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For a traveler setting out from Anaphlystus through the southern fringe of Mesogaia to Phoricus on the Archipelago, a stop in the wretched little hamlet of Besa, lost amidst the labyrinth of the Lauriotic mountains, was unavoidable. It was a rather cheerless region: limestone crags showed white everywhere beneath a thin layer of black soil, covered with stunted vegetation; here and there the eye rested upon pine groves, but these were few, and the ridge of barren limestone lying close to the surface promised no long life to their pale dryads. Of course, whatever Attic industriousness could do to raise the soil’s productivity had been done here as well: moist hollows were filled with a whitish earth that yielded its owner a modest harvest of barley—wheat was out of the question; sometimes an olive or a fig tree would grow in the middle of such an unassuming field, guarding it with its foliage. This alone gladdened the soul; the sea, so dear to the Hellenic heart, was not visible either to the east or to the west—and it is understandable that the traveler was quick to exchange dreary Besa for one of the maritime pearls of his bountiful land.
Poverty, the eternal, stern nurse of the Besaean villagers, plagued them with particular cruelty in times of lawlessness. They had a hard life under the Metionids; the active King Pallas established better orders at once, and Besa began to noticeably improve, like Mesogaia and the rest of Attica beyond Hymettus. But this was only a brief respite. Pallas was ambitious and greedy; he was tempted by the rich lot of his elder brother Aegeus, who had received the two most fertile plains of Attica, the Athenian and the Eleusinian, and in addition the Marathonian Tetrapolis with its access to the Archipelago and Euboea. Considering Aegeus childless, he did not relinquish the hope of obtaining all these lands after his death, especially since Aphrodite, angered with Aegeus, had rewarded him with a large brood of strong and brave sons. The Pallantids grew up—and life for the inhabitants of Attica beyond Hymettus became worse than ever before: the obvious aim of the young rulers was to turn all the land into their own property, and the villagers—partly into tenants, partly into serfs.
Life was hard for everyone, but likely for none harder than for old Menedemus and his also old wife, Iodice. They had lost their son soon after his wedding; his death carried the poor newlywed to the grave as well, and the old folks were left alone in their orphaned farmstead with a baby grandson in their arms, to whom they gave the sorrowful name Acastus in memory of their grief. It was only for his sake that they resolved to drag on their arduous and joyless life: “Perhaps we will preserve his father’s allotment for him—and there will be someone to tend to the souls of his parents and grandparents.”
And it seemed the gods had finally replaced their long wrath with mercy: Acastus grew into a boy of rare beauty, health, intelligence, and kindness. But scarcely had he grown strong enough to provide substantial help to his grandparents when the oppressions from the Pallantids began—more precisely, from one of them, Polyphontes, whom the aging king had appointed ruler of Besa. The means of oppression were old, tried and true, having served their purpose more than once, both before and since. A lean year came—receive grain for seeding and sustenance against a pledge of land. Failed to repay on time—become a tenant. A new misfortune—receive the necessary “against a pledge of body.” Failed to repay on time—become a slave.
And so one evening Menedemus returned home in despair. “All is lost: the last possession is taken, freedom is lost. Us old folks, Polyphontes leaves on our land as slaves to his overseer; for Acastus, they will send tomorrow morning to take him to Phoricus and sell him to a visiting Phoenician merchant.”
2
A silence fell, broken occasionally by the sobs of old Iodice. Finally, Acastus raised his head; not tears, but anger flashed in his eyes.
“I will not surrender to them! Let them dream of seeing me a slave! I will leave, I will leave right now!”
“And where is there to go? To Anaphlystus, to Sunium, to Phoricus, to Mesogaia? The Pallantids are everywhere there, they will catch you quickly and deliver you back—and as a runaway slave, they will punish you with beatings and clap you in irons.”
“I will go through Mesogaia and Hymettus to the good King Aegeus!”
“Oh no, my dear, another danger threatens you there. Have you heard of the Minotaur?”
“Who has not heard of it!”
“And you know, then, how King Aegeus became a tributary to that monster. The tribute is being gathered there now—seven youths and seven maidens, all your age. If you fall into the hands of King Aegeus’s men, they will enroll you in the seven youths first thing, to spare one of their own.”
“Grandmother!” he said plaintively. “Where is Justice then?”
“With the immortal gods, my dear; she is no longer among men since the time when…”
“Since when what?”
“Eh, my precious one, why recall old tales? What’s past cannot be brought back. Let us weep together instead, before we are parted; it will ease our hearts somewhat.”
“No, Grandmother, tears won’t help sorrow either. Better tell me how and why Justice left the human race, so that this story may remain with me as a memory of you.”
“Well, listen then; I will tell you what I heard from my own grandmother. There was a time—but it was long, very long ago—when people were still true children of their Mother Earth. They lived then, like the birds of the sky to this day, without cares, without toil: Mother Earth herself fed them, and gave them drink, and clothed them. There was no need to plough the soil, to cultivate olives or grapevines; she, the bountiful, provided everything herself. And they took nothing from one another; and why would they, when everyone had plenty of everything? And the gods lived then among men, and divine Justice with them. Those were immortal, men were not, but still they lived much longer than now, for several hundred years, and moreover without diseases and sorrows. And when the end came—a person died unnoticed, quietly sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep. That, grandson, was the race of the golden age.”
“How did that age end and why?”
“Once a wondrous man—or a god, I know not—came to us. He called one of the people of that time—his name was Protanor—and said to him: ‘Do you see what I have brought you in this hollow reed?’ And he let him look into the hollow… He would not have surprised you and me with this, for it contained a simple red-hot coal, but you must bear in mind that people then knew nothing at all of fire. ‘What a pretty sparkle!’ said Protanor. ‘This is not a sparkle,’ answered the stranger, ‘but a part of the heavenly fire, which I have secretly stolen for you; and thanks to it you will become masters of the Earth.’ Protanor was horrified: ‘How masters of the Earth? But she is our Mother!’ But the stranger bade him be silent and to fashion a sort of table from turf—this was the first altar—and then to cover it with a whole pile of dry wood. Taking the brought coal from the reed, he placed it under the wood—and immediately the pile blazed with bright fire. Then he beckoned with his hand to a wild heifer that had come to see the unseen spectacle; she trustingly approached: beasts did not fear people then. But he seized her and suddenly, with a stone knife drawn from his belt, cut her throat. She lowed piteously—and the mountains passed her death cry to one another, and Mother Earth heard it.
