Hellenic Immortal

by Gene Doucette

  “There isn’t anything else. That’s the full extent, so far as they concern this particular moment in time.”

  “Nothing in there about how I’m supposed to tame this thing?”

  “It was always understood that your superior nature would naturally make you the victor.”

  “Great,” I said. “So what does follow the passage?”

  “It’s the last line of the scrolls.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. We’ve been arguing for hundreds of years about whether she stopped there because that was where it ended, or whether she simply died or otherwise lost the gift and couldn’t continue.”

  “Seems abrupt.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But prophetic declarations very rarely end with and they lived happily ever after.”

  “That’s because nobody ever does.”

  Ahead of us, Hippos stopped and waved us to him. “If I am reading this GPS device correctly, the lake is just over there.”

  “If you’re reading it correctly?” I asked. “You mean there’s a possibility you don’t even know how to use that thing?”

  “It is the technology I doubt, not my eyes. Are you prepared for this?”

  “Not even slightly,” I admitted. “Tell me more about what we should expect.”

  “The agreement we brokered was to deliver you unharmed to Gordon. It was our understanding that you would be put to the task by the dryad itself; it would choose whether you lived or died,” Hippos said.

  I glared at Ariadne, who I was still sort of upset with.

  “I thought you knew how to tame a nymph!” she said defensively.

  I turned to Hippos. “I think we all know where the dryad will be falling on the question of whether I live or die, so maybe we should find a way to keep things from getting to that point. How many of your kind are here?”

  “Only ten,” he said. “But they are armed.”

  “Fabulous.” I wondered if one of them had been the shooter in back of Ariadne’s house outside of Sacramento. It would explain the ease with which he escaped from Mike. Then I wondered if Mike had gotten my message, and that kind of wondering didn’t help me at all with my current problem, so I let it go. “Where’s their loyalty? Can you command them to recognize me?”

  “Gordon’s hold is very strong,” he said. “I doubt my opinion will sway them.”

  “And they’ve already rejected me as their hierophant,” Ariadne added.

  “I have to convince fifty or sixty total strangers that their god is about to turn them into bite-sized pieces. I can’t do that on charm alone; give me something to work with.”

  Hippos asked, “What proof have you that you are the god returned?”

  “What, like a birthmark? Nothing. What convinced you?”

  “No one thing,” he admitted. “You do know more about the old gods than I do, and I would not think that possible for an impostor.”

  “That won’t help.” I looked around. “Hey, where is Dyanos?”

  “I don’t know,” Hippos admitted, looking as well.

  “You know what just occurred to me? We’ve been talking in English a lot lately. How much English does he even understand?”

  “Practically none,” Ariadne said. “But he’s loyal to Hippos.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Hippos had turned his nose up into the air. He was sniffing something. “Oh dear,” he said.

  In the woods on the left of the path, six satyrs emerged holding TEC-9s. “I’ve heard enough,” one of them said, in perfect English. A seventh satyr appeared behind him, unarmed. It was Dyanos.

  “You were right, brother,” the satyr with the good English said, in Greek. “They have betrayed us.”

  “Boehan, I can explain,” Hippos said. “Give me a hearing.”

  “No need, traitor,” Boehan replied. To the others, he said, “Bind their hands.”

  “I guess we don’t have to worry about how we’re getting into the camp now,” I muttered to Ariadne.

  * * *

  Azure Lake looked like it had been formed long ago by run-off from the mountains—Mount Terror, presumably—on the far shore. As lakes go, it wasn’t particularly large and was mostly frozen. I expected it would be fully solid by nightfall, given our elevation. The tree line reached the water in a couple of places, disappeared completely in a few other places (like where a sheer mountain face met up with the water) and receded enough to provide a small beach in another spot. It was a really pretty scene, and I was having trouble imagining it covered in blood.

