by Phil Swann
“Of course,” Sarah said, getting up. “Stay here, I keep the door to the study locked, the key’s in the desk in the living room.”
Ben continued as Sarah left the kitchen. “Maybe there’s something in his will.”
“Can’t image what it would be,” Sarah said, answering from the other room. “We were both there when the lawyers drew it…that’s odd,” Sarah said, her voice changing.
“What’s odd?” Ben asked.
“There’s a—”
“There’s a what?”
Sarah didn’t answer.
“There’s a what, Sarah?” Ben asked again.
Sarah still didn’t reply.
Ben got up and went into the living room. He saw the desk sitting by the large picture window, the lamp was turned on and the drawer was open. “Was the key not in here?” Ben yelled. No reply. “Sarah?” Still nothing. He thought he heard a sound coming from the other side of the house. He moved into the foyer and listened. There it was again. The sound was coming from the room where they’d put Baros. Ben walked down the hallway and entered the bedroom. He saw Baros, still unconscious, lying in the bed, but there was no sign of Sarah. He was about to call out for her again when suddenly the door slammed behind him. Ben jerked around and saw a huge man holding Sarah in front of him, his thick forearm locked around her neck and a gun pointed at her temple. A single tear rolled down Sarah’s cheek.
“Good evening, Lambros,” the man said. “Nice to see you again.”
Ben froze, and all the blood rushed from his head. He knew he’d seen the man’s face before but couldn’t remember where. “What…? Who are you?”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember me, Lambros. Especially after you took such pleasure in humiliating me on the golf course. Tell me, are you still a twelve handicap, or are you drunk today and back to your usual three?”
Ben searched his memory: an overweight man in green plaid pants, golfing with Paul. “Buchanan? Earl Buchanan?”
Buchanan nodded. “It’s all coming back to you now, isn’t it?”
“Why are…? Is this…about me beating you at golf?”
Buchanan chuckled. “Oh, Lambros, it’s so like you to say that. No, it’s not about you beating me at golf. This is about correcting a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“The mistake of you still being alive.”
Sarah gasped, her body becoming more rigid. Buchanan tightened his hold around her neck. “Ma’am, don’t make this any harder. It’ll all be over soon.”
“What have I done to you? Why are you doing this?” Ben asked, his voice shaking.
“Sit down, Lambros, on the bed next to the old man. Now. You too, Mrs. Lambros,” Buchanan ordered, shoving Sarah toward Ben. Buchanan removed a cylinder from his pocket. He spoke hypnotically as he screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the gun. “Happy are those upon earth who have seen the mysteries.”
“Oh, God. No, please, I have children,” Sarah pleaded.
“But for those who are the uninitiated and who have no part in them…”
“For God’s sake, don’t do this, Buchanan,” Ben begged.
“…never have the lot of good things once they are dead. Down in the darkness and gloom. An ear of corn—”
“—in silence reaped,” Timon Baros suddenly blurted out.
Buchanan stopped, and every eye turned to the man in the bed.
Timon Baros raised himself up. His voice was weak but firm. “Right blessed are they among those on earth whom she freely loves.”
“You…you know the words,” Buchanan stuttered, pointing the gun at the bed.
“I do, Kerykes,” Timon replied.
“Who are you?”
“I am the dadouchos,” Timon answered in full voice. “You will stop this now.”
Buchanan took a step backward but raised the gun, taking dead aim at Timon.
Timon’s expression never changed.
“You…are…the dadouchos?”
“I am,” Timon answered, not letting go of Buchanan’s eyes.
“But…why are you here?”
“To do what the hierophant has ordered. Put down the gun.”
“But the plan? I must carry out the—”
“The plan has changed,” Timon said.
“But I must complete the purification!” Buchanan yelled. “It’s my duty.”
“The purification is complete,” Timon shot back. “You have done your duty. The hierophant is pleased. But it is 18 Boedromion, and I am these mystes’ mystagogos. I must prepare them for enlightenment. The Sacred Way has begun. Interfere and you will die. The hierophant has so ordered. Do you not honor your hierophant?”
