Echoes

Taking a break from his studies, Thomas travels to Greece to more fully understand the origin of western culture. In Delphi, he meets a young Mexican actress named Lucia who performs for him—in Spanish—a scene from Euripides’s Electra. Lucia’s talents exceed mere acting; sometimes she hears voices, seemingly echoes from the distant past. Thomas enlists the aid of a brilliant high school chum to help unravel the mystery of these “voices”. The three of them continue their travels through Greece, eventually joined by a young Jesuit who turns out to have an agenda of his own.
Echoes is now available as an e-book
and paperback from Amazon.
The Opening Chapter

IT STRUCK YOUNG Thomas like a bolt of lightning—the fact that a long dead Roman poet could speak to him as if he were sitting in the same room.
Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love,
and all the words of the old, and so moral,
may they be worth less than nothing to us!
Who was this irascible man? Lusty, frantic, vitriolic and humorous all in one. How could it be that Catullus’s world was so much like his own? Full of hypocrites, frustrations, desire, and unrequited love. The implications were huge. Till this moment, Thomas had thought this a description only of his world.
Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours
would be enough and more to satisfy me.
As many as the grains of Libyan sand . . .
or as many as the stars, when night is still,
gazing down on secret human desires. . . .
Oh, yes! And so many kisses did Thomas dream of too when he thought of svelte Monica sitting directly in front of him in history class. Oh, Monica of the volleyball court! Oh, Lesbia!
Fundamentally people did not change—this was the extraordinary lesson Latin class had entrusted to Thomas. On the one hand, this realization depressed him because so much of human nature seemed in dire need of change. On the other hand, it opened up whole new dimensions of potential brotherhood. New friends—even soul mates—were now available across the great expanse of human history. In a very fundamental way, they all spoke the same language!
“Thomas?” his Latin teacher asked. “Thomas, are you still with us?”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, almost knocking over his mug of coffee. “I must have been—” Daydreaming, he was about to say, but why state the obvious? “You want me to translate the next line?”
“If you would be so good.” Mr. Gladstone smiled. He wore glasses, had thinning hair, and his goatee was peppered with grey. Of all the teachers at Paul M. Marston high school, Mr. Rupert Gladstone was the most professorial. He even had a residual English accent. This clinched it for Thomas, catapulting Mr. Gladstone into a category apart. Good god, he even let his graduating students bring coffee into class!
Thomas was among just a dozen students taking Grade Thirteen Latin. The very fact that they were there at all—instructor as well as students—marked them as eccentric, even oddities. After all, why would one waste one’s time studying a long dead language? When they could take German or physics or . . . But there they were, each of them, for reasons arcane and personal, and together, like members of a secret cabal, they searched for treasure.
. . . that moment
I see you, Lesbia, nothing’s left of me . . .
but my tongue is numbed, and through my poor limbs
fires are raging, the echo of your voice
rings in both ears, my eyes are covered
with the dark of night.
Since Grade Nine, Thomas had tried a little bit of everything. He did some cross-country running. He worked on the school literary paper. He had established himself as something of a poet, learned to play the guitar, even wrote a few songs that friends claimed reminded them of Phil Ochs. But what distinguished him most (in his own mind at least) was the fact that he studied Latin:
Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris . . .
Virgil’s dactylic hexameter echoed in Thomas’s head: heroic deeds, battles, treacheries—vasto vastare—and the misadventures of the Olympian gods. It was a boisterous world, at once both far and near.
“So, Mr. Gladstone, would you say that Roman culture pretty much adopted Greek culture wholesale?”
Earlier, Thomas had asked this same question of the class’s resident genius, Daniel Porter. Thomas was eager to compare answers.
Mr. Gladstone nodded sagely, took his time, sipped from his coffee. His eyeglasses fogged up briefly. “Well, Thomas, the short answer would be, yes. If you really want to understand the Roman mind, you have to start with the Greeks.”
It was this simple statement, confirming Daniel’s opinion, that set Thomas on his journey. If Greek had been offered at Paul S. Marsden, he would have enrolled in it straightaway. But he could study Greek on his own, for Thomas knew—even at seventeen—that being the highly visual person he was, he would have to “see” for himself. He would have to witness firsthand the beginnings of western culture. To see the birthplace of Lesbia. To see where drama was born, to see the naked marbles that came to define female beauty—all of that and more. University could wait.
