Athens! Oh, it is so beautiful, and captivating. The majority of the emotions drifting up to me are full of love for the ancient city -- laidback with respectful admiration. In my growing understanding of who I am, I can’t tell if my own wide-eyed appreciation for this place is in response to the emotions of Athenians, or my own impression … either way, Athens is magnificent. Congested with buildings, it reminds me of a phrase I’d heard once … concrete jungle. But the joy flowing through its busy streets tells me that around every corner, there is something new and entertaining to see or do. I think I’m going to really enjoy experiencing the nightlife here; maybe I needed a break more than I realized.
Even without my sensitive hearing, I would be bombarded by all the music. In one direction, I can hear something unfamiliar … a clarinet and a lute, perhaps. The sound is infectious; people are laughing loudly and whistling. Then a beat cuts in from a different direction … fast, with a synthesized feel. I am drawn to the lights and thumping that drift around the corner.
Walking through the crowd that throbs in and out of the club, I am hit by a wave of euphoria. A beautiful woman with dark hair, yellow eyes, and a hypnotic, deep voice is standing on top of the stage, spinning with the music. She comes to the point of the chorus, and the entire club starts jumping up and down with the beat. I can feel their energy vibrate through my feet and rise up to my shoulders. Letting my feet move, I allow the beat to take me over. With my hair brushing back and forth across my back, and then around my arms, I raise my hands into the air, and arch my back just a little more to allow the pulsing music and crowd soak even deeper into my chest.
I can sense the floor is solid under my feet, and as people brush by their emotions only add to my exhilaration. I start spinning with the mesmerizing singer, listening to the rhythm of the clapping and the pounding of feet … then I feel hands gently caress my waist.
I turn to find a young man wearing a crisp, white shirt and dark slacks, looking at me with the strangest expression. His eyes are a dark chocolate brown … large, full of mysteries, and questions. He runs his fingers up my arms as I continue to dance, but the emotions and thoughts that come from his contact are innocent and quizzical. He is trying to decide if I am real. He bites his bottom lip and looks at me with something that might have been mistaken for lust, if I hadn’t already read his intentions. He just wants to dance … with an angel? Oh no, I materialized in front of him … how could I be so bloody idiotic. And, I was doing so well controlling my hold on the veil!
As the song finishes and a new one starts, he reaches up and gently pulls a strand of my hair away from my face. I am sweaty … oh lord! I hate this part of being human. This song is slower and starts with the lute and a piano. The singer takes on a smooth, sweet tone, and the people around us start holding each other close and swaying back and forth. I look back at my new friend, to find that he has put out his hands for me to take. I tentatively rest my fingers in his palms, and he gently pulls me close … still there is nothing, but innocent curiosity flavored with astonishment. Plunging deeper into his feelings, past the surface astonishment, I can feel … fear. Well, of course he would be afraid; I just materialized out of thin air. I can’t help but to be inquisitive about this boy, who sees someone appear in front of him, and ignores his fear in order to respond with curiosity.
When he starts whispering softly in my ear, it is a broken mixture of Greek and English. His voice is very rich for someone so young; and I like to listen to it, even though, to my ears his words are muddled. Oddly, though, the thoughts that are forming with the words he speaks are not only Greek, but clear English with a British accent. He must have picked up on my confusion because he pauses to think before he speaks again.
“Do all angels not wear shoes?”
I look down at my feet and nod … “I never seem to have shoes when I need them.” I try to smile, but it forms crookedly on my face.
He laughs at my awkwardness, then holds me a little closer letting me place my feet on top of his shoes. “I do not want you to be stepped on.”
“Thank you … but, I really should be leaving.” I focus on the gentle sway of the music, and knowing I can’t do any more damage, I let myself drift back into the mist. As a parting gift I gently stroke his cheek, and then stand back and watch his expression.
At first he wears a mask of shock, and then to my surprise he starts to laugh. I scrutinize him, uneasy with my own wonder over this man.
He speaks to the air around him “If you are still here … will you walk with me?”
Concentrating on the solidity of my fingertips, I touch his hand to say, I will indeed follow him. He nods, turns, and walks confidently through the crowd and out onto the street.
