, Poseidon, was dead…dead. How could it be? God of the sea, of horses, Earthshaker! Inside, we wept. Though we had never met him, we felt his presence in all things, the water at table and in streams, the sweet tremors of a quake, the rush of waves at the sea and the pounding of horses’ hooves across the grazing lands where we lived. 

     After another stade’s distance, we spotted a flickering light. As we approached the source, it became larger and we knew it for something else. There, in that grey and red waste of rock and ash stood an olive sapling, aflame, and though burning and glowing with fire, it did not blacken. Its leaves shone silver and emerald, a wonder to our eyes. 

     “What does it mean?” Thalos whispered. 

     “It means, young ones, that you are to stop here and listen!”

     The voice was sharp as cold steel but not threatening, though it carried that possibility. She stepped from behind the burning tree, her shield, the Aegis, glowing, terrifying, and we fell to our knees before Bright-eyed Athena. She was tall, long of limb and lithe as the young olive burning beside us. But her eyes…oh how the heavens spun within them! We could not, however, gaze long.