Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  Varka squeezed me like a brother and seemed not to be disturbed by the fate of my dead crew. Indeed, he was joyous. He was pleased for me that their lives had been stilled. For him death was not a moment of loss or sadness. It was a time to exalt the passing of the blood back to the earth, back to Meterra. He took my arm and pointed to Oaxsos, saying my dead crew’s journey upon the ship of the underground had begun. The smile upon his face was so certain, easing slightly my agony.

  “But how shall I return?” I asked. “I have not the men to help me with my journey home.”

  He looked at me with a face of surprise, and yet with pity that I did not know the answer to my own questions. “They will come back to you and you will go home together.”

  Such a thought was impossible to grasp. I had thrown their dead bodies into the Keftiu sea myself and watched as the angry waters devoured them. I spoke not a word, pushing my frightened thoughts from view. Etor heaved up in my throat as I thought I might remain on these shores forever.

  Varka spread his bare hands to the sun. “Be happy, Minunep, for the sun’s pendulum swings slowly and long, and a good harvest will soon begin.”

  This was the first I had heard of the pendulum in the words of a Keftiuian. As a boy, I heard my father speak of it hanging above Oaxsos like a beam of light swinging back and forth through time, from life to death and back again. “For those who grasp the pendulum,” he once said, “life is eternal.” The thought of the souls of my dead crew reaching out of the water, grabbing hold of the pendulum, gave me hope for them and for the first time in many days my phrenes quieted, my thumos sighed, and I smiled once again.

  Varka took me to a large building beside the palace of Wannaxsos and Mendaphi. Inside were the Keftiu artists working on pottery, jewellery and stoneware. Though the rooms were small, each person was working with pride, without complaint. We entered one room where a fragile old man was sculpting with clay. The room was filled with miniature sculptures of animals. Many were very life-like, painted in fine detail.

  “This is Isidoros,” he whispered, “the clayman. He is the best in all Keftiu. What Isidoros makes out of the living earth and the water comes back to life.” He pointed to a clay bird being etched with a piece of sharp stone. I touched it with one finger. It was soft, but very cold. Isidoros placed the small bird outside the doorway to dry in the sun. I wanted to wait for the sun to give it life, to see it fly away. Varka sensed my yearning and sat beside me, saying that when the feathers change colours, the partridge will be gone. “Look carefully or you will miss it.”

  I did not understand the eyes of the Keftiuians. Their eyes could see where mine could not. I felt like a young child beside them.

  I followed Varka through a small courtyard surrounded by a large double axe-head on a wooden shaft. It was the same as those adorning the courtyard in the King’s palace. At the end of a dark passage was a single chamber. We entered it.

  “This is the house of the written word,” said Varka, holding my arm before we entered. “Agraphisos does not speak as we speak. He only speaks on clay. Do you understand?”

  I did not understand, though I pretended otherwise. We entered the small room of Agraphisos, who seemed to be sleeping. He was lying on the floor with both eyes closed, though his lips moved as if he was speaking. I looked but there was no one else in the room but us.

  Varka motioned for me to walk carefully. He did not want to disturb the thoughts of the scribe. He whispered, “He prepares the next tablet in his noos. I think Meterra speaks to him now.”

  There were many tablets of soft clay lying in the window to dry, each with strange pictures and etchings I have never seen before. I asked what the meaning of the scratching might be, but he shook his head in apology, saying this was Keftiu secret art and only the people of this island of the Great Green Sea could know its meaning.

  He confided in me that such writing disturbed the priest, Basilius, who had failed to convince Wannaxsos of the treachery of these words. Over the years the people had learned the meaning of the scratchings on the clay and understood the symbols. The people of Keftiu began to use the language of Agraphisos on seal stones and signet rings.

  Basilius had told me that since my last visit, the Goddess had not spoken as She had always done before. Her silence fell upon the people of Keftiu gradually. This was a bad thing. Basilius had blamed the tablets of clay, saying they had cursed Keftiu and had stolen the voice of Meterra. I do not know if this is true, but many complained of their emptiness. In fear, the people came to the palace of Eleus, thinking Her voice might be there. Varka explained what a terrible burden this had been.

