The Props Master Prequel: Behind the Ivory Veil

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ISBN 978-1-939275-73-8

Introduction

Behind the Ivory Veil is an occult fantasy. Much of the story revolves around two pagan cults, one in England and one in Greece, that preserve ancient practices into the modern day (1955). Its underlying assumption is that magic is real, it works, and it is present in our everyday lives—usually unrecognized or passed off as mere coincidence. So the people in this story are all normal folks you’d meet on the street and never imagine were involved in the art and ritual of pagan magic, any more than you would suspect they were Methodist or Catholic.

Famed witch Aleister Crowley is thought to have said that the difference between white magic and black magic is that white magic is poetry and black magic works. As a result, this volume is filled with stories, legends, and poetic rituals. You, like the characters, may be surprised that they work. Many of these rituals have been developed by other practitioners and, although I recognize works that have been influential in my view of paganism, it is not possible for me to identify if specific parts of rituals might have been more heavily influenced by one author or another. I cite The Spiral Dance by Starhawk, A Book of Pagan Rituals by Herman Slater, The White Goddess by Robert Graves, Mythology by Edith Hamilton, Bulfinch’s Mythology by Thomas Bulfinch, and a library filled with other books about mythology and paganism. It is likely that the stories and rituals have influenced my phrasing and even words within the rituals here and I do so with utmost respect, acknowledging that every brother and sister of the craft contributes to the overall knowledge and experience of the others.

For those faint of heart, it is only fair to say that the gods, whether Greek or Hindu or Christian or Pagan, are seldom kind and compassionate. They have their own agendas and humans are an insignificant and sometimes incovenient part of their plans. So, do not be surprised when gods have their way and people are brushed aside. Remember that the story continues in The Props Master 1: Ritual Reality.

Now, let us begin the journey. Doc discovers a path to the legendary City of the Gods, their abandoned home on Mount Olympus. He enlists musicologist Wesley Allen to return and interpret the strange musical notations at the site. Wesley’s fiancée, Rebecca, goes to the University of Edinburgh to complete her thesis on matriarchal thealogy. She meets Mrs. Weed and is initiated into the ancient Coven Carles. But Doc’s one-time protégé, ‘The Blade’, dogs Rebecca’s footsteps, attempting to locate Doc’s dig. His intent: to find and claim the lost goddess hidden behind the ivory veil. Myth, magic, and mayhem nearly destroy the coven and place an impenetrable curtain between Rebecca and Wesley.

Names of places and things

Like any art, pagan ritual has a unique vocabulary that includes words from several sources. Some of the words here are Celtic in origin and others are untraceable. This is not meant to be a definitive list of terms and definitions for the art, but is provided for context as used in this story. Coven Carles might be referred to as Cobhan Carles and the members of the coven might be referred to as cildru. Occasionally, Greek words and phrases are also used, but they are defined in context.

Pagans often name each of their tools, but I am only listing here the names of the Four Faces of Carles, the sacred tools of the grand coven.

Athamé: is a knife or sword—a blade—sacred to the workings of magic, and representative of Air and the East. The ritual Athamé of Coven Carles is named Creüs and is in the keeping of Ryan McGuire, The Blade.

Wand: may be a short wand (think Harry Potter) or a full staff (think Gandalf), sacred to the workings of magic, and representative of Fire and the South. Usually, but not always, made of wood. The ritual wand of Coven Carles is named Iäpetus and is sometimes referred to as the Staff of the Vagabond Poet. It is in the keeping of Doc Heinrich, The Flame Keeper.

Cup: may be any shape or material, sacred to the workings of magic, and representative of the West and Water. The ritual cup of Coven Carles is named Cottus and was in the keeping of Mrs. Weed, The Water Maiden.

Pentacles: May be a star, star-shaped stone, medicine bag with symbols on it, or a disk, usually also engraved with a pentacle of some sort. Sacred to the workings of magic, and representative of the North and Earth. The ritual pentacles of Coven Carles is named Enceladus and is in the keeping of the high priestess, “Magda”.

Special Note: My use of the word pentacles may differ slightly from that of other practitioners, but to keep terms straight for readers of fiction, I offer the following. The tool referenced herein is always referred to as a plural. The use of ‘is’ or ‘are’ is based entirely on what sounds better in the context, but as much as possible, pentacles always refers to the tool, no matter what shape it takes. The singular form, pentacle, is the design on the tool. The design is not necessarily star-shaped. Of the forty-four known Pentacles of Solomon, only two designs (the second pentacle of Venus and the first pentacle of Mercury) have a five-pointed star. In magical workings, however, a five-pointed star is often drawn on the floor or even in the air. This specific symbol is a pentagram. There are many ways of drawing the pentagram (forward, backward, upright, inverted) and each has its own use. But all are five-pointed stars.

A Book of Shadows is a journal kept by a witch, chronicling what he or she has learned, including dreams, rituals, spells, and lore. One witch’s Book of Shadows may become another witch’s grimoire.

A grimoire is a book of witchcraft with spells, chants, rituals, and various charm-making recipes. It is usually intended to be copied and/or passed on to another witch.

Pagan holidays fall at the quarters and cross-quarters of the year, in other words, the four celestial holidays and four between them. They are:

Yule, the winter solstice. This is considered by some traditions to be the start of the pagan year. ~December 21.

Imbolc, in the United States celebrated as Groundhogs’ Day and in the Catholic Church is marked as Candlemas. ~February 2.

Oester, the vernal equinox. Originally the feast of Astarte, near Jewish Passover and Christian Easter. ~March 21.

Beltane, or May Day. The first of May has long been celebrated as the great fertility festival.

Litha, the summer solstice. While westerners largely consider the quarters to be the beginning of the season, old references point to the fact that these were considered mid-season, as in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Longest day and shortest night of the year. ~June 21.

Lughnasad, also called Lammas or first harvest. This festival celebrates the death of the corn king. ~August 1.

Mabon, autumnal equinox. End of the harvest season and sometimes celebrated with the burning of a wicker man. Current celebrations in the U.S. that arise from the tradition include Burning Man over Labor Day weekend. ~September 20.

Samhain, or All Hallows Eve, Halloween. This celebrates the end of the pagan year as it descends to the darkness of Yule. It is said that on this night, the veil between the worlds (of the living and dead) is thinnest and both humans and spirits may walk between them. October 31.

Greece. The Metéora is a region of Greece located in the Plains of Thessaly and is home to many monasteries built in the 1500s on the tops of great sheer pinnacles of rock. I have tried to be faithful to the spirit of the area, but you would be unable to draw a map from my descriptions.

Indianapolis. As much as possible, the places in and around Indianapolis are real or were real in the ’50s, though some names (especially around the college) have been changed.

England. As nearly as I can remember them, the locations in and around Keswick, England are described accurately for the time and the geography is at least nearly the same.

The Grand Coven Carles Castlerigg (Cobhan Carles) comprises four smaller circles, named for the landmarks that surround the stone circle, Skiddaw (in the north), Threlkeld (in the east), High Lodore (in the south), and Braithwaite (in the west).

Cast

This is a list of the principal characters in Behind the Ivory Veil. When a character is or becomes involved in a pagan circle, he or she is usually given a special name. This name is how the coveners refer to each other as a way of keeping their actual identities secret. The custom originates in the Burning Times. Even older, however, is the practice of adopting or being given a secret name that is shared only with others who are engaged with the practitioner in deep ritual magic. Hence, Rebecca Allen is given the circle name ‘The Hart’ when she is initiated. But her mentor also gives her a secret, magical name, ‘Sadb’, which is only used when Rebecca is working deep and intense magic or has fully entered her identity as a practioner of the art. Most people in the coven are commonly referred to by their coven name. Only a few are referred to by their secret name.

Dr. Phillip “Doc” Heinrich, professor of archaeology, Farrington University in Connecticut. Also known as The Flame Keeper, keeper of the Second Face of Carles.

Dr. Margaret Jacobson, former student of Doc’s and associate professor of anthropology.

J. Wesley Allen, professor of musicology at Indianapolis City College (ICC).

Rebecca Hart Allen, graduate student in anthropology at ICC and Wesley’s fiancée and then wife. In the circle, she becomes The Hart and in magic working, Sadb.

Dr. Ryan “The Blade” McGuire. Scots-English archaeological adventurer and treasure hunter. A thorn in the side of Doc and member of the same coven. Keeper of the First Face of Carles.

Andrew Pariskovopolis, an old man of the Metéora. Keeper of the secret.

Apollo “Pol” Pariskovopolis, Andrew’s 12-year-old grandson.

Mrs. Alice “Hebe” Weed, a witch in Scotland who adopts Rebecca. As The Water Maiden, she is keeper of the Third Face of Carles.

William Renton, Doc’s valet, friend, and former classmate. A sculptor in wood and stone.