We are in the heart of Athens; the city is nestled in a valley, the east and west are noticeably higher and the coast lies to the south. I noticed all the diversity of the terrain and immensity of the city as I flew in from the southwest. While I follow the mysterious young man through the streets, I realize we are heading north; although, I have no idea where he is taking me in particular. If I am as clever as I pretend to be … at that moment, I should have remembered Cass's warning about dangerous humans, but I follow the intriguing man nonetheless.
Weaving through the streets, we pass cafes and patio restaurants. The smell of the food makes my mouth water, and I think about becoming solid just long enough to taste one of the delicious items sitting on the patrons’ plates. The music never fades, it just moves smoothly from one business to another: local classic, to dance, to blues, and then back to classic. The richness of the atmosphere, the sound of laughter, whistling, singing, talking … the aroma of food and bodies, give the air a spicy, bitter flavor that I can taste. When I bring my attention back to my guide, who is expertly moving through the crowd of people, he nonchalantly greets friends on the patios as we pass, and my head starts to feel woozy. I am thoroughly intoxicated by the intensity of the contentment and friendly emotions around me.
He turns toward a café that is set on a busy corner; quite a few of the people sitting at the small, round tables look up, wave, and holler something at him. He moves quickly past them, smiling and waving in return as he strides into the storage area toward the back. I cautiously follow him into the confined space. He turns to face me; with a sly grin, he reaches out precisely to where I am standing, almost viciously, swiping his hand through my body.
“You … you can see me?” I am stunned, talking to myself as much as to him.
“Yes, I can see you … and hear you. I’ve never met one of you who could return to this world with such ease. You don’t seem to be as conceited as the others I have met either … so I will offer you one warning: get out of my city, or I will be forced to tell the Symboulio about you.” His demeanor isn’t hostile and his emotions are still primarily inquisitive, but I can tell he has no problem following through on the threat.
However, what kind of threat is it? “I will leave, yes; but please, first tell me who the Symboulio are?”
His eyes harden and he studies me very closely for a moment, and then shrugs. “You are very unusual … you know that. I realize your kind doesn’t think that the human portion of Symboulio is much of a threat, but I would think the Timoro would scare you into compliance.”
“I’m sorry; I still don’t understand who you are talking about.” I study his eyes as closely as he has studied mine.
“You don’t, do you? You’re English, or were English, right? I can hear it a little in your accent. We have sects there, how could you not know who we are?” A new emotion creeps into his voice as he speaks … uncertainty. He has been curious, but always confident, up until now. Distracted for a moment, I think about how that really is a very good question … why don't I know about them. Again, my blotchy memory takes me back to my Uncle's farm, and my reason adds this new question to the list of peculiarities about my family's past.
His questions are rhetorical as he ignores my thoughtful expression, and continues as though he is reading an instruction manual. “I am a seer; there are others with different abilities, too … but mostly the Symboulio recruits Seers. Usually the talent runs in a family line, so they keep a close eye on members or particular relatives." If my Uncle Edward did in fact possess an ethereal talent … then he must have known about this group of people. Why, was I never told? Why was I allowed to believe I was alone … a freak?
Wrenched away from my irritation, I feel something strong flow out of the Symboulio agent, as he begins to discuss his own family. "My father, aunt, and both of my cousins were members. The council, the Symboulio, took me away when I was very young. We are to watch your kind, and keep you from endangering humans. When one of you comes into a city with so many people, such as Athens … we call in the Symboulio hunters, and the Timoro, to remove the problem. The Timoro are like you; and they are very efficient at dispatching troublemakers.”
The more he speaks, the more apparent his accent becomes … also English. I would have pointed that out, but I was concentrating on his emotions and thoughts. When he mentioned his family, I sensed … grief. And when he said “Symboulio hunters”, another acute spasm overwhelmed his words … anger, intense anger. I look into his eyes, slowly and gently lifting my fingers to his cheek. The pain strikes me almost immediately, and then the words flow through our contact.
