Читать книгу Minos - Burt Weissbourd - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

Sara walked the wide corridor at her school, The Olympic Academy, frightened. There was great danger, she was sure of it. And none of the gods was listening. She ran her fingers across the never-to-be-touched Renaissance tapestry hanging on the Olympic Academy’s Italian stone wall. Maybe they were waiting, watching what she’d do.

At fifteen and a half, her face still showed traces of acne. It would be a beautiful face one day, she was often told, but it wasn’t so beautiful now, not to her anyway. She thought her face was scrawny and pasty, her features too delicate, too weak.

Her willowy body was changing, every day it seemed, and the one good thing was that her breasts had gotten big enough to notice. Her black hair with its shiny red streaks was good too, she had to say. She kept it cut short, so it wouldn’t get in her way. Sara fingered the sharp points on her spiked leather collar. More and more, she liked sharp things. And she liked the way the silver looked with the black clothes she wore.

The bathroom was quiet, set back at the midpoint of the hallway. Inside, Sara checked the stalls, then locked the bathroom door. The room was small, only two stalls, but there was a big open space, big enough, anyway. She double-checked that the door was locked. Making sure. The door was oak, Zeus’s wood, which was good. She rubbed the door, calling on Zeus, the thunderer, to help her. She carried a bulging canvas shoulder bag, which she set in the sink before checking herself out in the mirror.

With the double-edged blade of her ancient dagger, her Athame, Sara scratched a circle in the hardwood floor. A magic circle, it would keep her safe. Then, in the circle, a five-pointed star. Sara liked how, as she carved, the black wooden handle stayed steady in her hand. She lay her Athame on the oak floor near the edge of her circle. At each of the points of the star, she set a candle. She took three more candles from her worn canvas shoulder bag, and, deliberately, Sara set two on the windowsill and one on the shelf in front of the mirror. When the candles were lit, she took her bag and stood in the center of the circle.

From her bag, she took a vial of water. Pointing her first and second fingers at the water, she said, “I exorcise thee, creature of water, by the living God.” Then she lifted the vial of salt, and pointing her fingers she went on, “I exorcise thee, creature of earth.” Then, casting the salt into the water, “Grant that this salt may make for health of body and this water for health of soul, and that there may be banished from the place where they are used every power of adversity and every illusion and artifice of evil.” And then, sprinkling the water around her circle, “In the Name which is above every other name, I exorcise all influences and seeds of evil…” When Sara was finished, she set down the salt and the water, safe now, in her circle, ready to begin. She lowered her head, hoping against hope that this time, she’d find a way to reach Theseus. She had to—yes, she had to—she knew that much.

From the floor, Sara raised her Athame above her head. Softly she whispered, “I am the priestess, the vestal virgin. I pray to the Oracle of Apollo, the serpent slayer. I must find Theseus. I need him now. I call on the Oracle to help me find him. I need him now…” From her bag she took a vial of wine, honey, chopped cheese and meal—her homemade ambrosia, the divine nectar of the gods. She drank it down, letting it run down her chin, her neck, as she called, “Blue-haired Poseidon, master of ships and stallions, you who sired him, lead me to Theseus. I call on Theseus. The Beast is rising. I need him now…” As she called, Sara twirled, dancing in ever-widening circles, her Athame held high.

Lost in her magical dance, Sara twirled and twirled, arms above her head, whispering, “Sacred Oracle of Apollo, lord of the silver bow, I pray you help me find Theseus…” She was repeating Theseus’ name for a third time when her Athame hit a candle on the windowsill. The candle, which was set in a small glass container, fell against the green and red paisley curtain. The fire was instantaneous. As Sara chanted and twirled, the curtain ignited, from sill to ceiling. Sara turned on the water in the sink, splashing it with her hands toward the smoke and flames. The wooden wall behind the curtains was blackening now. As she hurried to fill a glass with water, the smoke alarm on the ceiling went off—a deafening, incessant shriek. Sara shrunk to the floor, hands over her ears, chanting, “Theseus, hear me now. I need you. I call you now. The Beast is rising. I summon you. I cannot stand alone…

When they broke down the door, Sara was in her circle, still chanting. Tears spilled down her cheeks. The point of her Athame was stuck in the floor, at the center of her circle. The wall had caught fire, and smoke covered the ceiling. When the fire was finally out, Owen Sentor, the acting dean at the Olympic Academy, quietly asked, “Sara, what are you doing?”