But Prometheus—for that was the stranger’s name—was not disconcerted by this. With the same knife he cut the heifer into parts and showed Protanor which he should burn in honor of the gods, and which to roast for his own benefit; and then for the first time man tasted flesh food. He liked it, and he thanked Prometheus the fire-bearer for his instruction.
But Mother Earth was angered with Protanor for breaking the great covenant between humanity and nature. The rest of the golden age people, not party to his guilt, she hid within her depths, and they from that time to this lead a blissful life there, as guardian spirits for the mortals languishing on her surface; and Protanor…”
“Wait, Grandmother, what did you say? As guardian spirits? So, I too have such a guardian spirit?”
“Every person has one, grandson. As soon as an infant is born, the guardian spirits in the bowels of the earth cast lots for him; whoever wins him, that one guards him until his very death.”
“Grandmother, but where is mine then? Why does he not stand up for me when I am wronged?”
“He often does, unnoticed by you,” Menedemus interjected here. “Remember how you were recently working under a poplar, and a sudden gust of wind tore off its entire crown? Who caught it then and carried it past you, so that you got off with a light scratch and a fright? None other than your guardian spirit. But,” he continued, mysteriously lowering his voice, “that is not their main strength; wherein it lies, only those initiated into the Eleusinian mysteries know, that I cannot tell you now. The time will come, you yourself…”
He abruptly broke off his speech, remembering the fate that threatened his grandson. No, Acastus would never see Eleusinian Demeter, nor the other kindly gods of his fair homeland.
Tears sprang from his eyes. “Continue, old woman!” he said, angry with himself.
“Arcturus looks down from the heavens,” answered Iodice. “Come, Acastus, pass in peace this last night in the house of your parents and grandparents. You will lie down, I will sit at your head and, as in the old days, lull you to sleep with a tale.”
3
Mother Earth did not receive Protanor and his family into her bosom: he continued to live on her surface and became a daring hunter, honoring Artemis above all other gods. It was not easy for him: the beasts too had learned to fear and hate men, the former peace between them was ended. And so began an era of toil for the hapless mortals. They had to exterminate the wild and bloodthirsty and tame the useful. Little by little the descendants of Protanor—these were the people of the silver age—succeeded in both. Then hunting ceased to be their main occupation; they surrounded themselves with herds of tamed cows, sheep, and goats and became herdsmen. And their life became shorter, since Mother Earth denied them her favor, and diseases appeared, as a consequence of the new food. But still Justice continued to dwell among men; remembering their progenitor Protanor, they considered themselves as one great family, there was not yet division into peoples. And the gods willingly descended to them and partook of their meals.
But then years and centuries passed, people became more and more numerous, the earth grew crowded for them. Some looked with envy upon the rich pastures of others; they began to consider some “their own,” and others “foreign.” “We,” they say, “are Achaeans”; “and we are Minyans”; “and we are Curetes.” And they noticed that they no longer spoke the same way: a Minyan understood an Achaean, but with difficulty. And there were such fools that they departed altogether from our wondrous Hellenic speech and began to babble god-opposing barbarian words, like those Phoenicians… One’s own they continued to love, but foreigners they hated together worse than formerly the wild beasts. And hating, they went against them with bronze weapons in their hands, to take by force their herds and pastures.
Then the silver age ceased; came the people of the bronze age. Human life became much harder: to toil was added war. Each people lived as if in a camp, eternally fearing raids from neighbors, eternally threatening them with raids themselves. But still amongst themselves the people of one nation lived in friendship and peace, and Justice therefore, though saddened, continued to dwell also among this bronze race.
More and more people were born; their wars became more frequent and bloody. All peoples called upon Zeus of Victories to help them and grant them to crush their enemies; and all were equally guilty, for all had one aim—to take the herds and pastures of their enemies. Zeus grew sorrowful and thought: “Rather than you, wretched mortals, destroying each other with sharp bronze, better I at once give most of you a light death in the embraces of Amphitrite.” And he began to pour down streams of rainwater from above; and at the same time Poseidon with his trident drove the waves of his element upon the land, and old man Oceanus bade his daughters abundantly stream fresh moisture from the bowels of the Earth. A universal flood came—we in Attica call it ‘the flood of Ogyges,’ the Thessalians call it ‘the flood of Deucalion,’ others differently; even the barbarians, they say, remember it and call it by some of their own local names, offensive to our ears. Our Attica became then a continuous sea, and its mountains—Hymettus, Pentelicus, Olympus, and our Laurium—islands in it. And only those were saved who were on these mountains, a few out of many; the rest perished. Such was the end of the bronze race.
When the water receded and carried away with it the corpses of the drowned, life became much easier for the saved people; of course, they did not return to the bliss of the golden age, but they could consider the laborious life of the silver age renewed. Still, the division into peoples remained; the barbarians too did not come to their senses and did not wish to exchange their senseless yapping for rational human speech. And with the division into peoples remained the seed of wars, which were not slow to renew when people again became crowded. Our father Zeus was about to send a new flood upon us, but the other gods entreated him not to do this and to allow them to try other, gentler measures. And then Demeter descended to us and taught us to cultivate fields for wheat and other grains; Pallas had earlier shown us how to obtain oil from the olive; soon Dionysus too brought us the gift of wine. Now it became freer again: for cornfields and other plantings not so much space was required as before for pastures, to feed the same number of people. But then another evil was not slow to appear. Before, herds and pastures were owned in common, and only peoples fought with peoples over them; now, when it became necessary to sow and plant, each citizen began to consider the plot he had sown and planted his own property: this, he said, is my land. And the word of Prometheus came true: man became the master of his Mother Earth.
Then from the depths of the angered Earth emerged an evil spirit—Alastor: he taught a citizen to attack another citizen with weapons in hand, to take his property from him. In addition to toil and war appeared sin; replacing the bronze race after a brief respite arose the iron race. No longer did a citizen feel safe among his own: his property excited envy, against him plotted his fellow citizen, his kinsman, his brother. Then divine Justice left the defiled earthly vale and returned to the gods in the heavens.
And we, my dear Acastus, are people of the iron age: that is why the strong always wrongs the weak here. Why do we suffer? Because the Pallantids needed our modest allotment. So we have become slaves; for slavery too is an invention of the iron age. And how long Zeus’s patience will last to behold our sins—this no one knows. But already among people anxious tidings circulate of a terrible punishment he is preparing for us, consulting about it with his stern co-enthroned one, Nemesis of Rhamnus; there will be, they say, such a sin as the world has not yet seen, and from it will bloom such a war as the world has not yet seen either. And in this war will come the end of the iron race and the iron age. We old folks will not live to see it; but you, perhaps, will.”
