Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  Along the east and west wings of the palace, overlooking the courtyard, were barricaded galleries. People stood behind them to watch the dance of the bull. It was too dangerous for us to stand unprotected. The bull was a wild and dangerous beast with horns as long as a man’s arms. Above the courtyard, a heavy rope was drawn taut and tied to the top of the cypress pillars of the palace. Attached along the length of it were two further strands hanging nearly to the ground. Its purpose would soon become apparent to me.

  The great grey bull entered from the south gate and was being urged on by the shouting of the young priests. The bull ran into the centre of the courtyard, jabbing at the air with its horn. It made a horrible sound. Three young bare-breasted women approached the bull on the run, carrying bouquets of flowers. They ran in circles around the beast that spun, with difficulty, in the centre. The young women continued, round and round, raising the bright flowers in the air. How fearless they were. How agile. The bull charged one of them, trying to hook her with a mighty twist of his head, but he missed. The audience applauded with a roar followed by a chant. What I had thought to be a game was not a game at all. The dance was divine and the chants a divine blessing to Meterra to which I was privy. I felt my phrenes prickle as I joined the singing and chanting.

  “Meterra, sweet mother of light and deep darkness. We stand before you.”

  With pride I sang in the language of the Keftiuians. I sang the chant of life. I sang as loud as any man and they as loud as me. Together our phrenes rejoiced, not only in human life, but in all living things. I was, for that moment, a Keftiuian, a brother with a common cause. I sensed I was a part of them and they were part of me. My thumos surged with ecstasy as we all held hands, chanting, “Sweet mother of light and deep darkness. We stand before you.”

  With arms outstretched, we embraced the sun, the sky, the soil and all that lived upon it. We were neither man, nor beast, nor plant of any kind. Indeed, we were all of them. This was the Keftiuian life that till now I could not see. This was a joy unknown to all beyond the island of the Great Green Sea. Most men beyond these shores had grown hollow with pride, their phrenes had hardened like aconi stone, and their joy for life was blemished by the dread of death itself. Had I been born only to witness this moment, my life would have been complete.

  The dance of the bull continued with five young acrobats rushing into the courtyard from the south wing. All of them somersaulted off the back of the beast, landing on their feet. Two of the young women climbed the dangling rope and began spinning around and around.

  I captured the eyes of Basilius. He smiled, knowing Keftiu breath grew inside me, knowing Keftiu ways had become my own. As I sang I felt his eyes touch mine like a brother.

  From the north wing, a young boy stepped into the courtyard. The voices hushed. From the look of horror on the face of Basilius, I knew the child was not meant to be there. The priest moved forward, his giant arms pushing men aside. The bull dancers stopped their performance, watching the bull turn toward the child.

  The young boy seemed lost, unaware that his life could be only moments away from leaving him. I heard the voice of Keesos, the old priestess beside me, whisper aloud, “Sarapos”.

  Basilius had reached the courtyard, and ran to the king’s son. He was too late. The bull had charged.

  Seeing the beast coming, young Sarapos dropped to the ground, covering his eyes. The bull dipped his horns, hooking the air, and missed. Basilius, running like a bull himself, grabbed Sarapos on the run, carrying him safely to the other side.

  I had known from stories told to me by Varka and Basilius that Sarapos had never left the palace in his life. Wannaxsos and Mendaphi kept him from view of all Eleus. This was the first time he had been seen. How strange he should escape at such a dangerous moment – I wondered if it was planned that his life should not be taken in this way. That Basilius saved him from the horns of the bull suggested to me his death was not sanctioned by Meterra. If his blood must be drained into the soil, this was not the time nor the place.

  The taste of narkissos and my favourite mountain rose.

  I love to wear you on my head and fastened to my shoes.

  Your scent lifts my spirit up and high above Eleus.

