The Small Town of Evermore - Chapter 2

Ah, Athens, Athens! What is there to be said about Athens?

Enter the city, unknown traveller! Rest, eat, bathe, and make yourself comfortable. Athens is no different to your home. Feel at ease, for you are at the heart of the state of Greece, divided now but which will be united at an age after our deaths.

The market is east of the Acropolis; the trade station is west. The way to the Aegean is to the north of the Acropolis; the way to Sparta is south. The temple? The temple is on the top of the Acropolis, and also our books, our scholars and our priests.

Acropolis of Athens, Aventine of Rome and Paris of France: these places hold the start of Freedom in Europe. Perhaps the oldest democracy started in Athens; Pericles started their Golden Age. Rome, after Aegean took his revenge on Greece and Romulus raised by Lupa, took after the tyrants of Greece, but the Aventine held plebeian hope and saw the will of the Common People. Paris, Paris of France, a beautiful and begrimed city, gave rise to the First Republic, in which all referred to one another as the familiar tu and proud citoyen instead of the distant vous. Isn’t it the modern Athens?

What more is the Acropolis besides the protector of our people? It is the symbol of our Athenian pride: see yonder, the white dome of marble, sparkling in the sunlight, and the sundial on the top swinging its shadow around as the sun bears itself down? See yonder, the temples vibrant with only two shades, rippling white and regal gold, both on Athena in her dwelling on Gaia, and on the robes of the scholars.

Ah, yes, the scholars! As Zeus bade the Acropolis rose in altitude as the arena for the competition of his brother and his daughter, similarly elevated were the minds of those who lived upon the hill.

The minds of those living below the hill were filled with thoughts of common life, of pleasure, of beauty, and those are all noble pursuits, but the minds of the scholars pondered different questions. Socrates was put to death by the democracy of the common people because his mind was elevated beyond their grasp. Plato believed that all knowledge originated from the love of geometry and that all we saw were simply the shadows of a fire. Aristotle admired the Man of Arts and Poetics gave poets a guide to their work. Demosthenes warred against Alexander the Great by tongue and won. Archimedes of Sicily found his refuge in the beauty of the circle, the curve, the sphere. Pythagoras found his in the rigid angles of geometry and shapes. They held the torch of light, of knowledge, of order. Their minds conversed with the heavens, uncovering the long-buried truths from a previous existence. Their heads held high, they observed the sun, the moon, the stars, the patterns of the Gods, and they stooped to see the ants, the grass, the rivers, the creatures of nature. But most of all, they looked outwards at their fellow humans, and they looked inwards at themselves, their hearts, their minds. Regal gold and pure white, these colours reigned upon the Acropolis.

They were like plotters in a cave. No - prisoners of the cave indeed. One sees only dark shadows climbing, writhing, crawling furtively up the craggy mountain veins. One sees only the dim fluttering of the belt of a Greek robe. One only sees the shadows disappear inside the black void of a cave only these shadows know are there. One does not see what happened inside that void.

There they sit, like the believers of a secret religion, secret, unmoving, masked in their robes. At last, the footsteps of a particular individual sound, muffled, upon the sandy rocks. The figures stir. The figure brings with it a glow as if it is Apollo having come from above, walking secretly in the night, with the fires of the Sun still burning within.

Ah, there is nothing supernatural after all - it is the candle that she carries, hidden in the many folds of her dress. The candle is brandished, and the flame trembles in the presence of these beings, faces uncovered, eyes peering deeply, hungrily into the depths of the flame, enamoured by the light.

The candle is brought close; closer; closest - and finally, as a whip cracks upon the flank of a horse, it catches onto the twigs of a torch, and up leapt, ripped, tore a fire in the middle of the cave! Yes, tore! It tore itself free of the shadowy darkness of the ground, out of the dust, out of the confines of the geometric twigs. Out it comes, up it grows out of the smooth beacon, and away it spreads, coating the caves with the blessings of Prometheus.

And in that second the candle lit the torch, the scholars widened their eyes, and they were kindled with the Flame Eternal. Their tired eyes gained a spark of alertness, and it spread through their whole body, coating them with a layer of golden hue, coating them as if it had coated the girl who presented them with the candle.