Buchanan lowered the gun, blinking in bewilderment. “Yes, of course, I do.”
“Then do as he has ordered. Do so, and maybe I will not tell him about this incident, or the bullet you put into my chest. For that alone you should die.”
Buchanan looked frantically around the room. Beads of sweat bubbled on the man’s forehead, and confusion enveloped his bloated red face. “I don’t understand…the words are clear: ‘the holy rites are not to be transgressed, nor pried into, nor divulged. For a great awe’—”
Timon interrupted, “ ‘–of the gods stops the voice.’ I know the words, Kerykes. And the Mysteries shall be revealed. But the hierophant understands there will be no communion, no true Mysteries, without the song.”
With this, Buchanan raised the gun again. “We have the song. If you were sent by the hierophant, you would know that.” Buchanan cocked the gun. “Who the hell are you?”
Timon didn’t flinch. “You fool, of course I know we have the song. But we only have the mother—a fact I ask myself why you don’t know, because if you did, you would know that without the daughter, we might as well have nothing. Only when the mother and daughter are reunited will the polyphony be heard and the song complete. Now lower your weapon or else.”
Buchanan swallowed hard and lowered the gun again. “I thought she was lost to time.”
“No, Kerykes, he has her,” Baros said, pointing to Ben. “That’s why the hierophant has sent me. The myesis of eighteen months ago was received with favor. The Goddess is great. His brother didn’t understand, but he does. Benjamin, you must tell him the truth now.”
Ben shot Timon a startled look. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
“It’s okay, Benjamin,” Timon said in a calm tone. “The hierophant will understand. Tell him the truth. Tell him you have her. Tell him you have the ‘Song of Eleusis.’”
Ben looked at Buchanan and then back to Timon. He had no idea what the old man was talking about but knew what he needed to say. “Yes,” Ben said, looking at Buchanan. “I have the ‘Song of Eleusis.’”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I need to hear—”
“Not outside the telesterion,” Timon interrupted. “Besides, it would merely be random notes to your ears.”
“Then how do I know—”
“You know because the hierophant has so ordered.” Timon made a face and fell back into the bed.
Sarah stood and rushed to him. “There’s blood,” she said, examining Timon’s wound. “Some sutures have come undone.”
“Thank you for attending to me,” Timon grunted, attempting to get rise up again.
“Where’s my bag?” Sarah said, looking around the room. “I need to redress the wound.”
Buchanan cut in, “No. We must go. You can do that once we’re at the tartarus. Bring your bag.” Buchanan smiled at Timon. “The hierophant will be very pleased with the tartarus. Most secure place in the city.”
It was only a raised eyebrow, Timon gave nothing away, but Ben could tell the old man had just heard something he wasn’t expecting. “Very well,” Timon whispered, nodding to Sarah.
“It’s the perfect place to assemble before the telesterion,” Buchanan said.
Timon sat up. “I look forward to seeing it. We should go now to this place t
hen.”
“Of course, Dadouchos. I have transportation for all of us.”
Timon gave Buchanan a look.
Buchanan understood and smiled. “I’m not an animal, Dadouchos. I wasn’t just going to leave your bodies here.”
With Ben on one side and Sarah on the other, they assisted Timon out of bed and to his feet. Once they were sure Timon could walk, they slowly followed Buchanan from the bedroom, down the hallway, and out the front door into the night.
Ben whispered to Timon. “What the hell’s going on? I thought ‘Song of Eleusis’ was a secret organization? What’s a dadouchos? Or a hierophant? Or a—”
Timon interrupted, “Explanations must wait.”
“But I don’t have any song.”
“Then you’ll need to find one, won’t you?” Timon replied.
“How’s this for VIP transportation?” Buchanan exclaimed, extending his beefy arms. “Tell me, Dadouchos, do you think the hierophant would approve?”