Finishing her tale, Iodice bent over her grandson; by his even breathing she understood that he was either falling asleep or already asleep. She rose and, folding her hands over his head, uttered her usual blessing: “May you rest happily and happily see the dawn!” But this time she added: “And may your guardian spirit watch over you—an orphan.”
4
“Acastus!”
The boy opened his eyes—all was dark around. “Who calls?” No one answered. “Probably a dream.” And he closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep again.
“Acastus, come!”
The boy woke again: “Strange, the same whisper. Hey, answer, whoever you are!” Silence. He slept again.
“Acastus! Your guardian spirit calls you.”
The boy opened his eyes a third time. “My guardian spirit? Show yourself, if you are here!” For a long time he could discern nothing; finally he saw a glowing point through a door crack. Dressing, he quietly opened the door: next to the glowing point appeared another. “A weasel!” he said, laughing, “Don’t be afraid, honored one, I won’t touch you: plunder the goods of the Pallantids!” And he, disappointed, was about to return to his bed. But the weasel indeed did not fear him, on the contrary: looked at him and several times pointed its muzzle towards the exit. “What if,” he thought, “he sent it?”
“Am I to go with you?” he said in a whisper.
The clever little animal again vigorously turned its head towards the exit. Then Acastus resolutely followed it.
Unnoticed, he left the house; the weasel was already waiting for him on the platform before the house and ran along the path leading to Laurium. The night was starry, but moonless; still, Acastus knew the area so well that he could quickly follow his little guide. Matters became complicated when they approached Laurium—more precisely, one of its numerous hills, called Phenola. The path led past it to join the road to Sunium; but the weasel, it seemed, wished him to be scratched by the thorny thickets guarding the hill’s foot. Acastus courageously broke through the thorns and brambles, though it cost him several shreds of his chiton; but when he achieved his goal, the weasel disappeared, and he was alone between two walls—the hedge of bushes and the ridge of Phenola.
Making his way cautiously along the latter, he suddenly saw, instead of the expected double light, another, single but bright and crimson; it lurked somewhere deep within the mountain itself. Acastus thrust his head in—the crimson light glittered from behind the horn walls of a lantern, and the lantern was in the hand of a little man with a long beard, in a short gray cloak with a hood.
“Finally you have come, Acastus!” he said kindly to the boy. “Do you not know me? I am invisibly always with you, but you can see me only here, in my element.”
“I know you. You are my guardian spirit.”
“Yes, my dear, I have saved you more than once before—I will save you now too and not give you up to these soul-destroyers. But for this you must for a time bid farewell to the world of the living and become a guest of us and our good Mother Earth.”
“My guardian, but what will become of my grandparents? Without them, life is not life for me.”
“Fear not for them: they are not being sold into a foreign land. And those soul-destroyers do not even suspect how closely the storm hangs over them. Your grandparents will survive; but you cannot wait. They will take you away, sell you—how will you return home? No, bide you with us. You will not regret it; you will see such wonders as are not even in your grandmother’s tales.”
Acastus still stood before the wall of Phenola and wondered: if it were a cave, well and good, but this was some hole; how to squeeze through it? But the little man quickly resolved his doubts: he stretched out both hands to him, pulled—and Acastus found himself next to him in an instant. Positively, a giant’s strength was hidden in the muscles of this dwarf. But that was not all; the touch of the guardian filled Acastus himself with such strength, vigor, and courage that he did not know himself. All fear was as if swept away; now he himself burned with impatience to learn the secrets of the underworld, to experience the hospitality of its kindly inhabitants, to see the wonders of good Mother Earth.
5
The dwarf gave Acastus another lantern, just like his own, and bade him follow him. Even earlier, when he was squeezing him through the hole, a piercing cold had breathed upon the boy; now, as they went further, the cold increased and increased.
However, the word “went” is used amiss here: the passage was so narrow, low, and uneven that they did not so much walk as crawl, clamber, and tumble. “It’s good I am only a youth,” thought Acastus, “an adult could not get through here at all.” It was not only cold, but damp and dirty; the boy’s chiton, already damaged by the thorns of Phenola, soon turned into such a foulness that it was disgusting to look at; and there was no other at home. And the further they went, the colder and dirtier it became; despite all his faith, the boy felt the approach of a kind of disappointment. Were these the wonders of Mother Earth?
The dwarf seemed to read his thoughts. “Do not lose heart, Acastus,” he said to him, “the path to eternal spring lies through the kingdom of winter. And you will get a new chiton with us, and such a one that grandmother Iodice will only throw up her hands in wonder. Go boldly and do not lose faith.”
Colder and colder. Suddenly the passage seemed to become more even, wider, and higher; a few more steps—and they found themselves in an enormous grotto. Acastus even closed his eyes—so dazzled was he by the multi-colored lights glittering everywhere. All the walls were covered with a kind of moss of shining, fluffy crystals; he broke off the nearest cluster—and became convinced it was snow. But here this snow formed whole walls, vaults, columns, bushes, trees; it hung from the ceiling in whimsical branches and garlands, and everywhere the bright crimson light of their lanterns was reflected and refracted in little rainbows. Acastus cried out in astonishment—the grotto seemed to tremble at his cry, a large snow branch fell at his feet and scattered into white needles.
“Be silent, do not break the silence,” whispered the dwarf to him, “Since the earth has stood, no sound has echoed under these vaults, has disturbed the deep sleep of frozen nature. Look around you: you have not seen everything yet.”
Acastus raised his lantern, trying to overcome with its rays the mysterious semi-darkness of the space hidden behind the white pillars. Little by little he discerned the opposite wall. It seemed to him to be a waterfall: quite clearly were seen the raging waves, as if cascading down three steps into an abyss. Only no noise was heard, despite the proximity; and Acastus understood that the waterfall too had iced over and frozen like everything else.
He stood as if enchanted: there was something blissful in this icy silence. He felt it penetrating all of him, subduing all his thoughts, desires, cares. He did not wish to leave this abode of silence and passionlessness.
“Come!” whispered the dwarf to him.
He did not hear him; the spring of hearing had frozen in him as well as this waterfall. But where was it, this waterfall? Acastus saw it no more. He saw only what was nearest, and even that in a kind of white mist. Were he alone, he would not have stirred from the spot, would have frozen himself and become covered with the fluffy moss of crystals, like one of these pillars around him.
But the dwarf resolutely approached him.
“I know you, charms of winter,” he said quietly but authoritatively, “shake them off, my ward, and follow me!”
