The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  He worried about Sarah. She obviously was imprisoned in some sort of cave, or possibly underground—the worst place to be during a quake. He reminded himself she was the most competent person he knew, both intellectually and physically able to get herself out of jams. But he knew something she didn’t: their opponent would employ ruthless tactics to obtain the information she alone held. Daniel was more determined than ever to get out of that hellhole and go to her aid.

  He rubbed his forehead, then his cheek, absently noting the beard that had settled in earnest upon his face. The growth needling his fingertips reminded him how far he was from his true self, from Sarah, from the life he so passionately loved.

  He lifted his gaze to the skylight. Night’s indigo veil had descended upon the landscape. With scant illumination from the moon, the pine branches were hidden in darkness. The time was right to implement his plan.

  Daniel’s heart pounded in his temples as he went over the steps in his mind. His window was narrow; there could be no mistakes. If his execution wasn’t flawless, he could pay with his life.

  He cast a furtive glance at the ceiling-mounted camera. Though he didn’t know which security system they used, he knew enough about this type of equipment to speculate their visibility would be greatly compromised if the room were dark. It was a risky wager, but it was all he had.

  He moved over to the Barcelona chair, in front of which sat a water bottle. He cracked it open and took a long swig. He picked up the smart panel on the table and touched the section marked Lights. He touched All Off and lay back, pretending to turn in. He let a few seconds pass before casually moving his hand to the singular button on the chair seat.

  He closed his eyes and pleaded, Let this work.

  He exerted light pressure on the button and felt his finger sink slowly until there was a click. He heard a creak and looked up at the skylight, watching it lift upward. The crown molding separated from the wall, releasing a rope ladder.

  Jackpot.

  A shrill alarm punctured the silence. Daniel wasted no time. He bolted toward the ladder and climbed the rungs to the Plexiglas structure. Air wafted in from the crack, a curious combination of fresh pine and gunpowder.

  His heart hammered double-time, reminding him he had seconds to escape. They would be on his trail in no time.

  He pushed the Plexiglas upward, and it gave way easily. With a grunt he hoisted himself up and, clawing at the cold earth, crawled out of the opening.

  He was free.

  Forty

  By the time Sarah reached Arachova, daylight was waning. The Greeks called it the wolflight—the hour suspended between day and night, when nocturnal beasts began to prowl.

  The village clung precariously to the mountainside, a haphazard arrangement of old stone houses with broken barrel-tile roofs and a few modern buildings wedged in between. A single, narrow road—no stop signs, no traffic lights—meandered through town; the rest of the access was on foot, via cobbled paths and steps cut into the mountain.

  On one side of the road rose the slopes of Parnassus, a necklace of massifs that sprawled toward a misty horizon. The exposed limestone crags were cast into sharp focus by the shadows that had descended on twilight’s back. Dark clouds obscured the nearest peaks. Sarah felt the impending rain in the cold, moist air.

  Conscious of her blonde mane in a place populated solely by dark-haired villagers, she walked through the cobbled streets with her head bent, avoiding the curious stares. For the first time, she noticed the state of her clothes: her black top and slim expedition pants were covered with white smears, as if she’d rolled through flour. Her hands were scraped, quite raw in places. She realized they were staring at her not because she was a foreigner but because she looked as if she’d been through war.

  A gust of wind swept up through the mountain pass. She hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself. A diminutive old woman dressed all in black in a housedress, tights, and a kerchief tied around her gray hair, called to Sarah from a balcony.

  Sarah nodded and walked on, but the woman signaled to her to stop and scurried inside. A moment later, she came out her front door holding a shawl. She held it up and extended a palm-down wave, which meant Come here.

  Sarah shook her head and said, “Please, no,” in Greek, but the woman wasn’t having any of it. She dashed toward the bereft visitor and draped a colorful shawl around

  Sarah’s shoulders.

  “I crocheted this when I was a girl, like you. Now I’m a widow and don’t wear such things.”