They finally could see the regal face of the One who carried the gift of Prometheus and the blessings of Apollo; the One who had taken this knowledge and stored it away from those who would dare destroy it, One who had mastered this knowledge and was determined to let the flame burn on instead of burn away.

Her hair was that of Apollo, golden curls that stretched down to her waist and shone like gold - nay, gold dirties the fingers of those who touch it - call it knowledge, yes, call it sunlight, better, call it order, and you see the essence of her being. She was Order itself, she was Knowledge personified, she was the solid streak of Sunlight that so viciously destroyed Icarus but so gently prodded the growth of plants and the development of enlightenment.

Her cold blue eyes were those of Hyacinthus, accustomed to appreciating her own figure for there was none so knowledgeable and awake as herself, and yet contained the deep strength of Poseidon, and the detached, judgemental gaze of Athena. She was the speaker for these Beings on the mortal ground, their mouthpiece for preaching, their informant who stirred up the golden storm of freedom upon a land that dared not rise.

Her robe was a fabric sewn from parts of yellowed goatskin upon which were jotted notes of an ancient tongue, remnants of lost scriptures of philosophy and pristine drawings of figures of geometry and the natural world. The lower rim was dipped in humanity, gently diffusing her dress with a shade of brown, yet her sandalled feet were clean from walking the rocky ridges of the Acropolis.

She, you see, she is our Goddess of Order! Our Goddess of Virtue! Our Goddess of Liberty!

Hail Liberty!

···

What one has always to worry about in a foreign city is the matter of lodging. Even Plato had to worry about where to stay in Cephalus’s house. Julius Caesar had to search for a spot to set down his tent. Louis XVI was captured back to the Tuileries because he couldn’t find a place to stay. So it was to the great delight of both when they entered the town on foot, having hailed away the driver, and was immediately hailed by a girl’s purple bandana, while its owner sat upon a stone wall and kicked her legs.

“Monsieur Émile et Mademoiselle Gabriel Romain?” She called, voice high and sharp like a cat’s. Then she caught herself, “Non, citoyen et citoyenne Romain?”

“Oui,” they both answered.

The girl laughed and jumped down from the wall, “Welcome, travellers, to Evermore!”

She spread her arms and walked backwards like a proud master of her house - and indeed, as the doorkeeper of Evermore, she had done this many times.

Gabrielle Romain laughed with the girl and spread her arms in the same fashion, embracing the mountains and the cold winter air, “Thank you for your hospitality, Evermore, and for greeting us with a gatekeeper who greets us with such joy!”

The girl grinned back, her amethyst eyes glittering in the light reflected by the snow, “I am Floria, fortune-teller of Evermore.”

Émile smiled, seemingly a little shy of the familiarity Floria and Gabrielle conversed with. He walked in the back as the two friends scampered ahead, talking and engaging in uproarious laughter as if they had known each other for many years. Floria's small frame bobbed up and down in that specific gait particular to children when they meet people they are interested in. Gabrielle's hair had freed itself from its tight braid and scattered across her shoulders in a golden waterfall, causing Floria to stare with mock jealousy and amazement. At the end of the pebble path, they came upon a wide snow-mottled road that stretched across from the very east to the very west. They crossed that road, while Floria hailed a thick-coated figure who the snow as Mére Neige.

They walked on and the sky lightened.

Dawn and dusk, though similarly marked by the movement of the sun about the mountains, are two events that are drastically different in their comings and goings. Sunsets are red, purple, yellow, gold, or any shade that brings joy to the heart, with a sense of immaculate tragedy and endings. The rich saturated colours are stirring to the extent that they draw tears from the youngest of the human race and bring comfort and companionship to the old.

Sunrises are just a faded yellow that springs from greyish-dark blue to the unobservant. But if one wakes early and sits on one’s porch and looks out towards the sky and the mountains, one sees the sun reaching out from the mouth of the mountains, springing out from despair and bringing hope and spring. It is unable to be told by mouth - one cannot explain to another how one is struck suddenly by the simple colours of Dawn.

Although Émile recognised the beauty of Dawn, he could not enjoy it then and there, for sometimes the matters of life overcast the beauty of nature.