Delphi and the Divine

 Delphi and the Divine

Standing on the southern slope of Mount Parnassus overlooking the ancient site of Delphi in Central Greece there was a lady called Abigail Hughes, and she was a British citizen. Moreover, it was a perfectly normal moment in early evening during the month of January when the twilight and the clouds take on enigmatic shapes. This site, she thought, is a legendary place while standing above it contemplating the ruins of The Sanctuary of Apollo and The Temple of Athena along with everything else seen that day. For its veritable mystery enshrouded that dusk with portentous omens. Abigail was by this time, a young woman of twenty five and enjoying a lengthy sojourn. In the distance, she could see the Gulf of Corinth enveloped in mist, but she was looking forward to spring, a season tantalizingly stimulating to her powers of inspiration for creativity.

Previously she had studied classics at Jesus College, Oxford, which was indeed a great institution. Now her ambition for a future career lay in the direction of writing and publishing. It was her main dream and fervent desire. She loved to write; she loved the classics. In fact, Abigail wanted to write a book about the Delphic Oracle. However the young woman doubted her abilities. The correct information could be scarce. There was a struggle to find a good direction in her writing. It became an obsession.

Then before it got too dark she returned to an area where there was a path and descended along it until eventually reaching the main road. There were still a few tourists straggling around. They were mostly German. So she walked to the modern town of Delphi. Abigail had a room there. Her landlord was a man named Nikos Eliopoulos. The name of his wife being, Eleni. The path to the house required a slight ascent from the center of town. Of course, she loved everything about Delphi, both ancient and modern. The atmosphere always seemed remarkable. She could really breathe here. The place felt full of life, for it allowed her a magnificent sense of freedom. Certainly the views were brilliant because the landscape had grandeur. True, the Greeks could sometimes be serious, but Abigail loved their ways. They had been through much since ancient times.

Inside, the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the front room could be heard on entering the house. It was an antiquated reminder of the past. Nikos sat next to it in an armchair reading a newspaper. He had a bulbous nose, with glasses and dark eyes, and fluffy-white hair, large eyebrows, as well as a mustache. Eleni paced around in the kitchen at the rear of the house. She was short, overweight, and very polite.

“Kalispera,” said Abigail to Nikos, when standing in the doorway of the front room.

He peered up at her through his glasses, and said, “Kalispera, Miss Hughes.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Um – Eleni, she is making Spanakopita with roasted vegetables and potatoes.”

“Are they lemon roasted potatoes?”

“Yes, very nice.”

“Good, I can’t wait . . . see you later,” she said, then turned and went to her room upstairs at the end of the landing, in the rear, above the kitchen.

The room looked medium-sized and cozy with wooden furniture and a thick beige carpet. There was also a table with a laptop where she did her writing. So having gotten settled, Abigail prepared for a shower. It had been a tiring morning, afternoon, and early evening. She would then read. Reading struck her as a huge pleasure, especially the classics, and particularly Antigone, the play of Sophocles. However this evening, Abigail would read The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller.

Then at about nine, which is when the Greeks love to have dinner, she went downstairs to join her hosts, and subsequently returned to her room later when having finished. Outside, it was already quite dark, and through the window-pane a few other buildings could be discerned. Behind everything there lay a brooding silence.

Now, at  present, the young lady went to her laptop at the table to reread parts of her text concerning the Delphic Oracle. Possibly Abigail ought not to fret about the quality of the work, but she had the trait of a perfectionist. Her face looked naturally sanguine yet bouts of tension would periodically arise. Sometimes she would even take extra walks through the streets to clear her mind of such episodes. So putting on a blue-woolen jacket, Abigail went for a stroll. The air felt crisp and full. Some of the streets descended in steps, others were straighter. Everything had a lovely and charming appearance with patches of potted-greenery as well as plenty of red roofs on the buildings. Also the walls of some of the houses were painted. At this time, not many places were open. Nevertheless, it felt satisfying to walk along certain areas. She even caught a man admiring her blond hair and shapely figure, as this seemed somewhat noticeable on his face.

Abigail returned to her room. That night was restful.

The next day she spent about three hours on the KTEL bus to Athens and arrived at Liosion Bus Station just to go shopping and see the sights. Abigail wanted to walk the same areas that Socrates had done so many years ago, for the famous Delphic prophecy about him being the wisest man of his time always intrigued her. Naturally, some of those areas were fenced off, but this didn’t diminish the young lady’s enthusiasm. As far as shopping is concerned, she mostly bought beauty products. The city looked so vibrant, yet it was not too chaotic. Years of rational civilization can bring order to a bustling city such as Athens. There could also be much to enjoy. Then before leaving, she went to a small cake shop in Plaka to do some writing in a notebook and have a coffee and some cake.

