Chapter 9
The sound of hammering woke Methos early the next morning and he sighed, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. He didn't know whether to curse or praise a military that believed hammers, nails, pliers, saws, spades and axes should be considered part of the basic survival package. Still, he thought, having awakened warm and dry for the first time in nearly a fortnight, who was he to complain?
He got out of bed and rolled up the sleeping bag, disdaining the himation and chiton someone had hung by the fire to dry and went to find his boots and socks. They were neatly stacked with the rest of the team's gear and he gratefully put them on before going outside.
"Morning!" Jack called as he banged away at a wooden frame that looked to be more scavenged planking. "Just making some shelving for all our stuff," he explained at Methos' quizzical expression.
The Immortal merely nodded. "You know, we're leaving in a few months."
"So what?" O'Neill said, putting aside his tools as he stood up. "We're not gonna freeze our asses off living in a tent just because we're not sticking around that long. Why should we? Besides, what else is there to do around here?"
That was true, Methos nodded. And why not? Everyone ought to have a hobby. "Where is everybody?" he asked curiously, looking around the empty camp.
"Carter and Daniel took the cart down to the stream to get more clay for the major's flooring. And Teal'c's decided to try his hand at wood working. He's out looking for trees that speak to him - although I've never liked a chatty dining room table. Too annoying, don't you think?"
"Only if we haven't been properly introduced," Methos responded drolly.
"Come on," O'Neill grinned, leading him over to the side of the little house where a new foundation was being laid for an extension.
O'Neill reached behind a pile of timber and pulled out a small thermos. "Saved this for you," he said, tossing the item to Methos. "It's the last of the coffee."
"Thanks," he smiled gratefully, taking a seat on the logs before pouring out the contents into the lid cup. "I'm definitely going to miss this," he sighed, taking a sip. Even freeze dried the stuff tasted heavenly.
"We'll get back," O'Neill said with certainty.
Methos only nodded. He too was hopeful, and yet remained pragmatic about the situation - already planning ahead to where he might have to take them if they didn't. Certainly out of the way of any invading armies. Though that might be difficult in this day and age.
"So, you want to give me your report?" O'Neill asked quietly.
"Nothing much to tell," he shrugged. "I walked to Delphi, spent your pocket change and came back here. Other than that rabble in town I didn't have any trouble."
"No one in the area knows we're here?"
Methos shook his head. "I passed through several villages on the way back. The nearest one to the south is a day and a half from here. And given the amount of rain we've had the north is probably flooding. Like I said, there's not a lot of movement during the winter months, but come spring someone might show up. I saw signs of Dionysians in the woods further down the slopes. The women probably use the ruins for their ceremonies. We should definitely leave before the Great Festival."
"What? And miss all the fun?" O'Neill grinned.
"It's not fun," Methos told him curtly. "If they're using the ruins they're probably also using the hills for the wilding. I've never actually seen the ceremony. That was forbidden. But I have seen the results. They drink a lot of wine mixed with hallucinogens to bring on visions and race through the woods in praise of Dionysos. If they find a male, any male," he stressed, "even a small child, they'll tear him to pieces. Bare hands, bare teeth. And it's all legal."
"You've gotta be kidding?" O'Neill whispered, appalled.
"Not even a little," he answered in deadly earnest. "It's a wild cult that came out of India a few centuries back and took hold among the women. Remember, Greek females are suppressed by their men, not just oppressed. As you can imagine," he added wryly. "Dionysos, even if he is the god of wine, isn't much favored by the male population. But they seem to feel that letting the girls engage in a little ritual madness once a year is a small price to pay for quiet in the house all the rest."
"Okay," O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "I'll put out a memo. No partying with the local women."
"Don't worry," Methos grinned. "We should be well away from here by the time the grapes are harvested and the new wine is ready for the festival."
"Sounds good to me. Now that's settled," he smiled. "You wanna give me a hand here?"
Methos glanced in dismay at the building materials. Construction was not a trade he'd ever really been interested in, and he'd done it only when absolutely necessary. "Actually," he offered brightly. "I thought I'd go check your snares and reset them. Those birds last night were marvelous."
"Gee, thanks!" O'Neill grinned. "But I didn't use any snares."
Methos gave him a confused look. "Then how...?"
The colonel shrugged and whipped out his zat gun, firing once at the nearest tree. A dozen or so birds dropped to the ground as Methos sat staring in amazement.
O'Neill put the weapon away and moved to start working. "You wanna get lunch, Pierson?" he gestured grandly at the decimation.
Methos rolled his eyes and sighed. "You have a fast food mind," he muttered disgustedly, putting away the empty thermos.
"Teach you to try and wriggle out of duty, Captain Pierson. Oh, and by the way," O'Neill smirked as he walked away. "He who cooks also cleans. You police the cabin today. And don't forget the latrine," he ordered cheerfully. "I know Teal'c will be grateful."
With a wry grimace Methos saluted. "Thank you, sir!" he called to O'Neill's retreating figure. "Glad to be back, sir! I'll fetch a good price at market, sir! I hear they're having a sale on minions!"
"Not a chance, Pierson!" he shot back. "The Great Satan likes you right where you are. Under his thumb and happy about it!"
"On a cold day in hell," Methos muttered as O'Neill rounded the corner. "Bloody ungrateful bastard!" he sighed, glancing at the fallen covey. Still, he'd known what he was getting into when he'd signed those papers back at the SGC. If everyone else was working, he'd be expected to as well. He got to his feet and took off his jacket to put the birds in. Ah, hell, maybe it wasn't so bad. He who cooked might also have to clean - but then he usually got to eat the most heartily.
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