He pulled him by the hand—it was impossible to resist. Reluctantly Acastus followed him, looking back all the while, until the last little lights of the magic grotto died away in the darkness.
Again began the wearisome descent through damp and dirty passages; Acastus little by little came to himself. The filth became less and less, and a warmth breathed in the close air. Suddenly, at a turn, Acastus noticed some pale radiance in the distance. He pointed it out to the dwarf. The latter smiled:
“That, my friend, is that wealth of yours which you do not know of and without me would never have learned. Wait, you will see more yet.”
The radiance approached and grew brighter and brighter; it was like a white vein in a brown wall. From afar it seemed even to smoke; but no, it was the damp mist that filled all the cavities of the earth and here only noticeable.
“Well, Acastus, what say you?” asked the dwarf when they came right up to the glowing vein. “Touch it boldly with your hand, it does not burn.”
“Silver!” exclaimed the boy. “Cast silver, like in the temple of Athena Pallenis!”
“Yes, my ward; only all the treasures of Pallenis, no offense to the blessed goddess, be it said, are a drop in the ocean compared to this luxury. Wait, let us rest; you, I think, have not noticed that we have been on the way a second day. Let us rest and have a bite at the same time; though I have breathed a wondrous strength into you, yet there is a limit to everything, and it is useful to refresh oneself.”
“Oh yes! If only a piece of bread and a sip of wine, it would be quite good.”
“I can give neither one nor the other: we take the gifts of Mother Earth directly from her hands. But here is something better—apples, such as she grew before the crime of Protanor.”
With these words he took from his pouch three ruddy apples and gave them to Acastus. Their scent alone took the boy’s breath away; when he tasted them—his blood sang like a spring on a highland meadow.
“Gods!” he said admiringly, “are these not the apples of the Hesperides you had in your pouch?”
“Just the same, my son. You should know that the garden of the Hesperides is simply a corner of the golden kingdom beyond Atlas, left there by the Mother because it is inaccessible to the descendants of Protanor anyway. And now let us talk of this silver seam. What would you compare it to?”
“To a vein on my arm.”
“Not bad. And better still if you say, to a tree branch. You truly have before you one of the many branches of the underground Lauriotic oak.”
6
Acastus looked in surprise at his little teacher.
“Lauriotic oak? But I thought Laurium was a mountain, not a tree.”
“It is both, my dear. Tell me, have you ever seen an oak submerged in floodwaters?”
“Never.”
“Of course not; for that you would have had to live in the time of King Ogyges. But you can imagine: the whole field is flooded, and the oak protrudes only a fathom above it. What will its top look like?”
“A dozen green hillocks, higher in the middle, lower and lower towards the edges.”
“True. Well, such is your Laurium with its hills of various heights. And as there the branches of the oak are not visible because of the greenery, so here they are not visible because of the limestone, slate, and other rock. But still they are, and here before you is the main silver branch of Phenola.”
“And where is the trunk?”
“We will quickly get to it. Follow me. But first let us extinguish the lanterns; it is light enough here without them.”
Making their way further along the silver branch, they soon came to a place where a gap was visible between it and the upper layers, gradually increasing. The dwarf offered his shoulders:
“Climb up and hold on to the overhanging layer there, so as not to slip on the smooth silver.”
A little later they were both on the branch, rather steeply descending somewhere far down, into an abyss illuminated by a white radiance.
“And now, Acastus, do not be timid: sit as I sit, bracing your feet against the small of my back. We will ride each on our own pair, as on runners. If you wish to slow down, lean your body back. Only do not slow down without need: you will see, it is great fun.”
And they set off. At first Acastus squealed with fear, so dizzying seemed the speed to him; but soon he grew accustomed to it and only laughed his ringing childish laugh.
After some time, a new radiance appeared in the distance, at first pale, then brighter and brighter.
“That is the trunk!” shouted the dwarf to Acastus, “Now I myself advise you to slow down.”
Acastus leaned back so that his hair almost touched the surface of the silver bough; slowly and smoothly they continued their way and soon found themselves where their bough separated from the trunk of the Lauriotic oak.
“This gleam,” said Acastus, rising, “is beginning to blind my eyes. Up there it was as pale as the light of a new moon; the lower we descend, the brighter it burns. Why is that? I have seen much silver in the temple of Pallenis; but it sparkled only by day and died away at twilight. But this shines with its own light. Where does it get this power?”
The dwarf smiled:
“There is a special law, which your wise men will not soon deduce. And therefore I advise you not to tell of your adventure on earth: they will not believe you and will only unjustly brand you a liar. I could tell you that it is the result of increasing pressure; but what’s the use? Neither you would understand, nor all Besa would understand, nor even Daedalus himself would understand, though he is old, and wise, and not long ago, having regained the favor of Pallas, invented wings for man.”
“You remembered those wings aptly,” said Acastus, looking worriedly down, where the trunk of the oak was lost in a kind of fiery abyss. “Without them I do not see how we are to descend.”
“I believe you do not see; nor do I see yet. But you know: we are sitting on a tree; and where there are trees, there are birds.”
“Lucky for them! But what use are they to us? No bird could lift me, even if it were the lammergeier that once, they say, saved our little prince on its wings.”
“Where there’s a tree, there’s a bird. You will see for yourself presently, only do not be afraid.”
He called out three times. Soon was heard the heavy noise of gigantic wings, and at the same time a sheaf of golden and crimson rays burst into the white radiance. A little more—and onto the bough descended an enormous bird with golden plumage and wings of bright porphyry.
“Thank you, Phoenix, for not making us wait. And now, honored one, offer your mighty back, that we may climb upon it, and carry us to the very shore of the Lauriotic lake.”
The Phoenix approached Acastus, who looked at it with a feeling mixed of admiration and fear. He noticed then that the claws of the giant bird sank into the hard silver as if into dough.
“Well, Acastus, now mount up. Sit astride the Phoenix’s shoulders and hold onto its neck, and I will lie behind you.”
Said and done. The Phoenix beat its wings several times and hung in the air. Then it spread its wings and, leaning its breast a little forward, began to descend quietly and smoothly into the fiery abyss, describing at the same time wide circles around the oak. Acastus grew fearful, and it was a great relief to him that the small but iron hand of the dwarf did not release his belt. The lower they descended, the wider the circles became; finally the Phoenix took a direct course and flew over the green tops of a real forest. All fear left Acastus: he examined with curiosity the unfamiliar trees and admired their fruits, glittering among the foliage.