Later, Abigail returned to Delphi to continue with her writing and during that night had a strange dream. The dream had a disjointed sequence of images, some were ancient, while others were modern, though they also had a religious flavor. What is more, she could not decipher the meaning of the images, but felt elevated by their profundity. It occupied her mind for some of the next morning as various of those dream images seemed to inspire a greater sense of direction in the writing of her work since they appeared to pertain to the Oracle of Delphi. Undoubtedly being in close proximity to the ancient site made a huge difference. So that same morning she went to have another look around there.

Abigail took a couple of her books. She owned numerous books about Delphi, and some were good, while others were just bad. According to legend, the god Apollo killed the she-serpent Delphyne there, which is how the place got its name. The she-serpent was known as a Drakaina, or dragon in mythology. All the stories associated with Delphi were fascinating. There was a long history of stories. And in another account, the serpent had been male and was called Python, so apparently the place had originally been named Pytho.

There were always significant amounts of tourists in all the places that mattered. The Archaeological Museum had a fine collection of artifacts and looked most welcoming. To find a more outstanding place to spend time than Delphi would be a challenge. To the ancients, it was the center of the world. The Omphalos, they called it.

Abigail paused to look at the three remaining Doric columns of the tholos in The Sanctuary of Athena Pronaia and felt a touch sad that the entire structure no longer stood intact. It must have been great in its prime. However, the beauty of the setting always made up for these moments of melancholic nostalgia of a time long ago that she had not actually experienced, yet felt deeply. Indeed, she was a lover of nature and history. Nevertheless, there dwelt within her a festering fear that her work would not be good enough for publication. She already had an agent back in London, and took as much of his advice as was necessary. But doubts still lingered.

Then various weeks passed and the strange dreams intensified gradually. There also appeared to be some more improvement in the quality of her writing. As a result, she took a greater interest in all aspects of Ancient Greek religions. There was much to read, for this entailed learning about beliefs, rituals, and other practices. In her mind, the ancient was merging with the modern. They felt like one. The spirit of the god Apollo, seemed real. The bleak winter was leading toward spring, yet it had not quite arrived. That majestic season would have to wait a little longer. And Abigail thought of Persephone’s story and how she had to wait until spring to be with her mother Demeter. All these wonderful mythological stories awakened great joy in her heart. Some of them had sad elements, but most were imbued with an optimistic touch.

She studied diligently and sensed the immense impact the place clearly had on the people of the ancient world. Also numerous changes occurred in its fortunes over the ages. The Pleistos River Valley intrigued her with much delight, for it manifested a beauty which springtime would reveal. And the contours of Mount Cirphis in the foreground were always very pleasing to look at alongside the Sea of Olives. This natural setting appealed to her burgeoning imagination even in late winter. Indeed, many artists must have marveled to encounter such scenery.

Something in the air now stirred her soul, so she headed toward The Castalian Spring. It was one of the most sacred spots in the entire place and stood in a ravine between the Phaedriades. The Phaedriades were a pair of cliffs on the lower southern slope of Mount Parnassus. They meant “the shining ones” because the rock surfaces there reflected a dazzling glare. The Castalian Spring had seen many pilgrims come and go as people came to wash their bodies there, and to quench their thirst. It was also here that the Pythia and the priests cleansed themselves before the oracle-giving process. And many poets have found inspiration in this locale. Moreover, Abigail sat at this spot to meditate for a while. Its significance bore down on her. Numerous glorious images streamed through this young lady’s mind. She felt the power of the ages, and the sacred wonder. Time seemed to stand still. She experienced a revelation of divine immensity. A sort of cosmic giddiness.

Later that day, Abigail was very much in the mood to dine with Nikos and Eleni, so at about nine she went to the small dining room next to the kitchen. It was a snug part of the house where most of the meals were eaten and could be entered from both the kitchen and corridor. That evening, they were having Melitzanosalata with pita bread and grilled sea bass.

“You had a good day, today?” said Eleni, to her guest.

“Yes, I liked it very much.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to The Sanctuary of Athena and The Castalian Spring.”

“Ah, lovely places . . . Are you tired?”

“A little,” said Abigail. Her thoughts now drifted as she ate.

“We are always here if you need to talk,” suggested Nikos. He placed his hand on top of hers for a brief moment.

Nikos and Eleni had a daughter and grandchildren in Athens. Of course, many people lived in Attica. However, recently the population had decreased slightly due to economic problems.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” asked Eleni. She was genuinely curious.

“Not much, I guess, just reading and writing. I’ll probably go for a long walk as well.”

