The House of Aristides at Dacktilo
October, 1980
B
uses continued to arrive with new visitors whose faces were keenly pressed against the windows. Their hungry eyes scanned for pagan gods or demons along the road into town. The doors of the Church of St Constantino and Eleni were locked. There wasn’t any way for them to enter. Most of the strangers returned to Angalia’s or the platea to find someone, anyone, who knew more about Elefsis than they did. They shielded their faces and stared up to Oaxsa with eyes anxious to see the Minoan temple, maybe hoping for an epiphany to guide them. By midafternoon, they looked for a place to sit and rest.
Though the village was filled with people, there was no feeling of fervour or vibrancy. It was more reminiscent of old dogs lying on a veranda, tired faces having lost their eagerness. These people were as quiet as the air; the sound of water lapping the boats in the harbour caused many to fall into slumber.
The locals from Dacktilo, Pano Elefsis and Kato Elefsis came down to watch them. Old ladies in black dresses whispered to each other, but soon they too stared vacuously.
Giorgos, flicking cigarette butts into the street, sat outside his grocery store awaiting his customers. Seizing upon an idea, he went inside and returned with a milk crate filled with bottles of cool soft drinks, postcards and chocolates that he took to the platea. There he chanted melodically about the benefits of his wares. “Cold lemonade, orange juice, fresh chocolates …”
A car filled with loud young foreign tourists approached, its thumping radio disturbing the peace. They parked in front of Angalia’s and spilled, intoxicated, into the street. They drank cans of bourbon and cola and shouted profanities to each other. Angalia hollered at them to move their car from the middle of the street, but was told to fuck off, in both words and gestures.
Irate at the indignity, she swore back in Greek and flicked the tea towel she was holding. Calliope diverted their attention as she approached, riding her donkey with the goat trailing behind. They harassed her as she passed. Two of the young men followed, attempting to hop on the goat’s back. Calliope put a heel to the donkey, making him skip more quickly out of town. The drunken tourists stumbled to their car and departed.
Paki Pilofakis crossed the platea, clinging to a leather bag full of papers. His hair was wild and dishevelled. He yelled to Kolikos, who was sound asleep in his boat. There was no reply. He yelled again. “You idiot! We are rehearsing. How can we rehearse Iphigenia without Calchas?”
He picked up a stone and threw it. It landed in the sea. He threw another that bounced in the boat, abruptly waking Kolikos, causing him to throw his arms about. His cap fell into the water.
“Hurry up! We’re waiting for you.”
Kolikos gestured angrily to the water. Mumbling profanities, he hooked his cap with a kamiki pole, pulling it into the boat. People lazing on the platea chuckled as Kolikos replanted the wet hat on his head.
Since the new arrivals had discovered Elefsis, Nani Pandazizis had a constant audience. The newcomers had little else to do, so they watched him and his brother-in-law yell, slap the tables, and shake the magic tavli dice.
“Look!” shouted Nani. “Kolikos hooked his hat! That’s the biggest thing he’s caught all week.”
Pilofakis surveyed the new arrivals, surprised there were more Greeks than foreign tourists. He walked closer to Nani and Mihilis, gesturing to the scores of people.
“Amazing. Look at them. Now we see the power of the press.”
Manolis nodded. “Ummmmm. And the power of the priest’s sermon. Anyway, it looks like you may have to find a new priest for your play, now that they have sent poor Father Dimitrios to Siberia.”
Paki bent down to whisper secretly. “Be quiet, you fool. You’ll cause a riot around here.”
“Everyone knows,” said Nani. “The church has been closed for weeks.”
Pilofakis whispered, “Anyway, nothing is for certain and no one knows where he is. If it were my choice, I’d bring him back quickly. Who else is going to fix all this mess?”
“And send Aristides to Siberia instead.”
Paki shrugged. “He’s caused more trouble than anyone.”
“We’ve had nothing but troubles this year,” said Nani. “Anyway, I don’t mind the new people – they are good for business – but one or two of them will sneak up Oaxsa and maybe kill themselves. Then we will have big troubles. Big troubles! Add to that the crazy woman, Demetra. She will hold her procession soon and it will bring more lunatics. At least your play will have a big audience.”
“There’s plenty of room. We’ve ordered two hundred chairs.” Pilofakis turned to survey the people walking through the village and smiled to himself. He gazed up to the mountain.