  Sarah smiled. She recalled the unspoken mandate of Greek women from the old country: when they lost their husbands, they were required to wear black for the rest of their days, marking themselves as perpetual mourners and signifying their house had closed.

  She also knew it was an insult to a Greek, particularly a villager, to turn down a gift. She pulled the shawl across her chest to indicate acceptance. Then she said, “I’m looking for a woman named Lydia. Do you know which is her house?”

  The old woman waved toward the high point of the village. “She lives in her father’s old house up the hill. All the way to the top, second set of steps. The windows are always shuttered.” She shook her head in pity. “She’s all alone, poor girl.”

  Sarah placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I know. Thank you for your kindness.” She pulled the shawl over her head and carried on up the hill.

  A light rain on her face triggered the familiar stab of dread. It would be hard enough to get to Delphinios without the complication of weather. She exhaled sharply and shook off her apprehension.

  On the high point of town, just beneath the peaks still dusted with the last winter snow, sat a cluster of archontika—the gracious old villas of the merchant class—looking down on the village commons. It seemed no one cared for these structures anymore. The stone walls had cracked, roof tiles were black with decades’ worth of mildew, and no boxes of geraniums hung from the windows.

  The drizzle fell with greater urgency. Sarah sized up the black clouds boiling overhead. There was no escaping the storm. She hurried up the second set of steps leading to the once-grand neighborhood and stopped in front of the two-story house with the boarded-up black shutters. The rain pelted her face as she surveyed the façade. Oddly, not a single window was open to the light. The house and its inhabitant sent a very direct message: stay away.

  Sarah walked up two steps to the landing and stood in front of the wooden door. The blue plaque with the white street number dangled from a single screw, swaying as the wind hit it. She knocked.

  For a long while, there was nothing. Sarah had the odd feeling Lydia was standing on the other side of the door, listening. She placed her palm on the door and leaned in. “Lydia, it’s Sarah Weston.” The rain pelting the overhang drowned her voice. She knocked again and spoke louder. “If you can hear me, open the door.”

  Still nothing. She looked over her shoulder at the deserted street and the darkening sky beyond. She was running out of time. Lydia was her only hope for getting to Delphinios—and to Daniel.

  She hit the door with an open palm and yelled to be heard over the driving rain. “Lydia, please. Open the door.” When her plea wasn’t rewarded, she rested her face on the splintered wood and spoke more softly. “I’ve seen your daughter.”

  Finally, there was a click. Sarah took a step back as the door creaked open. Half of Lydia’s face came into view. Her eye was practically popping from its socket. “What did you say?”

  “Phoebe. I’ve seen Phoebe.”

  Lydia whimpered. Tears streamed down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe them.

  “May I come in?”

  Lydia left the door cracked and disappeared inside. Sarah pushed it open and entered the musty room, blinking to adjust to the dimness.

  Lydia stood in the far corner, stoking the fire in a fireplace. The wood floor creaked as Sarah walked past mounds of clothes piled on the floor and a host of baby things—a wal
ker, a feeding chair, storybooks, toys. The place was frozen in time.

  Lydia wore the same clothes she did when she and Sarah first met. Sarah was sure she hadn’t changed—or combed her hair—since. She put a hand on Lydia’s shoulder and felt the woman shudder.

  She turned to Sarah. Her face glowed with the copper light of the dying flames. “Where is she?”

  “Delphi. She is the oracle.”

  Lydia dropped her face into both hands. Her shoulders shook.

  Sarah put an arm around her. “Lydia, I need you to hear me. We must help each other. I promise to help you get Phoebe back if you help me get to Delphinios. I need to know where he lives.”

  Lydia started. “No. You can’t go there. It’s too dangerous. The . . . the guns . . .”

  “He’s holding my partner hostage.” She leaned in and stared into the woman’s glistening eyes. “He will kill him before the night is over.”

  Lydia looked away. “What is she like?”