“They killed them … they killed them all.” I can feel his emotions trying to overtake my mind. His fear, pain, and sadness, threaten to become my own, but then a remembrance of Zuvan’s calm comes to my mind and I simply don’t let what I am sensing assault me. I feel sympathetic, and understand his pain, as if it was my own; but I don’t let it weaken my reasoning. I am relieved to confirm that I can control my reaction, without taking away anything from my grasp of the brutality in his feelings.
I focus and press further into his fear and sorrow. I can’t bring up any mental images, and have to fight the intensity the entire time ... I am definitely better suited to read Ho Thanatos.
I know this rage; I felt it while England was at war. The same sensation was there inside unnecessary deaths of those that I cared about. It was inside the battered minds of strangers, drawn together by tragedy. The irrational surrendering of life, to an enemy that tries to take away everything … I lost my human life to a time of fear. But is his anger and fear towards Ho Thanatos, or the Symboulio? I gently ask the question, and boldly hold eye contact until his gaze shifts to the floor.
Replying, “Both … I guess.” He shrugs his shoulders and almost looks like a heartbroken child being scolded for dropping his lollipop.
“What happened to you?”
When he looks back up at me, his eyes, and voice, have turned hard. “The Symboulio took me away from my mother when I was three, and shipped me to a private boarding school outside London. My cousins were sent to France. When I returned to Greece at fourteen, I found that both of my parents had passed away without notification or explanation. At first, I moved in with my aunt here, in Athens, and we were joined by my cousins a year later. The Symboulio were a constant influence in our lives, not a day went by when we weren’t following my aunt out on one kind of assignment, or another. As seers we were to watch your kind from afar and report back if we noticed any unusual behavior. When I was about eighteen my aunt called in the Symboulio over a young female, much like yourself, who had unfortunately found herself in Athens. The young one had settled into the middle of a festival, surrounded by people. We watched as she absorbed a glowing aura off every human that she touched.
My aunt became sick, ranting about ‘not another one.’ She ran off, and when she returned she had three Timoro following her. They were wearing dark cloaks to hide their shape, and if it wasn’t for the fact that they drifted a foot off the ground, and passed through solid objects, I would not have recognized them as your kind.”
“Was that the first time you had ever seen them?” I don’t have to read his feelings to understand the terror inside his memory of the Timoro.
“We were taught about them in school, and I remember my father using them as a nighttime ghost story to scare me. Seeing them for myself … well, they were beautiful, but at the same time bloody horrifying. Yes, that was the first time I saw them. And I watched, petrified, as they ripped apart the lovely young one … but instead of blood, she hemorrhaged light. Energy poured out of the cracks in her exquisite flesh: the brilliant blues, violets, and greens … I watched as she faded from our sight. And then, I retched all over the sodding ground.” He snickers bitterly and spits on the floor.
I focus on the fear, the overwhelming bitterness … and lift them away just enough to sense the guilt. “What happen after you witnessed her … death?”
“My aunt sent us home, and then she escorted the Timoro back to their meeting place. I hid until I was sure my aunt and the monsters were gone, and then I returned to the festival. I was curious as to what the young one was inflicting on the people … what was she doing that would have earned her a death sentence?"
"My hands were shaking when I reached the spot where she had disappeared. The people milling around me made the air feel stiff and corrosive. My breath caught in my throat and my heart started to jump, as I found the couple I watched the young one touch. They were talking about the odd sensation they had experienced a few minutes earlier. I was sure they were going to say that she was sucking their life away, how they felt terribly ill … but, that wasn’t it. They said that they were sure, something about the exact spot where I was standing, could make you feel, extremely content. They were trying to convince their friends to ask me to move so they could experience the elation …where something made you forget about all your worries. For just a small moment in life, they were blessed with the understanding of pure peace. They thought that they had witnessed a miracle.” I watch as a tear rolls down his face, and I can feel his heart breaking.
He continues with a forced tone to his voice. I think he knows that I am curious about why he is telling me so much …but I don’t ask. For whatever reason he needs me; he needs to tell his story, to attempt to remove this weight from his chest.