Mr. Gladstone’s Latin students could hardly be characterized as practical. It was doubtful any of them would become mechanics, dentists or accountants—although who knew what Daniel would decide? But Thomas was at least practical enough to know it would serve him better to learn modern Greek than classical. Though in fact, he tried to do both. He bought the necessary books and tapes. Over and over, for half a year, he mumbled to himself in his bedroom phrases like: Poo eeneh ta arkaya? Where are the ruins? And a hundred other phrases he thought might come in handy. . . .
Still, his mother argued, shouldn’t he get his degree first?
Let us live, my Lesbia, let us love,
and all the words of the old, and so moral,
may they be worth less than nothing to us!
Who was this irascible man? Lusty, frantic, vitriolic and humorous all in one. How could it be that Catullus’s world was so much like his own? Full of hypocrites, frustrations, desire, and unrequited love. The implications were huge. Till this moment, Thomas had thought this a description only of his world.
Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours
would be enough and more to satisfy me.
As many as the grains of Libyan sand . . .
or as many as the stars, when night is still,
gazing down on secret human desires. . . .
Oh, yes! And so many kisses did Thomas dream of too when he thought of svelte Monica sitting directly in front of him in history class. Oh, Monica of the volleyball court! Oh, Lesbia!
Fundamentally people did not change—this was the extraordinary lesson Latin class had entrusted to Thomas. On the one hand, this realization depressed him because so much of human nature seemed in dire need of change. On the other hand, it opened up whole new dimensions of potential brotherhood. New friends—even soul mates—were now available across the great expanse of human history. In a very fundamental way, they all spoke the same language!
“Thomas?” his Latin teacher asked. “Thomas, are you still with us?”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, almost knocking over his mug of coffee. “I must have been—” Daydreaming, he was about to say, but why state the obvious? “You want me to translate the next line?”
“If you would be so good.” Mr. Gladstone smiled. He wore glasses, had thinning hair, and his goatee was peppered with grey. Of all the teachers at Paul M. Marston high school, Mr. Rupert Gladstone was the most professorial. He even had a residual English accent. This clinched it for Thomas, catapulting Mr. Gladstone into a category apart. Good god, he even let his graduating students bring coffee into class!
Thomas was among just a dozen students taking Grade Thirteen Latin. The very fact that they were there at all—instructor as well as students—marked them as eccentric, even oddities. After all, why would one waste one’s time studying a long dead language? When they could take German or physics or . . . But there they were, each of them, for reasons arcane and personal, and together, like members of a secret cabal, they searched for treasure.
. . . that moment
I see you, Lesbia, nothing’s left of me . . .
but my tongue is numbed, and through my poor limbs
fires are raging, the echo of your voice
rings in both ears, my eyes are covered
with the dark of night.
Since Grade Nine, Thomas had tried a little bit of everything. He did some cross-country running. He worked on the school literary paper. He had established himself as something of a poet, learned to play the guitar, even wrote a few songs that friends claimed reminded them of Phil Ochs. But what distinguished him most (in his own mind at least) was the fact that he studied Latin:
Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris . . .
Virgil’s dactylic hexameter echoed in Thomas’s head: heroic deeds, battles, treacheries—vasto vastare—and the misadventures of the Olympian gods. It was a boisterous world, at once both far and near.
“So, Mr. Gladstone, would you say that Roman culture pretty much adopted Greek culture wholesale?”
Earlier, Thomas had asked this same question of the class’s resident genius, Daniel Porter. Thomas was eager to compare answers.
Mr. Gladstone nodded sagely, took his time, sipped from his coffee. His eyeglasses fogged up briefly. “Well, Thomas, the short answer would be, yes. If you really want to understand the Roman mind, you have to start with the Greeks.”
It was this simple statement, confirming Daniel’s opinion, that set Thomas on his journey. If Greek had been offered at Paul S. Marsden, he would have enrolled in it straightaway. But he could study Greek on his own, for Thomas knew—even at seventeen—that being the highly visual person he was, he would have to “see” for himself. He would have to witness firsthand the beginnings of western culture. To see the birthplace of Lesbia. To see where drama was born, to see the naked marbles that came to define female beauty—all of that and more. University could wait.
Mr. Gladstone’s Latin students could hardly be characterized as practical. It was doubtful any of them would become mechanics, dentists or accountants—although who knew what Daniel would decide? But Thomas was at least practical enough to know it would serve him better to learn modern Greek than classical. Though in fact, he tried to do both. He bought the necessary books and tapes. Over and over, for half a year, he mumbled to himself in his bedroom phrases like: Poo eeneh ta arkaya? Where are the ruins? And a hundred other phrases he thought might come in handy. . . .
Still, his mother argued, shouldn’t he get his degree first?