Dr. Benjamin “The Firebrand” Wilton, disgraced archaeological adventurer and former bearer of the Second Face. Doc’s mentor. Also wrote fiction as Ben Wills.

Brother El, a monk of one of the monasteries of the Metéora, not identified as such, but may have been Elbert Parker, Wilton’s spy contact.

Thea Pariskovopolis, Andrew’s wife.

Sophia, Andrew’s daughter and Pol’s aunt.

Marcos Pariskovopolis, a taxi driver/chauffeur in Greece. Pol’s father.

Helen Pariskovopolis, Pol’s mother and wife of Marcos.

1
Firebrand

Sunday, 1 August 1937, Northern England

Fire!

The walking stick held in his hands came to life and flames sprang from tip to tail as he held it over the laid wood. The fire leapt from the walking stick to the dry tinder and it burst into flame. Yet his hands, grasping the staff stayed cool as the flames licked around his fingers then flickered and died.

In a country where witchcraft was classified as an offense of con artistry and vagrancy, young Doctor Phillip Heinrich had just participated in a ritual that made him keeper of a sacred tool of Coven Carles. He was now The Flame Keeper and would never be parted from the walking stick called Iäpetus until he gave it into the hands of a new guardian.

Around him, the naked dancers were caught up in an ecstatic spiral around the burning fire. Doc was passed from dancer to dancer, kissed, fondled, and brought to his own crescendo as the dancers shouted and fell to the ground leaving only the sound of the fire and their gasping breaths in the wake.

And then Doc saw. It was more than his eyesight. His eyes could see the exhausted coveners lying around him, some clasping each other, still lost in their unions. His eyes could see the fire in the pit. His eyes could even see the outline of the stone circle that surrounded them. But his mind could see further.

His mentor, disgraced Professor Benjamin Wilton, stood at the edge of a cliff. Wilton was headed back to Greece—not as a professor this time, but as a renegade. His paper on the lost goddess of Metéora was a subject of ridicule in academia. He was going back to find the proof he needed.

“I’ll find her, Phillip,” he said. “I may never come back, but I’ll leave you a sign. You know now that it is real. You’ve seen the power manifest in your hands. The establishment may never accept it, but you know the truth.”

“Truth? What is truth?” quoted Doc. “Can I believe what my eyes tell me? If the staff was on fire, my hands should be burnt. How can I know the truth?”

“I’ll leave you a sign. You’ll know it when you see it. When that day comes, your doubts will disappear.” With that the professor turned away from Doc and toward the edge of the cliff.

“Wait!” Doc shouted. “What do I do with this stick?”

“Go on a walking tour of the Lakes and Scotland. Listen to people. When they ask if that is not the staff of the Vagabond Poet, respond with the words ‘Merry meet.’ Then listen. They will tell you stories you could not imagine. Return here at Mabon and you will never again question what to do with the staff. Blessed be, Flame Keeper. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be, Firebrand,” Doc whispered. “Stay clear of the Germans. They say they are moving into Greece.”

Wilton turned back toward the cliff, naked as the day he was born, and dove. A long time later, Doc heard the distant splash.

2
The Metéora

Saturday, 25 September 1954, near Kastraki, Greece

The staff in his hand was still alive, though it had never again burst into flames. Doc felt it vibrate with each step through the canyons of the Metéora, the fire of the Mediterranean sun beating on his back. He’d been back every summer since the war. Though the staff had never again called fire, Doc had found other uses for it and felt it resonate with the land around him.

The goat track that locals called a road was as dusty as the foothills had been. A preternatural awareness of his surroundings prickled at his senses. Turks, communists, still a few Nazi sympathizers, and local city chiefs all vied for the privilege of being the most feared threat. A lack of vigilance could be fatal.

As he stepped through the narrow passage, hands grabbed at him from either side. Doc responded automatically. If it no longer spit fire, the walking stick still moved with a mind of its own. His right hand worked as a fulcrum as he swung the top of the stick down with his left. Its ironclad heel struck one assailant in the groin. Not stopping, Doc spun on the other attacker and struck out with the butt of the stick. A quickly raised hand deflected the blow, but Doc won his freedom.

He turned on his attackers and slipped the pack from his back, the staff grasped firmly in both hands. What he saw made him sick. Children, not more than fourteen or fifteen years old. One already had a knife in his hand. The other gathered up a rock to throw. God damn this land of misery! Maybe he already had.

The boy threw his rock and Doc no longer felt sorry for them. He picked it out of the air wielding the staff as a bat and crashed down on the charging knife hand in the same move. The bigger youth screamed in pain but dropped the knife into his other hand and attacked again. Doc parried the knife neatly but failed to dodge the next rock. The missile struck him squarely in the chest. He staggered back a step, tripped over his discarded pack and fell.

The knife-wielding youth yelled in triumph and leapt to a rock above Doc. He brandished his knife ready for the kill. His accomplice shouted above the noise. Doc watched the boy’s focus shift as silence fell in the wake of the echo. The boy backed off the rock and joined his companion. Then both ran back the way Doc had come.

The sudden change in behavior piqued Doc to alertness for new danger. A predator abandons prey when faced with a superior predator. Struggling to regain his lost wind, he rolled, planted his staff and pulled himself upright to face whatever challenge might now appear.

A monk.

And an old man leaning on a short cane. Doc breathed a sigh of relief. A coarsely woven robe and pillbox hat identified the religious as a monk of one of the monasteries gracing the pinnacles of Metéora. It was he who spoke first.

“Are you injured, sir?”

“Bruised but not broken,” Doc answered in nearly flawless Greek. “Nothing serious.”

“An American,” laughed the older man, identifying the accent in spite of Doc’s facility with the language. “Didn’t I tell you, El?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the monk. “How you know these things…” Turning his attention back to Doc he continued. “May we help you, sir? We will escort you to the village if that is your destination; or gladly offer hospitality among the brethren if you are not afraid of heights.”

The monk raised his hand and pointed to the top of one of the sheer cliffs nearby. It towered at five hundred feet above them. About halfway up, a net swung at the end of a long rope. An unfortunate but long-standing joke restrained Doc from accepting the invitation: “How often do you change the ropes?” asked the tourist. “Whenever they break,” answered the monk.

“Thank you. I was on my way to Kalambaka,” Doc answered. The monk held Doc’s eye for a moment flicking back to his staff.

“Is that not the staff of the Vagabond Poet?” the monk asked in English, so softly that Doc barely heard him.

“Merry meet,” Doc whispered.

“Merry part, and merry meet again,” the monk intoned. He glanced at the old man and nodded slightly.

What were the odds? He was in the middle of the Plains of Thessaly talking to an old man and a monk and greeted with words from an English cult. A sign of recognition Doc had not heard outside The Lake District. And this monk was not Greek.

“May I offer my home, Doctor?” the old man broke the silence between Doc and the monk. “It is not so highly exalted as the monastery.”

“How did you know I was a doctor?” he asked immediately. In thirty-plus years of not strictly academic work, enough scavengers dogged his footsteps to keep Doc suspicious of any familiarity. First the monk and then the old man.

“Don’t ask Andrew how he knows anything,” interrupted the monk. “He will probably tell you that he has been expecting you all day.”

“All week,” the old man confessed.

“You have the advantage of me,” Doc said skeptically. “I’ve only expected to be here for the past three or four hours.”

“I have reached that age where I am always expecting a visitor,” the old man smiled. “I’m Andrew Pariskovopolis,” he said, extending a hand. “You looked like a scholar to me.”

“Phillip Heinrich,” Doc replied, returning the handshake. “Professor of archaeology at Farrington University. Most folks call me Doc.”

“Well then, Doc. My invitation is genuine. If you would share bread with my family this evening, my home is open to you.”

“I feel that I already owe you for rescuing me from those young hoodlums.” Doc winced as he rubbed the sore spot on his chest and retrieved his pack.

“It’s a sad thing,” broke in the monk. “They are refugees from their own homes, forced to steal in order to live. The communists raid the villages and kidnap the children they find. To escape, some flee into the hills. They become hungry enough to attack travelers. Finally, they will give themselves up to the communists for the offer of a good meal. We will never see them again.”

“You seem to have influence over them, Father,” said Doc. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Just ‘Brother’,” the monk corrected him. “Is it a good thing that children should fear the church? I must leave you now, but I leave you in good care, Doctor.” The monk turned off down the path after a parting word with the old man. Doc and Andrew were left alone to make a short climb up the edge of the canyon.

“Brother El has tried many times to help our children. He is one of the few monks who do not stay on their mountain tops,” the old man told Doc. “But the children fear the monks as much as they do the communists. Nothing is here but confusion these days.”

“I must thank you again for your offer of hospitality, then,” Doc responded. “It must be dangerous to invite unknown guests into your home.”

