The Priestess Of Delphi

THE PRIESTESS OF DELPHI A Corporate VP Learns a Lesson A Fiction Story by Joe Cappello [email protected]

©Joe Cappello 2009

THE PRIESTESS OF DELPHI It was a dream, but I couldn’t be sure. It was more like being half awake, a time when you are most confused and unsure about where you are and what is taking place around you. It happened the day I chewed out my assistant for omitting an important piece of information from our marketing plan and after I fired one of our customer service people. It wasn’t exactly her fault, but there was a major problem with a customer and, well, someone simply had to go. That’s when I encountered time I could not tell and a place I couldn’t exit despite numerous attempts to do so by closing my eyes and shaking my head from side to side. But it was no use. I couldn’t quit the place, which seemed to be some sort of cave, only not as authentic, more like one of those cheesy attractions at a road house stop in the desert. The walls were made of darkness, the ceiling, the deep blue you see at night when a storm is approaching. The ground was bumpy and hard on the souls of the feet. I approached an open area and saw three shadows, which became clearer with the help of the blue light above. A light fog hung in the air and smelled like a clothes iron after steaming out a wrinkle. It seemed to emanate from a large boulder in the center of the space that was flattened on top to make a table. The three were taking their places around this structure as I came nearer. The woman in the center was tall and black, her back as straight as a cliff’s her shoulders broad and noble. High cheekbones were surrounded by black flowing hair that fell on her shoulders and down her back. All three women wore white robes that hung from their shoulders to their feet. When you looked in the tall one’s dark eyes, you saw a priestess of sorts, a holy woman blessed with some kind of divine ennobling that she was charged with

passing on to all sorts of miscreants in the world, I, no doubt, included. Perhaps that is why I am here. She is charged with punishing me, I thought, by dashing my head against the rock table with the help of the two women. Or, to cleanse me by lashing me to the table and turning up the steam like the pressing table at the dry cleaners. I braced for the worst as I stopped at my side of the table. I expected responses to my questions about how, why and where, without even having to ask them. But they stood there, the tall black woman in the center, the two others on either side of the table. Their faces were expressionless, their bodies motionless, planetary objects armed only with the knowledge of their relationship to each other at an otherwise vacant point in a cold and endless universe. The priestess sat behind the table on a smaller rock fashioned into a chair. As I watched her straighten the robes around her, I could see the surface of the table. It was made of gray and scraggily rock, sandy-rough to the touch, with fissures as wide as several inches in spots. This is where the fog seemed to emanate. She placed her hands lightly on the surface, lowered her head and leaned over the cracks, as though about to say a prayer. She closed her eyes and began to breathe in and out slowly, her immense bosom rising and falling in time to the filling and emptying of her lungs. I took her two charges at first to be assistants, but they began to function more like counterparts. They flanked the priestess and sat down on either side of her. One, a short woman with mousy features and golden hair, covered the priestess’ left hand with her right and placed the other one down on the rock table. She also closed her eyes and began a rhythmical breathing. The second woman, a

black woman with strong features and a thin, muscular body, did the same thing to the right of the priestess. I wanted to speak but feared it would be more of a shout. (At work, I’m a vice president and not used to being the one in the room who is ignored). But I became engrossed at the sight of these three women, hands touching and eyes closed, breathing in unison. I leaned closer from my vantage point across from the women, turning my head to one side so that I could better hear their rhythmic inhaling and exhaling. I scanned their faces, one to the other, then back again, then individually, focusing on each but could not see any distraction or interruption in their simple but consistent routine. Suddenly the priestess opened her eyes, the white parts shining like moons in the darkness. Her face betrayed a half smile, part mischievousness, part excitement. She slowly extended her arms as she looked around the table and then thrust them straight in the air. She was smiling now, a full blown aura of cheer and joy shining on her face. “Come,” she said, “come and dance with me.” We all instinctively stood up, I unsure, the other two more certain of what was to come. The priestess was on her feet now stretching her arms to her side, then behind her. She began to sway in time to an unheard musical breeze. The other two women picked up the cue and began doing the same. I stood with hands suspended at my sides, unsure of what to do. The movements of the women were slow and sultry; the hips of the priestess seemed capable of suspending a hoola hoop in motion indefinitely. She smiled broadly at the others as she began to sing. “When a girl changes from bobby socks to stockings,” she crooned in a perfect vibratory falsetto. “And she starts trading he baby toys for boys.”

I was stunned. In an instant the other women joined in, singing the lyrics to some profoundly inane 1950’s pop rock tune that should have never seen the light of a billboard chart. But, here it was, in all its incongruity and absurdity echoing off the unseen walls of this space; I pursed my lips unable to hide my distaste. As the song gathered momentum, I had the urge to join in, not for any enjoyment , but merely to impress the trio that I, too, knew something of their magic. “When that once shy little sleepy head,” my voice was sand paper on sheet rock, “learns about love and its lilt. You can bet that the change is more than from cotton to silk.” The note went up at that point, but my voice went flat despite my best effort to stay as close to key as possible. Still, I managed to belt out the first verse and despite being hampered by a set of vocal chords that mercilessly cracked a word now and then, I managed to keep up with the group. As we sang the second verse, we began dancing around the table. It was like one of those conga lines at a sales meeting, only without the alcohol. I wasn’t sure what to do at first, but then they showed me. The mousey one placed a hand on her hip and extended the other arm straight out. She bent in the direction of her outstretched arm. “Teapot,” I shouted, remembering a similar song from my kindergarten days, as I poured more tea than booze at a company function. The muscular one began extending her arms in long, broad strokes. “The swim.” I said. She smiled as I imitated her motion. We circled the table so many times that I lost count, singing the bobby socks song over and over again. If I forgot a word, they would help me. The more I watched, the easier it was to follow their lead. It was effortless, like floating on a cloud, only the cloud did all the work.

“If a miss wants to be kissed instead of cuddled. And to this you are in doubt as what to say.” The voice of the priestess was a smile transformed into sound, as she spun around and looked at the other women as they did likewise. I also tried my hand at pirouetting but mousey lady had to steady me so I wouldn’t fall and hit my head on the rock table. I sensed a big finish as we all leaned into the table. We sang loudly: “When a girl changes from bobby socks to sto-o-ckings, then she’s old enough to give her heart…” We all paused, our heads close to each other, giggling, urging one another to be quiet, even though we were collapsing into laughter. The priestess showed her sparkling white teeth as she looked from the muscular one, to the mousey one, then at me. Her stare opened my heart and left me breathless. As I broke into uncontrollable sobs, the others sang slowly and sweetly the last word of the song... “….away!”