The priest arrived at the gate shortly after. The hair on his balding head was neatly combed, the greying part darkened with shoe polish, as was the forest of a beard that hung from his face. He smelled sweetly of freshly pinched basil. Aoide greeted him with a warm smile and was repaid with a jar of rose petal jam from his family home in Chios.
He entered the large courtyard and watched as the gate was locked behind him. The walls of the house and courtyard were trellised with bougainvillea and creepers giving an appearance of grandeur and isolation, as though this house abutted no other. Its position allowed only the sky and Oaxsa to be seen clearly.
Aoide excorted the priest to the office and excavation room. Father Dimitrios straightened his black gown, slapping at an unwanted cobweb that had stuck to it.
He paused before entering, pondering the shortened doorway and the darkness inside.
The doorway, liked the house, was made for a Turkish pasha nearly three hundred years before. The short opening forced the priest to stoop beneath the door lintel while stepping over the raised footboard at the same time. On the many occasions he had visited this house of archaeology, he had never gained access to this room. He entered while bowing his head, secretly making the sign of the cross, asking for God’s protection. His eyes darted over the multiple trestle tables and industrial shelving racks, all filled with bits of earth and copious sums of fractured pottery. The sight of human bones on at least one table upset him. His heart raced. He wanted to run amok like a child; hold things, pick them up, but his head told him to leave this room immediately.
He looked at Aoide with a grin. “So, this is the house of the dead.”
She smiled graciously, offering the Professor’s desk chair for him to sit on.
“No, Father, I am sorry. This is the house of the living.”
She walked out the door with a slight tilt and bow of the head. “The Professor will be with you in a moment.” She closed the door behind her.
In front of the priest was a single handwritten page beside another more formal letter with the Ministry logo on it. For his eyes? He read like a glutton. Both pages – and then again. God forgive me, he thought, and lifted his eyes, resting them upon the pair of large clay feet of the temple xoanon lying on a table nearby. Leaning against the lamp stand was a scribbled drawing from Mimis’ hand, a drawing of what the xoanon might have looked like while standing in the central chamber. Wrapped in woven cloth was a modest figure adorned with a headdress. The priest read the page again. The xoanon is the size of a man and it was raised on a stone platform. The protruding stone in front of the xoanon was a symbol of the deep earth, and upon it sacrificial blood was poured. It was the conduit to the Earth Goddess. The blood of life was given in sacrifice. To give meant to receive. Warm blood was poured into the earth in exchange for safety and protection.
The notes continued: This captured moment, I believe, was not the ceremony of a common event. The signs of earthquake and volcanic activity suggest this was a moment of deep meaning. It could not be the blood of any common beast or any common man being sacrificed. To deceive the Goddess would have been unthinkable; a goat instead of a bull; a shepherd instead of a king. Deceit.
Father Dimitrios read the last word again and again. His head began to pound. He heard a voice in his head: “Death to all. Death to all.” One voice became a chorus of voices singing: “Death to all.”
The startled priest stood up from the desk, his chest thumping wildly. What he had heard seemed to come from beyond him, from the voice of another. There was a quantum flicker; two minds with the same thought, eyes darting between himself and someone unknown.
He recalled the stream of fresh light from outside just before Aoide shut the door behind her. The priest closed his eyes. He heard the click of a lock. He felt suddenly entombed. Death was all around him. His chest hurt from pounding and his skin turned cold. His thoughts ran ahead of him.
This room is dark – too dark for me. Beyond this point I cannot see. Oh, Lord Jesus, my Saviour, I cannot feel you near. I am pleading; do not forsake me here, locked within this tomb. You are not within my sight. Is this house of Hades beyond your realm? Are you also powerless in this underworld? I am cold as ice amongst these dead things, these remnants of the dead. These bones of ancient men are beginning to rattle me. What might be their sins that bring them back like this, neither dead nor alive?
Jesus, my Lord, forgive my sins, for I have doubts – of You. Your image fades in here. My eyes deceive me. I see these bones fixed in ice, frozen for eternity, and I, a sinner, smell the foul air of my own being. What is this place that makes me feel the worm, the rottenness that enters the earth’s core and sinks so far below?