Sara dried her tears with the shiny black sleeve of her jersey. “Summoning the Oracle,” she replied, still scrunched up on the floor.

“I beg your pardon?” His left eyelid was twitching, just barely. Little red spots were starting to show on the left side of his face.

“There’s danger. I need help.” She took a slow breath. “I can’t reach Theseus. I thought Apollo’s Oracle might help.”

“Sara, this is a school restroom. This is not Delphi.”

She raised her head. “Don’t I know it. They pay attention at Delphi.”

***

Half an hour later Sarah was still in Dean Sentor’s waiting room, wondering what it would take to make her magic work. The witchcraft, which was new to her, was necessary, she thought, because there was danger, especially at school. And today, she felt it more than ever. In her magic circle, she was safe and could do her work. The real work though—and this part she just knew in the way she knew certain things, which was all the way to the marrow of her bones—was contacting Theseus. She’d reached the Oracle before, and she was certain Poseidon would help if he could. After all, he was Theseus’ father. One of them, anyway. Still, she couldn’t even find him. And no one was helping. Maybe Poseidon, the storm maker, was angry. If he was, she’d have to figure out why. Perhaps the Oracle would help her choose the proper sacrifice. She didn’t think she could kill a goat or a lamb though.

She crossed her long legs, adjusting her position on the hard, waiting-room couch. With her finger, she traced the pentagram tattooed on her ankle. She smelled something sweet—chocolate, a candy bar, she thought—and found a piece of a Snickers squished between the cushions. She decided to leave it where it was.

Sara was thinking how she’d try reaching the Oracle again after school, in Interlaken Park—how she’d cast a circle at her special spot—when her father arrived. Dr. Jim Peterson was in a hurry. He walked in with his silver-haired head held high and a friendly smile.

He hugged her after he came in. “What’s up?” he asked his daughter.

“I needed help. I tried to reach the Oracle and find Theseus.”

“Where?”

“In the school bathroom.”

“Where?”

“You know, the little unisex one off the main hall.” Her thin eyebrows angled down. “I locked the door.”

“You couldn’t wait?” Jim took an inhaler from his pocket, anticipating.

“I was scared.”

He put his arm around her. “Honey, we agreed you’d do this on your own time.”

Sara shrugged. “It gets worse.”

Her father made a how-could-it-get-worse face. He took a burst from his inhaler, timing it in the way that only came from long experience with breathing difficulties.

“You see I cast a protective spell, to be safe while I was looking for him. So I lit my candles and made this really nice circle with my Athame. Anyway, when I was really—you know—into it, almost ready, I knocked over a candle, and the curtains caught fire.”

“Sara—” Jim caught himself, took deliberate breaths, as the door to Owen Sentor’s office opened. “Hello, Owen,” he said, raising his head.

“Jim,” Owen nodded, grim-faced. “Please come in.” He held open the door to his cluttered office. Owen motioned for them to sit on his old corduroy couch. “I’ll get right to the point,” he explained. “I’m asking Sara to take some time off—”

“Suspended? Are you—?”

Her father put a hand on her arm, shushing her.

“Sara, you need help. Professional help. When you’ve gotten it, we’ll talk about how you might become part of the community again.” Owen looked at her. “I’m sorry, Sara, but we’ve done what we can. Now it’s up to you. Do you have anything to say?”

Sara stood. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at her dean. “May the wrath of mighty Poseidon, the earth-shaker, make your days long and filled with shame.” She raised her middle finger as she walked out his door.

Jim raised his inhaler to his mouth again.