It was no exhaustion of nerves from indulging in trance and supernatural sight. It was agony of mind.
Apollo had not killed her! This was her chief grievance. The mighty Immortal had allowed her to contemn his shrine, to deceive his questioners. Yet he did nothing—and continued to do nothing. What sort of a god was he?
And the Athenians had gone joyously home with their oracle. So the old temple dame had told her. They were treasuring it as the word of the god. They were acting upon it. The whole city was moved in effort to understand and fulfil the sacred words, Theria’s words!
She laughed hysterically.
She could talk to no one of what she had done. The oracle must remain to help the Athenians as best it could.
And what of all the oracles, age long, multitudinous, the pride and wonder of her childhood? Were they all like this—fraud and deception?
This thought beat down Theria’s spirit as with strokes of a sledgehammer.
“No—no—no,” she would say aloud.
Those oracles had helped the poor—they had punished the wrong-doer, they had founded colonies and controlled states. And surely Aristonikè had genuinely felt the god-possession. Had it not wrecked her, body and mind? But the doubt remained, tormenting all the golden preciousness of all the reverences of her life.