Since their arrival, many attempts had been made to climb Oaxsa by the new visitors. Giorgos and Angalia were calling them pilgrims. The ancient route via the garbage tip was guarded morning till night by a policeman who thwarted almost every attempt, pointing to the posted sign that said the climb was against the law and any persons caught climbing the mountain would be prosecuted. Regardless, some took the unguarded but more difficult ascent through the pathless valley.
At night, Aristides would dream of them climbing in the moonlight. He imagined someone falling to their death, causing further embarrassment and infamy not only to Elefsis, but also to himself. He had barely slept in days, imagining a thousand more pagan believers making Elefsis their Mecca.
This week had become more intolerable for him when a letter arrived from the archdiocese stating that the new priest selected for Elefsis was a seminary graduate from Thessalonica. Aristides had hoped for an older and more established priest, even if he stayed for only a few months until things settled down or he was able to find a Cretan priest himself. But this was not to be. The letter acknowledged the archbishop’s awareness of the difficulties a young priest may have at this time. He offered his personal services for the coming Sunday at St Constantino and Eleni to help calm the parishioners’ concerns.
Knowing the archbishop personally, Aristides phoned him. He expressed his anger at the selection and offered his own solution. Almost despairing, he said, “There are hundreds here. Tourists, but mostly Cretans in search of Christian answers from ancient pagan rites. We have Dimitrios to blame and worse, the archaeologist and his discovery has led to all this. It doesn’t take much for half our population to desert Christ and start worshipping a mountain or Minoan gods.”
The archbishop was direct. “My sources say you have already dealt with the archaeologist in much the same way that you dealt with Father Dimitrios – with a heavy hand. Too heavy, I might add. There were other ways that could have avoided so much collateral damage.”
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. The archbishop continued. “You forced my hand. And that was your intention. Father Dimitrios is a good man and a good priest. You’ll have to wear the consequences. Anyway, have you spoken with the archaeologist? After all, he, more than any priest, can end this speculation.”
“I can’t control that man. He’s pig-headed and impossible to deal with. I can’t imagine him quelling a riot down here. He’d laugh in my face if I asked.”
“Well, maybe you’re not the right man to ask him?”
“What is that suppose to mean?”
“It means you may antagonize each other. It may be best for someone else to speak to him. Someone who knows him well, someone he respects, or at least someone on better terms with him than you.”
“Your worship, can I confide in you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The archaeologist has been the root of all our problems in recent months. People have died up on Oaxsa. All of it has to do with his excavation up there and the rumours that have followed him down. Not only has he not accepted the blame for their deaths, but also he has done nothing to stop others from climbing up there. The speculation is crazy. Some think they’re climbing for gold, others for life ever
lasting. The deaths could have been prevented but he has remained arrogantly silent and aloof. I once went to Father Dimitrios for help with this matter, but he refused. So I took the issue to the government. Mimis Steffanakis will be replaced tomorrow, officially. Not only as the archaeologist of the Minoan temple, but as Ephor of the entire region. He will be offered a chair at Oslo University and he can live out his years lecturing.”
“I see.”
“That will be the end of him.”
“Well, you will have to deal with the effects of that. My concern is the Greek Orthodox Church.”
“This is also the problem of the Church,” said Aristides. “We need someone here who is strong. Someone who will lead and not be tempted by ancient myths and pagan rites. This is not a time for a child from the seminary.”
“I am making myself available this Sunday. I will conduct the entire service as well as give the sermon. The young man will assist me and I will introduce him.”
“One week. What happens next week or the week after?”
“You have forced my hand, Aristides. You realize the shortage of Greek priests throughout the entire world? It is chronic. You forced my hand with this, or forced Father Dimitrios’. I have to tell you that he resigned. I did not retract his position. I had no intention of doing that. I would have kept him on, but he was firm. It was imprudent of you to have taken the matter into your own hands and gone to the press. You must bear some of the—”
“Ohhhh, my God,” cried Aristides. “My house is shaking! We are having a tremor!”
“An earthquake?”
“I can see the gulf water shimmering. Fish are jumping everywhere. My house is shaking now.”
Their conversation fell silent for a moment, awaiting an outcome.
“It has stopped, I think,” said Aristides. “It was only a small tremor.”
