Olivia stood up and paced the small
study, lighting a clove cigarette. Dressed comfortably in a former boyfriend's cotton shirt and a pair of her own signature black riding breeches, no socks or boots
came between graceful step and wooden floor, for the weather was warm and
encouraged going about barefoot, as well as for riding her horse, Basque,
sans saddle.
The jingle of a telephone summons broke through Miss O's
reverie. Not particularly in the mood to answer, but curious if the caller
was her mother, Posh - - that notorious writing dynamo of the pink pages, who often
went socializing to nearby Deauville in the company of a
fan-turned-secretary, annoying Madame Fichon - - the child of celebrity paused, took another puff from a Djarum and intoned, "Hello,
Peyton Place."
"Olivia...is that you?" a feminine voice of a
curious timbre inquired.
"Last time I checked, yes. Might this be Ms.
Maddie herself? If so, how are things in Belgium Waffle land?"
"Very funny," the Hague librarian conceded. "You know, when I met you at that Chalice of Malice lecture four years ago..."
"...you should have beat me to the podium to tell Sir Larry Barry about that marvelous Tons Brunés book I
re-discovered, The Secrets of Ancient Geometry, hmmm?" Olivia guffawed good-naturedly.
"My, you're in a state," Madeline Lacroix
observed. "Bored? Need a Grail Knight or should I say Night?"
"Speaking of losers, how's your Lion King of Batvia, or wherever he's from, doing?"
"Don't even start...Leo the Pretender turned out to be another cur, of course.
Reminds me of a great cartoon I saw in The New Yorker once on a
flight to LAX to attend some information seminar: Two girl poodles are
sitting together at the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis in New York City..."
"How do you know it was that spot?" Olivia
interjected. "Not that it matters."
"Because I've been to the St. Regis," Madeline droned. "I'd know the mural at the King Cole Bar anywhere - it's very esoteric, you know. So, anyway...the girl poodle with the diamond Tiffany choker says to her friend, who has no collar at all, the poor thing...Men, they're
all sons-of-bitches."
The multilingual Belgian, known to her intimates as
Maddie, released a torrent of laughter, to which Olivia made no
reply.
"Is silence tantamount to consent?" the caller
asked.
"So, what's new with you?" Miss O asked, really not into discussing guys when she didn't have one around at the moment.
"Nothing other than I'm driving to France
tomorrow, to visit the Château at Gisors, you know the spot, and I was
wondering if you'd like to meet me there to do some research?"
More like do your work for you, Olivia immediately thought, but answered, "Why yes, I'd love to join you, Maddie. Sounds grand. Maybe Fichon-the-Bichon
could arrange for us to stay somewhere overnight."
"How is Posh?" the bibliophile gushed at the
roundabout reference to the popular author. "Her last book, Vixen of Versailles, was quite good,
considering..."
"Yep, all that bodice-ripping pays well, you know."
"Speaking of money, let's take your mummy shopping with us in Paris! She has the best taste...Chanel, Dior, Valentino..."
"You know I'm a vintage Versace girl," Olivia interrupted, not
caring what "mummy" wore. "Dear, sweet Gianni, he was the greatest designer in the world, because his clothes told stories...they were based on
mythology...he truly understood the power of what others call dreams."
"You and your gods and goddesses. You silly thing. Now, did I tell you about that Hungarian diplomat I met at a reception the other night...I didn't? Well, we'll have to chat about him tomorrow. He's very James Bond, my dear. Really
classy."
Olivia winced. "Cool. Goulash is so...MI5. Whatever, enough about romance, we'll see each other soon enough. Say tomorrow, Gisors at noon?"
"Let's make it at two, then we'll treat ourselves to a
late lunch at this fabulous restaurant, right in the medieval part of town called Les Trois
Poissons. Ever heard of the place? The chef's from Paris and
divine...and...I had a Nicolas Flamel vision there seven years and seven months and seven hours ago about scientific experiments during the Middle Ages..."
"Great, see you at the Three Fish then, tata..." Olivia interrupted with a drum roll of blue eyes, in no mood for a metaphysical musing concerning alchemists of old.
As soon as the conversation ended, Olivia's attention turned to Maddie's
irreverence, for the Peyton girl had seen a vision once, many years earlier, and was quite convinced that Athena and the other Olympians did in fact exist. Sadly, no one else she had met, not even her own manna-making mother, seemed to understand such matters. Born too late, she would have to go on believing alone by herself, of that much, Miss O was certain.
"Athena, please, if you wish me to become a defender of the Sybils and their truth, then show me the way, inspire me; make my pen a sword, and help me crush the infamy of ignorance, for I know too many people are hurting for no reason other than they have forgotten how to save themselves. But what do I do?" Olivia asked in frustration. "There's just so many nitwits in the world!"
'Twas then that the Peyton lass became silent and saw in
her mind's eye the golden apparition of her youth. The heavenly radiance that had issued from a classically perfect, white robed body was stamped on
her soul for an Incorruptible eternity. Glady, as if enveloped in a gilded trance of memory, she
returned to the desk, sat down and began to write:
|
In ancient Greece, rose Delphi's powers,
Where sages came to sit for hours,
This sacred, holy temple stood,
Amidst a clearing in the wood;
Its walls were clean, a blessed bright,
They shined, they glowed when kissed by light.
And held within sweet Wisdom's shrine,
A single flame of scented pine
Burned long and fast and never died,
Though many times a harsh wind tried,
To put it out, to kill the thing
That seemed eternal, like the Spring.
So why is now the Temple bare?
Why do its walls show lack of care?
And why do vines o'er run the place,
Where once proud Sybil left a trace?
And why is that great torch of hope
Reduced to naught save gray-black smoke?
It is because the place of stone,
Was once Truth's refuge, was its home.
Yet since that time the winds at last,
Blew out the flame and with it dashed,
All hope of things both bright and fair,
And left the earth cold with despair.
Some say lost books of Sybils yield,
The cache spot of Minerva's shield;
When found, the Oracle shall burn
A wick within the sacred urn,
That holds the dust of loving care,
Each human heart might then prepare,
Another flame, another light,
Which naught but True Self will ignite.
|
|
