Prophecy

The last Oracle of Delphi knew she would be the last.  She kept the cave of the sacred vapors tidy, in anticipation of the day the Roman army would burn the village below.  From that time, no one would ever find the voice of the Gods again.

When the army came, and the burning homes below lit the night like afternoon, she had already removed her ceremonial robes.  She was dressed as a cobbler, in rough sandals, and she slipped away from the sacred chamber and over a path she knew no army would find for 2000 years, when the iron monsters of a frightened king would cross seeking a rebellious dark skinned people.  It was hard to understand the things she knew that far away.

She slipped over the path and down to the trail of refugees setting up makeshift homes by the sea.  Without her ceremonial robes, without her eyes turned white by exposure to the sacred vapors, no one recognized her as the voice of Apollo.  Next to her, a man slipped as the strap of his sandal broke.

“Here,” she said, just as she had foreseen.  “Let me help you with that.  I’m a cobbler.”

He smiled.  “Please help.  We need a cobbler.”

She lived a good life, by the ocean, among the refugees, who raised their eyes to the heavens and asked the Gods “why?” without ever expecting an answer.

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Benjamin Wachs has written for Village Voice Media, Playboy.com, and NPR among other venues.  He archives his work at www.TheWachsGallery.com.

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