  That beach was where we were headed. For some ridiculous reason Boehan—the lead satyr—insisted our hands be bound with twine. But since we needed to walk and keep our balance, our hands were in front, and the binding was loose enough that if I got a hold of a gun I’d have no problem firing it.

  Not that I would. I was surrounded by a pack of armed satyrs; that would be suicide. Which is why the twine wasn’t necessary in the first place. Besides, I’d just gotten through twenty-four hours (on the trip from Athens) with the same kind of twine on the same wrists, and they were still raw and itchy from that experience. I didn’t recall a preference to twine in the history of the satyros; maybe there was just a sale on the stuff.

  Ariadne looked much more miserable than I was. Whether that was because of the twine, or the whole impending doom thing, it was hard to say. Hippos just looked stoically indignant, like he always did.

  When we first entered the camp, I thought we were in pretty good shape, body-count-wise; it seemed hardly anyone had showed up for Gordon’s big adventure in god-waking. But Ariadne drew a lot of attention—a legacy member of the California Chapter escorted as a prisoner will do that—and as soon as word traveled, people popped up to see her for themselves. They had sought shelter in the tree line. And there were a lot of them.

  It was clearly more than fifty people. This was going to be awful.

  Sixty paces along the shore was an altar, which looked to be our destination. Not much more than a wooden stage, it was situated just at the point where the ring of trees sloped back towards the water, so that standing on the stage one would have the lake on one’s left and the trees on one’s right. Atop the stage was an enclosed tent.

  At the foot of the altar were a dozen closed wooden crates. I had yet to see a truck, a car, or any tire tracks; the crates were brought in on foot. Even in good weather, it was a half a day’s walk from the highway.

  “How’d they do all this without anybody noticing?” I asked Ariadne.

  “The supplies have been coming in for months. The stage was built last week where it stands. I have no idea how all the people got here without drawing attention, but it’s a big park.”

  “Quiet,” Boehan hissed.

  We complied.

  It had to have been a logistical nightmare, getting all of those people to the lake without the rangers knowing about it. I would have thought it was impossible, unless they’d been filtering in for weeks and just living in the woods. That would require a greater level of devotion than your average weekend retreat does, which also meant Gordon was not your everyday charismatic cult leader.

  There was no way I was going to be convincing these people to abandon the camp. The risen Christ wouldn’t have been able to, and he had better speaking skills than I have.

  * * *

  We didn’t end up stopping at the altar. Instead, we were led into the woods behind it, to a large tent pitched in a small glade. But not a regular camping tent, rather the kind you own as an adjunct to an enormous camper with a TV and a microwave. That anyone who thought they were me would insist on such creature comforts on a beautiful day like this was downright insulting.

  “Inside,” Boehan commanded, pushing aside the tent flap.

  Ariadne and I entered. Hippos was retained outside, probably to receive a private dressing-down. I hoped they weren’t planning on hurting him too badly.

  The interior of the tent was lit with
electronic lights, heated, and dry. In one corner was an army cot beside a portable refrigerator and a ham radio. The bed looked particularly comfortable, as would anything horizontal and not covered in a layer of snow, given what I’d been through in the last two days.

  Standing at the center of the tent beside a card table and four folding chairs, was a tall man who got his grooming tips from Yul Brynner. He was barrel-chested, a fact that he was clearly proud of, as his loose-fitting white robes revealed quite a bit of his pectoral splendor. His head was shaved bald, and he’d gone that extra step and also shaved off his eyebrows, which looked silly and had me wondering if he’d also shaved his body hair in the less visible places. (I’ve done it; it itches like hell.) In one hand he held a thyrsos, a staff that was topped with a pinecone and some elegantly twisted vines. It was the ancient symbol of Dionysos.

  In ceremonies, the thyrsos was used to anoint celebrants with water, much in the same way holy water is spattered on Catholics during the Easter mass. For practical purposes, it could also bear small amounts of water to plants and in a pinch could be used for a decent torch. It was what Karyos and I used to water our grapevines.