The further they went, the darker it became; in the end night surrounded them, and only from afar glowed palely the thin pillar of the silver oak. Soon the goal was reached: they dismounted.
7
Before them stretched the broad expanse of a gloomy, motionless lake; had the Dwarf not plainly named it ‘Laurian,’ his ward would have taken it for that Acherusian lake in the realm of the dead, of which his grandfather had told him. But gloomy was only the lake itself; on the other side, a glow was visible, as if from a great fire.
“That is our city,” explained the Dwarf. “Truly, the Phoenix could have borne us there, but I wished to delight you with variety. So then, my ward—shall we swim across? Let us pray to the Oceanids and into the water?”
Acastus shook his head sadly.
“I cannot swim.”
The Dwarf feigned embarrassment.
“Ah, what a shame! And indeed, where would you have learned that noble art among the Laurian hills, from which not even the sea is visible? Well then, we must resort to another gift of Poseidon—to horsemanship.”
He gave a shout. Soon the surface of the lake rippled, and two monstrous yet kindly muzzles—neither dolphin nor walrus—nudged into the sandy shore.
“Well now, my ward, giddy-up! If you fall off, call for me!”
Acastus cautiously lowered his foot into the water and immediately jerked it back. Everything in that spot suddenly sparkled; though the water was merely warm, it seemed to him he had dipped his foot into liquid fire.
“What, scalded?” teased the Dwarf. “Fear not, there’s not even any special miracle in this; it happens with you too on summer nights. Only with us, it is brighter.”
“From pressure?” Acastus asked mockingly.
“Precisely from pressure. Don’t rack your brains, you won’t understand anyway; mount your steed, only first gather up your chiton, or what remains of it. Yes, and one more thing. Whatever may happen—hold on to the venerable Hippocamp (as he is grandly called) with both hands and feet; even if he decides to dive, do not let go. Otherwise, it will go ill for you.”
They set off. Acastus again felt very merry. Wherever the Hippocamp cleft the sleepy surface, myriads of tiny lights appeared. All around them, fish of various sizes, with golden, silver, crimson, or sapphire scales, rose to the surface; their scales glowed, and by this light Acastus could see how transparent this water was. Even more did he delight in the fiery balls that sometimes flew over the lake, mostly high up, but sometimes quite low. One came straight at him, and he was not averse to catching it. But the Dwarf cried out loudly:
“Beware!”—and the Hippocamp suddenly dove.
Already underwater, Acastus heard a deafening crack.
“What was that?” he asked when they surfaced.
“Something like your lightning, my dear. And also from pressure—so you see it’s useless to ask further. This wonder does us no harm; striking my head, it burst like a toy popper. But it would have shattered you, as the Bacchae did Pentheus.”
Meanwhile, the glow became ever clearer—and now Acastus could discern that it came from a countless number of burning wax candles. The Hippocamp quickened its pace, and soon both riders disembarked in the harbor of the subterranean city.
“What are these candles?” asked the boy.
“Ah, you insatiable one! You’d do better to ask me how many days we have been traveling.”
“Well?”
“Five, and as many nights. Had it not been for my apples—you would have long since succumbed. But even their power has a limit; and since we are home, it is no sin to take a nap.”
“Home? I see no houses here.”
“I said that only in your manner of speaking. What need have we of houses when there is neither rain nor cold here? I live here, in this clump of ferns; it is a protection from the light. I sleep on this downy mattress; for you, I ordered another from the brethren, a larger one; and, as you see, the order has already been fulfilled. And so, pleasant rest! The remaining wonders, when you awake.”
Acastus gladly followed his advice. Immediately, a sweet languor spread through his body, and he fell into a deep sleep.
8
When he awoke, he saw in the dim light the Dwarf sitting at his bedside.
“Greetings, guardian! It seems still early; I evidently did not sleep long.”
“Five days and five nights, by your reckoning. You’d best leave that be: here there is no time… By the way: would you care to don a new chiton in place of your former rags?”
The new chiton was “soft as a dream” and light as air; peering closely at its fabric, as much as the dim light allowed, Acastus ascertained that it was made of delicate bird down.
“Well, I see,” he said, “Pallas is as gracious to you as the other gods. But I see also that grandmother Iodica was mistaken, saying that the people of the Golden Age knew no toil. Not even King Pallas himself has such craftswomen.”
“No, my dear, Iodica spoke truly. We have a special breed of very beautiful birds; we call them weavers. And your chiton is their work… if one can call work what they themselves consider merry play.”
“Shall I see them?”
“You shall: let us go.”
The Phoenix was already waiting. They mounted it, and it bore them over the lake, over the field to the edge of the forest—the very one Acastus had admired from on high during his first flight. The farther they went, the brighter shone the fiery pillar of the silver oak, the lighter it became all around: in the forest it was like on earth on a sunny summer day.
For Acastus, one delight replaced another. All the trees were laden with fruits, partly familiar, but mostly unseen and unheard-of; at first he abstained from the latter, fearing they might be poisonous; but the Dwarf reassured him with the declaration that in the golden realm there are neither poisonous nor useless fruits, just as there is neither wrath nor indifference from Mother Earth.
“Mother Earth!” exclaimed Acastus, “We are now her guests: shall I see her, my gracious hostess?”
“You shall,” answered the Dwarf, “but not before she herself wishes it.”
A feast began. Fruits, fruits and more fruits, each more beautiful and tastier than the last; honey in the hollows of trees, fragrant and succulent—and the bees, large and clever, not only did not resist the boy’s desires but even seemed to invite him with their friendly buzzing; games with forest beasts, does or panthers, not to mention the unseen ones; all fawned upon the boy and seemed to vie for him amongst themselves. Birds in the green foliage, fish in the clear springs—it was impossible to list everything. After their amusements, they flew back, Acastus lay down to sleep—and, upon waking, to the Dwarf’s question of where to next, invariably answered: “To the forest.”
Yet once he seemed to feel a pang of longing. “There, on earth,” he said, “how many times have they held choreia in honor of Dionysus without me! I should like to purify myself with the sacred dance; else, truly, one lives in joy, but still like a beast that knows not the gods.”
“You are right,” answered the Dwarf, “and I am glad of your mood. Have you noticed what corresponds here to your earthly alternations of day and night? Here, where we sleep, is eternal moonless night; on the other side of the lake, in the meadow—moonlit night; in the forest—sunny day. And beyond that—a mystery.”
“To the meadow!” he cried to the Phoenix.
The wondrous bird lowered its flight. Acastus began to discern many luminous points.
