Olivia reacted to Maddie's unintended
irreverence by hanging up the receiver a little abruptly. For the Peyton girl
had seen a god once, many years earlier, and was quite certain that Athena
and the other Olympians did in fact exist. Sadly, no one else she had met, not
even Madeline, seemed to understand such matters. Born too
late, she would have to go on believing alone, of that much, Miss O was
convinced.
"Athena-Tritogeneia, please, if you wish me to become a
sybil, 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?"
'Twas then that Olivia 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 eternity. As if enveloped in a gilded trance of memory, she
returned to her desk, sat down and began to write:
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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 and 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'errun the place,
Where once proud Sybil showed her face?
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, Delphi will see priestess return,
Borne in her arms a painted 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.
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A blonde head then rested against the edge of
polished wood. The Divinatory experience had ceased, and a pen clattered to
the floor.