  “Hello, Gordon,” Ariadne said to the bald man. “How’ve you been?”

  Sitting in a chair at the table was a second man. He was much less impressive-looking, and dressed in normal clothing for this climate. Thin, pale, and looking very worn out, I recognized his face from the pictures in his file. It was Peter Arnheit.

  “Welcome home, Ariadne,” Gordon said gravely. “We have a lot to discuss.” He had a lovely speaking voice that was deep, resonant, and powerful. I could imagine what he must be like in front of an audience. He also seemed utterly sane, which was disappointing. I don’t know what else I was expecting, though gibbering and drooling topped my list.

  Gordon turned his attention to me. “Is this him?” he asked.

  “Hi,” I said, waving with my bound hands.

  Gordon turned to look at Ariadne. “He doesn’t look like much.”

  “I forgot my robes. Didn’t know it was going to be a costume party.”

  He gave me another once-over, and then gestured to the table. “Sit,” he commanded.

  We settled into seats at the card table. Gordon took the fourth seat.

  “Hello, Peter,” Ariadne said. “How have you been sleeping?”

  “Not well,” he answered, rubbing his forehead apprehensively. Peter was sweating quite a lot. When he’d disappeared, he had still been under a doctor’s care, and I wondered if he was fighting a residual infection.

  Gordon waved to one of the satyr guards and a moment later had a mug in front of him.

  I knew it could only be one thing. “Kykeon.”

  “Yes,” Gordon answered, taking a deep draught.

  I extended my hand. “May I?”

  He fixed me with a stare, but then slid the mug across the table. I picked it up and sniffed the concoction. Then I took a sip. It was fresh.

  “The kiste is here,” I said. “On the altar, right? Inside the tent?”

  “And you know this by tasting the kykeon?”

  “Only the grains aged in the kiste taste like that. Do you know why?”

  He snatched the mug back. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “No. I don’t think I will.”

  For just a half second, the resolve in his expression wavered, and a little bit of the crazy snuck in. “Your question is meaningless,” he decided. “The gods fill it with power.”

  “Well that’s almost right.”

  “You haven’t coached him very well, Ariadne,” he snapped, turning on her.

  She stammered, “I haven’t . . . Gordon, please, what you’re doing . . . the thing that Peter has called is not what you think it is.”

  When she mentioned his name, Peter stiffened. If I had seen the destroyer god of the satyros up close, I guess I would be a little edgy too.

  “It’s a new Eden,” Gordon said. “We talked about this, Ari. I don’t understand why you choose to turn your back now, when we’re almost ready! We planned this for years!”

  “Tell me, Gordon,” I interrupted, “ignoring for now the confusion you’re making out of your mythologies, how exactly did you envision this new Eden coming about?”

  “The vengeance of the old gods is considerable,” he said. “They will frighten away anyone who would dare to harm their forests.”

  “By killing people. Am I right?”

  “By killing anyone who doesn’t show respect.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s your take on that, Peter? Did you and Lonnie neglect to bow down properly before the jaguar god of the Yanomamo?”

  “That was unfortunate,” Gordon answered for Peter. “An accident.”

  “Is that what it was? Peter?”

  Gordon scoffed. “Yes. Had I been there . . .”

  “You would what? Wave your second-rate thyrsos in the air and hypnotize it? It’s going to kill everything that isn’t rooted into the ground, Gordon. That includes you, me, and every other person in this camp. And it’s already headed this way.”

  Gordon looked askance at Peter. “We began calling it three days ago. How could you know this?”

  “It killed Staphus,” Ariadne said. “And three campers whose bodies we found on our way here.”

  “That’s wonderful!” he said.

  “I just told you it killed four people!” she snapped.

  “Yes, and that’s . . . I am sorry about Staphus. He was a good soldier. But it worked! Peter, we’ve done it!”