“Torches!” he exclaimed. “Torches of Dionysus! Just like on the upper glades of Pentelicus during the trieterides of the blessed god.”
“You may, if you wish, call them torches. But you must remember that we have no fire that devours its food: we are not party to the crime of Protanor.”
They descended. Immediately they were surrounded by a crowd of male and female dwarves. The males were just like Acastus’s guardian spirit; the females, though also small in stature, were young and very beautiful—on earth he would have taken them for girls his own age. They gave him a torch—and only then did he notice that it was, in fact, a thyrsus with a silver pinecone, which shone brightly but did not burn. And all around was indeed a moonlit night—the distant pillar of the silver oak shone like the crescent of a young moon.
The choreia began—long, blissful. Acastus felt no fatigue: the light of the silver flame, reflected in the eyes of the laughing dancers, filled his heart with the anticipation of inexpressible happiness. He even regretted it when his guardian spirit took him by the hand and reminded him of their return.
“Already?” he replied plaintively.
“For now, yes; but do not grieve—we shall return here more than once.”
Henceforth, the radiant glade began to alternate in Acastus’s life with the enchanted forest, and he experienced such a fullness of joy that it seemed no room remained for desires. He quite forgot about what he had first wished for when the Phoenix carried him across the lake to the sleepy city of the golden tribe—about the white glow beyond the ferns and the mystery of the wax candles. And when the Dwarf reminded him of them—he only reluctantly agreed to interrupt the joyful sequence of delights in the enchanted forest and on the radiant glade with a third experience.
The Phoenix was dismissed this time.
9
They made their way through clumps of giant fern until they came out into an open, boundless glade, entirely flooded with the light of countless burning candles.
“Guardian!” exclaimed Acastus. “But this is real earthly fire, devouring its food. And you said you knew no such thing.”
“Yes, you are right,” answered the Dwarf, “and yet not right: the fire is real, but it is yours, not ours.”
The boy looked at him perplexedly.
“These lights,” the Dwarf continued instructively, “are the doubles of your souls. Every time an unfortunate mortal is born on earth, his candle flares up here; every time he dies, it is extinguished. Climb the trunk of this tall fern and look at that edge of the glade; what do its outlines resemble?”
The boy did as he was asked.
“Gods!” he exclaimed. “Just like our Attica when viewed from the peak of Pentelicus. And there is Euboea… Andros…”
“And further—all of Hellas,” concluded the Dwarf. “Well, climb down; let us go straight to Besa.”
“Here,” he said, “is your candle: long, straight, white, burning with a quiet, even light. Congratulations, my ward: you will be happy, insofar as a man can be.”
“And my grandfather?”
The Dwarf showed him two candle-ends, rather long, however, and completely identical. And they too burned with an even, quiet light.
“This light,” the Dwarf explained, “flickered strongly when you disappeared. But Iodica’s guardian spirit visited her in a dream and told her you were alive and safe—then they grew calm.”
“And this crimson one,” asked Acastus, “burning down in a restless, hissing blaze? Whose is it?”
“I am surprised myself,” answered the Dwarf, “this is the candle of Polyphontes. Not long ago it was quite long and burned, if unevenly, with a bright gleam. And now suddenly it has dwindled… And look, the same is happening with all the other crimson candles, in Anaphlystus, in Thoricus, throughout Mesogaia. The reign of the Pallantids is ending. They themselves, it seems, have shortened their lives ‘beyond Moira’.”
“You should know,” he continued, “that Moira herself, at a man’s birth, invisibly sets his candle for him, long for some, short for others; and it is not in his power to lengthen it; this length is fate. But he can at any moment of his life shorten or extinguish it by his unwise or criminal will. Then his candle instantly sinks into the ground by as much as he has shortened his life ‘beyond Moira.’ And finally, there are unforeseen, grim accidents. Remember how you were nearly killed by a tree recently? Then your light, previously even, instantly trembled, flickered—I noticed it and diverted the blow threatening you. And so, fate, will, chance—this is what your life is composed of.”
“And I guess,” he went on, “who will carry out the punishment upon the Pallantids. Let us go straight to Athens.”
“Look. This crimson candle—this is King Aegeus; not long remains for it to blaze. But next to it you see another, also crimson, long, shining with a bright, regal gleam—this is his son, Prince Theseus.”
“His son? I did not know he had a son: we all considered him childless.”
“He himself, unhappy man, did not know it. Listen to how it happened. Aegeus was still young, but long married and childless. He went to Delphi: how, said he, should I proceed to have a son? The god gave him an oracle, full of secret grace, but incomprehensible to him; yet it said he should return to Athens. Had he obeyed the god, returned to his homeland, to his wife—the god would have blessed him with the birth of an heir, and this heir would have grown up with him, a support to his power. But he wanted to unravel the secret of the oracle and, knowing of the wisdom of King Pittheus in Troezen, went to him. Pittheus did not justify his expectations; however, he took a liking to the hazel eyes of the princess Aethra, and they met under the oleanders by a Troezenian stream. Parting from her, he moved a coastal rock with his Herculean strength, placed his sword in its hollow, and pushed it back: ‘If you bear a son, wait until he can retrieve my sword from under this rock, and then send him to me.’”
“After this he returned to Athens. He heard nothing more of Aethra, except that she did not marry. He himself took many wives, but had no children—Aphrodite did not grant them. In the end, already in old age, he submitted to the power of the sorceress Medea and made her his queen. In state affairs he also had no luck: he became a tributary of the Cretan king and was obliged to pay him an unheard-of tribute in Hellas—seven youths and maidens for the Cretan monster, the Minotaur, to devour.”
“And then one day, a beautiful, mighty youth appears at his table. Medea immediately realized who it was; she persuaded the weak-minded king to offer him a cup of wine she had poisoned. By Hellenic custom, the youth, before accepting the cup from his host’s hands, unfastened his sword and laid it on the table before the king’s eyes. Instantly the king recognized his cherished sword, which he had once left with the Troezenian princess in the happy time of his young love. He knocked the poisoned cup from the youth’s hands in time; Medea fled, and Aegeus embraced his god-given son, the hero Theseus.”
“And divine blessing was not slow to show itself: Theseus himself ordered to be enrolled among the seven youths and sailed to Crete to fight the monster. And of course, he will be fortunate—you see his candle. But the Pallantids, learning of Aegeus’s newfound son, understood that they would not receive his lot other than by stepping over his corpse. And by their evil, unwise will, they ‘beyond Moira’ will bring destruction upon themselves.”