  Mavrokakis

  Circa 1880s

  On the Mountain Oaxsa

  Harvest, 1980

  I

  t was the day of harvest for Demetra, Miropi and Potnia. Together they collected the special herbs of narkissos, krocus, hyacinth and mountain poppy rose as they did once every year. These herbs, that grew on the slopes of Oaxsa, were thought since ancient times to contain potent powers. Some believe these herbs helped them bring the past into the present; join the dead with the living. In ancient times, they were known as the herbs of truth, the herbs of etetuma.

  The three women had been friends since childhood, growing up around the hills of Dacktilo and Kato Elefsis. Their friendship thrived under the loving eyes of Potnia’s widowed mother who embraced them as though these children were all her own.

  “You are my little goddesses,” she told them. “I want you to grow up to be strong women. Not like men. Strong, but with love in your hearts.”

  She wove three similar tapestries of each of the girls holding hands and dancing in a circle, with the words: Love Creates Light. These special pictures would unite the women throughout the years, empowering them with a belief their bond would last forever.

  Demetra, Miropi and Potnia learned to sing and dance with gusto. They would listen to Potnia’s mother say: “Sing, my little goddesses. Give it all you have!” Though Potnia could not hold a tune, she never once held back. Her friends had angel voices, but she shouted from her heart.

  As teenagers they would climb the lower slopes of Oaxsa, smelling the wild herbs and flowers. They would weave them together and place them on their heads. In time the mountain herbs took on a special meaning for all of them.

  The girls grew into women, discovered marriage, and childhood slipped away. Demetra and Miropi remained in Elefsis with their spouses. Potnia left Crete with her husband, after their wedding, for the leafy green island of Samos.

  Days before Pontia’s tearful farewell, Demetra made incense from the mountain herbs they had all gathered. In a farewell ceremony, she set each of the dried herbs alight; separate scents bonded together to symbolize their friendship. The smoke rose into the air and dispersed. “Our memories are now riding on the wind,” she said. “From this day we will always be united by these sweet smells.”

  Though Potnia remained in Samos after her husband passed away, she returned once a year for the harvest of the herbs and Demetra’s procession in a few days later on October 28th. The procession did not originate with Potnia or Miropi, nor did it stem from the yearly harvest of the herbs.

  Demetra and her husband, Hierophos, had started the procession as a tribute to their young daughter who went missing one autumn day. It was October 28th. Some thought she drowned swimming in the sea. Others felt certain she had joined the many who fell victim to Oaxsa, slipping through a crevice in the rocks. She was never found.

  The memory of her filled Demetra and Hierophos with despair. Months of searching left them barren and bereft. There was no closure to sustain them until one afternoon, while searching on Oaxsa, they stopped to pluck the roots of narkissos, the flowers and leaves of krocus, hyacinth and mountain poppy rose. That day they boiled the herbs with barley water and within minutes of drinking the brew, they heard their daughter’s voice. They heard their daughter’s laughter and saw her spirit rise before their eyes. From that year onward, they celebrated her return with a small procession on Oaxsa. Later, when Hierophos passed from life on earth, Demetra continued the procession without her beloved husband, joined by her childhood friends.

  It was harvest day on the slopes of Oaxsa and the three women gathered herbs beneath the brilliant orange glow of early morning sunlight. They sang together while filling their baskets. Demetra dug the roots of the narkis
sos; Miropi, the saffron-laden flowers of the krocus and Potnia, the hyacinth and poppy rose. They shared their fragances, inhaled the burnt offerings, and tasted the herb-infused teas. Each herb was a talisman that joined the dead and the living to share each other’s company.

  Demetra placed her basket on a large protruding rock and surveyed the valley below. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she sang a solitary note and held it for as long as she could. The mellow tone shot out into the air and the valley below.

  When the solitary sound returned as an echo, Potnia yelled, “Oohpa!” She lifted her rotund body up as straight as she could. It was her turn. She tightened her black scarf, cleared her throat, then rubbed her hands together. Leaning backwards, Potnia released a shrill and nasal whine. It was not a delicate sound. It pierced the ear like a scream. Yet, when her echo found its way back, it returned as the voice of an angel. It was the sound of a young girl, so sweet in spirit.