“At that very moment, I started to understand the flaws with my beliefs and upbringing. I still believe that there has to be law, order, and accountability for your kind … but I have issues with sadists handling the enforcement. The Symboulio intentionally appoint psychopaths as Timoro, delivering something similar to an army of barking mad, bloodthirsty murderers bent on carnage. They don’t ask questions … none of them. The Seers, Symboulio, Timoro … they just intimidate and kill. Intimidate those of us in the know, and kill your kind. I never asked to be in this association; and if I ever try to leave, I will end up like my family … stiff and forgotten. I will never deliberately take part in the destruction of your kind … not after watching an innocent one be torn apart. However, I’ve been taught, all too well, to hate and fear you … therefore I can’t allow you to stay.” Curiously there still isn’t hostility in his emotions, just a sense of unwavering certainty … if I wanted to live, I should leave.
I hear his words and understand what they are telling me, but his mind and emotions are conflicted. He does actually believe in the Symboulio’s cause, even though he hates their methods … that much is obvious. I am fascinated by his thoughts, comparing the Timoro to a serial murderer with an insatiable appetite, one who enters a war, in order to kill without drawing attention to their hunger. I nod, knowing he can see the motion and understand that I agree with his statement.
Looking into his eyes again, I ask, “Should I become solid while I leave, just in case there are any other Seers around?”
“I think that would be a wise idea; there are a total of ten Seers in Athens right now. We usually have anywhere from two to seven Seers in major cities at anytime. Athens is home to more than the average amount right now … discretion on your behalf would be best. Do you think you could find your way back out of the city without flying?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to find my way back to the club where you found me, much less find my way out of Athens. If you wouldn’t mind, I would really appreciate the assistance.”
He nods, distracted as he looks down at my feet. “I don’t quite understand what could possibly hurt you while you're solid, aside from certain abnormally rare Symboulio weapons. To be safe, we probably ought to find you some shoes.”
Shaking his head and wearing a gorgeous smirk, he motions for me to follow him out of the storage area, and back into the café. We turn left and continue up a hallway that leads to the loo, and the backdoor of the building. At first glance, I don’t notice the doorway on the right, until my guide turns on the light that illuminates a stairway. We silently climb the stairs, and he acts ignorant to my presence as he unlocks a heavy-looking door at the top of the landing. Inside I find that he has led me to his, sparsely yet elegantly furnished, apartment. It is obvious that he lives alone. I follow him into his bedroom, and sit down in a buttery-soft leather chair in the corner, all the while waiting for him to speak to me again. He stubbornly remains silent as he starts shuffling through boxes on the top shelf of his wardrobe.
Turning to look at me with a medium-size box in his hands, he says, “You may want to make yourself solid now, so that we can see if my cousin’s sandals will fit you.”
I close my eyes and focus on the sensation of my weight sinking into the lush leather. I let my nerve endings acknowledge each and every place where the chair touches my body, until I am completely aware of my solid form. When I open my eyes again, I blush a little at the expression on my observer's face. He still sees me as an abomination, but the wonder in his eyes is full of pure fascination. What a confusing dilemma he must be experiencing … inherited bigotry versus an enlightening phenomenon.
He steps forward and sits at my feet, placing the box down next to him. Opening the cardboard, the first thing to catch my eye is a thick layer of photographs. Pictures of this beautiful boy standing next to a slightly younger pair of siblings; their expressions are bursting with smiles, and I smile back at the two-dimensional faces. He clears his throat to attract my attention, and as I shift my gaze I notice a searching tilt to his head. He is watching me closely as I enjoy his pictures; and I feel another wave of grief and guilt pass through him as he roughly discards the photos from the box. Next, he picks up a small rag doll that has been cherished into tatters, and gently, almost lovingly, sets it down on top of the pictures. As he sifts through the rest of the contents, I notice there is a jumbled mixture of clothing, jewelry, and notes. He finds what he is looking for near the bottom of the box: an attractive pair of brown leather sandals, adorned with garnets. Pulling them out, he gingerly slips them on my feet … they fit almost perfectly, and I could swear I sense sadness in him as he lace them around my ankles.
Tuning into the source of his grief, I ask, “They passed away, too, didn’t they … your cousins, I mean?”