“This will be soon; and what shall we do then, Acastus? Do you wish to remain here, in the golden realm—or will you return to your grandparents, to share their heavy toil?”
Acastus sadly bowed his head. “I should like to stay with you, my guardian,” he said, “but my duty bids me return to my father’s parents and lighten their burden in their joyless old age.”
The Dwarf shook his hand.
“You have decided rightly, my ward. And I am sure, now, after such a noble decision, our Mother Earth herself will wish to see and bless you.”
One day, Acastus, waking and, as usual, seeing the Dwarf sitting at his bedside, noticed a particularly solemn and joyful expression on his face.
“Where do we go today?”
“To her. She herself so commanded.”
“And where does she live?”
“Her bower is in the lower hollow of the silver oak. Outside it burns like the sun, and had you thought to approach it of your own accord, you would have been blinded even before touching its threshold.”
“But since she wishes it—you will pass unharmed; no charms are stronger than her will.”
10
The Phoenix was already there. They mounted.
“To the Mother!” the Dwarf said to it.
The Phoenix raised its head and sang joyfully. Acastus shuddered at the strength of its voice—he had never heard it before and had considered his tried companion mute. Soon, however, his fright turned to admiration: the song of the Phoenix poured forth and poured forth, as if flooding all space with its waves. And many times later Acastus remembered this song with longing: nothing could compare with it.
Fish and Hippocamps of the lake surfaced from the waves, lizards and little snakes of the meadow crawled out, birds of the enchanted forest flew up—all looked with astonishment at the fortunate one deemed worthy of the Mother’s high favor. And the Phoenix flew faster than ever before. Soon the forest was behind them, and Acastus, for all his desire to know the secrets of the world beyond the forest, had to close his eyes: the gleam of the silver oak blinded him so. He opened them only when the bright dawn gave way to sudden gloom.
“We are in the bower of Earth!” whispered the Dwarf, who had been holding his hand all the while since they had dismounted onto solid ground.
He looked around and saw a tall, circular hall, the hollow of a giant oak, as he immediately realized. It was all lined with huge amethyst crystals: rays of silver, refracting in them, flooded it with a dark violet light. Of the same amethyst consisted the pointed vaults, growing higher and higher from the edges to the center; the very center was lost in a height unattainable to the eye. The deep silence was broken only by the measured roar of a waterfall, bursting from a fissure in the bark and plunging right there into an amethyst abyss.
Right there nearby stood the throne of the Mother—a throne of black marble, adorned with rubies and spread with a golden fleece; and on it Acastus saw Her with a trembling heart. She sat motionless, her body and head thrown back, her gaze fixed on the vault; a folded chiton of amethyst hue caressed her majestic body, and a veil of the same color restrained the luxuriant waves of her black hair.
“Is she asleep?” he asked his guide in a whisper. “But her eyes seem open.”
“She does not sleep, but dreams,” he whispered in response. “But her dreams are transformed into images, and the images are embodied into beings and phenomena. All of us—both I and you—were once dreams of Mother Earth. And not only us, they say, but the immortal gods too, and with them Zeus Olympian. But whether this is so—I know not.”
Suddenly the Mother sighed deeply, and Acastus involuntarily shuddered. He shuddered even more and pressed himself in horror against his guardian when, through the noise of the waterfall, her voice was heard, seeming to come from the very deepest depths of her element.
“It is heavy for me… They press… O Olympian king, O Rhamnusian maiden, help me!”
“You said she is kind?” whispered Acastus. “But look, what a stern face she has! And her words seem ominous. I shall not dare approach her.”
“You will not approach her before she herself calls you. She is kind, I tell you again, and is stern only when she thinks of your sins. They, it seems, evoke her dreams, which will not delay in transforming into images… Look, look!”
Beneath one of the pointed vaults, a pink mist began to gather. It grew thicker and thicker and at the same time brighter and brighter, like the morning dawn on a mountaintop… any moment, it seemed, the sun would peer out. And it did indeed peer out: in the pink mist appeared the countenance and form of a woman of such dazzling beauty that Acastus lowered his eyes and pressed himself against his guardian a second time.
“I am afraid!” he whispered to him. “She is even more beautiful than the Mother herself.”
“Do not blaspheme!” he answered sternly. “She is no more than her ethereal creation, her dream.”
“And how is she named?”
“She is not named. I tell you—she is the Mother’s dream, not yet embodied. And God forbid you live to see the time when she is embodied for the ruin of mortals: many candles will then be extinguished on the glade of lives. But when it happens—she will be named Helen.”
“Helen?” Acastus repeated thoughtfully. “I have never heard such a name. And it seems to me there is none more captivating.”
“Neither her name nor her self,” confirmed the Dwarf. “Yes, you are right: she is all—‘a captive for a husband, a captive for a ship, a captive for a city,’ as the greatest of your poets will say of her.”
Acastus raised his eyes. The wondrous dream-woman was clearly visible, as if alive; she looked at Acastus with her languid blue eyes, as if gilded by the reflections of her bright curls. And Acastus felt his will melting in these burning rays. Beside himself, he tore away from his guardian and moved towards the phantom.
A sudden swift movement of the Mother stopped him. The phantom rose and vanished into the amethyst firmament of the central vault.
“Acastus!”
She was calling him! He approached and fell to his knees before her.
“I see,” she said with a sad smile, “that my dream has succeeded. But I do not wish you to be its first victim.”
She laid her hand upon his head. The life-giving coolness of her touch instantly affected him.
“Your guardian spirit has spoken to me of you—and said only good things. But the best of the good was your decision to return to those who raised you. I bless you for a long and happy life. The time will come, you will have a bride worthy of you—do not ask who she is. She is not yet born. She is not Helen, but you will be better off with her. And your grandparents will live to see this happiness and the first great-grandson she will give them.”
“Have you already dreamed of this too, kind Mother?”
She smiled.
“You are very bold, my boy, but may it be for your benefit that you called me kind. Look!”
Again the pink mist thickened, and soon from it emerged the image of a comely, rosy peasant girl with hazel eyes and hair. Seeing Acastus, she laughed merrily and amiably extended her hand to him. But before he could follow her invitation, she rose into the air and vanished in the blue radiance of the central vault.
Acastus fell to the hand of the Mother and began to cover it with kisses.
“You have been my guest,” she said to him, “and have by Hellenic right to a guest-gift. Your guardian spirit will give it to you at parting, and you yourself will decide whom to give it to. Farewell.”
She raised him up and kissed his forehead. Acastus stood as if stunned, beside himself with happiness and pride—and probably would have stood thus a long time had his guardian not thought to seize him by the hand and lead him out of the bower of Earth.
