Like the sacred crevice at Delphi, the original tree had been consecrated to a mother goddess of the earth. Zeus had taken over early on. He communicated to his inquirers through the sound of the wind in the leaves. This rustling was interpreted by priests, called Selloi, the devoted prophets of Zeus. When Homer spoke of “wintry Dodona,” he said the Selloi slept on the ground and refused to wash their feet. Dan claimed they did this in order to stay in contact with the earth, from which they drew the power of prophecy.
Following this inspiration, Dan had the three of us sit on the ground and write out our individual questions. We were each handed a scrap of paper and a pencil. Only one question could be asked, he said. “So, make sure you get it right.” He glanced at Phoebe as he said this.
Phoebe looked luminous in the dusky light. I tried to read her thoughts, but her face was a blank. Her eyes seemed fixed on nothing. She bowed her blond head and scribbled out her question.
I wrote down mine as well.
“Now lie back and relax,” Dan said. “Close your eyes and listen. It’s okay to let your mind wander, just keep coming back to the sound of the wind.” Dan fiddled with his digital watch. “We’ll lay out here for half an hour,” he said. “I’ll take care of the timing. If you drift off and fall asleep, try to remember your dreams.”
“Good luck,” he said finally, and with that he lay back and closed his eyes.
Just before I did the same, I looked again at Phoebe. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful. I longed to tell her so. Yet she seemed completely lost in herself, much like she had been at Delphi. I could see no trace of her thoughts on her face.
Gently, she lay back on the grass.
There are no observers, only participants. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
LOSE YOUR skepticism. Suspend your disbelief.
Whose voice is that? Mine? It sounds a lot like Dan’s. One thing I’m fairly certain of—it’s not the voice of Zeus.
Why do I find this so hard to do! Why do I resist it I
Blame it on the ancient Greeks. It was they who invented logic and prized the power of reason. They doubted, questioned everything. The original skeptic was Socrates, and we are all his heirs.
Why then Dionysus? Where did he come from?
If the Greeks invented reason, they must first have discovered unreason: the instinctive, the impulsive, the emotional, the chaotic. When they tried to repress this part of themselves, it came back as a god to bite them
Listen to the wind. Just listen.
It sounds like the scales of a slithering snake. It sounds like surf on sand. It sounds like rain; it sounds like fire; it sounds like shattering glass.
Do you hear any voices!
No. I should have gone to the bathroom when Phoebe did, damn it.
Listen. Harder.
It sounds like the whisper of a girl. Or the crushing of grapes in her hand. Or the blowing of a thousand kisses.
Aphrodite leads the way to Dionysus.
You can say that again.
Aphrodite—
Okay. Shut up. Listen. What was the question again?
Is Phoebe my true love?
I think so. But how do I know? Because a voice inside me says so?
Just listen.
The wind sounds like the leaves. The leaves sound like the wind.
The whisper of the tree reminds me of a story. A story Phoebe told me. How the laurel became the tree of Apollo.
Apollo was the greatest archer, the god of the silver bow. When he saw Eros struggling to string his little bow, Apollo made fun of him, and Eros took revenge. The cherub pulled out two arrows from his quiver: one that kindles love and one that dispels it. The one that kindles was sharp and glistening, with a gold point; the one that dispels was blunt and heavy, with a lead tip. From the top of Mount Parnassus, Eros shot Apollo through the heart with the gold point. The leaden one he shot at a nymph named Daphne, the beautiful daughter of a river god.
Apollo fell immediately in love with Daphne, but Daphne spurned him and fled. He chased her through the woods. She ran like the wind. The further he pursued her, the more he fell in love, but Daphne grew more fearful the closer he came. As Apollo was about to overtake her, she cried out to her father for help, and the river god used his magic. A numbness seized Daphne’s limbs, bark closed over her body, her hair turned into leaves, her arms into branches, her feet into penetrating roots.
She had turned into a laurel tree. Only her beauty was left.
Why did Phoebe tell me this story? Why has it come to me now?
Leaves. Wind. Matter in motion. If you’re in there somewhere, talk to me.
Over in the theatre a boy shouts, “I’m coming!” A bus in the parking lot hisses. Far away, a hawk shrieks. It sounds like the cry of a Fury.
Who knows why people do what they do, why they love who they love?
Aphrodite? Serotonin? DNA? Fate?
Listen to the wind. The leaves. The wind.
I listen. The fluttering leaves swirl through my head, sweeping away all thought. I lose myself in a reverie, a windy, airy nothingness. Finally, the wind itself fades away, and I’m left in a tenuous silence.
Then…a presence, a shadow, a specter, as if someone is looking down on me.
I resist opening my eyes. I wait to hear a voice.
I wait. I listen. I wait.
She whispers, “Eleutheria.“
I open my eyes. No one is there. Only the branches and the leaves of the tree, perfectly still in the twilight.
Beep—beep—beep—beep—beep—beep
IWOKE up suddenly. I’d fallen asleep. Dan’s wristwatch alarm was beeping. The wind was blowing hard, the massive tree tossing violently.
Dan finally shut off his alarm. He glanced around groggily. “Where’s Phoebe?”
We stood up and scanned the ruins, squinting into the wind. Leaves skittered over the graveyard of stones. Phoebe was nowhere to be seen.
“Where did she go?” Dan asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
We walked back over the ruins and up the path to the theatre. Wind howled through the empty shell. The tourists had all departed.
Back at the office, we asked the woman official to please check out the ladies’ room. She said it was already locked; the park was closed. We asked her if she’d seen the girl, the blonde with whom we’d arrived.
The woman shrugged, shook her head.
“Are you sure?” Dan asked. He gave her a quick description. “She was here with us an hour ago. She spoke to you, remember?”
Again the woman shrugged. “No see her,” she said.
I scanned the lot. The wind was whirling a cloud of dust. “Where are the buses?” I asked.
“Gone,” she said.
We walked out into the parking lot. Our car was the last one left. Dan found Phoebe’s scrap of paper flapping under the windshield wiper.
He read her scribbled question out loud: “What do I want!” He turned the paper over and read the answer. Frowning, he showed it to me.
Phoebe had written a single word:
“Eleutheria.”
I looked at Dan in amazement. “What does it mean?” I asked.
“Freedom.”
As he climbed crestfallen into the car, he tossed the paper to the wind.
I went chasing after it.
Night of the Furies Page 30