The Record Player and the Rope
You never know where the Prophetess of Pylos’ South Mountain may take you.
/ South Mountain
The old shepherd I had asked for directions where the track narrows into a steep mountain footpath grabs me by the arm and stares deeply into my eyes.
“The Prophetess is ample as the autumn grapes-laden hills, unfailing as the inky clouds of winter’s tempests and deadly as a sea-pirate’s blade slipped into your innards. But hear me well!
Pay her with gold only and decline her offer to foretell for the petty price of painting your skin with egg white, red ochre and green malachite!”
I break his grip and laugh at him. I am, after all, a man of sword and spear, of sail and assault. I have stared death in the face on too many an occasion to recount easily, even raping the rich coastal villages of the Black Land, where sleek chariots and men with bronze are never distant.
Yet I pause before ascending the slope, and the chill pre-dusk breeze ruffles my splendid curls.
An instinct, perhaps, similar to that which compels me to lift my shield before the strike of the unseen arrow whispers to me, and I ask him one last thing — that which shall make all the difference when I join with her above.
“So what happens if she does apply the coloured brush to me?”
The elder cackles so forcefully his cough moistens his toothless gums with phlegm.
“From the summit, your body shall return, yet your illustrated soul will forever keep her company on lonely snowy nights.”
/ Miami
Pupils dilated, the women send their youngest into the humid Miami twilight to fetch the towing rope from the VW Microbus in the motel’s parking lot, the one with the dancing vanilla-eyed rat clutching a paintbrush depicted on its multihued side.
I reiterate to the approaching redhead with swaying hips and fingers on her dress’ hem that I am definitely not into bodypainting —
but I know I am screwed when she stares at me distantly amid the leading chords of the Grateful Dead’s rendition of “Turn on Your Love Light” issuing from the RCA Victor portable record player, turning my world egg-white at the edges, then squeezing it into a green malachite fleck, ringed with red ochre.
/Portents of Pink
I wake up shivering and naked under the bushy canopy of an ancient olive tree at the foot of the mountain, colourless in the hour before dawn.
Resting my brow in the palm of my hand while a nightingale invites the infant day with swoops and licks, I desperately strain to recall the events of my visit with the prophetess at the summit, then sigh with relief.
I remember everything!
Deciding that losing my sword and clothing is a fair exchange for gaining the prophecy and escaping from the Lady of the Hues, shaken but with wits intact, I search the horizon for the first signs of pink.
Nevertheless, my thoughts keep returning to that chamber with scented demonesses and eerie melodies from the otherlife.
I would like to thank Mark Bossingham, the brilliant author of the action-filled and moving YA novel Chasing Naomi (ALLIE SPACE OPERA Book 1), for the idea of Miami!
The story above was first published on X (Twitter) and is © 2024 by David Pahor. No part of my stories should be used to train AI technology to generate text, imitating my writing style.
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