by Phil Swann
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Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,
Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona
www.hartwoodpublishing.com
The Song of Eleusis
Copyright © 2016 by Phil Swann
Digital Release: March 2016
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The Song of Eleusis by Phil Swann
Hit Nashville songwriter, Ben Lambros, lives a privileged and carefree life. That's until his estranged brother, President of the United States Tom Lambros, is assassinated, and it appears to everyone Ben is to blame. Overnight, Ben's perfect world comes crashing down, and he's hurled into a traitorous maze of lies, deceit, and hidden family secrets. With nothing left to lose, Ben sets out on a dangerous quest to find who really killed his brother. Along the way he encounters a mysterious old Greek who knows more than he’s telling, meets a beautiful archeologist on a quest of her own, and learns of a three-thousand-year-old cult powerful enough to thrust entire nations to the brink of collapse. From Nashville, Tennessee, to Athens, Greece, Ben Lambros must stay one step ahead of forces who’ll stop at nothing to acquire a priceless and mysterious artifact: the “Song of Eleusis”—the oldest song ever written.
Dedication
To BF.
“Music is a moral law.
It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind,
flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.”
Plato
Prologue
Eleusis, Greece
1340 BC
The voices of a thousand echoed over the mountain and into the valley. The melody was slow, reverent, and in unison—perfect unison. It was as if the thousand had been transformed into one instrument. There was nary a stray pitch, no errant vibrato, not one tone in dissonance with another. There were no rests between the notes, no breaths between phrases, no fluctuation in volume. It was an uninterrupted ribbon of vibrating air caressing the countryside, a perfect celestial chorus of the universe. One song, one voice, a thousand souls mystically connected by a hymn written for the goddess.
Fire from the congregants' torches lit up the night sky and could be seen as far away as Athens. On a bluff, high above the throng, stood a magnificent structure of marble and limestone. Granite steps paved a narrow pathway winding up the hill to the imposing edifice. Seventy-seven men and women, all wearing robes of white, climbed silently, urged on by the sacred song. They were, by and large, young, late teens, early twenties. Most were the sons, daughters, nephews, and nieces of the thousand below. The few who were older were foreigners. But they, like the rest, had spent years preparing for this moment.
It had been nine days since the seventy-seven had eaten, existing solely on a diet of water mixed with meal and pennyroyal mint. The sacred walk from Keramikos had left them gaunt, exhausted, every step a labor. Some babbled nonsensically, some were silent, some climbed with purpose, and some relied on the person next to them for the strength to continue. For most of the seventy-seven, this was all new: the fasting, the prayers, the song, the agonizing climb. They had been witness to the ceremony their entire lives, of course. They knew everything about it but knew nothing of it. For to speak of it was strictly forbidden. For them, every step was a mystery revealed. For others, a select few, this was not their first journey up the mountain. Five years earlier, the enlightened ones, as they were known, followed this same path. Their choice to return was due to a wish, a need to achieve higher knowledge and deeper understanding.
The entrance to the magnificent temple was through a small door carved from ancient gopher wood. An ascetic man wearing a brown hooded robe and holding a torch stood sentry and asked each who passed the same simple question: Are you pure? One by one, each responded the same way: I fasted. I drank kykeon. I am pure. The height of the door was intentionally low, requiring one to become submissive when entering. Once in, the grandeur of the sanctuary was overwhelming to all—even the ones returning. It was over two hundred feet long and a hundred twenty feet wide. The exact height of the ceiling was unknown due to the light emanating from the wall-mounted torches dispersing before reaching its top. Massive bronze statues, each recounting a scene from the story of the goddess and her lost child, jutted from walls and encompassed the entire room. At the far end on a raised altar was a large rectangular table of solid granite. The table was encircled by a bronze bas-relief depicting scenes of sacrificial offerings and preparation. To the right and left of the altar stood imposing stone sculptures of Zeus, Apollo, Poseidon, and Hades. Incense burned at the base of each figure, filling the air with storax, frankincense, myrrh, and aromas unknown to the devotees. And all around, originating from someplace unknown, the music of a lyre reverberated throughout the cathedral. For the devotees, most of whom were but humble farmers and shepherds, it was a sight beyond comprehension. Some, overcome with its holiness, fell to their knees weeping and chanting prayers. Some just turned circles, eyes wide, drinking in everything within their sight. Others stood motionless, unable to understand how a place so beautiful could even exist.
When the last of the seventy-seven entered the sanctuary, the door was sealed. The monk, with his light held high, moved through the devotees and onto the altar where he placed the torch into a sconce attached to the granite table. He stood motionless as another monk stepped to the altar. Hooded as well, the second monk carried an amphora painted in a bold red and black leaf design. The vessel was placed on the table, and both monks pulled back their hoods, revealing that one was indeed a man, shaved head and fair of skin. But the other was a woman, also fair of skin, also shaved bald.
