The Oracle and Her Captors

The squeaky wheels of the gurney served as a shrill omen of the day’s reading. The air of the sanctuary was cold with a tinge of sweetness which stung the sinus cavity. Père Abdon and Père Abraham wheeled Pythia to the center of the sanctuary, a barren room save for a lone, crimson, velvet throne, illuminated by a bright flood light. Her pères lifted her emaciated body from the gurney and lowered her gently on the throne. The chair wrapped around her like arms embracing her in a comforting hug. A golden shawl was placed over her legs and cascaded to the floor like a waterfall creating an auric pool around the front of the throne.

Père Abdon and Père Abraham made their way to the door. As they closed the door behind them, Pythia heard Père Abdon whisper, “Maybe not so much this time.” 

“She’ll be fine. It just lubricates the vessel so Apollo can communicate easier.” Père Abraham scoffed. Pythia heard the door lock click. She wasn’t sure how long she had been left sitting alone in the icy room, when she heard the familiar hiss. A turquoise haze billowed from the vents as she braced herself for the coming torrent. Soon, the fog obscured her view so she was unable to clearly see her own hand in front of her face. The hissing stopped. 

The sides of the throne began undulating. Pythia felt something near her feet under the shawl. She already knew what it was. It slithered its way up her legs and peeked its head from beneath the shawl once it reached her lap. She looked down wearily and met the gaze of a lavender python. Suddenly, a hand seized her right arm. She turned to see a goblin grinning maniacally inches from her face, its gnarled hand loosed its grip and slipped into the fog. Something tugged at her hair and she closed her eyes. Ghouls called to her from the depths of the haze and human screams permeated the air space. Then, as suddenly as the noises had started, they stopped. Everything went still, even the python which had wound its way around to perch across her shoulders.

A light from the back of the sanctuary spilled into the room as if the sky itself opened. The sweet smell became nauseating as footsteps approached from behind the throne. The python was suddenly snatched from Pythia’s shoulders. There was a slice and then two halves of the python’s corpse were thrown before her, dropping to her feet. Lavender blood drenching the bottom of the shawl. Pythia closed her eyes again. She could hear the rapid beat of her heart and felt the soft touch of a hand stroking her hair.

The intercom screeched and Père Abraham’s scratchy voice echoed through the sanctuary. “Grand Prefect X has come to seek your wisdom, great Apollo. Will you accept his tithe and offer guidance this day?”

The hand that had been stroking her hair stopped and gripped the back of her skull. Without Pythia’s consent her mouth opened and declared in a voice not her own, “Yes.”

The next voice from the intercom was raspy and soulless. “Great Apollo, I only have one request.”

“Speak it.” Pythia commanded, one tear trailing down her cheek.

“What will be the outcome of my bid for president?”

“You shall fail.”

The men behind the glass had not switched off the intercom, “What the fuck? That’s what I paid six figures for?” And then the gentle, unintelligible pleading from the pères. Grand Prefect X came back to the intercom and with a huff, “How can I win then?”

Pythia chuckled, not her own faint laugh but a guttural laugh from beyond. The hand on the back of her head tightened, causing a sharp throb to her eye sockets. “Make a sacrifice worthy of the gods, you pathetic swine.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” The Grand Prefect’s voice loud and mounting in agitation.

“Your eldest daughter will do,” Pythia purred. There was shuffling over the intercom. The men behind the glass arguing and then a pounding on the glass before the intercom screamed and shut off. The hand on the back of her head released its grip. The fog lifted and Pythia drifted off to sleep.

Pythia awoke in her barren room. There was light coming through the bars of her window so she knew it was still daytime. Her head pounded in fury and she felt that old familiar queasiness as bile forced its way up her throat and onto the floor beside her bed. She rolled to her back and outlined the cracks in the ceiling with her mind’s eye. The slit in the door opened briefly and a plate with a single slice of bread was pushed through by gloved hands. She knew she needed to eat. Her stomach distended from the lack of sustenance. She attempted to push herself up from the bed to gather the plate but fell off the bed and crashed to the concrete floor instead. She lay in place until the room grew dark and the temperature dropped. Pythia shivered and concentrated on the fog of her breath, imagining herself a dragon in hibernation atop a hill of gold.

She heard a click and then the door of the room creaked open. “Oh my dear.” Pythia heard Père Abdon sigh. “Let's have a bit more dignity, shall we?” His arms reached underneath the pit of her arms as he lifted and clumsily dropped her back onto her bed. He straightened her out and covered her with a thin sheet, stained with vomit. He brought a glass of water to her lips. She tried to drink but her throat closed and the water spilled from the sides of her mouth and soaked her pillow. “She won’t last much longer.” Père Abraham stated flatly from the doorway. 

“I know but she can last a few more days.” Pythia thought she detected sorrow in the tone of Père Abdon’s voice.

“I’ll start making the necessary arrangements” Père Abraham said sulkily. The sound of his shuffling down the hall reverberated and rang in Pythia’s ears. The room spun and she felt the vomit rise again but this time getting stuck in her throat. Père Abdon rolled her to her side and patted her on the back. “There there.” He whispered. “I will make you as comfortable as I can.” He rolled her onto her back once again and propped her up on her pillow. “I’ll be back.” He said as he left her alone in the room once again.

Pythia drifted in and out of consciousness. Awakened by the pain in her abdomen and the unearthly screeching from under her bed. A candle was lit on her nightstand and in the flame danced naked pixies and devils. The ghouls played peek-a-boo from the shadows and the crack in the ceiling widened and threatened to suck her up into an abyss with disembodied arms reaching out to drag her in. She smelled that familiar sweetness and the hand touched her cheek. “Apollo?” Pythia asked, choking back tears.

“Yes, my darling. I’m here.” His voice like a song.

“When can I leave?” She pleaded.

“Soon.” He said with sorrow. “You have been a worthy vessel. I shall grant you one request. What do you desire?”

Pythia’s vision became spotted with black blotches and she knew she had to be quick. “I want everyone here to pay for what they’ve done.” Her voice hoarse but bursting with conviction.

“You can have anything you wish and you do not choose life?” Apollo asked, bemused by this mortal. Pythia made no sound, just a slight shake of her head. “As you wish, my love.” He placed his fingers to the lids of her eyes and closed them softly, placing two cold coins over them. “Rest now.” Pythia drew a deep breath and she felt cleansed. As she exhaled, she drifted off and let her soul be free.

“Pythia! Pythia!” Père Abdon screamed and shook her by her shoulders. The coins dropped to the side of her face but her eyes did not open. “Fuck!” He shrieked. Père Abraham rushed into the room and sighed, exasperated. 

“Lena isn’t ready yet. How could you let her die?” Père Abraham slapped Père Abdon across the face. Père Abdon stumbled backward into the nightstand. The lit candle fell to the floor and rolled to the edge of the thin sheet that hung off the bed and rested on the floor. “We have to tell the Headmaster.” Père Abraham stated ominously. The two abandoned the room and Pythia’s lifeless body unceremoniously. The flame spread up the sheet and within moments engulfed the room. The ill-maintained sprinkler system remained dry and silent as the fire spread room to room until the facility was ablaze. From outside, Apollo rested on the branch of a large magnolia tree, admiring his work. The screams of the trapped pères pierced the still night air. “This is my favorite part. The cleansing.” Apollo looked to the base of the tree and Pythia smiled back at him.