  He said, “When the Goddess does not speak to the people, who will speak to them?”

  I yearned to return to my ship immediately to record Varka’s words on papyrus for my God and Pharaoh. I feared I would forget them. The tablets of clay were like those of Egypt, like those my ship brought here as gifts from my Pharaoh. Yet the Keftiu symbols made no sense to me. I preferred not to know their meaning.

  The language on the tablets of clay never pleased Basilius. He had them covered in skins and stored away. Though he never explained his distrust, the reasons would soon become clearer. I wondered about the truth of it, if the scratchings in the clay were a Keftiu curse, sealing the mouths of the voices, leaving the people godless and without direction. In years to come, would every Keftiu man find refuge in a temple waiting for the words of their voiceless gods? Who would speak for them? Basilius? Wannaxsos? Would their wisdom be enough? But should the vision of their voices leave them too? What then? Would each man be left unto himself? Alone? Would he become like the Assyrian to the east with jealousies and suspicions toward every man? Would the harmony of my strange friends, those joyful people, collapse in ruins? I love them too much to think further, to destroy them within my own thoughts.

  I returned to my ship at Eleus to find Basilius waiting for me. I spoke of the gifts my God and Pharaoh had sent to Wannaxsos. I chose to say nothing of the clay tablet that he had written personally as a treaty of trust and goodwill. Though I spoke not one word of these tablets, Basilius knew, just as he had known of the black panther. The power of his eyes had seen the contents of my mind. This caused great fear in my thumos, for I had never deceived a Keftiuian.

  I fell to my knees, asking forgiveness from this wise man, explaining that I knew the words of clay troubled him deeply. He pulled me to my feet and looked upon my face with sad eyes, saying these gifts from my Pharaoh would be honoured.

  “They will please the spirit of Wannaxsos and that must please the spirit of me also.”

  The cargo of white alabaster, gypsos and lapis lazuli was removed from my ship along with the tablets that spoke of my land. Keftiu men in kilts and high leather boots struggled with the load, placing the cargo on the shore. One young man picked up a thin shield of copper from Kypros and shouted aloud upon seeing his reflection in the polished surface. I suspected that this man had never seen his own image, as he sat upon the rocks speaking to the piece of copper. Once again Basilius saw my thoughts and told me the man was not looking at himself at all. He was speaking to the other face beside it, the face of the voice within. For his pleasure, I gave this man the shield to be shared with the others of his ranking.

  The parcel of clay tablets, wrapped in papyrus, was too heavy for the backs of two men. The burden was too great for them to bear. A large bull was brought down from the hills. I felt the weight of the written tablets upon myself, as might any man whose gifts failed to bring pleasure. The thought that they might wreak havoc or dread weighed heavily on me. Should I return, I would tell my Pharaoh of these troubles.

  Without men to row my ship, I could not return to Egypt, my beloved home. Every day I looked to the horizon hoping my Egyptian God and my Pharaoh had heard my prayers, but I feared they had been swallowed. The island of the Great Green Sea was protected by the Keftiu goddess, the mighty Meterra. There was little hope for me. I spent the season of the war
m south wind upon Keftiu soil, learning what I could of their ways, learning their language as if it were my own. This put me in good standing with Wannaxsos who invited me many times to the palace. He wanted to hear of my world and the wisdom of my Pharaoh. To sit at the same table with the King dried up my tongue and spleen. Never did I dare eat one morsel of food. He questioned whether my brothers in Egypt ate food or if the air was enough to feed the soul. I could not explain my fear.

  He was surprised to learn we had no Meterra, no island of black smoke, no gods who spoke to our phrenes, though I explained I had heard tales of a time when this was true. There was a time when voices spoke freely and the Mother of the Earth ruled our land, though she grew weak as my God and Pharaoh grew strong. Wannaxsos listened with great interest.