“Sometimes there is danger,” the old man answered looking at Doc carefully. “But Zeus commands and he protects.”

Doc’s suspicions melted into curiosity. A dozen images swept through his mind. Embodied in that phrase was the heritage of Dionysian sects predating civilization. In Zeus’s name, the wayfarer seeking lodging could not be refused. Doc added up the possibilities of such a sect surviving in the relative isolation of Metéora, even among the Christian monasteries. They equaled a treasure. The title for the paper that he would write after this visit was already forming in his mind.

“You keep the ancient ways?” Doc asked tentatively.

“They keep us,” the old man affirmed.

They came upon four small dwellings surrounded by a low wall. Here the old man stopped. As soon as he opened the courtyard gate, several children and two yapping dogs descended on them.

“My grandchildren. All except those two,” the old man laughed, pointing at the dogs. “Children, tell yiayia we have a guest for dinner.” The two walked on into the courtyard and the old man drew water from the central well. This is my home, Doctor. Welcome. My wife and I live in the little house. My children and grandchildren occupy the other three. We change places from time to time as our families grow and change.”

“All your family lives right here?” Doc asked, trying to tabulate quickly how many people might form the cult he was sure existed here.

“No. I am sorry to say.” Andrew paused and drew a pained breath. “I lost my youngest son in the war. It was very hard. My eldest son and his wife moved to Athens some years ago. Where others talk, he charges in to see what will happen. They could not have been happy here. But their son is visiting for the summer. Maybe longer.”

A little woman emerged from the first house and bustled across the yard toward them. “He’s come?” she asked Andrew with her eyes questioningly intent on Doc. “You found him?”

“And this is my wife, Thea,” laughed the old man. “Thea, this is Doctor Heinrich, our guest,” he said gently to her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, critically surveying her guest. Whatever the old man’s generosity, Doc was not what she expected. She glanced at her husband and he nodded. “I beg your pardon,” she sighed heavily. “I thought… well! I’ll put dinner on the table. You will join us.”

“Thank you,” Doc answered to her back as she retreated.

He joined his host and followed the woman into the house which rapidly filled with the rest of the clan. The dinner was shared in common with all the families. Doc couldn’t separate one household from another. They noisily fell to their meal and told stories around the table. Doc was not the expected guest, it seemed, but was certainly not unwelcome. He spun yarns about his travels and adventures, sticking to the ones of his younger years when he adventured as far as China, South America, and Africa.

The meal ended and the storytelling grew more spirited. Doc sensed a subtle shift. As he told of an adventure, the old man would turn it into a lesson in the ancient myths. Finally, one of the children was asked to tell a story.

The child was well-versed in mythology, apparently the fruit of his grandfather’s teaching, but the story was all his own woven into the fabric of a classical myth. It was a romantic story, though some of the romance was lost in an over-exuberant description of Apollo’s glory and in the child’s enthusiasm for the magical qualities that the gods exhibited. The boy was especially enthused in his description of the muses.

Following in Apollo’s entourage, his heavenly muses
Listen to the sun-god’s lyre and fawn over him.
That pleases Apollo.
Polymnia, singing praises to her patron god Apollo.
Calliope, still reciting the epic poem she had composed just last year.
Clio, correcting the historical allusions in her poem.
Thalia, making fun of the proceedings and laughing at
Star-gazing Urania, falling over her own feet.
Melpomene, weeping for a hero lost in battle, fatally flawed.
Erato, reciting a love poem written for Asklepios and his bride.
Behind them all dances Terpsichore, celebrating,
And encouraging the lagging Euterpe to speed up the tempo with her flute.

But Euterpe, lyric muse, sees not the joy of this occasion
The day on which her one true love will be bound to another.
If only she were as beautiful as Health.
If only she could heal.
What good is music and lyric poetry when people still fall ill.
But fair Asklepios sees her not.

So, as Health is conferred on the new godling,
Euterpe, a mere muse, creeps away.
Far from the celebration she pipes her mournful tune
And from her flute issues gossamer tones weaving a veil
As if of ivory silk between the lyric muse and Olympus.
Unknown, unmissed, the muse weeps for her lost love.

She imagines herself the very picture of Health,
Taking her lover in her arms and welcoming him to her bosom.
As Asklepios consummates his marriage to Health,
Euterpe feels him part her temple gates
And plant within her the seed of their love.

Behind her Ivory Veil,
Euterpe’s empathic pregnancy advances apace with Health’s.
In the fullness of time, Hygeia is born of Health.
But behind the ivory veil another child gasps her first breath.
Euterpe calls her symbiont child Serepte.

Anon, times change.
An instant as gods measure time.
Men cease offering the sweet scent of burnt flesh.
Starving from neglect, the ancients give way to new gods
And flee Olympus
As the Titans gave way to the Olympians.

Apollo gathers his muses to him and numbers them.
But one is missing.
“Euterpe!” he calls and she must answer his summons.
But behind the ivory veil, the child goddess Serepte is held.
“One day, my child,” the muse sings out,
“One day a hero will come. A mortal will release you into the world.
And on that day, you will be the goddess you were born to be.”

And here we wait.
Millennia are but an instant to the immortals
But eternity to men.
Her story is forgotten by all but a hand of faithful
Who await the mortal hero to rise
And free the goddess from her prison
Behind the Ivory Veil.

Doc was surprised by the frank descriptions of sensuality given by the boy. Even at the University, Doc would take flak if he recited such sexual details. Such was America. The character of the empathically conceived child was left a mystery, but Doc thought it might bear a resemblance to other known goddesses or be a key to a local legend. There was no clue to her special characteristics in the story. Doc found that strange. The pantheon always had function associated with deity. If the goddess was to prove a legitimate piece in mythology, she must have a function. The story ended with the empathically conceived goddess shrouded behind the ivory veil that bound her to old Olympus awaiting a mortal savior as the other gods took flight to the heavens.

Doc applauded with the rest of the family and Andrew hugged the boy. Doc smiled and reached to shake the boy’s hand.

“Well, Doctor Heinrich,” said the old man, “what do you think of my Apollo and his story?”

“A very talented young man,” answered Doc. “It’s a beautiful story. May I ask questions? I’ve never heard anything quite like it and I’m curious. Of course, if it’s not appropriate, I certainly understand…?” He left the sentence hanging in an unspoken question that belied his own impatience. The old man laughed.

“There are no secrets to our faith, Doctor. Only the blindness of those who will not ask. Even the priests and monks of the monasteries know. It is that alone that keeps us concealed from the rest of the world. ‘Knowing, they know not; Seeing, they see not; Understanding all, they understand nothing.’”

Doc was certain the old man’s quotation was not quite scriptural. But it added to the incongruity of the whole setting.

“At the moment, I admit that I am too taken by the story to question the roots of belief. It seemed… incomplete.” Doc began. “Why did the story end before the goddess—I assume goddess is an appropriate term for Serepte?—before the goddess was freed from her captivity? What mortal ultimately came along to deliver her and how?”

“Ah, that is the heart of the matter,” the old man responded. “The end of the story. We don’t know the end of the story, Doctor Heinrich. My family has passed it down from generation to generation in hope of the mortal savior. It is the basis of our faith. For that reason alone, the legend has been preserved.”

“You may be isolated and alone, but you have a great faith.”

“Well, the time cannot be far off now,” he answered.

“What?”

“When I came of age, it was prophesied that the deliverer would come in my lifetime. I am getting old,” Andrew chuckled. Apollo wrapped his arms around his grandfather.

“Age is a matter of the heart,” Doc assured him. “You strike me as very young of heart.”

“I thank you,” said the old man. “But there is another reason I believe the time is at hand. No doubt you have seen many religions in your travels, of which our faith is simply an anachronism. You must surely know that this faith can survive only in relative isolation. You and I have twice seen the entire world at war. We have seen manmade acts that exceed all the myths of deities from all the ages. If we have become gods ourselves, what need is there of a pantheon that no longer shows itself to mortals?”

Doc absorbed what the man was saying. His religion was doomed and he addressed the matter as a calm student of his own demise.

“What will happen if—or I should say when—the mortal savior actually reaches the veil and releases the goddess? Is it to be a time of cataclysm? Is she to reestablish the ancient religion? Do you expect a revival? A war? Anything?”

The old man drew a deep breath and for a moment Doc was afraid he had crossed the barrier of good taste. But when the voice reached his ears it was one of sorrow and question.

“Your faith is a faith of answers. Ours is one of questions. Those which you ask are the deepest. I do not know the answers. It may signal the end or beginning of another age. We may loose a power that we do not understand on a world that it cannot comprehend. And it may be that we will simply set at liberty a captive spirit that has no other purpose than to take flight—to reunite with her own. But it will take a mortal not of my family to work the release. This we do know.”