A bodiless stentorian voice echoed from somewhere above. “Sigaó! Sigaó!” The room fell silent, and two massive doors swung open from behind the altar. An ancient man appeared in the doorway wearing a multicolored robe with a jeweled shawl draped around his neck. He was a small man with a thick gray mane and a deeply wrinkled bronze face. Though very old, his posture denied his years. He stepped to the altar and was immediately flanked by two young girls who seemed to appear from the shadows. Both girls were completely naked except for an olive wreath worn about their head. One girl carried a box constructed of wood, the other, a basket woven from straw. They ascended the altar and placed their containers on the table in front of the old man.
The air was getting thicker and sweeter as the doors opened again; this time a woman entered. Her long black hair was perfectly straight, falling below the middle of her back. She had a strong brow and thick eyeliner extending beyond the corner of her eyes. Her floor-length gown of white flax was cut low around the neck with wide shoulder straps. Her tan arms, though smooth and feminine, were toned and muscular as well. Around her waist was a golden sash. Tucked into the sash above her right hip was a curved silver blade with a hilt made of bone.
The seventy-seven fell to their knees as the woman stepped
to the altar. She pulled the blade from her sash and raised it above her head. Then, in a long since forgotten tongue, proclaimed, “We do this to remember. We do this to honor. We do this to be in communion with the goddess.” One of the naked girls lifted the lid of the wooden container and took out a piglet. The animal did not squeal or make any attempt to escape its fate. With one quick move the woman slit the animal’s throat. Its blood flowed quickly, but the female monk was ready with the amphora to catch the offering.
The elderly man opened the straw basket and withdrew a small sack of grain and a gigantic egg. None of the seventy-seven had ever seen an egg so large. He poured the grain on the table and cracked the egg, mixing the grain and yoke together. The woman took the amphora from the female monk, raised it to her lips, and kissed it. She poured the blood over the sandy yellow paste and handed the urn back to the monk saying, “There is death, resurrection, and the birth of a new way in the form of a divine child.” She buried her hands into the bloody concoction, kneading, pounding and spreading the holy substance to the edge of the table.
The old man went to the basket again, this time removing an immense phallus carved from stone. He handed the phallus to the woman who raised it in the air, uttering a prayer none of the devotees could understand. She brought the object down onto the table and began rolling it though the bloody orange substance.
The air grew thick. The illumination from the wall-mounted torches began changing, appearing to many of the devotees as if the flames were being magically extinguished, while others somehow lit on their own. The lyre, once filling the temple with gentle, soothing melodies, suddenly became rhythmic and aggressive. A sweet, sickly aroma hovered as strange shapes appeared from the shadows of the sanctuary. Many of the seventy-seven became so light-headed they fell prostrate onto the stone floor.
One of the naked girls took the phallus from the woman, ran the bloody member over her bare breasts, and then passed it to the other girl who did the same. Both were singing an unfamiliar song in an unrecognizable language as they passed the phallus back and forth. Finally, one girl ascended the granite table, spread her legs, and inserted the penis of stone inside herself. She shouted, “Mitera! Mitera!” and proceeded to have intercourse with the sacred object. After a few moments, the other girl climbed to the table and took possession of the penis shouting, “Mitera! Mitera!” as she too plunged the stone phallus into her being.
The voices of the thousand outside began to fill the inside of the holy temple. The air was getting thicker and sweeter, the music was getting louder, and the illuminations more frenetic, magical, and spiritual. One by one, the seventy-sevens’ robes of white fell to the floor until they too were naked and chanting, “Mitera! Mitera! Mitera!” The naked girls descended the altar and began moving among the naked seventy-seven. They handed the bloody phallus to each devotee, who proceeded to rub the object over their own bodies, many taking the bloody penis and inserting it into themselves as well as their fellow initiates—men and women alike. “Mitera! Mitera! Mitera!” they cried as complete erotic euphoria overtook them.
At the altar, the ancient man removed one final object from the straw basket, the golden head of a serpent. With the devotees below locked in blessed ecstasy, the old man raised the serpent into the air. The holy woman beside him shouted, “Kyrie! Kyrie!” and then began sobbing uncontrollably and beating herself about the chest and head shouting, “Thánatos! Thánatos! Thánatos! Agapi tós Kóri! Agapi tós Kóri!”
The voices of the thousand outside the temple grew louder inside the temple. No one knew how and no one cared. The air was sweet and perfect. The torches extinguished and illuminated on their own, and it was perfect. A mound of human flesh danced and thrust perfectly in an orgy with no rules: men with women; women with women; men with men, brothers with sisters, it did not matter, the goddess was among them, a blessing was upon them. It was perfect; complete ecstasy, freedom, and uncontrollable joy enrapturing every soul. Bless Her Holiness! was all anyone could feel in the depths of their humanity.
