Indignant faces and a flurry of denials met the accusation. He turned to Aristides. “Or was it you?”
“The enemy is none of us. Right now the enemy is the plague that surrounds this church and infests our villages. Oaxsa is closed to everyone now. The police are there. A new priest will arrive any day.”
“A new priest?” shouted Giorgos? “What! A young, baby-faced priest just out of the seminary? What decent priest would leave his parish to come to us under these circumstances? He would have to be an idiot. Anyway, a new priest will be of no benefit to us. We need Father Dimitrios.”
“I think I agree,” said the banker in a deliberately calm voice. “The priest could help us more than anyone. He is the reason they are all here. If we gather in the platea and say the priest has been fired or has suddenly quit, and ask them to go home, do you think they will pack up and leave?”
Red-faced and exasperated, Aristides shouted, “You fools. We will force them to leave. Pile them all in police buses and send them home, or to the beaches at Vai. The archbishop has made his decision. We can’t bring the priest back now. It will make a hero out of him, when he was the one who caused this in the first place.”
Pilofakis posed a question, bringing up a topic that had become dear to his heart. “Are these people really that bad? I mean, there are only a few hundred of them. By the time of the Freedom Day play there may be many more paying customers, most of whom come by bus. No cars and parking problems. They all have to buy food at your store, Giorgos, eat at the tavernas, use the post office, find a room, get a haircut …”
“Get a haircut,” laughed Aristides. “Are you blind as well as stupid? I want as many tourists to come to our villages and spend money as anyone. Maybe more that anyone. But not these dirty dogs.”
The banker stood up. “I’ve thought it through. I’ve made my decision. These are not the people we want here, and certainly not under this cloud of sacrifice and infamy for Elefsis, but it would be better if Father Dimitrios returned.”
“The archbishop will never allow it,” said Aristides. “He is a man of honour.”
“Then we skip the archbishop. Dimitrios doesn’t have to be the formal priest around here to help get rid of this scourge.”
“Never! Impossible. The priest is part of the scourge. He and the archaeologist. The sooner they are both out of here, the quicker we can all go on with our peaceful lives.” Aristides folded both arms on his chest in finality.
Giorgos stood up from his seat with fire in the eyes. “Right now, the worst thing about this village, Aristides, is you. The problems we are discussing have been caused by your interference.”
Standing just outside the room, Semele had heard every word. With a tear in her eye, she made the sign of the cross. As the meeting turned into bickering, she walked to the priest’s quarters and unlocked the door. Overcome with sadness, she allowed her tears to flow more freely as she straightened his desk, his shoes, and the clothes in the cupboard. Semele sat on the corner of the priest’s bed and looked out the window. A single cloud passed quickly.
Through the tiny window, she searched for a sign, any sign, wondering about his loneliness and where he had wandered. She imagined him alone. If she knew where he was, she would rush to his side. She would leave in an instant if he called. She would leave everything behind. As evening approached, she continued to look for him through the tiny window.
After many years of service to the priest, it was not until this moment that Semele realized her affection for this man. He could not have noticed, as she did not know herself until now. The despair she felt sitting on his bed was as great as any she had known. Her limbs grew numb with hopelessness and she curled her body at the bottom of the empty bed. Through servitude she had found a heavenly love in which the face of Christ and the face of Father Dimitrios Vassilio had become one. In an act of contemplation, Semele looked into the darkness.
Sitting in his office nearby, Mimis did the same. While listening to Grieg’s inspiring music, he was trying to imagine the Minoan priest’s life, thinking what it would be like walking in his shoes. There was so much more he wanted to know, so many questions begging to be answered. The music of Grieg helped him soar beyond the quietude of the night.
Two boxes lay before him unopened, having arrived by courier hours before. Within them lay two clay sculptures, the perfect facial reconstructions of the Minoan priest and the young man from the temple altar. Each was wrapped carefully with the name Professor Steffanakis typed on two sides and on the top. In pen, for identification, was written Alpha on one and Omega on the other.
In the glow of a lit cigarette, he stared at the two boxes while Grieg’s ‘Morning’ from the Peer Gynt Suite filled the air with the feeling of a wondrous new dawn. Mimis had not succumbed to the temptation of tearing the boxes open the moment they arrived. He sipped a glass of fine wine from a bottle he had saved for an occasion such as this.
He turned on the lamp. An open book lay on his desk. He read the words of the 19th century Greek poet, Cavafy.
ITHACA
When you start on your journey to Ithaca,
then pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
Do not fear the Lestrygonians
and the Cyclops and the angry Poseidon.
You will never meet such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your body and your spirit.
You will never meet the Lestrygonians,
the Cyclops and the fierce Poseidon,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not raise them up before you.
Then pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many,
that you will enter ports seen for the first time
with such pleasure, with such joy!
Stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony,
and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds,
buy as many pleasurable perfumes as you can;
visit hosts of Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from those who have knowledge.
Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage goal.