Nodding and avoiding my eyes, he says, “They followed me into the crowd that day at the festival. I didn’t know they were there until I heard Des gasp … when she realized we had watched the murder of an innocent, it destroyed a part of her. She was a lot like you; she was not only a seer, she could feel things, too. The lies we were raised to believe, ate away at her more than they did her brother and me. We became so much more than cousins after that day … we became secret keepers. Des eventually found she couldn’t hide her misery any longer … and with her brother at her side, she confronted the Symboulio. I never saw them again, and their sentence, their loss, killed my aunt. Now, I’m alone with only boxes full of memories that remind me … I had a family, once.”
I can feel the strings of so many other stories pulling at his memories of being a “secret keeper” … his private angst of knowing some conspiracies are indeed real. I don’t ask for details, I don’t need them … not since I can feel he is already in unfathomable pain.
“I’m sorry… I still don’t know your name? Mine is Ellie.” I try to sound casual; try to add a certain amount of civility to our unusual meeting.
“I don’t want to be your friend, Ellie. I don’t even know what in the bloody hell I’m doing talking to you at all. For Des, I will help you leave undetected, but I don’t want to know about you … and I don’t want you to know anymore about me. It will be best if we do not care for each other.”
I can’t hold back the acidic giggle that escapes my lips. How ironic that this boy feels the need to tell me his deepest, darkest secrets … me, his enemy: the only creature in his world that might understand his plight. “Well, Love, I hate to break it to you … but you and I are already chums. How else would you like to explain our relationship? I’m relying on your kindness and information, and you are talking to me because of a desperate need to confide in, and connect with, someone. We are in this together, so I would recommend dropping your tough front and accepting me. You never know, this peculiar bond we have created, might serve to save us both, in the end.”
A glimpse of shock flutters across his eyes in response to my tone of voice. Then comes the gorgeous smirk again as he begins nodding his head. “Dimitris, my name is Dimitris. I think that, perhaps, you are correct … if for no other reason than I should at least look as if I can tolerate your presence, as I escort you out of Athens.”
“You are impossible … absolutely, and inconceivably impossible.”
His smirk changes into a genuine smile, and I realize that I am not going to be able to continue faking irritation, as I smile back. “Thank you for allowing me to wear your cousin’s sandals; they truly are quite lovely.”
With a quick nod to acknowledge my gratitude, Dimitris speaks in a friendly manner, finally making, and holding, eye contact. “Well, we should try and get you out of town before anyone notices what you actually are.”
He moves with the same confidence as before, leading me out of the café and back onto the street. We decide to return to the area around the club where we met, in order to give me the opportunity to collect my bearings, and then we will move south toward the shore.
Out on the street we continue to converse, nothing in relation to what I am or who he is … just the simple small talk of friends. I keep asking him about the music, and the different instruments that sing throughout the city. We pass by a restaurant and I am drawn away from his side by the scent of a scrumptious treat … looking at the plate I try to figure out what it is. It sits on the dish like a very small head of cabbage, but I can’t smell the distinctive scent of cabbage. I’ve never been a fan of cabbage; too many stews as rations during the war, I guess. I can smell the different spices used in the meat and the leaves look as if they have been steamed: shiny and slick, with olive oil. Dimitris starts to snicker and surprises me by grabbing my hand and guiding me into the restaurant.
As we sit down and are presented with menus, both Dimitris and I decline the list of choices … I know what I want. Looking up at the waitress, I point to the plate that I was studying earlier, and ask if I could please try that. She nods and turns to Dimitris, I can understand enough Greek to know he is having the same.
After she walks away, I look mortified at my new friend, “Oh Dimitris … I don’t have any money.”
“That’s all right; it will be a pleasure to watch you eat for the first time in who knows how long.”
“I had eggs and blueberry biscuits just a little over a year ago, thank you very much.” I don’t add that they were dehydrated eggs cooked over a campfire … that didn’t matter, Christopher had made them for me, and I had loved every bite.
“Only a year? Cor, I thought you were much older than that.”