“Well, may your gods send you a fine strong young man to do the job.”

“We will settle our minds on whomever is sent to us by the gods” nodded the old man.

Doc nodded unconsciously then cocked his head to one side as he realized the weight of the old man’s statement. “Certainly, you can’t expect that I’m the one you are waiting for? I’m not a keeper of your religion.” The old man smiled. Doc continued. “I don’t see how I could possibly be of help to you.” The last thing he wanted at this stage of his life was to become involved in a mystery rite about which he knew nothing. He had had his share of that.

“Perhaps the name Benjamin Wilton, known also as the Firebrand, means something to you, Doctor Heinrich.” The old man leaned forward trying to connect with Doc’s averted gaze. Wilton. He could not let out the depth of meaning that the name held for him. “You need not answer, the old man continued. “You carry his staff, though your way of using it is different than his.”

“I’m afraid that I do not have the same talents that my… he did. How do you know of him?”

“And have you heard of the City of the Gods?”

“If you profess to have a map to the ancient city, Mr. Pariskovopolis, you engage in a cruel and outdated jest. I have purchased no less than twenty such maps over the years. They were elaborate hoaxes. Some I purchased because I thought it might indeed be possible. The rest, simply to get them off the streets. I am a scientist and am no longer prone to wandering around with unchecked pieces of parchment as my only guide.” Doc was irritated and close to bidding his host goodnight and returning to the village. Wilton’s alleged fraud had marked the end of an illustrious career for Doc’s one-time mentor. The old man stopped him with a gesture.

“And what do you think? Was Wilton a liar?”

Doc said nothing for a moment. He had never quite believed the allegations, but couldn’t bring himself to believe that Wilton had found a path to Old Olympus.

“I think that Professor Wilton believed in his discovery,” he said finally.

“You are pained by the mention of his name for reasons that I do not know. I will share with you my own pain. In 1943, my youngest son was killed fighting the Italians in the North. Two years earlier he made a sacred trip to this fabled city and was followed by a man that I believe to have been Professor Wilton. That man desecrated the holy place. How, I do not know. There are many rules. My son could never say. But he witnessed the gods’ revenge and that was more than he could bear. Within a week he ran away to join the army. He was too young, Doctor, but it was believed that a boy was better off in the army than in a reestablishment camp. At 14 the son of my old age was killed. I do not know what Professor Wilton did, but my son is gone.”

“That would have been 1941,” Doc said. “Wilton disappeared four years before that. I saw him…” The image of his mentor in the firelight was burned into Doc’s memory. With fire still rushing in his veins, he watched the professor step to the edge of the cliff and dive off—an impossibly long way to the water. “It simply can’t have been him.”

“I would like to believe that, Doctor Heinrich, as much as you.”

It was late and Doc’s exertions of the day were catching up with him. His chest ached from where he’d been struck. He winced as he yawned.

“If Wilton desecrated the holy of holies, why would you share this with me?” Doc was certain none of this would make sense in the morning.

“Doctor Heinrich,” the old man smiled at him, “we must have an ending to our story.”

“And you will take me there?”

“You will go in the morning. Apollo must be in the city on his twelfth birthday—the day after tomorrow.”

“A ritual?”

“A redemption,” nodded the patriarch.

Doc rose to retire for the night. At the door Doc turned once again to his host.

“Do you really believe in the ancient gods?”

“Do you believe in stones, Doctor Heinrich?” Doc paused at the question. “You may build with them, throw them, shape them, use them, stumble over them, or ignore them. Or even cast them at your enemies. They are beyond the realm of belief.”

Doc slept a short and restless night.

3
City of the Gods

Sunday, 26 September 1954, Metéora, Greece

In the before-dawn blush of the next day, Doc sat on the ground with the family. They formed a loosely drawn circle around the well in the center of the courtyard. He had agreed to participate in the ritual without further thought after Andrew explained it. It was not unlike those Doc had participated in over the years in countless cultures, including at the stone circle in Northern England. Silently, they watched the old man in the center as he moved about the circle inscribing it with his gestures. Doc felt a subtle barrier at his back after the old man passed him—an intangible wall that defined the ritual space. It had been years since Doc felt the presence as powerfully as he did this morning. Perhaps he was remembering his own initiation. At last the old man stopped moving just to Doc’s left. He turned toward the outside of the circle and faced East. Though the words were in Greek, Doc had no difficulty translating them as they were spoken.

Within this sanctuary cast
Are all the powers of the ancients.
Let the air—
The fire—
The water—
Gaia herself join us
In this circle of power.

The family took up the chant from the old man. “Symmetochí ston kýklo tis exousías. Join in the circle of power.” The old man raised his hands to the East and continued. While the ritual casting of a circle was similar to the pagan rituals of England in which Doc had participated, the words were cloaked in classic references to the powers of Olympus and had the flavor of a Greek play. The old man was Choragus and the family was the Chorus.

“Open, unlidded eye of golden dawn, and cast upon us your rays of life.”

His timing was impeccable. The sun broke over the crest of Metéora glinting into his eyes and filling the courtyard with the sharp light of morning. He turned slowly to his right and stopped with his back to Doc. The family continued the almost sub-vocal chant “Join in the circle of power.” The old man raised his arms to the South.

“Flame within us, Hephaestus, volcano of eternal fire.”

The eldest daughter held a candle. Doc saw no sign of a match or lighter, but the candle flared to life with a crack that echoed in the courtyard. The chant picked up a little volume as the old man moved to the West and held up his hands.

“Rise Poseidon, tide of the sea; flood us in refreshing waves.”

Thea raised a pitcher and a cup and began to pour water. She kept pouring. Doc expected the cup to overflow, but the more she poured, the more water it seemed to hold. She kept pouring as the old man moved to stand in front of Doc and Apollo and raise his hands to the North.

“Demeter, mother of the seasons, dust of our bodies, accept us and fill us with the power of Earth.”

Apollo scooped dust from the ground in front of him and let it filter from one hand to the other. A light wind rose and the dust swirled in the palm of his hand. When he held it out, Doc could imagine that he saw the shape of a woman swirling in the dust.

The old man smiled and ran his fingers through Pol’s hair. “Now, let’s hope this works, eh?” He pointed to Doc’s walking stick and asked, “May I borrow this? It’s not necessary, but it looks so spectacular.” Doc hesitated. Only he and Wilton had used the staff for rituals in at least forty years. It made his hand twitch to present the staff to the old man.

Andrew rapped the staff on the ground setting a rhythm that the clan picked up with soft clapping. When the old man began to chant again, Doc could not understand any of the words but he was able to grasp a sense of it all. It was a summoning. The old man danced and gestured with the staff as he chanted. He swung it above his head and passed it beneath his feet. Doc had seen other summonings in other cultures, but nothing quite like this. It left him with only one concrete image: Laughter. Then he was aware of the laughter of the rest of the family, nearly covering the chant that had been taken up. “Hanistemi udor oste pino. Hanistemi udor oste pino.” Andrew stopped before the well with Doc’s staff held in front of him. Doc felt the chant growing and joined the rest of the group.

How it happened, or even if it happened, Doc could never tell. He saw—or thought he saw—water rise to the edge of the well and brim over. At its edge, the old man resumed dancing, laughing, swinging the stick and splashing water out of the overflowing well at and onto the members of the circle.

At the peak of the excitement, with the well a geyser, the old man shouted and everyone fell silent with a force that knocked them back on the ground. The silence hummed through Doc’s mind. For a moment, he could not even hear his own breathing. But the image of the laughing spirit of the well was firmly imprinted in his mind.

He gradually became aware of the sounds around him—his heart beating, his breathing, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant chirp of a bird. Then came the intonations of the old man, still softly chanting above him. Doc rose on an elbow to look around. The sun was well up now. It was later in the morning than Doc liked to begin traveling. They would need to rest in the heat. The other celebrants were also rising and a loaf of bread was passed followed by a plate of cheeses and olives. Thea and Sophia were making the rounds with a pot of tea and cups. Doc’s stomach rumbled and he broke bread

When Andrew had completed a circle counter-clockwise, he stopped in front of Doc and helped him to his feet.

“Your staff,” the old man said, handing Doc the walking stick. Then he pulled Apollo up to his feet and embraced the boy. “It was very good. Go and travel safely.”

Without a further word, Doc and Apollo shouldered their packs and left. Doc paused at the gate for a quizzical look at the old man and the dry courtyard. Andrew smiled and waved.

Doc and Apollo were on the road and moving quickly on the outskirts of Metéora before they spoke to each other. Preparing himself, Doc thought. A memorized ritual must be performed. Doc wondered what his part in the ritual would be this time. Quiet observer, he hoped. Perhaps this journey—simply finding one’s way to the sacred place—was the entire ritual. There was data to support that among Native American tribes. Perhaps this would be a parallel—a spirit quest. When they stopped for lunch, the conversation was casual and Doc felt free to ask questions of the boy.