“Well, ward,” he began to chide him as they rode back, “what a fright you gave me! I don’t remember such boldness in all my life.”
But Acastus did not hear his words: he felt only the kiss of the Mother upon his brow.
11
And so the day of parting arrived.
“It is done!” the Dwarf said to Acastus. “The candle of King Aegeus has been extinguished, but so too have the candles of all the Pallantids, and among them—that which was the double of your persecutor Polyphontes. The sons of Attica will remember the glorious battle at Pallene and the victory of the king-hero Theseus! Now no one prevents you from returning to your liberated home.”
“Phoenix, serve us one last service!”
The wondrous bird was already there.
“We shall return, of course, by another path—you cannot climb up the branch of Phenola. The Phoenix will carry us up along the trunk almost to the very summit of Cossiphia; from there it will be a descent, not a climb, into the valley of Besa.”
And so it happened. The higher they rose, the more the silver trunk grew dim; finally it became covered, as if with moss, by growths of brown limestone and came to resemble ordinary stone pillars between caves. In one of them the Phoenix set them down; all around was darkness.
“We must light the lanterns,” said the Dwarf. “They, by the way, were stolen by me from you—I have no need of this contrivance. You will give them to the charcoal-burner Cleophantus with my regards and a warning that he will lose them altogether if he does not stop beating his wife. Well now, both are lit; let us go.”
They walked several stadia along low but relatively convenient passages. Suddenly the Dwarf stopped.
“Mark this wall well—and, better still, make a sign on it. Here you will mine silver ore when you reveal the secret of the Laurian hills to your countrymen.”
“Here?” Acastus asked disappointedly. “I don’t even see any silver here. Why not lead them straight to the pure branch of Phenola?”
“I should think so! You, I see, would not mind buying the whole world and the throne of Zeus to boot. No, my dear: that path you will not find a second time. You do not know how deeply it leads beneath the surface not only of the earth but of the sea. You will have to content yourselves with the outermost branches, you will break up the ore with mattocks, wash it with running water, and little by little extract grains of pure silver. And for this they will thank you. Until now you brought silver from foreign lands and minted it with the stamp of your goddess; but henceforth the ‘Laurian owls’ will glorify her and you throughout the Hellenic world.”
And he began to tell him—much he told—of the future fate of the Laurian mines.
“And now—on your way! I do not bid you farewell—I shall remain with you, though you will not see me. In Eleusis, whither you will soon go, they will tell you more about me. And when your life’s path is run—God grant that I and the daughters of Demeter may tell of you the very same that I now told to Mother Earth. By the way: I must give you her guest-gift; it is here, in my pouch.”
Before Acastus’s astonished eyes gleamed a huge nugget of pure silver.
“You will carry it in that same pouch, and return the pouch itself to that same Cleophantus with that same warning. Now only two or three stadia separate you from the surface; you will pass them alone—you cannot get lost.”
And he suddenly vanished, leaving the lanterns and the pouch to Acastus.
12
The citizens of Besa crowded in their prytaneum—all of them, both men and women. King Theseus had summoned them.
“My friends,” he said to them, “by the grace of Pallas I have succeeded in uniting the two core shares from the inheritance of my grandfather Pandion, and now our common care is that they never again be disunited. Not for myself have I joined them, not to rule over you autocratically: the power which Pallas entrusted to me, I transfer to the people. Let your kings, as before, pray to the immortal gods for you, let them judge your disputes and lead you into battle, let them be guardians of your orphans—but you will govern yourselves. Henceforth you are all—Athenians, all will gather on the stone ridge before the rock of the goddess; everyone whom age has steadied will have the right to propose to the people what the gods inspire in him—and what the people deem best, that shall be the law. Do you agree?”
A thunder of blessed acclamations covered his words.
“Citizens,” Theseus continued, “I have liberated your land, liberated also those whom the impious sons of Pallas turned from citizens into their slaves. But, as always happens, war has ravaged our homeland, emptied—no longer the royal, but the people’s treasury. All must contribute, lest conquered freedom be reduced to beggary. Citizens, do you agree to partake in this public cause?”
Silence fell. Theseus frowned; a displeased smile played on his proud face.
An elder with a long, gray beard stepped forward:
“Forgive us, great king, and do not take our silence amiss. Believe us, we are all ready to lay down our bones for you and for the freedom you have given us. But besides our lives we can give you nothing. You have seen our land, our village? We all live here in want among the rocky hills of Laurium; in all Attica there is no village poorer than your Besa.”
“No, grandfather, you are mistaken,” suddenly cried a young voice, “and you, great king, do not believe him, though he speaks sincerely. Know that not only in all Attica, but in all Hellas, there is no village richer than your Besa!”
Theseus looked at him in surprise and then cast his gaze over the whole assembly.
“Who speaks thus?”
“Who speaks thus?” resounded through the crowd.
“Acastus, son of Polymnestus, an Athenian of Besa,” the same voice answered cheerfully.
“Acastus? So he is alive? How he has grown! How handsome he has become!” the crowd buzzed. Menedemus and Iodica, with joyful cries, rushed to embrace their grandson. “Acastus! My dear! At last, after three years! But where have you been?”
“Where there is no time, my dear ones. Wait, I will tell all; but now I must answer the king. Yes, great king, there is no village richer than your Besa; and if all must contribute for freedom, then here is our share.”
With these words, he took from his pouch the guest-gift of Mother Earth. Theseus, though pleased, continued to be perplexed.
“Explain then to me…”
“Willingly, king, what I can, I will explain.”
And he began to tell him, omitting, as much as possible, the miraculous. The omissions did not escape the penetrating mind of Theseus.
“You leave much unsaid, my friend, but I will not insist now. In Athens, over a cup of wine, you will tell me everything in more detail: the halls of Erechtheus are open before a guest of Mother Earth. And now, if you please, finish about the silver.”
“Command, great king, that half of us turn from unlucky farmers into miners—and work will boil among us. Pallas will bless our labor, and her treasury on the Acropolis will not be empty. And when in the time of your descendants a foreign enemy comes to destroy Athens and Hellas—Laurian silver will give them the means to build ships and upon them defend the freedom won and granted by you!”
Theseus raised his hand in prayer; all followed his example.
“Citizens,” he said, “you have heard the prophetic word? So be it! Hail to Acastus! Hail to Besa and Laurium! Hail to Mother Earth!”
“Hail to Theseus!” answered the voices. “Hail to Athens! Hail to Mother Earth!”