  Sarah sighed. Her urgency was insignificant compared to a mother’s renewed hope. “She looks to be eleven, maybe twelve. She’s tall for her years, almost as tall as Isidor, and thin—very thin. She’s lovely, Lydia. She has your eyes.”

  “Who looks after her?”

  “Isidor is her guardian. He won’t harm her.” Sarah hesitated, unsure whether to tell her the whole truth. Lydia was already in a fragile state; too much information could push her over the edge. Or force her to act. She decided there was too much at stake to tread lightly. “But every time there is a ceremony, she is forced into a trance.”

  Lydia eyed Sarah. “Trance? How is that possible?”

  “She inhales ethylene, which comes from underground. Just like the oracles of old.”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “So he’s done it. He’s opened the chasm.”

  “Tell me what you mean.”

  “When we first came to the ancient site, there were no vapors. The crack had been sealed for centuries. Delphinios’ dream was to reinstate Apollo’s cult and the oracular ceremonies. But without the gas, it couldn’t be done. So he devised an elaborate plan to make ethylene flow forth again.”

  “Did it have anything to do with earthquakes?”

  Lydia took a step back. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Who are you being loyal to, Lydia? The man who tricked you and abandoned you?” Sarah spoke more sharply than she’d intended. She took a moment to get her nerves in check. “I’m sorry. I know you made a promise, and I wouldn’t ask you to break it if it weren’t a matter of life and death.” She reached for Lydia’s hand. Her bony fingers, cold and dry as a cadaver’s, trembled in Sarah’s grip. “I will not betray you. I swear.”

  Lydia pulled her hand away and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I overheard a conversation . . . but I don’t really understand it, so I’m not sure I can explain it.”

  “It’s all right. Just try.”

  “This was years ago at his house up the mountain. He was talking to a visitor whom he called machednik.”

  The Russian word for commander or chief. Sarah kept quiet, reluctant to rend a moment that was as fragile as

  a spiderweb.

  “Delphinios was talking about the fault beneath Delphi, how it had not moved in years. But he was going to change that using”—a perplexed look crossed her face—“the power of water?”

  “Go on.”

  “From what I gathered, he wanted to inject water into the earth.” She shook her head. “It all seemed very strange.”

  It wasn’t strange. The technology to pump wastewater into deep underground wells existed. Hydrofracking—hydraulic fracturing—was a technique to extract natural gas from deep fields blocked by shale deposits. By injecting water into the wells via horizontal veins, the shale was loosened and gas flowed forth.

  That was one part. The other was the disposal of the process’ byproduct—chemical-laden wastewater—into holes deep inside the planet’s core. It was a rather controversial technique, fraught with risk of contaminating groundwater—and causing earthquake clusters.

  And yet it was viewed as a necessary practice to draw upon previously trapped natural gas resources. Greece, whose relations with Europe had grown increasingly strained due to the nation’s vast debt, had launched into exploration of its own resources by allowing local energy companies, backed by Russian and Chinese investment, to pan for hydrocarbon and mineral deposits beneath the sea. Fracking could easily be part of that exploration.

  Though everything hadn’t yet come into focus, Sarah gathered Delphinios was in bed with the Russians. Somehow, he must have been involved in pumping water into holes beneath the earth or sea—sites that communicated with the fault to bring about minor tremors. If he indeed had a tectonic weapon, this was a good way to test it—or perfect it. The release of ethylene gas, the product of shifting plates deep beneath Mount Parnassus, was just a bonus.

  The fire went out, and a chill settled into the room. Lydia shivered. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”

  “You’re doing the right thing. Do you have any more recollection of that conversation?”

  “There is one thing.” She gazed at the spent fire. “I remember him telling the machednik that if all went well with this experiment, the Americans would regret what they did to him.”

  So Delphi was an experiment, an elaborate ruse for a revenge mission. “What did the Americans do to him?”