“Apollo, are you a believer in the ancient religion?” The boy laughed.

“I believe. But I believe like a child believes in Agios Vassilis—you say Santa Claus. When we grow up, we understand that Agios Vassilis was a saint who lived centuries ago and we commemorate his day the last night of the year by giving gifts. He does not actually visit. So, many of the stories Papou—Grandfather—tells are hard to understand. I don’t know if they are real or if they represent something. In school, we are told that the myths were teaching stories, but my teachers often don’t know what the stories teach. Papou says that when I make my journey, I will understand and will be able to decide for myself what to believe.”

“Is your father a believer?”

“No. My father does not believe. He is a good Christian. He taught me the stories of our ancient way.”

“He taught you to be a believer but is not one himself? I don’t understand.”

“Like Papou, he wants me to make my own decision. In kindness to me he has taught me the stories so that I would know the choices.”

“In my country, parents teach only what they want their children to believe,” Doc grumbled. “As do teachers.”

“Oh, he taught me that, too,” Apollo laughed. “I had to memorize half the Bible.” Doc joined the laughter.

“And if you choose wrong?”

“There is no wrong choice—only different ones. The important thing is to choose.”

The words seemed old for a boy so young and Doc reminded himself that though well-schooled, he was dealing with a child. The boy’s long black hair and simple clothes would make it impossible for a stranger to tell if he was a boy or a girl.

The way became more rugged as they began to climb gradually and the two lapsed again into silence. For a while, Doc had kept track of the general direction they were headed, but by noon the sky was so unnaturally overcast that he could no longer identify east from west by the sun.

As they traveled, the boy became more reticent about talking. He was carefully checking every landmark. There had been no identifiable trail for several hours. On a slope of rocks, indistinguishable one from another to Doc, Apollo selected one and walked straight toward it. Then he abruptly changed his course just slightly and walked on to another rock. The sound of running water gradually broke in on Doc’s senses. He looked up beyond Apollo and saw a broad swath of green as the slope evened off beside a mountain stream. The stream and broad greenway were an oasis in the midst of a rocky terrain. As he stepped onto the soft grass, Doc felt he was on very old ground, like walking through a rainforest where thick mulched leaves coat the ground for generations. It was springy and almost alive to the touch as they turned upstream. There was one tree, however, which dominated the greenway like a patriarch of nature. Here, Pol stopped and tossed his pack on the ground.

“We’ll camp here for the night.”

Heinrich tossed his pack down beside the boy and set up camp near the ancient tree. He worried about the threatening sky that grew ever darker, but detected no scent of rain in the air. The tarp made into a hasty lean-to would protect them from any mild rain.

Doc had an irresistible urge to remove his hiking boots, recalling older passages of Exodus concerning holy ground. Yet, here there was no burning bush, no voice of God—only an old gnarled tree and a small boy.

“You’ve never been to the City of the Gods, yet you know the way so well. You don’t have some secret map that someone sold you, do you?” Doc asked.

“It is an ancient holy place,” began Apollo. “There are no maps. All the members of my family have made this trip on or about their twelfth birthdays. My father, my aunts and uncle, my grandparents, and as far back as we can tell. When we marry, the new spouses are invited to make the trip with their mates. All receive the blessing of the holy place and all make their choice.”

“I’m honored to accompany you on such an important occasion,” Doc said. “Why are you willing to show me the way to the holy place? Isn’t it a secret?”

“I can take you to ta hagia hagion. I cannot show you the way. You will go with me, but even if you found your way back to this spot, you can only enter the city if invited. The dangers are many and stories of those who have tried and failed are also many. That is why we rest now. Tomorrow we will be shown the way to ta hagia hagion.”

“Ta hagia hagion. The holiest of all. Is it so to all people or only to your family?”

“The way was given to us a long time ago by a strange visitor. We have never met others there—at least not others we recognize.”

“You mean your family owns this place?”

“No one owns ta hagia hagion.”

“But all these years your family has passed it on from generation to generation?”

“Over the years, much of the story has been lost,” Apollo answered. “It is difficult to live apart and guard the mysteries. We believe and hope but do not understand. May Apollo, my namesake, enlighten us.”

With that, Pol pulled off his clothes and dove into the stream. There he swam and bathed as Doc looked on from the shore. It was tempting, but Doc was too reserved to join in. Too old for such a childish pleasure. Ritual bathing was not unknown to Doc. He thought of the stone circle in England and his initiation. Soon Pol brought water out of the stream and bathed Doc’s feet. The water was refreshing and the gesture was one of sincere respect and affection.

“Doctor Heinrich, do not be mistaken. Tomorrow, you must also make your choice,” Pol said softly.

Doc fell asleep listening to Apollo sing softly a few feet away, a lilting, enchanting hymn.

Winter, give me peaceful rest,
Quiet heart within my breast
Yours the gift of solitude,
Grant a silent interlude.

Spring, like dawn, replace my sleeping
Constant ever in your keeping.
Grant that I might turn my face
To worship in your holy place.

Summer baking, heat my soul
And let my mind in pastures roll
Where bitter herbs cannot be found
But passions sweet lie all around.

Doc slept before he heard the verse about autumn.

Monday, 27 September 1954, City of the Gods

Fog shrouded the camp when Doc awoke to Pol’s urgent prodding. He found it difficult to focus his mind where he couldn’t focus his eyes. He repeatedly checked to see that his glasses were properly situated.

Pol took Doc’s hand and they began moving slowly up the slope. It turned rapidly to scree, but Pol picked out a stable path. Doc was hesitant to proceed in the fog, but it was either go with Pol or stay behind.

Doc tripped over hidden boulders in the scree. Gusts of wind swirled the fog but would not clear it. He pushed at his glasses again with the butt of his walking stick. The fog seemed to hang in his eyes instead of in the air.

And shadows moved there. Just beyond the range of his vision, he could sense the movement. He wanted to ask questions, but could not bring his voice above a whisper, which Pol could not or would not hear. His voice was masked by the fog as much as his eyes.

Beside his own constant mutterings, Doc imagined other voices wandering in the fog like echoes of his own thoughts. But silencing himself to listen sent the echoes fleeing. He became painfully aware of a spot where his pack was rubbing his back raw. Each step of his unsure feet shifted the pack again He reached with his free hand to adjust it, but his walking stick caught in a strap and he had to concentrate on untangling himself while maintaining the steady pace that Apollo set.

Finally, the spot in his back irritated him past his endurance and Doc jerked his hand free from Pol to adjust his pack. He started to move again and felt his foot slipping on the loose scree. The ground beneath him was giving way in a shower of cascading gravel. He shouted as he lost his balance and sent his staff flailing in front of him. He came to a jerking halt, flat on his stomach with his staff stretched out up the hill in front of him. Pol held the other end, wedged behind a rock, pulling him back to safety. Doc regained his footing on the loose rock, took Pol’s silently outstretched hand and did not let go again.

The transition came slowly. First Doc sensed singing in the air and recognized Pol’s voice. The terrain leveled and the loose shale turned to wide flat areas of rock, almost like broad stairs. The gray half-light of dawn now illumined the way. Pol released Doc’s hand and moved ahead in the clearing fog. Heinrich followed.

He could feel the shadows of monoliths not quite seen. Gradually, the shadows took substance, materializing around him as pillars in an ancient temple, so tall he could not see the capitals in the early morning light. He walked on a few steps behind Pol to the forum where a circular rostrum stood isolated in the center. It was this to which Pol walked.

What followed was more solemn and awesome than Doc could anticipate.

Pol went to the far edge of the rostrum before making his ascent. He stood there, facing down the forum toward Doc. Doc fidgeted uneasily for a moment and muttered something about having been inadequately prepared. He shuffled off to one side where a pillar partially hid him. He turned the direction the boy faced and saw a flash of light as the sun burst suddenly into view. Its rays sharply outlined the pillars and isolated the rostrum at the end of the forum. Pol stood in the center of the circle now and began to sing an odd combination of vocal patterns, rhythms, and accents. Sometimes, Doc understood words, and yet there were times when he was sure there were no words at all. It was sound beyond language and music. Images of history and mythology raced through Doc’s mind faster than he could comprehend them. Pol sang a message of greeting to the dawn and to all the countless dawns preceding him.

Then the dawn responded.

Someone or something from the depths of the ancient past answered and Doc felt Hyperion’s chariot ride through his soul on a flood of music.

Then calm and quiet.

The whole event lasted only minutes—perhaps seconds. When it ended, Pol knelt in the center of the circle and drew a small knife from his belt. With it, he cut his long, black hair. When he was raggedly trimmed all the way around his head, he gathered up the locks, and held them toward the dawn. Then he flung the hair into the air where it was blown away by a wind Doc hadn’t felt blowing. Pol left the rostrum.