The priest ran to the door, fumbling for the handle, the latch. He pushed, then pulled, and then ran for the light of the window, his forehead in sweat. The window was encased with a rusted wire that his fingers clawed, and then gripped. The light! His thoughts were feverish.
Alas, the small circular opening ahead of me, the opening upon the rocky ledge. I can only crawl on my knees but I can see the opening. Careful! Hold on! The left hand on the rim. The right hand outward toward freedom.
Ah, once again, the stars. My heart now calms. My body warms. The chill in my bones is fading. Lucifer, the arch-traitor, must be leaving.
Mimis had entered the courtyard and stooped to pick some basil, inhaling it with pleasure. He walked to his office and opened the door, finding the priest at the window, pulling at the wire mesh.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Father Dimitrios darted for the open door, past Mimis, and out into the courtyard. He turned to Steffanakis, bug-eyed, as though the devil was about to leap out of the darkness to give chase. In search of his composure, he fumbled in his pockets, retrieving the two sea-washed pebbles given to him by Angalia. He threw them on the ground. “These are a curse. A horrible curse,” he shouted.
Mimis picked up the pebbles and stared at them, then placed them on the table, almost with disinterest.
Aoide had set a simple table in the courtyard beneath the leafy fig tree. Coffee was poured. Homemade honey figs had been spooned from a jar onto two plates. They were the priest’s favourites. The sweet smells of bougainvillea and basil filled the garden air.
“Something has disturbed you,” said Mimis, walking closer to peer into the priest’s eyes. “Are you ill? You are sweating.”
“No. No. No. I’m fine.” The priest wiped his face with a handkerchief taken from his robe pocket. “I’m fine, really. I get claustrophobic at times. Maybe it’s the bones in there. I’m not sure. Anyway, don’t worry. I’m fine.”
Mimis seated the priest at the table with a look of concern. “Here, your favourite gleeko made from this old fig tree. You can’t resist them, I know.”
Father Dimitrios ate the syrupy figs with delight and drank his Greek coffee. As he did, the grey pallor left his face and it returned to its normal tone – one of coarse white porcelain.
Mimis picked up the two sea-washed pebbles and rubbed them. “What were you doing with these?”
“Angalia gave them to me,” he said. “They are the stones Pharmacos found up there. They were with him when he flew to his death.” He paused a moment, glaring at Steffanakis. “Do you know the meaning of them? Why were they found up there?”
Mimis twirled them in his hand. “No, I have no idea what they are. If she gave them to you, then you must keep them. Anyway,” Mimis continued, “in light of your next sermon, that is if you feel well enough, I have ordered a driver to take us to the mountain. I plan to show you the excavation first hand … answer any of your questions. Then your mind will be free to make your own decision about all this.”
The priest spooned out another fig. “You mean today?”
“Yes. When you are ready.”
“You are right. This is the best fig gleeko in all Elefsis.”
“Aoide made them. I take no credit. This is a nice unopened jar for you t
o take home.”
“Ummm. Thank you, Mimis. This is a pleasure quite uncommon to me. It has a slight taste of pomegranate.”
Mimis smiled with delight. “Dimitrios, you are a priest with a gourmet’s tongue. Aoide added ground pomegranate fruit to the honey. That’s why it looks red.”
The priest sat back and closed his eyes in delight. “Well, it appears I shall be lured back here each year for your wonderful fruits. As long as you don’t make me go in there again,” he said, pointing to the storeroom.
Mimis grinned. “I was hoping what was in there might entice you … up there.”
The priest took a final sip of his coffee and a drink of water. “Well, it has.” He stood up.
The car Mimis had ordered arrived and took the priest and himself up to Oaxsa, past the garbage tip that smoked and smouldered throughout the year from the constant burning of rubbish. Just past the tip, they left the car and began to walk, each with a gnarled walking stick that Mimis had brought from home.