“Tomorrow, I can show you some Greek cooking, if you like.”

“At what time?”

“Come two hours before lunch.”

“All right, I’ll come by,” said Abigail, then smiled gently, finished dinner, and returned upstairs to her room for some more reading.

The next day, she did some writing in the morning, and then met Eleni afterwards, as was promised. The Greek woman was teaching how to cook Fasolatha, which is a bean soup. However, the rest of the day went according to the young lady’s plans.

With the passage of time, spring emerged, and the warm glow of this season enhanced the natural beauty of that precious land. Also, the scent of both the verdure and pine trees came alive. Likewise, the people did, too. Everywhere there was more activity. More tourists, and the like. Everything changed. Life had become delightful. There were additional people to talk with. Yet, most of all, the reality behind the appearance of things worked obscurely in mysterious ways. The fantastic energy of what lurked in this place was never too far away. One could always find magic of a certain kind, here. And it could be felt, if one knew how to tap into it. This took skill, and knowhow. The ancients knew better than us of how to do this. We have mostly lost that connection. People once knew how to read all the signs in nature: the signs that made them aware of the divine at play in the cosmos. True, they may have couched this in their own images. That is, the images of gods and goddesses that look like everyday people in a heightened form, as well as the images that gave them values to aspire to which reflected their own hopes, fears, and aspirations.

Sometimes signs come to you in dreams. For Abigail, this was certainly the case. She had benefited from hers. But with spring now bursting forth, her powers of reception increased in great measure, for there seemed to be a connection between her dreams and the things she experienced daily. Therefore the veil between the two was becoming thin. She felt increasingly drawn toward The Temple of Apollo. It had been a Panhellenic Sanctuary, which is a holy place of worship in Ancient Greece. But now it was mostly in ruins. Nevertheless, it still possessed a sacred and legendary character. One that could always be felt. Moreover, the temple was home to the Pythia in antiquity. The Pythia was the title of the famous Greek prophetess known as the Oracle of Delphi. What is more, the Pythia’s name was derived from Pytho, which came from the original name of the place. And this illustrious position of great renown brought many people there to seek her guidance because of the mastery she had in prophecy and divine possession. However, any knowledge concerning the Pythia’s activities throughout history is scarce. Not much is known. So any scholar interested in Delphi has to make guesses about this aspect of its past.

Then one night, as Abigail was dreaming, a distant voice appeared. It sounded uncanny and continued after she awoke, though now she felt herself in a state of astral projection and was floating. It felt amazing, yet unsettling. The voice spoke in Ancient Greek, and came from the direction of The Temple of Apollo. So she went to have a look by floating in that direction. The pull to go there felt strong. The route was very familiar. And the voice became more distinct as Abigail hovered along The Sacred Way. On nearing The Temple of Apollo she saw a figure of a woman in ancient dress. The woman was semi-transparent against the darkness. But that night had a special glow.

Now the figure beckoned her to come closer.

“Khaire! Onoma moi Phemonike,” said the ancient woman in a preternatural voice. The words meant, “Hello! My name is Phemonike.”

Of course, Abigail knew a bit of Ancient Greek and understood the import of the words. So she said, “Khaire! Se gignoskon kairo.” Which meant, “Hello! Pleased to meet you.” Nevertheless, her command of the language wasn’t good enough to sustain a long conversation. However, she had the urge to touch the hand of that spectral figure. And at the instant of this occurrence, a flood of images, ideas, and feelings surged into her with an almighty rush. It was the most profound thing the young woman had ever experienced.

A moment later, the figure disappeared.

Abigail now felt energized like a shock of electricity had passed through her and couldn’t sleep for the rest of that night. Phemonike had been one of the Pythia in Ancient Greece that wanted to transmit certain information to someone in the modern world. That is, someone worthy of this knowledge. So when that knowledge became part of Abigail’s thinking, she started making connections in her writing that had gone unnoticed before. Hence the writing improved greatly as everything took on a more definite direction. Moreover, terrifying images were also aroused, which contained numerous and varied scenes of ages gone by. And flashes of the sacred nature of Delphi filled her mind too. There was nothing else comparable to it. How could anything else match this profound experience?

Afterwards, she spent several days finishing her text until everything resolved nicely. There was a great feeling of satisfaction at having done the work. It brought joy. More joy than ever. Then subsequently she contacted her agent about having the project finally finished. They spoke on the phone for a while and he advised the budding young writer on what publishers to submit the work to. His advice sounded good, so she followed it in the weeks that came to pass. And eventually, a publisher called Silverhouse offered to publish her book. It was a good deal. Abigail felt ecstatic at the news.