Heinrich did not move. Eventually, Pol came to him. “I must go to be alone. You are free to explore. Learn what you can of this place. Perhaps you can teach me about it,” he said. “All paths lead to the orchestra. We must leave before sunset. I will meet you at the center.”

Pol left silently without giving Doc an opportunity to respond. It was not a time for questions. Doc began to examine the architecture and surroundings. The massive pillars formed even avenues extending from the orchestra outward like spokes of a wheel. Doc braced himself for the first test and began walking directly down the eastern avenue, examining the pillars as he went. He checked frequently behind him until the rostrum was out of sight then quickly and resolutely walked onward. Just when he thought he should turn back, the rostrum appeared ahead of him, not quite directly in the avenue down which he walked, but just to the left of it. Doc searched in his pack for a marker of some sort. He laid his staff in the center of the avenue pointing the direction he was traveling. He walked to the rostrum and debated with himself but could not justify laying anything directly on it.

He drew an arrow on a piece of paper and anchored it under a dislodged flagstone near the rostrum.

He returned to the path and walked on, determined to test Apollo’s statement to the limit. A short time later, the rostrum appeared again, this time on his right. He marked his place on the path with his staff and approached the rostrum. He put another scrap of paper with an arrow on the ground and then walked around the platform to verify that his original marker was on the other side. Shaking his head, he returned to the path and continued.

This time, the rostrum appeared directly in front of him. As he approached it he made several calculations in his mind but could not map the configuration in his head. He skipped several steps of logic and assumed he must be approaching from the west, opposite the direction he started. He muttered something about having failed to mark his origin. He would have to retrace his entire path to confirm his finding. He’d walked some miles by his calculations and ended up where he started. Yet he’d always walked in a straight line. It was incredibly disorienting and had to be the result of an optical illusion. And if the paths all led back to the rostrum, where was the one he and Apollo had originally entered from?

For the third time, he knelt at the rostrum to mark his place with a slip of paper. He dislodged another flagstone and heard a pebble drop beneath it striking a hollow note below. After a moment’s struggle, Doc removed the stone completely from its resting place. A foot beneath the surface lay a thick leather folio. Doc abandoned his attempt to map the avenues and unearthed the folio.

He examined it carefully, observing it was of an ancient design but was not more than 50 years old at the most. The leather cords that tied it were supple and showed no wear. Inside were papers, but not ancient by any means. Across the bottom of the first page was scrawled the signature of Benjamin Wilton. The papers in his hand were his mentor’s journal.

I’ll leave you a sign. You’ll know it when you see it. When that day comes, your doubts will disappear.

Doc remembered his mentor’s words as he sat, mesmerized by the material in his hands. He was so absorbed in the discovery that he did not even notice the sun setting in his eyes as he sat with his back against the rostrum. He heard a sound and turned to see Pol standing on the rostrum leaning on Doc’s heavy staff. The boy pushed the stick toward Doc.

“You left this over there,” he said. “It is time to leave. We should put the stone you moved back in order.”

“This journal… It’s my…”

“Yes, it is yours. The price of passage is to leave a part of yourself behind,” Pol said. “I left my hair as an offering to my goddess. Perhaps another pilgrim left this book. You will leave your doubt.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Let us go. You will need the papers before you return.”

“Return?”

“Will you not return to ta hagia hagion?”

“Will I be permitted?” Doc had already allowed himself the fantasy of bringing a small and discreet team to the site next summer if he could persuade Pol to guide them. Pol was suggesting the expedition himself.

“You are expected,” answered Apollo. His voice seemed to echo in the vast empty forum.

Doc hastily gathered his scraps of paper, and stuffed them along with the journal and portfolio into his pack. As they moved away from the rostrum, a misty fog began to roll in with the sunset. Heinrich took Pol’s hand to avoid being separated on the treacherous trip down. He reminded himself constantly.

I will return.

4
Finding Our Boy

Thursday, 17 March 1955, Greenwich, Connecticut

The desert sun beat down as Doc climbs one dune after another—dunes that were in different places hours ago. That was before the sandstorm buried him and his fellow archaeologists in the Sinai. He has to get help. Any relief from the burning heat. More miles of desert to cross.

In his Greenwich home, Doc snapped back to reality, staring at a carved wood panel in his library that replayed the event. Each of the eleven panels in the room showed a different expedition. His eye wandered back to the massive blank panel above the fireplace. This year, his visit to the City of the Gods, his crowning achievement, would be carved on that panel.

“Or,” he mused, “like Wilton, I will lose my credibility and be accused of an elaborate hoax. The capstone of my career will be an albatross around my neck and I will sink into oblivion.”

The very existence of the papers in front of him should be proof enough. But he found them in a dream. Can I trust my memories? It was all so unreal. Yet he found himself unable to doubt that it occurred.

He should have investigated further before returning to America, but time was of the essence. Scavengers masquerading as archaeologists still followed the steps of legitimate scholars, stealing from the digs to supply a booming black market in antiquities. At the docks in Athens, Doc excused his hasty departure to such a one with a plea of illness. Ryan McGuire. Doc was sure he would see that particular thorn in his side again. It just showed that sharing a common circle did not mean common ideals. Doc weighed the evidence in support of an expedition against the academic and physical risk involved. He had a week to think during the voyage back to New York. He had scarcely left his cabin on the entire crossing, so intent was he on reading Wilton’s journal. There were no mountains near enough to Metéora to have walked to in a day. Geologic maps showed no places within twenty miles that would match the terrain Doc had walked. The whole journey was impossible, yet he had been there.

Doc shuffled the notes and maps on his desk. He had been studying them ever since his return in October. Four months now. He was confident he could find the cluster of houses where his guide would await him, but where they had gone from there he simply could not tell. He was so absorbed in his study that he didn’t hear the bell ring and William had spoken twice at the library door before he responded.

“Doctor Jacobsen is here to see you,” the steward repeated.

“Oh, thank you, William. Send her in.” Doctor Margaret Jacobsen was a dear friend of Heinrich’s. Her caring for him extended far beyond his need for a research assistant years ago.

“Phillip, how are you?” she asked, coming into the room and reaching for his hands.

“I’m fine, my dear. What’s the news from the outside world? Did you get the references I asked for?” Doc was already reaching past her outstretched hand for the satchel she carried.

“Be patient, Phillip. It’s all here.”

“You’ve been telling me that for twenty years, Margaret.”

“And it has yet to sink in.”

“Well, come. Sit down. Would you like coffee or tea?” Doc asked. William materialized at the door. “Coffee please,” Doc said.

“Certainly,” William responded.

“Not for me,” Margaret said. “I want to show you what I’ve found.”

“A reference?” Doc slapped his hands together and cleared a spot on the desk between them.

“A whole book! But you aren’t going to like it.” She drew a thin and brightly colored book from the bag and set it in the middle of the desk facing Doc.

“The Last Gift? A children’s book?” he asked.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“A children’s book?” he repeated. “This is a serious scientific study. We don’t need children’s books.”

“Who led you on your journey, Phillip? Who told you the story? Look at the name. Ben Wills. I’ve discovered that Benjamin Wilton wrote fiction under that name.”

“Wilton? Writing children’s books?”

“Phillip. Please stop talking in italics. If he couldn’t get anyone to believe him with scientific research, why shouldn’t he put it down as a children’s story and hope some little believer would rise to take up the search?” Margaret calmly reached for the teapot William had brought and poured a cup for each of them.

“Once upon a time,” Doc read from the first page and then closed the book. “I can’t do this. Could you just give me a synopsis? Didn’t I ask for coffee?”

“You know how coffee keeps you awake if you drink it this late in the afternoon. Now drink your tea, dear,” Margaret said.

“I thought you weren’t having any.”

“I wouldn’t insult William by not sharing what he brought for us. That would be terrible.”

“The story?” Doc motioned at the book.

“The book was published about a year after he disappeared, according to your account, August of 1937. The publishers wouldn’t give much information. They said the manuscript was sent to them from overseas. They had a contract for Ben Wills’ works and had no reason to believe that it was not his. It came with a cover letter designating a college in Indiana as future recipient of all his royalties, which were apparently not much.”

“I don’t understand,” Doc said. “Wilton never had any connections in Indiana. He was strictly Ivy League.”

“How can you be so sure of that? Very little is known about his life in the U.S. Everything is about his travels and scholarly work.”

“No. I knew Wilton personally. I was with him the night he disappeared in 1937.”

“Oh, Phillip! Who were his parents? Did he have any family? Who else knew him?”

“He was my advisor on my thesis and I worked several digs with him in the early thirties. I know—or I think—he was involved in the gathering of intelligence in Central Europe as Hitler rose to power. Sending things to Indiana simply does not make sense.”