It is better to let it last for long years;
and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,
rich with all that you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have taken the road.
But she has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.
With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,
you must surely have understood by then what these Ithacas mean.
As Grieg’s somber “Death of Aase” rose to fill his senses, fond images from the previous autumn came to mind. It was when he spoke at the First International Archaeological Symposium at Oslo University. The excavation on Oaxsa had already begun. During his speech, Mimis made reference to Grieg’s music reminding him, in some way, of ancient Crete. The first two scores of Peer Gynt captured both rebirth and death so perfectly, “Morning” and “The Death of Aase”.
The comment endeared him to the dean of the university, who invited him to dinner and presented Mimis with a small bronze bust of the Norwegian composer. That evening they discussed Grieg and the early Greek poets. Professor Wolf Odelstun spoke of the ancient mind and a new theory by a professor of psychology at Princeton who believed higher consciousness took an abrupt leap with the introduction of the written language. Odelstun posed the question: why did so many civilizations give up their mother earth goddess in favour of masculine gods at the same time in his
tory – and their art began to depict conquering aggression? He asked Steffanakis if he agreed with the Princeton professor that the human ego took a giant leap with the coming of the written language, therefore changing the order of the human mind forever. Was this a shift from the power of the gods and their voices to the self-centred power of the ego?
Mimis still remembered so vividly his discussion with Odelstun and the answer he gave. “The ego arrived much earlier, probably before the spoken word. Maybe it took some quantum leap with the written word, I’m not sure. It seems the voices of the gods heard by the ancients began to fade away after the invention of the written language, requiring oracles or priests to interpret God’s voice. Maybe the ego prevented men from hearing. Who knows? Anyway, it is far beyond my realm or capabilities. The answer is probably within the realm of quantum physics and cosmology; the universe and the smallest particles; alpha and omega.”
“I feel we are in the dark ages with this subject,” said the Norwegian. “The time of Copernicus. The infancy. This may well by the last frontier of science. Don’t you feel the urge to investigate?”
Mimis had lifted his Greek chin in denial. “This is beyond archaeology and myself. I will not see the light of it in my time, so I am happy to leave it to others.” He paused. “I have a young Greek friend who works in cosmology at a French university. He once said he thought the universe came in waves or loops and what came around never really left.” Mimis smiled. “I’ve always liked the idea of that.”
When asked, Mimis spoke briefly about his new discovery on Oaxsa, whetting Professor Odelstun’s appetite enough to invite his guest back to speak in a year’s time.
Mimis remembered returning from the pleasant evening to his hotel by an Oslo fjord. The Norwegian Institute in Athens had organized an apartment for him that took up the entire top floor, with an enormous balcony overlooking the harbour and the city.
“I wanted you to feel at home here, overlooking the seas,” his host had said.
Awaiting him on the balcony was a table, a comfortable chair, and an opened bottle of wine from Salonica. Next to the bottle was a finely etched stem glass. Mimis placed the small bronze bust of Grieg on the table and walked to the balcony’s edge to stare out at the night stars. His favourite constellation, the Pleiades, was mellowed by the dampness in the cool night air. The night sky brought to mind the perivoli in Elefsis where he dug holes as a boy and dreamed of travelling to places far away.
Steffanakis gazed up to the Pleiades far above the shimmering stillness of the harbour. As music filled the heavens, he heard laughter … behind him. He was not alone. Mimis turned quickly from the balcony rail to see who had entered his domain. No one was there. His breathing became erratic as the mockery of laughter struck him again. There was only a chair, a table, a bottle of wine and the bronze bust of Edvard Grieg. Nothing more. It sent a chill up his back.
While recovering the memories from that evening in Oslo, Mimis’ thoughts diverted from a rapturous Norwegian night to another years before when, as a child, he lay in the perivoli. In a fold within his mind he saw again the giant perivoli man who came to brush the dirt from the face of the young boy almost buried in the earth. Face to face he remembered him. He remembered the laughter.
In his office, Mimis’ thoughts returned to Alpha and Omega. How close would the invented faces be to the real ones? The real face of the priest and the slain boy had been in the artful hands of Keffolakis, who worked solely from the shape of each skull. Mimis knew there would be little error in the outcome. What busts Keffolakis had made from clay would be the real faces of sacrifice. A moment lost in time had been regained through science. There were many invented faces Mimis placed on the priest. One of them was his own face, which he tried to blink away, wanting to dismiss the idea.
The ringing of the telephone startled Steffanakis from his wayward thoughts of the ancient faces. It was Dr Keffolakis enquiring whether both the boxes of Alpha and Omega had arrived safely.
“They are here,” said Mimis. “In front of me.” He paused. “I know. I know. I will open them. I know they will be perfect. Thank you. Thank you.”
Mimis turned on the bright light of the desk lamp.