Ben’s heart sank when he saw two uniformed men standing in the driveway by a large white van. On the side of the vehicle were the words: Nashville Metro Police.
»»•««
Ellie shook her head in amazement. She scarcely recognized the author of the verbose, naïve, single-spaced diatribe masquerading as an academic essay—herself. Embarrassingly, she remembered how at the time, her first year of graduate school, she believed her Greek ancestry afforded her an insight on the fall of the ancient Mycenaean culture other academics couldn’t possibly see, disregarding the fact that many of those same academics were of Greek ancestry themselves. Under different circumstances it’d be laughable. But as she read her paper now, it was only agonizingly painful. Not that her science was bad or assumptions wrong, they weren’t. It’s that her conclusions were not at all original. What little is known about Bronze Age Greece is mostly speculation, highly debatable, and derived from essentially three sources: fragments of Linear B writings excavated from a half dozen or so ruins; images painted on pottery; and lastly, the most go-to source for information about ancient Greece, the epic poet, Homer, specifically The Iliad and The Odyssey—all sparse on facts and rich in theatricality. Much like her academic paper, she concluded, closing the notebook and returning it to her backpack.
Ellie reclined her seat and glanced over at Stewart. He was in the same position he’d been in since five minutes after takeoff—spread-eagle across a tan leather couch and out to the world. She envied him; she wished she could sleep. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Bea. Her friend was in trouble. She didn’t know what kind of trouble, but she had known the woman too long to think anything else. Then there was the question of Nashville. Stewart’s analysis of the lyre showed trace amounts of soil from the southern part of the United States. That couldn’t be a coincidence. But how did Bea know that? What the hell was going on? Ellie looked out the window into the dark void. She saw faint lights flickering below and supposed they must be over the eastern seaboard of North America. They’d be landing soon. Then what? Then what?
»»•««
There were no windows in the back of the police van, so Ben couldn’t tell where they were going or even which direction they were heading. All he knew for sure was based on the speed of the vehicle. They had been on the freeway but were now back on surface streets. Ben looked across at Buchanan. The man was stone-faced, as if he were a soldier on a mission. Then he looked at Sarah; she was calm, all her focus on her patient. Don’t die, Baros, or we’re all screwed. It was a callous thought, but Ben knew Sarah was thinking the same thing. The old man had talked Buchanan out of killing them, and Ben didn’t have a clue how. Nothing about the bizarre exchange between Baros and Buchanan made sense, but whatever it was about, they were alive, and that was everything. Ben’s thoughts were interrupted when the van suddenly stopped.
“Everyone stay here,” Buchanan announced. He pounded on the rear door, and it was opened from the outside. A momentary flash of intense white light flooded the inside of the van. Buchanan got out and swiftly closed the door behind him.
“Where are we?” Sarah asked.
“Shhh,” Ben said, holding up his hand. There were voices talking over other voices and what sounded like a chain link gate sliding open. “I hear a half dozen people out there, at least.” The van began to move. Ben looked at Timon. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s unconscious again,” Sarah answered. “Ben, are we hostages?”
“I don’t know what we are…except alive.”
A single tear finally escaped down Sarah’s cheek. “I thought he was going to kill us. I thought I was never going see my girls again. I kept thinking—”
Ben took Sarah’s hand. “I know. I did too.”
“What’s going on, Ben? What’s this all about?”
“I swear to God, I don’t know. But Baros has Buchanan thinking we’re…a part of this weird cult of theirs somehow.”
“You think they’re a part of a cult? Like a religious cult?”
“It sure sounded like it. Hierophant, dadouchos, what the hell is that? I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is Buchanan believes we’re the new recruits, and we have to keep him believing that until we figure a way out of this.”
Sarah took a deep breath and nodded.
Ben squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Sarah, I’m sorry I got you—”
“It’s not your fault, Ben.”
Ben shook his head, “No. It is. If I hadn’t brought Baros to—”
“Tom’s dead, Ben. And I think these crazy people had something to do with it. I also think I got into this the moment I said ‘I do’ to your brother.”