“And all I remember is you disciplining a student by shouting out ‘Thou shalt not quote Wilton in this class!’ We were all terrified.”

“In the forties, it could ruin your career to cite Wilton. So, tell me. Here we have his story in a children’s book. An unheard of Greek goddess who was left bound to old Olympus behind an ivory veil, abandoned by the gods as they take flight into the heavens. There she awaits a mortal savior.”

“Hmm. Sadly, it’s a different story,” broke in Margaret. “This is a little romance about a magician who falls in love with a gypsy princess. It’s set in one of those all-purpose romantic gypsy eras. A forbidden love. Different castes. But the magician frees the leader of the gypsies from a camp where he has been taken prisoner. He is adopted into the clan and marries the princess. They live happily ever after.”

Margaret noticed doc’s shattered look.

“Phillip!”

“No gods? No ancient myths? No prophecy? No function? No goddess?”

“Well, the story says the princess had found the magician when he was quite ill and tended him until he recovered. She wasn’t helpless.”

“We already have a goddess Health, and Asklepios is a healer. Heritage is usually important. The lyric muse and the healer and health. Her legitimacy depends on a function. Gaia and Uranus—earth and sky—are the parents of Hyperion or light and watchfulness. Hyperion and Theia, or brightness, become parents of Helios—the sun. Helios is the father of Phaeton of heat and danger. This one is a late parthenogenesis myth and not a common archetype by that time.”

“Music? All the spells in Ben Wills’ little book are sung. It’s a common contrivance in this type of story,” Margaret said. “Wait. Parthenogenesis?”

“Conceived in empathy with Health and born in the same hour as Hygeia.”

“Hmm. Try this. A goddess of empathy. Maybe one who can heal through her unique gifts of empathy and music. That would bring a wonderful gift to humanity—when we are ready for it.”

“Gift?”

“Like Prometheus giving fire to humans. The goddess behind the ivory veil brings the ability to heal ourselves—or each other. It’s the title of the book: The Last Gift. It has nothing to do with the rest of the story. Perhaps it’s the last gift of the gods to humanity.”

“Prometheus. He was one of Wilton’s contacts. I remember them meeting at a dig in ’34. Never knew his real name. Younger than me. After the brief meeting, I never saw him again.”

“Perhaps Wilton passed on something besides information,” Margaret said.

Margaret’s voice was soothing to Doc and she let him drift in the fantasy she wove. For a moment, he forgot they were both pushing retirement—him a little harder than her—and saw her as they had been thirty years earlier, ready to dream and believe.

“Margaret, are you a believer?”

“You know better than that, Phillip. I’m a wisher. I wish it were all true. I wish the goddess was real. I wish we were twenty years younger. And I wish we were a few more steps ahead of Ryan McGuire.” Her last statement broke the spell. Ryan McGuire had been a problem for Doc ever since the young man had joined an expedition eight years ago and stole the most valuable artifacts. Of course, there was no proof of that. The artifacts simply disappeared at the same time McGuire did. They’d never been seen again. McGuire, when confronted, said he’d taken ill and had an emergency appendectomy. He had stitches to prove it. Still, the artifacts were gone.

“He was arriving in Greece when I was embarking. He seems always to be a few steps behind me no matter where I work. Or ahead. It’s the affinity.”

“Affinity to what?” Margaret asked.

“Oh. His nose is connected to buried treasure. He always seems to know where I am.” Doc knew that Margaret dabbled around the edges of the occult, but he had never shared the depth of his own involvement in all their twenty years as companions. Doc bore the Second Face of Carles—the staff of the Vagabond Poet that was said to control fire. Ryan McGuire, known as The Blade in the Great Cobhan Carles, bore the First Face, the Athamé. The tools knew each other. “I told him I was ill when he asked why I was leaving. Thought it might be my appendix.” Margaret chuckled at the veiled reference to McGuire’s excuse eight years ago.

“Well, he’s arrived here. I saw him at the library in the city yesterday. He caught me by surprise when he asked about your health.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, I told him that you’d been fevered and unable to leave your home since returning from Greece. I was just picking up some reading material for you. I don’t think he saw the book.” They both laughed at the incongruity of Margaret bringing a children’s book to Doc.

“Margaret, I’ve done all I can here. We need to mount an expedition,” Doc said abruptly. They’d both known this moment was coming. Doc had stated as soon as he arrived home that he would be going back to Greece in the summer. “We need a team.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“No one… but you. But from now on, we need to devote our research to assembling the proper team. I know that I forbade the quoting of Wilton in my classes, but the time has come to dig out everything we can about him. In his journal, he alludes to other papers that he wrote. We need to find them.”

“Perhaps we should invite Ryan to become part of the team. We know he’s looking for whatever we are. If we had him closer, we could keep an eye on him. It might throw him off the real scent.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Margaret, you are becoming positively Machiavellian. But Ryan would be as likely to murder us to steal our lunches if he was hungry. He’s a grave robber, pure and simple.”

“You said there was nothing apparent at the site to be stolen.”

“The very existence of the site would be an invitation to Ryan to exploit it or the family who guards it. Andrew told me his son returned from his last trip to the City with Wilton so demoralized by what had happened that he ran away and joined the army. He was only fourteen when he was killed in the war. We can’t let the value of this family or this sacred ground be harmed by exploitation. I’m half tempted to simply walk away and never go back.”

“Half tempted, but not all the way. I know what you are like, Phillip. Once the puzzle has been presented, you will worry it until there is a solution.”

“Perhaps we should sleep on it. Let’s make the rounds of the libraries in the morning and see what else we can turn up.” Doc paused to pour two glasses of sherry and handed one to Margaret. “Do you think you’ll be safe spending the night here? I’ll have William make up the guest room.”

Margaret sighed. “Still the guest room? When will you learn, you old fool.” They finished their sherry and went to their rooms.

Friday, 18 March 1955, Greenwich, Connecticut

Yes, there is passion after sixty. It might not burn as brightly as that of youth. It might take a bit longer to kindle the flames. Sometimes taking longer has its own rewards. But for the most part, the equipment is more likely to atrophy than to wear out. And so, Doctors Heinrich and Jacobsen continued the practice secretly as they had when she was his student and a scandal could have destroyed both their careers. Though their relationship in 1955 might have raised some eyebrows, it was unlikely that it would have caused more than a ripple in the world of academia.

Nonetheless, they breakfasted separately in their rooms in the morning, served by Doc’s all-knowing companion and steward, William.

Unlike Margaret, William had not been a student of Doc’s, but rather a classmate. The two had formed an unlikely friendship during a lively discussion of the romanticization of mythology in art. Doc took the part of the fact-driven archaeologist. William Renton debated from the viewpoint of the artist. A third member of the discussion was Sylvester Dalton, a literature major who was well-versed in the influence of popular mythology on contemporary literature. The three became close friends, but William and Sylvester became much closer.

It was obvious to Doc that their relationship could cause censure and likely arrest. Intercourse sodomy was illegal in the United States, whether between males or between male and female. The law was openly used to persecute homosexuals. Upon graduation, Doc offered a position in his household to William that would allow him both privacy for his personal life and a studio for his professional life. In return, William provided the basic services of a gentleman’s gentleman and the role had suited him so well that he never left. Sadly, Sylvester had passed away in the early thirties, victim of a viral infection.

William delivered Margaret’s soft-boiled egg, toast, coffee and the most recent issue of The New York Historical Society Journal. Then he took Doc his toast and coffee. Doc was sitting at his table with a stack of papers in front of him. He wore a dressing gown and his bed was a mess.

“William, have you seen my latest issue of Archaeological Digest?”

William went to the bed and pulled the magazine from beneath the pillow. “I left it there for you last night thinking you might want to read before sleeping.” William busied himself at opening the drapes.

“Of course. So tired last night. Probably slept on the other side.”

“Yes. You were exhausted. Do you need anything else?”

“That will be sufficient.” Doc watched William move toward the door, then muttered under his breath, “I should have asked for the Linguistics Quarterly.”

“It’s under the other pillow,” William responded and left the room.

Half an hour later, Doc was pounding on Margaret’s door. “Margaret, I must see you at once!” he said, pushing open the door.

“Phillip! In the morning, no!” Doc was already sitting on the edge of her bed bouncing like a teenager. Margaret hid behind her magazine. “I’ve not put my face on.”

“Come now. Respectable people are already having discreet tête-à-têtes in coffee shops all over the city.”

“This is not a coffee shop nor anything near discreet.”

“I’ve found something very important. Look at this article.” Doc shoved his Linguistics Quarterly behind Margaret’s raised magazine. Margaret grabbed the issue out of his hand and began to read. “Music and Language: In Search of the Mother Tongue by J. Wesley Allen. Bet he’s a Methodist.” She quickly scanned the article. The symbols used by the writer to translate words into music were identical to those found in Wilton’s papers. “Incredible. Where from?”

