the moonlight I would easily be able to spot the ruins, once I got to higher ground.
I reasoned that I had come ashore on the southeastern end of the island, "the back" of it relative to where we had stepped ashore earlier that morning. A tall hill loomed overhead as I walked on rubbery legs along the rocky shore. Probably the pinnacle of Kynthos, I thought. Well, I had no intention of climbing it in the shape I was in, especially not just to get my bearings. A few hundred yards north, I thought, and the hills would be lower. Then I would be able to climb over to the ruins and knock at the door of the archaeologists. The pamphlet said no one lived on the island, but I had seen houses near the museum for the archaeological staff. I was anxious to call my father. He may have begun searching for me already.
My watch had fallen off, and I had no idea what time it was.
For Tom, I held out little hope. But it was possible —just possible, I told myself—that he had been able to swim to shore. I clung to the hope to warm my shivering body.
The hill above me eventually dropped down and I turned inland. Miraculously—it was a night of miracles—I still had my sandals on. Nevertheless, I moved cautiously between shadows on the stony ground. Here there were tumbleweeds, sometimes rows of them that were difficult to circumvent, and soon my legs were scratched. Yet I almost welcomed the touch of the weeds because—
101
CHRISTOPHER PIKE
They belonged to Delos.
Yes, the farther I walked, the more I left behind the sea that had almost killed me, the more love I felt for the island. People would laugh if I told them she had saved me—Delos, the wandering star that shone in the night. I fantasized that Delos had moved while I slept in my tiny boat, a few feet, maybe a few hundred yards, to be sure to catch me before I drifted out to sea. Earlier, on my first visit to Delos, I had felt the unspoken welcome of the island. Now I experienced its actual embrace.
I crested the hill and looked down at the ruins in the moonlight.
The city was new.
I blinked. Nothing changed, although everything already had.
The city was alive.
People, beautiful creatures in long colored robes, walked among pillared walkways and sat upon marble chairs. Their long hair, gold and black and red, hung like shawls over their shoulders. They moved as if in a dream, or perhaps it was because I was in a dreamlike state. For I could not say how I felt at that moment. I should have been in shock. But I didn't register what I saw as real because I no longer felt human. I moved forward, toward them, wanting to be a part of them. Yet it was as if my feet no longer touched the ground. They floated and I drifted. I could vanish into space in an instant. It was good. I was in the right place at the right time. I was coming home to a place beyond space and time. A portion of my mind
102
THE IMMORTAL
Jeft me then, and a larger part of my soul entered the void.
I was whole again.
I was who I was.
I stepped into the city. The light was all around, the life of another time, the ancient Greeks, older even, much older, than the historians realized. The city was intoxicated. There was celebration; there was worship. There was an understanding that the gods were real, and could be pleased and give great fortune. I considered it my great fortune to enter the star of Delos.
I sat down on a smooth white seat.
Someone noticed me. Then another. They smiled joyfully, hopefully.
I closed my eyes and waited for them to come to me.
To serve me.
103
Chapter 8
Sryope was the daughter of Thalia, muse of Apollo, but her father was unknown. When Sryope was young she would inquire of her mother how she came to be without a father, and Thalia would only answer, "It's a mystery." As Sryope grew, she quickly gained reknown as Thalia's equal in composing prose and poetry. Often Sryope was invited to Olympus to entertain the immortals. But by the time she came of age, Olympus was
I reasoned that I had come ashore on the southeastern end of the island, "the back" of it relative to where we had stepped ashore earlier that morning. A tall hill loomed overhead as I walked on rubbery legs along the rocky shore. Probably the pinnacle of Kynthos, I thought. Well, I had no intention of climbing it in the shape I was in, especially not just to get my bearings. A few hundred yards north, I thought, and the hills would be lower. Then I would be able to climb over to the ruins and knock at the door of the archaeologists. The pamphlet said no one lived on the island, but I had seen houses near the museum for the archaeological staff. I was anxious to call my father. He may have begun searching for me already.
My watch had fallen off, and I had no idea what time it was.
For Tom, I held out little hope. But it was possible —just possible, I told myself—that he had been able to swim to shore. I clung to the hope to warm my shivering body.
The hill above me eventually dropped down and I turned inland. Miraculously—it was a night of miracles—I still had my sandals on. Nevertheless, I moved cautiously between shadows on the stony ground. Here there were tumbleweeds, sometimes rows of them that were difficult to circumvent, and soon my legs were scratched. Yet I almost welcomed the touch of the weeds because—
101
CHRISTOPHER PIKE
They belonged to Delos.
Yes, the farther I walked, the more I left behind the sea that had almost killed me, the more love I felt for the island. People would laugh if I told them she had saved me—Delos, the wandering star that shone in the night. I fantasized that Delos had moved while I slept in my tiny boat, a few feet, maybe a few hundred yards, to be sure to catch me before I drifted out to sea. Earlier, on my first visit to Delos, I had felt the unspoken welcome of the island. Now I experienced its actual embrace.
I crested the hill and looked down at the ruins in the moonlight.
The city was new.
I blinked. Nothing changed, although everything already had.
The city was alive.
People, beautiful creatures in long colored robes, walked among pillared walkways and sat upon marble chairs. Their long hair, gold and black and red, hung like shawls over their shoulders. They moved as if in a dream, or perhaps it was because I was in a dreamlike state. For I could not say how I felt at that moment. I should have been in shock. But I didn't register what I saw as real because I no longer felt human. I moved forward, toward them, wanting to be a part of them. Yet it was as if my feet no longer touched the ground. They floated and I drifted. I could vanish into space in an instant. It was good. I was in the right place at the right time. I was coming home to a place beyond space and time. A portion of my mind
102
THE IMMORTAL
Jeft me then, and a larger part of my soul entered the void.
I was whole again.
I was who I was.
I stepped into the city. The light was all around, the life of another time, the ancient Greeks, older even, much older, than the historians realized. The city was intoxicated. There was celebration; there was worship. There was an understanding that the gods were real, and could be pleased and give great fortune. I considered it my great fortune to enter the star of Delos.
I sat down on a smooth white seat.
Someone noticed me. Then another. They smiled joyfully, hopefully.
I closed my eyes and waited for them to come to me.
To serve me.
103
Chapter 8
Sryope was the daughter of Thalia, muse of Apollo, but her father was unknown. When Sryope was young she would inquire of her mother how she came to be without a father, and Thalia would only answer, "It's a mystery." As Sryope grew, she quickly gained reknown as Thalia's equal in composing prose and poetry. Often Sryope was invited to Olympus to entertain the immortals. But by the time she came of age, Olympus was
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