The Oracle

A Story by Mr. Misanthrope

There lies a temple not too far from here. It is a sanctuary, surrounded by trees and broken rubble walls. It is a ruin, with strings of ivy wrapping around every pillar. And golden flowers with sweet smells grow. They are magical, and their juices can heal any mortal wound.

Astus made his way to the mountain. The higher he got, the more he felt like he were leaving the real world behind him. Strangely enough, the wind got warmer as he climbed, a soft, soothing breeze, ruffling his long brown locks. He came to a set of stairs, which winded up through the dark, ominous mountain. It began to rain, large drops of water mercillesly beating down on his body and the brown bag he was carrying. It was blessing him. He must have climbed for hours, and not a second passed when he was wondering who could have built such an ungodly passage.

Seeing the end of the stairs, marked by two large flaming pyres on either side, he overcame the last cobbled step, and stared, wide-eyed, at the structure that beheld him.

The building, known as the Temple of the Oracle, was so large and intricate that it certainly bore traits of divine intervention. Such a thing would have taken centuries to build by mere humans.

Pillars lined every area, tall and gray-white, shining the strong moonlight that only sought to make the structure beautiful.

Before he knew it, Astus had started to cry at the marvellous architecture. And then he walked towards it, climbing more steps, acre upon acre covered with greenery and shrubs and flowers. Large Romanian windows were carved into the walls, the size of giants, and vines entangled their way around the gothic-style bars.

As he approached the big metal doors of the god-like mansion, they opened of their own accord, to reveal an equally astounding atmosphere, of reflective marble floors, potted plants, small waterfalls, chandeliers, and fire pyres.

All was silent, except for the roaring flames of the lights and the sound of Astus' own footsteps on the floors, which seemed like such a shame to walk on. To AStus, this place was a proverbial museum, which he was now polluting.

Suddenly, the place got a little bit colder, and a clammy sensation spun around him.

"Welcome, Astus," said the voice of a woman. But there was no woman. None that Astus could see, anyway. But soon, the cold wind became more pronounced, and the swirling breezes materialised into the figure of a woman, shorter than Astus, her breasts exposed yet covered by long black layers of shiny hair, the rest of her body pale and enshrouded in white silk cloths.

And her eyes...oh, her eyes! They were dead white, yet they bore a god-like aura, and years of experience. And sadness...and death...

Her voice continued to resonate inside Astus' head, soft yet solid and commanding.

"Erm..." Astus faltered. He was gobsmacked by her entrance, and even further stunned by how beautiful she was.

"I have come --"

"I know why you have come, Astus." She knew his name. Of course she knew his name. She was the Oracle, after all.

"You have come to know. To see. To learn. Learn about your past, your future, and yourself. But hear this, mortal. The journey of knowing is no simple task. It will require you to test yourself, and then the Gods will answer."

"Test myself? How?"

"By becoming an Oracle."

A few seconds must ahve passed before AStus coul even contemplate what the Oracle had told him.

"An Oracle?"

"Yes. The Gods have informed me that your past is a complicated one, to say the least. Your future is now intertwined with the Gods. Become an Oracle, and you will be able to witness facts that cannot be seen by mortal eyes. Become an Oracle...and you will know."

"How do I become one?"

"Through a test of faith. You must cast yourself from the top of this mountain, in the full belief that the Gods will save you."

The Oracle must have known. It had been years since Astus ever believed in the Gods. He had never been good at spirital stuff.