“So what really happened with Midas?”
Harpoc motions me forward with a nod of his head, and I think he’s again avoiding my question, and my temper ignites, but as we walk he says, “Long ago, the Phrygian people found themselves in chaos without a king. Civil unrest grew, and the kingdom found itself on the brink of a civil war.”
“Shit hit the fan.”
Harpoc’s only response is to pat the left breast of his duster several times, as we walk.
Odd.
“The people believed oracles were the mouthpieces of the gods, so they turned to one for guidance in appointing a new king from their midst.”
“Why’d it take them so long to get the skinny from an oracle? I mean why let things devolve that far?”
We’re halfway up the walk and Harpoc looks over at me. “I don’t know.”
Shut up, Pell.
Well Sor. Ree. I wave my hand, motioning Harpoc to continue.
“Midas was young, smart, and handsome, the son of a Phrygian farmer. He heard about that call for an oracle and got an idea. He sought her out, and after a few meetings and promises of food and more that would care for her every need on into the future, he bought her favor.”
“Political corruption strikes again. Solomon was right, there’s nothing new under the sun.” I sprinkle disdain in the words.
Harpoc doesn’t reply. I’m not surprised, although he knows only part of what I think about said topic.
The sound of our boots scuffing the hard stone echoes against the walls that rise on either side of the pathway, and I motion him on in his telling because we’re nearly to the doors and I want to hear the rest.
“Long story short, she told him to drive a wagon to a designated place and follow her lead. The oracle then appeared before the people claiming she’d heard from the gods and told them a wagon would bring them a king, who would put an end to their fighting.”
You’re joshing me.
“While the people deliberated the oracle’s word, Midas arrived with his father and mother and stopped near the assembly, wagon and all. Desperate to stop the civil unrest, the people decided this was the person the god told them the wagon would bring, and they appointed Midas king thus putting an end to the impending civil war.”
“The con-man king.” I shake my head. “Please tell me he was at least a good king.”
Harpoc doesn’t respond because we’ve reached the hulking doors and he’s hauling one open for us. My eyes struggle to adjust as we step inside.
The door’s echoing thud off the limestone blocks as it slides back in place sets my heart pumping a bit faster. I’ve been in my share of ancient, dark, cramped spaces, but something about this space doesn’t feel right, and my spidey senses tingle.
Maybe it’s Midas somewhere, and in a condition we don’t yet know—I swallow, hard—but I feel like something’s going to jump out and grab me.
Gold eye, silver eye.
When the rumble dissipates, it’s eerily quiet, and I’m not sure I like that any better because now I’m envisioning Silence of the Lambs where Hannibal Lecter says, “I drink your blood, I eat your flesh.” And later adds, “I ate his liver with some fava beans.”
Note to self, never watch horror movies again.
I instinctively reach for Harpoc’s hand and squeeze it tight, barely keeping fear at bay. He squeezes back, no doubt loving the skittishness that makes me lean on him. I can’t make out his expression, but if I were a betting gal…
We’ll allow dependency in a situation like this, Pell.
Thanks for permission. I roll my eyes at myself.
Even if it is with him. My inner voice isn’t cutting him any slack. Neither am I, but still…
My eyes finally adjust to the dim that small safety lights every thirty or forty feet create down the tunnel that stretches out before us into the heart of this burial mound. At least it’s not pitch-black; I’d really freak.
When will we run into the con king? I bite my lip.
Harpoc’s no doubt seen some pretty gnarly situations in his line of work over the eons, yet he’s also dreading it.
Don’t think about that, Pell.
How can I not? My pitch rises.
Harpoc tugs my hand, and I feel like a five-year-old being led to the slaughter, but I move forward.
“Is the story about Midas turning everything he touches to gold, true?” He’d said the ass’s ears wasn’t.
Harpoc just gives my hand a squeeze, and we continue forward.
Nothing will attack a god, right?
The sphinx and harpy did, Pell.
You’re not helping.
Despite it being straight, the tunnel takes longer to navigate than I expect due more to my boogie man paranoia probably than reality, but we eventually reach a hollowed out space whose ceiling rises maybe a foot higher than Harpoc is tall.
There’re more safety lights here, shining on a wall of hewn timbers that form a log cabin of sorts.
“That’s his burial chamber,” Harpoc says.
I nod. But it’s not the dry timbers, nor their earthy, mushroom smell that piques my attention. It’s the streaks of something shiny on the walls that make my stomach tense.
To me they look random, like a preschooler went nuts with a paintbrush. An art critic might say Monet or Renoir “had at it.”
The shiny smears start at the opening in the log cabin and randomly grace the length of the wooden wall, disappearing behind the cabin.
I drop Harpoc’s hand and follow them, holding my breath at what I’ll find, but unable to stop myself.
There’s another tunnel that begins