The phone called moved him to take action. He gathered the first box marked Alpha, which he knew was the head of the young man found on the altar. He prized open the lid and gently removed the shaved-wood packing, lifting the bust from the box. He held it out in front of him. This was the face of youth from 3600 years before and yet it was a modern western face. He somehow expected features that were more Eastern, heavier than this. It was a handsome, gentle face. The lips were thin and the hair had been made to look long and flowing in the Minoan style.
He placed the figure on the desk and gazed at it, imagining the young man on the path to Oaxsa walking to his fate, toward his impending death. Did he know he was about to die? A flash of Jesus Christ carrying the cross flickered through his mind. Did he walk or was he trussed with rope and carried to the temple, unwillingly bound with the knowledge of his fate? He imagined him lying on the altar, eyes alert with fear, while the smoke from Akrotiri smothered the sky. That he would be a saviour to all could have been a sublime thought. If he was willing to give of himself, why was he bound as he was upon the altar? Was this not a moment of horror as opposed to glory?
Too late for hope or glory. The netherworld reached out of the bowels of the earth. Death was in search of all life. It would devour everything: life, fear, horror and desperation, leaving only the bones.
Mimis fell back in his chair, not wanting to open the box marked Omega, yet he knew he must. Nothing, absolutely nothing would prevent him from doing so, but not at this moment. A thumping knock at the gate provided him with the respite he needed.
Mimis welcomed Demetra to his home with a considered kiss on both cheeks. She gazed upon him with a serious, appraising look. “I interrupted you. I’ve come at the wrong time, I can see.”
Mimis embraced her again, saying, “No, no, the timing is perfect. Your timing is always perfect.”
In her hands was a bouquet of mountain herbs she had picked that afternoon. She handed them to him. He inhaled them deeply and expelled a sigh. “Evening tea! And I have only just boiled some water.”
“You knew I was coming,” she said, a distrustful twinkle in her eye.
“Of course.”
Mimis walked from the courtyard toward the kitchen, Demetra’s voice behind him saying, “I am not the only one to visit you this evening.” He continued his stride without reply. Within minutes the brew came to the courtyard table with two baked-enamel cups like the ones used during the excavation. They were simple cups, like most things in his home. Mimis lifted the lid of the teapot and inhaled deeply.
“You breathe in the meaning of things, Mimis, not only the smell.”
He chuckled at the acuteness of her eye. “Maybe I’ve been beside the Minoans for too long. They would not smell the flowers. They would try to smell their very nature.”
“So you have become a Minoan, or at least you understand them.”
“I understand very little, Demetra. The more I have learned, the less I seem to know. For years I stared at the snake goddess with a serpent in each hand. The snake lived within the earth and, no doubt, was a symbol of their chthonic Goddess, the creator. Maybe she held it to absorb its movement, its power of life. Maybe not. I only know their senses went far beyond ours.”
“What a pity we cannot learn more from them. So – let us absorb some chi tu vuno,” she said.
Steeping in the pot were dusty green leaves with yellow flowers. Mimis poured the brew into each cup while saying that the Minoans used these exact herbs.
“They are intoxicating,” Demetra said. “Maybe it helped them to see a little better.”
“Ummmmmmmmmm. Maybe.”
Demetra thumped the table. “Good. Then maybe we can go see the Minoans tonight.”
Mimis raised his brow. “Not tonight, my true fr
iend. As appealing as the thought is, I have more earthly things pressing me.”
She reflected on his words, then nodded. “The closure of the temple.”
Steffanakis did not answer.
“But what does it matter, Mimis? You have finished digging. They cannot steal what you have already found.”
“Skoulis called to say he would arrive tomorrow to inspect the site, to make sure it is secure. He needn’t travel all the way from Athens to do that. He plans on taking over. He may steal the earth and its objects, but how will it benefit him, this man without qualities? He would gain nothing other than fame.” Mimis smiled prudently. “But once he understands the importance of this discovery, he will want to remain here. My position as Ephor will evaporate.”
“And you will allow this?”
Mimis shrugged. “It is in my nature to be courteous, of course, both to him and his position. I am bound by law to show him what he wants to see.” He smiled. “Maybe I should serve him some very strong tea.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?”
“I can’t direct the course of things now. Not completely. He has gained power and powerful friends. The coming federal elections may alter that, but to be truthful, I doubt it. To ease your mind, Demetra, I will not prepare my own grave. At least not yet.”
Sipping her tea, Demetra looked off toward the light of the moon. “Be careful, Mimis, I fear you are keeping this man awake. He does not sleep because of his shortcomings and is awakened by something fame alone cannot give him. Respect! He has slept too long upon the graves of great men. I see him cry in sadness. Not for them, but for himself. Be very careful of this man.” She paused momentarily. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She fumbled for a jar in her bag. She placed it on the table.
Mimis smiled with delight. “Saffron. You’ve been harvesting the krocus. ”
“It’s good for you. Keeps your head clear. Manolis Theepsos puts it in his wine for rheumatism.”
“This is the gift given to the kings and high priests in ancient times. I am not a king or a priest.”
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 18