Two hours later—or twenty hours later, none of the seventy-seven knew for sure, the air had returned to normal, the music had stopped, and the torches were as they had been when they had entered the temple. Complete stillness filled the sanctuary. One by one, the devotees rose and put on their robes. The table on the altar was empty and clean, no trace of blood, baskets, or the amphora. The naked girls, the woman in white flax, and the female monk were gone, leaving only the old man and the male monk with the torch at the altar.
“Rise in new life. You are resurrected in wisdom,” the monk said, raising his arms above his head. “Blessed be the wisdom.”
“Blessed be the wisdom,” the seventy-seven initiates replied in unison.
“You have taken of the body and the blood. Blessed be the enlightenment.”
“Blessed be the enlightenment,” the seventy-seven responded again.
“What you have received must remain within these walls. Blessed be the sacrament.”
“Blessed be the sacrament.”
“To tell of the enlightenment is blasphemy. It shall not stand.” The monk turned his gaze to a single initiate standing among the others. “Matullus of Nicopolis, approach.”
A young man standing in the middle of the other initiates swallowed hard and looked around him. His eyes filled with fear as the others moved away, leaving him an island unto himself in the middle of the sanctuary.
“Matullus of Nicopolis, approach,” the monk commanded again.
Matullus, from the tiny village of Nicopolis, moved slowly toward the altar before turning suddenly and bolting for the door. His escape was brief as several new initiates intercepted his path, restraining him and dragging him to the altar.
“Kneel,” the monk ordered.
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes as he kneeled in front of the monk and the old man.
“Five years past, Matullus, you were given the gift of enlightenment,” the monk said with no emotion. “You have not held it sacred. You betrayed your oath. You told the uninitiated the secrets. You are unholy.”
“No!” Matullus cried, his entire body trembling. “I said nothing.”
The monk did not reply, staring coldly at the young man.
After a silence, the boy spoke again. “The…the girls are so pretty. I only said—”
It was one swift move. The monk pulled a thick sword from underneath his robe and hurled it through the air. The young man's body crumpled, blood gushed from the cavity created above the shoulders, the head momentarily spinning in midair before falling to the stone floor with a look of horror frozen on its face for eternity.
The seventy-six witnessed the gruesome act without protest. They said nothing as the head rolled to a stop at the monk's feet. Their faces showed no compassion, no disgust, and no fear. Nothing. They watched the monk return the bloody weapon inside his robe, pull back his hood, and bow to the old man.
The old man spoke. His voice was high and thin. “Happy are those upon Earth who have seen these mysteries; but for those who are the uninitiated and who have no part in them, never have the lot of good things once they are dead, down in the darkness and gloom. Right blessed are they among those on Earth whom she freely loves.”
The ancient man turned and left through the doors from whence he came.
The monk picked up the head and placed it on the table. “Blessed are the loved.”
“Blessed are the loved,” the seventy-six replied.
The monk turned and walked away, leaving the bloody head of the young man sitting on the altar.
Part One
Chapter One
Nashville, TN
The man stood over the golf ball and visualized its path to the cup. He saw it would break right and then back to the left before dropping into the hole. He repositioned his feet and shifted his weight. He relaxed his shoulders, drew back the putter, and stopped. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, rising from the ball. “If I sink this put
t, I win the hole, right?”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said an overweight man in green plaid pants.
“Yes, Ben,” added a younger, well-groomed man. “If you sink this putt, you win the hole. Now hit the damn ball.”
“Relax, Pauly, I was just checking.”
Ben Lambros turned back to the ball and went through the same checklist as before. Closer to forty than thirty, Ben was tall, trim, with dark, wavy hair. Add a perpetual smirk on his lips, a Machiavellian glint in his eye, and Ben Lambros was handsome by any measure, though he did nothing to accentuate it. Instead of golf shoes, he wore high top Chucks. Instead of slacks, he wore baggy Levis. And, where a proper shirt with a collar was required at this particular club, Ben proudly donned a faded, light blue Mickey Mouse T-shirt—a transgression allowed by slipping a sly grin and fifty bucks to the rangers so they’d look the other way.
“I'm just checking,” he said, pulling up again. “I wouldn't want any misunderstandings. Would I, Pauly?”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Buchanan, this is directed at me,” Paul Welker said, addressing the obese man next to him. “Ben, there's a foursome waiting in the fairway, just hit the damn ball.”
“They can wait,” Ben replied, removing a flask from his back pocket and taking a swig. “We all know what happens when things get rushed.”
“Ben, your own lawyer signed off on your new deal. I'm your music publisher, it's not my job to tell you if it's a good contract or not…which, by the way, it is. Now, seriously, that foursome's getting pissed. Putt!”
“Okay, okay, Pauly, don't get your panties in a snit.” Ben screwed the top back on the flask and returned it to his pocket. “It's just you can't trust anybody these days.”
“Funny you should say that, Lambros,” Earl Buchanan said. “Didn’t you say you were a twelve handicap?”