  I saw Mendaphi on one of my visits to the palace of Eleus. So beautiful was the wife of Wannaxsos that I had to shield my eyes from her for fear of the thoughts that might enlarge me, make me swollen. She asked that I not turn my face from her. I pleaded she spare me, forgive my swollenness of desire, claiming her beauty was too powerful an elixir to a worthless creature such as I. That I stood erect before a Queen was unthinkable. My father’s words were with me and I whispered them repeatedly, over and over again. “Silent thoughts, safe journey … silent thoughts, safe journey.” I trembled in my own wetness, begging my thoughts to set me free, but they would not. Mendaphi must have believed me to be a poor and godless creature, a man without discipline.

  I knew if I sang aloud, the noise would press out my urges. Only then would my desires for her soften. This is what I did. I squeezed my eyes shut and sang aloud, smothering my lust in godly hymns. Only after I was certain my carnal thoughts were asleep did I open my eyes. I looked up slowly; pausing at the gown that draped her tiny feet, then to her waist bound by a golden braid, then to her bare breasts that reached out to me. I had seen this flounced dress on other important women in Keftiu, and each time my thumos sighed. But never had I seen a Queen. My thoughts barked like an anxious dog and I sang again, louder than before. She must have thought me odd or feeble-minded.

  Wannaxsos entered the chamber as I sang, asking me what gave me such pleasure. I stood in horror for my life. I spoke the truth, though indirectly, saying an evil blackness had touched me and only through my song could I prevent the demon gods from entering my phrenes.

  Wannaxsos nodded as though familiar with these black spirits, confiding in me that the black smoke of Akrotiri was poisoning the air. He said the words of Agraphisos spoke clearly of such things, giving warning. I was surprised to hear him confide in me, a common man.

  “The air is sick,” he said. “My people suffer because of me.”

  As time passed I wondered if Wannaxsos had lost his god-voice, if he too had been emptied of the spirit. The King led me to believe Basilius was one of the few who remained sacred, remained intact.

  Wannaxsos would, in time, rely upon the visionary script of Agraphisos, looking to Basilius for interpretation. The weight of each clay slab grew heavier with meaning with every passing day. For Wannaxsos, the thumos in his chest refused to speak. The emptiness was being replaced by fear. He soon would hide himself from his people, remaining locked within his chamber in the palace. Only once would I see him and Mendaphi again.

  I wondered of the stories of Sarapos, his life within the palace walls, hidden in the maze of many rooms, kept from the sunlight and the people of Eleus. The voice of Meterra, the Earth Mother, was disobeyed. The boy remained in life upon the earth and not within. The blood of his veins flowed freely, but not within the soil.

  Basilius despaired of his failure to convince Wannaxsos that the curse upon Keftiu would disappear upon the sacrificial death of his son, or even himself. He said the curse of Meterra would cease upon that moment. Life would regenerate again. The voice-gods would return. The scratching on each clay tablet would dissolve once her wishes were obeyed. Wannaxsos proclaimed he would wait until the day of the white bull. No decision was to be made until then. Basilius left the palace, grieving that Meterra waited for no man, and I, like all of Eleus, grieved with him.

  Isitheri! Isitheri! I hear her sing his name

  From the window looking out to sea. Isitheri! Isitheri!

  Awaiting love’s lost memory. Isitheri! Isitheri!

  Will you sing to me a partridge song or fly as a crow?

  Isitheri! Isitheri! There’s something I must know.

  Do you love me as you once loved me, out there in eternity?

  Do you still embrace my memory? Isitheri! Isitheri!

  Mavrokakis

  Circa 1880s

  Elefsis and Oaxsa Viewed From Afar

  Sunday, September 14, 1980

  T

  he body of Pharmacos was laid to rest beneath the earth. The corpse was wrapped and bound in a blanket originally made by Angalia’s mother for her daughter’s wedding night. The blanket had been folded neatly in the darkness of a wardrobe bottom drawer for thirty years. The gift had been made with joy and woven with good wishes, yet had never seen the light of day. The blanket, the happiness attached to it, and Pharmacos would be buried forever.

  The funeral ceremony did not release Angalia and Perdos from their pain. Angalia held back her tears, but felt her heart wanted to burst from the weight of whispering gossip. The talk of her son’s possible suicide weakened her resolve to stand before God or lift her head as the boy’s body was carried from the church. If the villagers thought that Pharmacos had killed himself, the stain of it would never scrub off.