They came upon the cave of Demetra. Two handmade wooden doors blocked the entrance. The doors were shut and her old donkey was nowhere in sight.
“So. It is true,” said the priest. “She lives in a cave. It’s hard to believe.”
“Ummmmmm. I thought you knew that.”
“Well, I did. I hear so many stories about her I don’t know what to believe.” He diverted from the path to investigate more closely, walking the twenty-metre incline toward the entrance, but stopped short of it. He looked back to Mimis, who remained on the path, then hurried to join him.
“She makes images out of clay. They look like ancient images,” he said with an intolerant tone.
Mimis nodded casually. “She makes many things from clay. Sometimes replica images of votive offerings we have found.”
“There is one on the ground back there. A man standing, his back arched, the back of one hand pressed to his forehead.”
“The Minoans make those figures as offerings to the dead. They were buried with the dead or in caves as votive offerings. The originals are in the museum at Heraklion. Many have been found. It’s nice to see them all together.”
“The one back there, what does it mean?”
Mimis just shrugged.
Father Dimitrios grinned. “You know, but are not telling me.”
“There are many interpretations. Every archaeologist has his own idea.”
“It looks like someone standing at attention with a headache.”
Mimis nodded with a slight grin. “That as good as any.”
The two men continued their journey in silence. The pathway narrowed to a donkey track that was worn from the excavation traffic. The priest followed as Steffanakis led the way, jabbing his gnarled walking stick into the earth, rhythmically, with every third step.
The priest struggled to keep pace. They stopped to rest at an overhanging plateau with glorious views.
Father Dimitrios wiped his perspiring head with a handkerchief. “Phew! I may be sound in spirit, but my body is weak.”
“You’re doing just fine. We’re almost there.”
Dimitrios looked back down the track. From this height Elefsis was a speck of tiny homes all nestled together with the isthmus sloping past the canal bridge toward the island with its seven gentle hills now flattened by the altitude. The wind was gusting wickedly, jerky gusts that suddenly stopped, then blew again in another direction. A clot of dark clouds gathered in the afternoon sky with the sun about to be swallowed by them.
“Why does she live in a cave?”
Mimis crouched down to light a cigarette. He miraculously got it lit despite the wind. He laid back on the earth, staring at the priest as if studying him. Then he spoke. “Demetra lived with her husband, Hierophos, in Kato Elefsis. It was before your time. Kondros was the priest then. Demetra and Hierophos walked this mountain together and that cave was special to them. So when he died she chose to go to that cave where ancient burials were performed four thousand years ago. There she says she found her husband once again.”
“She never wore black?”
“Yes. She wore the black gown of enslavement in the beginning, but one night she had an epiphany in a dream. She saw her husband sitting in a chair, laughing. Oh, how Hierophos could laugh. He was a huge man with a big face, as big as the moon. So when he smiled he could light up the darkest place. It was a happy dream. For two weeks the dream came back and then, one night, she saw Hierophos outside the cave wearing a big purple sweater like the one she wears now. After that she gave up wearing black. From that day, she never cried or wailed for her Hierophos or mourned another death. She learned to rejoice life’s passing. For that she faces scorn. Mourning to most Greeks means a part of you must die with the dead. Anyway, Bishop Kondros refused to hold the forty-day memorial in the cave. So there were two memorials. One in the church. Another up here, late at night, with candles.”
“Who held the service?”
“She did. With Mathias, a monk from Mt Ida.”
“But she’s not ordained. That should never had been done. Never! It is a bad thing to do.” The priest shook is head in astonishment.
Mimis shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe in the eyes of the Church. But many came to the mountain that night, including me. It was very moving and from the heart,” he said, pulling both fists to his chest. “Anyway, most people walked to the cave. Some came up by donkey. The cave was lit with many candles. Demetra served, I think for the first time, her famous barley water. The guests were fed afterwards with two very special pigs. Demetra sang mantinades and danced the hobble dance she learned from watching the mountain partridge.