Ben didn’t respond. He took out his cell phone—it was dead.
“Do you know anything about this song they’re talking about?”
“No,” Ben answered, putting the phone back in his pocket. “But I’m sure that son of a bitch does,” pointing to Timon.
The van stopped, and the rear door reopened. “Everybody out,” Buchanan ordered.
“He’s going to need a—”
Before Sarah could finish the sentence, the two men dressed as Nashville police officers wheeled up a gurney. “We’ll take him, doctor,” one of the officers said.
Ben and Sarah moved out of the way as the two men climbed in and lifted Timon from the van and onto the gurney. Ben offered Sarah his hand, but she was too focused on Timon to notice, jumping out unassisted, medical bag in hand.
“Out, Lambros,” Buchanan ordered.
“Where the hell are we, Buchanan?”
Buchanan didn’t answer.
Ben got out of the van and stepped into a dank garage-like structure bathed in a low-wattage yellowish-orange light. He saw a four-door sedan parked next to them. No one was inside the car, but Ben could tell by the sound of the exhaust clicking itself cool it had only recently arrived as well.
“This way,” Buchanan said.
They followed Buchanan up a concrete ramp to an imposing iron door. Everyone stopped while one of the cops struggled with the lock. Ben took in the surroundings. The walls were constructed of immense stone blocks darkened with age. A steel catwalk, at least thirty feet in the air, encircled the structure. It was definitely once a loading dock for sending and receiving something, but what that might have been was anybody’s guess.
The door opened, and Buchanan ushered them into a dark, narrow corridor. What light existed was sporadic and dim. As they walked, Ben became aware of corridors shooting off to the left and right. No one spoke. The only sound was the grind of the gurney’s wheels reverberating off the concrete walls and floor. They walked for several minutes before reaching another iron door. The door was opened, and everyone entered.
The rectangular room, this one lit by high-hanging florescent lights, looked to have once been an infirmary—in another century. Rusted and broken metal hospital beds sat against a crumbling redbrick wall. Ancient paper-thin mattresses were strewn everywhere, some still on the bed frames but most ly
ing on the floor. Several wooden tables and chairs were scattered in the middle of the room, and broken glass and trash littered much of the brown, dirt-caked room.
“This place is filthy, he can’t be in here,” Sarah said.
Buchanan didn’t respond. He led them through the rubble until they reached another door, this one wooden. “In here,” he said, opening the door.
It was the antithesis of the outer room. Though sparse, its walls had recently been painted, and the white tile floor was not just clean but polished. The beds appeared to be new, and all had clean linens. In the back of the room sat a desk with a chair and two metal cabinets.
Buchanan’s men already had Timon off the gurney by the time Ben and Sarah entered. It took a moment before either of them noticed that Timon wasn’t the only person in a bed. Lying across the room, watching everything going on, was an older woman in her late sixties, early seventies. She didn’t speak, but her wide, bloodshot eyes did—she was terrified.
“Who’s that?” Ben asked.
Again, Buchanan ignored Ben’s question. “Welcome to the tartarus. For your protection, mystes, as well as the sanctity of the ceremony, you will remain here until 19 Boedromion. Doctor, there’s a man outside the door should you require anything that’s not in your bag or in the cabinets over there. Please do your best to look after our dadouchos. I would regret if he became a casualty of this war, but such is the price of battle. I’ll explain that to the hierophant.” Buchanan paused as if considering the gravity of his statement. Then, without ceremony, he turned and exited with the two Nashville police officers.
Ben waited until the men were gone. “He’s insane. What’s a mystes?”
Sarah hurried to Timon’s bedside, quickly removing a bottle of antiseptic and a handful of bandages from her bag.
“Who do you think she is?” Ben said, looking at the woman in the bed across the room. “Another…mystes?”
“Go ask her,” Sarah replied, keeping her attention on Timon. “It’s okay,” she added, glancing up. “I got this.”