  Such was their surprise at the sound of this beautiful voice that Demetra, Potnia and Miropi stood silent and still, looking at each other. When the angel’s voice stopped singing, the three women began to laugh.

  “Potnia,” Demetra shouted. “I’ve never told you this before, but you have a very pretty voice.”

  “I know! It’s so beautiful, it makes me want to dance.”

  The three old women, wild with laughter, reached out to embrace each other; they began to sing and dance just as they had done as children. The women continued singing as they returned to Demetra’s cave, following an ancient path where the steps were hewn out of the rock. When they paused to rest, only Demetra knew they stood above a hidden underground cave. It was a secret she shared with Mimis.

  Many years before, he had made an unusual discovery there. Within a pile of rocks, he found a small opening; an elliptical hole – a womb-like entrance. Cold air escaped from below, blowing into Mimis’ face. The smell of it disturbed him. He dropped a stone and listened for it to hit the rocky floor below.

  The following day the archaeologist returned with a kerosene-soaked rag that he lit and dropped down the hole. Peering trough the ellipse, he saw flickering shadows on the cavern floor. Clearly in view lay the bones of a child whose legs were pulled up in a fetal pose. The light invaded the dark peace within the tomb, corrupting the stillness where the child lay. The words, “Let the dead rest,” came to his mind. He told only Demetra what he had found in this underground cavern. No one else was informed for fear the rumours of hidden gold would once again surface.

  When Demetra saw the remains, she began to sob, “Safe journey, my little one.”

  She and Mimis searched for a large stone and together they rolled it over the hole. The stone would never be lifted by either of them again.

  The firelit image would remain in their memories. They would often think of this labyrinth of souls where ancient journeys once began through the womb within the earth, spiralling inward and yet outward at the same time – life reborn.

  Demetra returned to this place every spring. She brought the four dried herbs and burned them near the elliptical opening. She sprinkled pomegranate seeds all around in the hope that one day they would grow. Alone, with tears of joy in her eyes, she sang, awaiting her daughter’s return.

  On this day of harvest, Demetra, Miropi and Potnia returned to Demetra’s cave with their baskets filled with herbs. Herbal incense was burned with chips of cassia, frankincense and sandalwood. The smoke rose into the air and filled their senses.

  Stories of this special ceremony had spread throughout Crete, attracting those who were spiritually inspired and willing to take the perilous journey led by Demetra of Eleus. Many came because they had heard of a secret and sacred place beneath the earth. Some called it a place beyond – the other side. But how could they be certain?

  Secondhand stories circulated about those who were unwilling to proceed when told that the underground passage could not by made easily or safely. To discover etetuma required fearlessness and daring. They were told that death would approach them in the underworld and to proceed, they must embrace the darkness when it came.

  Many believed Demetra’s warning: “You cannot enter as you are. Allow your ego to dissolve and you will pass through unharmed. Only then will you find success. If you return from the journey with secrets you cannot explain, or reveal, you will have discovered the truth of etetuma. You will know what it means to sacrifice yourself.”

  In Demetra’s cave, the three women sang as they held hands, performing the ancient dance of hora, moving right to left in a wide circle that spiralled inward. On their heads they wore the herbs they had picked: the fragrant purple-veined flower of the krocus, yellow and white narkissos, the hyacinth and the pod of the poppy rose. The sweet fragrances spread over them and filled them with a sense of holy awe.

  They danced in spiral and in the centre lay a lidded basket. Potnia reached inside and removed a pair of mountain vipers. She held one in each hand and, with eyes agog, raised them in the air. They writhed in the purple haze of smoke and to the music of the singing voices. She passed them on to Demetra, who felt their movement, the pulse of life exchanged; then to Miropi, who sang the song of Claukos about the miracles of life.

  The women were entranced, empowered with images of another place. A membrane had been entered through the centre of the spiral and through it they danced; old friends hand in hand, finding ecstasy.