“The ceremony ended in happiness. Demetra thanked her guests, and as I recall, walked alone to the cave entrance and looked out through that circular hole onto the stars. She thanked Hierophos for all the good years. ‘Hierophos,’ she yelled. ‘You hear me?’ There was silence. We all watched from inside the cave surrounded by the candles. Then we heard her begin to cry, or so I thought at first. But she was not crying. She was laughing. She turned to us with a face as happy as a child’s, eyes wide with surprise. Her happiness made us happy. Her laughter made us laugh.
“ ‘Listen,’ she said. We listened. Nothing. Only silence. Then, out of the night, out of the silence, some people heard it. We heard the faint sound of Hierophos, his unmistakable laughter. Oh, how he could laugh! It was very faint.” Mimis paused to look at the priest with a critical eye. “That is when she said to us all: ‘I will never leave this place.’ ”
The priest sighed heavily and frowned in disbelief. “She actually heard this voice? Others, too?”
Mimis nodded casually. “Yes, others heard it too. Since then she has led a procession of friends from Eleus to her cave, once a year, on the anniversary of the memorial. They drink barley water, indulge in the feast of the pig and the dance of the partridge. Once a year they rejoice. It is a journey to illuminate the invisible spirit. Aoratos and oratos, as you would know, being a priest. The invisible made visible. They reach a state in their minds that is so fine, so concentrated that answers to life’s many mysteries unfold, or so I believe. The ancient Eleusian procession may have done the same. Great men like Sophocles, Herodotus and Plutarch humbled themselves to learn the mysteries of Eleusis. It was said whoever finished the procession returned with wisdom and powers they never knew before. I have never gone, though Demetra has asked me many times. I am not as wise as she is. I cannot see the white lights. She can! And she is prepared to show others. She is not the devil, Dimitrios. For this she is a saint.”
The priest waved his hand from side to side in dismissal as though a pesky fly was annoying him. “Yes, I know of this procession, this theatre ritual she does. It is what I spoke about today. As a priest I am drowning with all these ancient pagan ideas around me – and I know in my heart they mean nothing. It is crazy. It is like tribes dancing to a frenzy. Taking drugs. It is only reverie. I feel I am fighting a losing battle. Every day I wrestle with pagan
spirits, the long train of superstitions that choke us all. I fear it will never end.”
“Father,” said Mimis, pausing carefully to choose his words. “Do you not attempt to do the same within the Church? I mean, do it in your own way? Sometimes things like this from the past are not as crazy as they first seem.”
The priest barked, “Is there truth to it?” He stood up and walked to the edge of the overhanging rock ledge to peer down. “Truth!”
Mimis cocked his head to one side. “The Church is built on pagan ideas. December 25th was a pagan festival of the birth of Tammuz, a Sumerian god of vegetation, of birth and rebirth. The Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus replaced Tammuz and his mother. The date was not chosen until after the Council of Nicea in 325 AD by some clever pope who wanted to replace one god with another. It was not the day Christ was born. It was also near the day of the winter solstice in the old calendar. The dating of Easter was similar. There are hundreds of examples like these.” Mimis paused. “I have never taken the procession because of my reserved nature. Maybe I fear what would be asked of me … letting go. Maybe you fear letting go as well.”
Mimis watched Father Dimitrios with fond eyes, feeling the anguish within this man’s soul. Never had he felt pity for him until this moment. For the first time he viewed him as a person and not a priest. Mimis had always remembered his uncle’s words: ‘To understand a man you must walk in his shoes for one year.” It was from those words he learned that to understand the Minoans, he must think as a Minoan, become a Minoan. He had never walked in the priest’s shoes before but for the first time he walked beside them.
Father Dimitrios inched himself toward the edge and peered down to the valley. A sudden gust of wind pushed him. Nearly falling over, the priest panicked, sitting quickly, then crawling away from the precipice. With a frightened voice, he yelped: “That nearly blew me over the edge. This place is dangerous. Well,” he said, standing awkwardly, “I’m not following Pharmacos. God rest his soul.” He began walking up the path with determination. “Let’s go,” he barked.
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 11
