ASKLEPION RETURN TO SELF

He stood at the main entrance of the Asklepion Healing Temple. He gripped the book made from animal skin that he had borrowed from the library a few days earlier. After Egypt banned papyrus exports, the king of Pergamon had developed this material to expand the library.

A wide courtyard lay beyond the gate. Attendants were greeting patients around the oval reception desk, and priests were speaking with families. Before making his way through the people waiting their turn, he tried to catch his breath.

The sunlight reflected off the white marble and hurt his eyes. He rubbed them, crossed the gently sloping grass, and sat on the stone bench beneath an old olive tree. He set the book on his knees. The short walk had left him dizzy, with his breath caught in his chest.

His mother stood near the gate, watching him. His father finished speaking to the attendant at the reception desk and came over. His younger sibling waited between them. When the man straightened as though he were about to stand, his mother raised her hand.

“Stay there,” she said. “We’ll come to you.”

He shifted the book a little to one side on his knees. He had wanted to make room for his mother on the bench, but she chose to stand in front of him. After looking at his face, his father turned toward the temple entrance.

“They say we need to wait,” he said. “They’ll tell us what they told you.”

The man nodded. On the way, he had given short answers to his family’s questions. He had fallen silent because each answer seemed to invite more conversation, then noticed his mother studying his face. He did not want that to happen again.

“Coming here was hard on you, too,” he said.

“We came with you,” his father replied. “That’s all we’re talking about.”

“There’s work left at home.”

“Don’t think about that now,” his mother said.

The man smoothed the edge of the book with his thumb. He decided that what he was about to say did not matter and let it go. His younger sibling came beside the bench and looked at the cover.

“Can you read?” they asked.

“A little.”

“Where are you in it?”

He did not open the book. He could not remember the passage he thought he had read yesterday. Instead of telling his sibling, he pointed to the cover.

“I borrowed it from the library,” he said.

“I know. I asked whether you can read it.”

His mother looked at his sibling. This time, the man could not avoid the question. He opened the book and turned two pages. He had left no marker and could not find his place.

“I keep going back to where I started,” he said. “Sometimes I read a page, then I don’t know what I’ve read.”

His sibling sat beside him. They neither reached for the book nor answered. They moved to the end of the bench to give him room to sit comfortably. That small movement tightened his throat. He closed the cover without looking at his family.

“You hadn’t told us that,” his father said.

“I couldn’t tell you everything.”

“Were there things you didn’t want to tell us?” his mother asked.

He was silent for a while. He realized that if he put the book down, both his hands would be empty. He did not want to look for something else to hold.

“I didn’t think something like that mattered,” he said. “I thought it happened when you were tired, so I waited.”

His father opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. His mother sat at the other end of the bench. All three stopped talking about the book. When a patient outside groaned, she turned toward the sound. The man kept his eyes on his knees.

“If you need to stay here, stay,” his father said. “We’ll wait.”

“I don’t know how long it will take.”

“Neither do we.”

The answer did not reassure him. He wanted to know how long he would stay so he could prepare. As he tried to work out when he would return home and finish what he had left undone, his breathing grew tight again. His mother put a hand on his arm.

“What happened just now?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She did not take her hand away. He looked at her face. A moment earlier, he had managed to say that he could not remember what he read. Now he was hiding his shortness of breath again.

“I was thinking about going back,” he said at last. “I’ve only just arrived, but I’m thinking about leaving.”

His father stood beside the bench. His sibling adjusted the book on his knees so it would not fall. The man did not resist the help. As they waited for the attendant to call them, he left the book open for the first time.

At the first examination, the high priest had said he could find no illness in him.

“Your body and mind need rest,” he had said.

The man wanted to believe him. Still, he could not understand why even the simplest tasks were becoming harder. His distress did not go away when he rested.

He looked at the seriously ill patients lying on cloths in the outer area. Most were dying. A few groaned; the others lay motionless. When the pressure in his chest increased, he closed his eyes. As he tried to listen to the birds instead of the groans, he heard water through the doorway leading to the underground tunnel.

Soon he would go down there with the high priest. He remembered being told during the examination that he might understand the darkness in his mind where light and shadow met. He had not understood it at first. Now he looked toward the sound and gripped the book again. He felt more tired than afraid, but he was ready to enter the tunnel.