  “I am not sure. He didn’t talk much about his past. He didn’t even want me to know his real name. But one day I went snooping and found some photos of him dressed in fatigues, together with some other soldiers. It seemed like he was in the military.”

  “Was there a name patch on his jacket? Think.”

  “Yes.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall. “Bellamy, I think.”

  “Listen, Lydia: I have every reason to believe this man is dangerous. I need you to help me get to him. Where is his house?”

  Lydia nodded toward the north. “On top of the mountain. But there is a lot of security. You’ll never get in. Unless . . .” She shook her head. “No. It’s folly.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “There is an area under the fence where the dogs always used to dig. It was big enough for a slim person to squeeze through. But I’m not sure it’s still there. It’s been a long time . . .”

  “I’m willing to take the chance. Just tell me where to go. I need to get there straightaway.”

  Lydia’s eyes sparkled. “Come with me.”

  Sarah followed Lydia through a network of narrow paths surrounded by stacks of boxes and random hoarded stuff. The smell of dust was pervasive, indicating nothing had been moved in years. They exited through a back door to a concrete stoop surrounded by an overgrown patch of earth that once was a garden. The rain was raging, and veins of silver lightning cracked the gloomy sky.

  Lydia walked to a covered object and pulled back the canvas to reveal a BMW motorcycle of seventies vintage. “It was my father’s. It still works.”

  “Brilliant. May I?” With Lydia’s nod, Sarah straddled the seat, kicked the pedal into neutral, and started the engine. It sputtered and choked. On the second try, she revved the throttle until the engine came to life with a growl.

  Lydia hopped on behind Sarah. “You’ll never find the place alone. I’m going with you.”

  Sarah was unsure about the company. She didn’t want to endanger anyone else; besides, she could be a lot stealthier if she flew solo. But Lydia was right: she needed her. “Fine. But only to show me the point of entry. I will go in alone. Do I have your word?”

  Lydia nodded and slipped her arms around Sarah’s waist. Sarah steered the bike onto the street. Once she hit asphalt, she twisted the throttle gently. She knew it was a mistake to drive a motorcycle, particularly an old one, hard before becoming familiar with its quirks. Before it could reward her with performance, she had to engage in a dance.

  Night had fallen in earnest. An accumulation of c
louds, barely illuminated by the meager light of the waxing moon, was suspended low in the sky, a warning that the rain wouldn’t end anytime soon. In the darkness and driving rain, the motorcycle’s headlight was too weak. Sarah tried not to think about the cliff plunging a good mile down from one side of the narrow mountain road.

  As she leaned into a curve, the raindrops felt like icy needles on her face, making her aware her clothes were soaked through. She should’ve been shivering, but she felt nothing but the hard beat of her own pulse.

  Lydia leaned in and shouted in Sarah’s ear. “Do you see that light up there?”

  Sarah looked up and registered a cluster of white pin lights flickering in the blackness like stars.

  “That’s his house,” Lydia continued.

  More like a compound, Sarah thought. She estimated it was about twenty kilometers away. She turned her head toward Lydia. “Hang on.” She shifted gears and twisted the throttle for a new burst of speed. With her passenger’s hands clasped tightly around her waist, Sarah leaned into the handlebars and gunned for the summit.

  Forty-one

  Harbor of Avlis, central Greece,

  393 CE

  Almost a fortnight passed before the boat docked in the harbor outside Thebes. Aristea regarded the land beyond the bow with such deep reverence she could have worshipped the very soil. It was her land, comely and clement, a place she thought she’d never see again.

  The journey across the Black Sea and through the Hellespont to her beloved Aegean Sea had been treacherous. Autumn brought cruel storms that raised the waves like great swelling monsters threatening to swallow intruders into their dark bellies. Behind leaden clouds, Zeus released lightning bolts from his fingertips without mercy. Silver streaks ripped open the sky and clawed at the heaving waters yet somehow spared the little wooden boat carrying provisions and scant human cargo.