  The small cemetery housed only the recent dead: forty-four graves exactly. As was the custom, to make room for a new body, the resting bones of someone must be unearthed and washed with a wire brush to remove whatever may still be clinging to them. Bones with tissue still clinging meant the person died with illness or disease. Those whose bones were clean died quickly and in good health. The loose bones would be placed in a basket without order and stored in the crypt beneath St Constantino and Eleni. Centuries had proven there could be no tasteful way to stack bones, no dignity in brittle rib cages and narrow finger bones collapsing in a basket. The skull was always placed on top of the heap, upright, so the eyes might see.

  Pharmacos was laid in one of the used graves. The earth around him was soaked with the memories of those who had died before him. Each shovelful of dirt, if it could speak, might tell them of the truth about death and the whereabouts of lost Cretan souls. Not one voice was heard. Despite the efforts of the priest, sadness could not be buried beside Pharmacos. It hung over Angalia and Perdos instead.

  Demetra said, “If he died on the mountain then something from the mountain should be made to honour his life.” She offered the wax of her mountain beehives and the disused candles from her cave home at the base of Oaxsa. With the help of Thalos, the sculptor from Agia Eleni, a life-size figure of Pharmacos was created with particular attention to the detail of the boy’s face, recreating him sitting in a taverna chair drinking a short coffee, a cup Angalia would refresh twice a day for many weeks. The clothed figure of Pharmacos would remain in the same chair throughout many nights, sleeplessly watching over the harbour. Each morning Bishop Kondros would greet him as though he were still alive. Constantino and his unmarried sister, Calliope, would pass by Pharmacos while doing the stavro. Even Moustafari, the donkey, seemed to lower his sad face.

  The weeks passed slowly. The forty-day memorial – the Mimosino – for Pharmacos arrived. Angalia hoped the heavy chains of grief would lift into the heavens with the spirit of her son. She walked toward the church early Sunday morning on the day of the memorial. On a large tray she carried homemade koliva shaped in a circular mound covered in powdered sugar. Wheat, pomegranate fruit, raisins, sesame seeds and ground parsley would be spooned into small bags and given to the congregation in memory of Pharmacos as they left the church. The wheat represented the regeneration of life, the resurrection of the dead. It was believed that the wheat, like Pharmacos, must die before it coul
d reseed. The Mimosino service of this day was all-important to persuade God that Angalia’s son was deserving of everlasting life.

  Angalia held the tray of koliva preciously and marched down the centre of the street with a straight back and measured footsteps. All the villagers she passed on the way to the church bowed their heads in respect. She entered the church, refusing the help of Father Dimitrios, taking the tray directly to the altar herself, placing it on a table above the altar steps. There she made the sign of the cross, three times. Her mouth quivered as she turned her back to the koliva. Placing her face in her hands, Angalia sobbed until she shook. The priest tried to comfort the poor woman’s heart with a small embrace.

  “I have nothing now. I have nothing on earth I can love but a husband who can lift his raki, but not himself from a chair.

  “Maybe you can learn to love God as much as He loves you,” said the priest with his hands pressed piously together.

  Angalia bit her lip. “Loves me? He is not on this earth. The Church puts him in the sky – too far away. Too far away.”

  “God is close. Very close to you, Angalia.”

  “Where?” she barked, looking around the church. “I pray to him every night and he says nothing. The only thing I hear is my sobbing and the emptiness of my house.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and blotted her eyes. “I’m sorry I say bad things about God in church. Forgive me.” Angalia opened her purse again, removing two oval sea-washed pebbles, handing them to the priest. “These are the last two stones Pharmacos found up there. He told me these stones called the wind and God at the same time. They hold some kind of power that should not have been in his hands – or mine. I don’t want them.”

  Father Dimitrios took the stones and rubbed the smooth surface before putting them in the pocket of his robe. “They will only give you misery. I will dispose of them. Unfortunately, many have collected stones like this after hearing your son’s tale of Oaxsa, with the aim of making magic.” He shook his head, dismayed. “A loving, caring God is all around us and yet we desert him for old pagan gods and rituals that serve no one. There is only one God – only one God to worship. Yet they look for false ones. Nothing good can come of it.”