  There was one wave when time began

  that rolled to shore, then back again.

  There is only one beginning, but there is no end.

  Alpha and Omega.

  Mavrokakis

  Circa 1880s

  The House of Thyme

  October 1980

  A

  n old blue bus arrived at the platea in Elefsis twice a day, picking up the locals and discharging few, if any, visitors from the tourist meccas along the northern coast. The visitors would disembark in search of restaurants and waiters in white shirts. They looked for jewellery and tourist shops, a beach with wind surfers racing across the sea. Instead they found Giorgos’ grocery store, two tavernas, two bakers, a butcher and a post office. Most returned on the same bus that brought them, telling others to forget it.

  Within a week of the articles about the priest’s sermon appearing in the papers, people came in search of the church, the priest and the mysteries of sacrifice. As days passed, more tourists arrived, intent on staying until their need to be part of the mystery had been satisfied.

  The bus from Agia Eleni spluttered up the mountain road, gasping from the weight of its human load. When it reached the peak, the old bus swerved around a sharp bend providing a clear view of the frightening descent to Elefsis. A perilous zigzagging road had been cut into the mountain edge without a guardrail to protect those inside from certain death. For those in search of ancient sacrifice and pagan rituals, this dangerous road of horrors pricked their expectations.

  For Aristides, these new arrivals were unwanted platoons of thieves, gravediggers and fornicators. In his eyes they would bring nothing but ridicule to Elefsis. He walked the platea with his twirling comboloys, glaring at them, pointing at the people he wanted the police to remove, to send back on the next bus.

  “This is my village!” he screamed to a young couple who called him a fascist pig. “Go back to Mallia or Agia Eleni. I am not having a colony of drug fiends in my village. Look at you! All of you lying here! You are diseased!”

  Within a few weeks, the four Elefsis villages were squirming with new arrivals racing about in search of the infamous priest and the exact place of the sacrificial temple.

  The caffeneons were filled in a way few could remember. Bodies confiscated the sleepy platea and the space around the wharf. Shopkeepers were delighted and bright eyed, bringing out their old dead stock, including black and white postcards of the isthmus of Eleus and the haunting island of Spinalonga. There was not a room left to rent. Some villagers cleaned out the straw floor underbellies of their homes, where go
ats and chickens usually spent the night, to provide more rooms for the tourists.

  Aristides had extra police brought in but they refused to arrest or march away the foreigners unless they broke the law. An infuriated Aristides barked: “Then you watch them, day and night, and post someone on the pathway to Oaxsa. No one is to climb up there. Shoot them if they break the law!”

  Aristides gathered the town fathers in the church so they could speak freely, privately. Semele attended to their needs as they arrived, then moved away to a place unseen, yet where she could hear clearly. Aristides stood before the lectern and told them to be quiet while he spoke.

  “This is a calamity that must end. These people will send others until the caves of Matala will be empty of hippies. They will all come here to settle – or up there.” He pointed toward Oaxsa.

  Pilofakis dabbed beads of sweat from his forehead. “They’re not hippies. Most of them are Greek religious fanatics. Anyway, Father Dimitrios has to come back quickly. He can end all this. He has a way with words.”

  “Dimitrios will not be returning,” snapped Aristides. “He’s resigned his position in the presence of the archbishop in Athens. So! He has resigned his duties as our priest.”

  Giorgos, the grocer, tsked loudly. “Ridiculous. Resigned for what?”

  “Look around you,” shouted Aristides, pointing with both hands. “What do you see outside? The most treacherous people in all of Crete are here to see a pagan sacrifice and their new hero, Father Dimitrios, who has insulted God, insulted the Greek Orthodox Church, and everyone in this village by bringing this plague on all of us.”

  “He said nothing wrong,” yelled Giorgos. “I heard what he said. Nothing would have come of it if it weren’t for the newspaper and the person who fed them the story. It was one of us, I suspect! The guilty one should confess and take the wrath of the people.” He looked at the others. “Which one of us is the Judas? Any of you?”