Blushing a little; I confess that those eggs were the first meal I’d had in almost seventy years. Dimitris’s laugh is rich and authentic as he repeats, “Yes, it will be a treat to watch you eat some real gourmet Greek food.”
“What are we having? I don’t think I recognized it … but it smells wonderful.”
“It is wonderful; dolmathakia is a Greek treasure, endeared as much as fish and chips, wrapped in the newspaper are in England. I ordered quite a bit more than what you saw on that other plate … we’re going to make a feast of it.”
He smiles as the plates are set in front of us, and I start to moan mmmm. Picking them up with a fork he explains what they are as he sets them on my plate. “The longer ones here are vegetable … stuffed with eggplant, zucchini, and tomatoes wrapped with tender, young grape leaves. These round ones have rice and seasoned, ground lamb. They’re both steamed with olive oil and lemon. Here, try dipping them in these … this one is unflavored yogurt, and this one is a mixture of egg and lemon sauce.”
I can’t speak because I am afraid I might start drooling … so I eat. I try everything, and decide I like the lamb and rice the best. Dimitris sits across from me with an amused expression, only nibbling on his small portion while he watches.
He continues studying me quietly until I completely clean off the plates, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone eat that much in one sitting. I think, perhaps, you need to bulk up like a bear before winter … you never know when you’re going to eat again.” He snickers at my lack of restraint, but I can feel a genuine calm settle over him as he jokes.
“Watch yourself, Dimitris; I think you might be starting to become fond of me.”
He smiles, “You do have an undeniable charm about you, Ellie. I don’t know if fond is the right word, but it is more than simple tolerance now.”
We finish our meal with a couple cups of sweet, creamy coffee, and a bit more small talk. He pays our bill, and as we start our walk south again, I notice a distinct change to our pace. Strolling slowly enough to look into the patios as we pass, Dimitris initiates conversation and leans into our exchange, at times, even brushing shoulders and arms. He is actually enjoying my company; and not surprisingly, I am taking pleasure in his as well.
After reaching the dance club, he asks if he can continue escorting me to the waterfront … to make sure I don’t get lost along the way. And then he laughs at his lame excuse, finally saying it is hard for him to openly admit that I was right; we are becoming chums, and it isn’t such a terrible thing.
As we start to leave the more densely occupied areas, our conversation begins turning to more secretive topics. In murmured tones, we move closer to each other, so that we can hear the other person speak without misunderstanding. I’m sure at that point, we look more reminiscent of a romantic couple than a guard ushering a criminal out of the city limits. I can feel the confusion flowing out of Dimitris every time his hand touches mine, and my breath blew across his neck as I whispered answers to his questions. He was bewildered, not over our intimacy, but because of the ease of his own acceptance of my friendship. These are the innocent movements shared between friends, but every touch seems as taboo as if we were forbidden lovers. I can hear the thoughts ringing through his mind with every contact … he hasn’t been this nervous and awkward around a girl since he was a teenager.
Finally deciding that his anxiety doesn’t have anything at all to do with the fact that I am female, he becomes certain that his unease is coming from the feeling that he is starting to care deeply, for an atrocity. He voices the conclusion to his internal dilemma in no more than a whisper, “They are wrong about your kind … not all of you are evil.”
“No, not all of us … but there are those that choose to use these gifts for chaos, and then revel in pain they cause.” My mind flips through the beings that I have encountered … James, V, and the horrible creature from Cassandra’s memory. Coming with those memories, dread threatens to break through my level demeanor.
“Ellie? You’re shaking, what’s wrong?”
“Monsters, Dimitris … nothing more than what I understood in life; there are monsters, but they are alive only in the souls of humans. Here in the world of Mortos and then passing into the world of Ho Thanatos, no matter what mask they wear to change their appearance … inside, they are still monsters.”
“I would have to agree with that, Ellie; but to hear you say the same thing as the Symboulio is a little disheartening. I think I would modify that idea to include that angels are in the hearts of humans also. If I accept that there are monsters, then I think it’s safe to believe that angels pass into the realm of Ho Thanatos as well. I like that name ‘Ho Thanatos’… very fitting, very appropriate.”