“Look at the editorial note.”

“Indianapolis City College. Of course.”

Friday, 18 March 1955, Beech Grove, Indiana

“Mr. Hart,” said the extremely nervous young man, “May I… I should like…” He glanced to the kitchen door of the house in Beech Grove home where Rebecca and Mrs. Hart stood watching. Rebecca looked somewhat bemused but smiled encouragingly. “Sir, may I ask your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Wesley burst out. Once started, he could not stop. “I assure you that I am able to comfortably support a wife and children, though I expect things will improve in the coming year when I receive a full professorship. I have acquired a small but acceptable home just a block from the campus where Miss Hart and I are both affiliated. I am not a wealthy man, but I assure you that I will devote myself to providing for my wife and family. I am, sir, an honorable man and hope you will grant me the privilege of marrying your daughter.”

Charles Hart stood from the sofa, crossed the room to the music of “You’ll look sharp,” and turned off the television.

“That Fuller was never a match for Cason. I don’t think we’ll have a real matchup until Marciano faces Cockell in May. We won’t want to miss that one.” Charles reoccupied his seat and waved Wesley into a chair. “Have you discussed this with the lady in question?”

“Uh… Sir… I felt it best to get your permission first, sir. But… We have spoken of our feelings for each other,” Wesley stammered.

“Becky!” Rebecca Hart scrambled to her father’s side, her mother a step behind her. She was twenty-three years old and didn’t even live with her parents, but Wesley had insisted on this meeting. She was blushing furiously as her father held out his arms and she perched on his knee. “It seems the gentleman you brought home to dinner this evening was not really interested in the Friday Night Fights. Is there any reason that I shouldn’t grant this young man the privilege of marrying you?”

“He hasn’t asked me, yet, Father.” Mrs. Hart burst out laughing. Wesley went red.

“Well, that settles it,” said Mr. Hart. “Mr. Allen, you have my permission to ask my daughter for her hand, but I simply can’t guarantee her answer.” Wesley gasped and looked at Rebecca. She grinned at him but was shocked when he fell to his knees in front of her and her father.

“Rebecca Hart, my heart is bursting with love for you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Becc, will you marry me?”

It was Rebecca’s turn to gasp. Her father gave her a gentle shove off his lap and she fell to her knees in front of Wesley, taking his hands in hers. “Yes!” she squeaked. They knelt in front of her parents, lost in each other’s eyes.

“I guess that settles it,” Mrs. Hart laughed. “You might as well kiss him and seal the deal, Rebecca.” Both the young people blushed crimson, but Rebecca leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Wesley’s lips.

“Yes,” she whispered again.

5
Hoosier Connection

Sunday, 22 May 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana

Doc and Margaret boarded a train to Chicago with Milton’s notes safely tucked between them. The Chicago tickets, purchased by William the day before their departure, would postpone anyone following them at least a day. If they were lucky, it would send someone ahead of them to Chicago. When they arrived in Fort Wayne, Indiana, they got off the train. Wesley Allen was waiting to pick them up. The meeting was warm and cordial.

The three-hour trip from Fort Wayne to Wesley’s home in Indianapolis was spent discovering more about each other. Wesley taught courses in piano, music history, and musicology. He was engaged to be married, but they were waiting until Rebecca had finished her Master’s in Sociology. Wesley’s undergrad minor had been in New Testament Studies and he was reasonably fluent in both Greek and Latin. He was, as Margaret had guessed, a Methodist.

After they defined their goals for the visit in terms of learning about music as it relates to classic literature and Wesley had given them a quick rundown on his work in the area, they retired for the night. Wesley’s hospitality was impeccable. He insisted that Doc and Margaret stay with him in spite of their prior hotel arrangements. They would meet again after Wesley finished his instruction in the morning. He would bring Rebecca with him to lunch if they didn’t mind.

Monday, 23 May 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana

When Doc and Margaret arose in the morning they found a continental breakfast had been prepared for them with a note indicating where the nearest restaurants were and what numbers called cabs. After looking at the listings and directions, the two decided to spend the morning preparing for their interview with Wesley.

“How shall we get around to the sources for his research?” Doc asked Margaret. “We need to be discreet. If he knows more than we do, we could be endangering our purpose.”

“I suggest that we be totally honest with him. I don’t mean to say that we should tell him the entire purpose of our visit up front, but tell him that we are very interested in his method of notation and how he arrived at it. We might even indicate that we had seen some similar notations before. Either he will withdraw, in which case we are better not to attempt to push him, or he will respond with the same candor. He seems to be thoroughly familiar with us and our work.”

“That is what I was worried about. Do you suppose that he already knows about the place? Let’s go take a look at Wilton’s manuscripts to see if he left any notes here that may have been found.”

Margaret was agreeable and when they reached the college library, they were led up a back stairway to “the stacks.”

“This is where the old papers are kept,” the student librarian rambled on. “We don’t have as great a facility for keeping things in good condition as we should. This building is newer, though, and it’s a lot better than when the library occupied a couple of rooms over in the Administration Building. We really needed the space.” She ran on and on, seeming never to get to the point of the papers that Doc and Margaret were after. “The papers came over here in boxes and have never been unpacked. Before that, they just sat in stacks on the shelves. I guess that’s why we call this area the stacks. Here we are.” She finally came to a steel shelving unit with boxes stacked on it. “Benjamin Wilton. Everything should be in this box. I hope that you find everything that you want. If I can do anything for you, just let me know. There’s a new phone system connecting the stacks with the desk. It’s right over there. Don’t forget to let me know when you are ready to leave. I’ll have to come back up and lock the doors.” She finally left.

Doc and Margaret went to work immediately. They began sorting and ordering the papers as best they could.

“It looks as if the papers were packed into this box in a hurry. No particular order at all.”

“True, but at least they don’t appear to have been rifled and repacked,” Doc said.

“Do you really suppose they just picked up stacks of paper from shelves and put them in the boxes? There isn’t even a catalog number on the papers. Oh, look!” she said, holding up a couple sheets from her stack.

“Music of the Gods?” Doc said. “Look at the notes. The same hieroglyphs that are in Wilton’s papers and at the City. He didn’t even finish it. Broke off in the middle of a sentence. That’s strange.”

“Or else a page is missing.” Margaret looked at Doc. Both seemed to know already that they would find the missing page or pages in Wesley’s possession.

“It’s time for our luncheon. We must take a good look at this young man.” Heinrich loaded the papers back into the larger box as Margaret called the librarian and she dutifully locked the doors behind them—and talked all the way back downstairs to the main floor.

“That girl should consider a career other than librarian,” Margaret laughed as they left the building.

A young woman was putting dishes on the table when Doc and Margaret reached Wesley’s home. They were all startled to see each other when the two came through the door unannounced.

“Excuse me,” the young woman said at last. “Wesley said that we would have guests for lunch, but I guess I expected you all to arrive at once. Please come in.”

“We arrived last night but went out for a walk this morning. You must be Rebecca. I’m Margaret Jacobsen and this is Phillip Heinrich. You have a look about you that has told me already that we are going to become very good friends.”

Rebecca laughed and greeted Margaret warmly. “When Wes told me he was picking up Doctors Heinrich and Jacobsen, I thought you’d both be men. I’m so glad I was wrong.”

“If you will excuse me,” Doc broke in, “I will go wash up before dinner. You obviously have a great deal in common to talk about.”

“Oh, Phillip. You are such a martyr.” Doc grinned at the women as he left the room. “Now, Rebecca,” Margaret continued, “tell me about your work. What Wesley described was so interesting.”

“My master’s? It’s a sociology degree. I’m all but thesis. It’s a study of the Coexistence of Matriarchal Thealogy and Patriarchal Theocracy in Western Societies.”

“Do I interpret you correctly in saying ‘goddess worship’?”

“Wesley would kill me if I put it that way,” responded Rebecca. “But yes. There seems to be quite a lot of evidence that even into modern times some forms of that cult held sway in certain western civilizations long after the people had officially been Christianized. It is difficult here in Indiana to find adequate resources, though.”

“You realize, don’t you, that most Westerners term that witchcraft? Now it’s not so poorly viewed in many Eastern cultures.”

“Wesley is nervous enough about my dealing with the subject. Please don’t use that term in his presence. He’s so conservative. And now…” Rebecca took a deep breath. “I’ve been awarded a fellowship for the summer at Edinburgh and he’s not very happy about my going off alone. It will delay our wedding until fall instead of June as we had planned. I think he’s also a little jealous, though he wouldn’t admit it.”

That was a preview of The Props Master Prequel: Behind the Ivory Veil. To read the rest purchase the book.

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