  Peter didn’t look happy about this at all. He looked terrified.

  Gordon continued, “We must finish the preparations for the ceremony!”

  “Gordon, what you have to do is get these people out of here!” Ariadne pleaded.

  “Only the impious have anything to fear,” he said, draining the rest of his kykeon.

  “You would have been right at home in the witch trials,” I commented. But he wasn’t listening to me anymore. Or to anyone else.

  He leaned back, his eyes rolling around frantically, and then he started convulsing. Peter saw it happen first and called for Boehan, who ran in and held Gordon down.

  Ariadne and I jumped to our feet and backed away from the table before it was upended by the satyrs that were trying to keep Gordon from convulsing right out of the tent.

  “Does this happen a lot?” I asked her as we watched the scene.

  “It used to be once a week at worst,” she said. “I’m told it’s now a daily occurrence.”

  “Twice daily,” Peter amended while struggling to hold Gordon’s arms still. Gordon was a much bigger and stronger man; I wagered that Peter would have to actually sit on him to accomplish this.

  “And this is divinely inspired, you say?”

  “So he believes,” Ariadne said.

  Gordon’s body stiffened and rocked, and if he had anything revelatory to say, he wasn’t going to be well-understood, as one of the satyrs had managed to work a piece of wood between his teeth.

  I’d seen this sort of thing before. There was a cult of Christians who called themselves Ecstatics who spent the better part of the fourteenth century having public fits in front of confused townspeople. Back then I could understand somebody labeling it the work of a divinity, but I expected modern man to be beyond such hoodoo. I had a name for it, and I know next to nothing about medicine. It was a grand mal seizure, and Gordon was having them because he’d been poisoning himself. How that wasn’t obvious to everybody else in this bastard Mystery Cult was anyone’s guess.

  The Greeks were accustomed to drink that was lethal except in extreme moderation; their wine was cut with water, and their kykeon was only drunk once a year. Gordon Alecto imposed no such limitation on himself and now his mind was being rotted out from the inside. And as far as I knew, there was no going back.

  Once the fit had passed he was led to the cot. As he lay down, Gordon whispered something to Boehan.

  “We must pr
epare you for the coming of the Great Protector,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t you get him a doctor first?” I asked. “That looked pretty bad there.”

  “The divine spirit inside of him is sometimes too great for his physical form to bear,” the satyr said gravely, without giggling or cracking a smile or anything. Religion is still the very best way to get someone to accept something unabashedly ridiculous; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

  * * *

  “So what’s the answer?” Ariadne asked. We were sitting in a tent in semi-darkness, as we had been for hours. They’d been kind enough to bring us some food and water, but beyond that, nothing. We couldn’t even tell if it was sundown yet—when the ceremony was scheduled to begin—because the guard had zipped the door closed.

  “The answer to what?” I asked.

  “Why the kykeon tastes the way it does. I know it doesn’t have the same properties when the grain is kept elsewhere. I just don’t know why.”

  “No hallucinations.”

  “Yes. And the fruits we store in there have the same property. I never understood why.”

  I lay down on my back and tried to stretch my legs. I hated this waiting. “That manual you’ve got,” I began. “The one where all the old ceremonies were written down. You’ve seen it, right?”

  “You know I have,” she said.

  “Right. You gave me a page of it.”

  “That was from the copy made for our California branch. What about it?”

  “The kiste is mentioned there?”

  “It is.”

  “Including how to open it.”

  “A series of metal bolts have to be slid into place in a specific order before the lid can be opened. It’s a remarkable piece of craftsmanship.”

  “Thanks.”

  I couldn’t see her expression, but she sounded impressed. “You built it?”

  “I designed it. Someone else built it. Is that the only procedure you can remember?”

  “That’s the only procedure at all. Are you saying there’s another way to open it?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.” I smiled to myself.

  “So answer my question.”

  “The question being what makes the foodstuff stored in the kiste special?”