The earth shook away the sleepy, dreamy day. Eyes opened wide with fear. Shop owners and patrons ran from the buildings into the street. People lounging on the platea jumped to attention amidst cries and screams. Old women, shrieking in high-pitched voices, scurried back to their villages. Someone shouted, “A sign from God!”
The tremor lasted only a few seconds, yet people held onto their chairs, to the hands of someone nearby, awaiting another quake that did not arrive. It became a sign that their pilgrimage to Elefsis was not in vain: that they had come to the right place.
The rolling rumble had come from the north out of the sea and travelled thunderously toward the shore and onto the mountain behind Elefsis. When the earth returned to normal and the quaking ceased, all hearts stood still, all eyes looked in one direction. They did not look toward the church or the clock tower bell, nor to the sea whose surface shimmered from schools of fish fleeing, nor to the clanging masts of fishing vessels. Almost in unison, locals and visitors alike turned to look beyond the shops and the main street of Elefsis and upward to Oaxsa. It was a moment when eyes were frozen in expectation, awaiting another sign.
A large foreign car arrived that same night at the home of Aristides. It drove slowly up to the steep and narrow gravel road to Dacktilo. The car filled the entire lane as it navigated between the houses at the crest of the hill. The rumble of the Mercedes engine attracted faces to the windows as it passed, fingers spreading curtains apart to watch. The government insignia on the front door was clearly visible. This visit, under the veil of darkness, lit imaginations and clandestine thoughts of events about to take place. Did this visit have something to do with the priest’s disappearance? His absence had created a void in the village, as though God, too, had evaporated. It was a loss that grew more personal with every passing day. A fancy car arriving at Aristides’ door in the night was a cause of alarm. Instantly the telephone wires sizzled from home to home with the news of the strange arrival in the village.
Aristides welcomed Livitos Skoulis to his home as the uniformed driver removed a suitcase from the back of the car and carried it inside. Necks were strained in doorways. Questions were being asked throughout the village. Who is he? Aristides and Skoulis walked inside. The driver drove away.
The door of Manolis Theepsos’ house creaked open; his head peered out into the laneway. His eyes met those of Giorgos and Maria across the way.
“Good evening,” he whispered.
“Good evening,” came the reply.
One by one the doors opened and the people of Dacktilo silently appeared on the gravel street with a collective gaze toward the home of Aristides. No words needed to be spoken. In the light of the moon, a flick of the head, the raising of a brow became a language full of meaning, asking questions about deceit and skullduggery. Who among them would pound on the door of Aristides’ home and confront him, accuse him and demand the return of the priest? Who among them had the words that could be delivered without a stammer, with wide eyes that would not fall to the ground in defeat? In their silence, the answer became clear. In an instant this man of wealth and status would rise above them with an aura that would render them feeble and meek. As they stood in the laneway together, a collective chill fell over the heat in their anger.
Suddenly they heard footsteps behind them on the gravel road. As the sound came closer, a man rose to the crest of the hill and they saw his silhouette. All that could be heard was the sound of gravel crunching beneath huge feet. Beating hearts raced alongside their imaginations. Was this some throat-slitting monster of the underworld rising through the crevice of the hill while they stood defenceless, godless and abandoned? The sound came closer. The faceless figure was nearly upon them. Old women closed their eyes, whispering prayers, while others shuffled aside. As though they were invisible, the figure, without breaking stride, passed them.
“Dionysos,” whispered Manolis.
The huge man walked straight to the door of Aristides’ home. He pounded four times with his fist and bellowed, “Open the door!” He paused, and then pounded again. The door opened. Dionysos bent down to clear his head of the door-frame and walked inside. The door closed behind him. The villagers waited until they grew tired and then returned to their homes. No one saw Dionysos leave, alone, later in the night.
Skoulis was collected at daybreak as soft pink clouds shimmered across the sky. He was driven to the garbage tip on Oaxsa where the road ended. A donkey was waiting, loaded with the supplies he had requested. He could see the tents of the new arrivals scattered around. The pilgrims were biding their time, waiting in case the policeman left his post, leaving the pathway to the temple free. Because of them, the policeman was now forced to remain as a sentry throughout the night. Skoulis, having government identification, was allowed to pass on foot, pulling the donkey behind him.
He ascended slowly, surprised to see a campfire and three women eating grilled fish in front of Demetra’s cave. He stopped for conversation, complaining about his varicose veins and sore feet. He asked them if he was on the right path to the Minoan peak sanctuary.
“My name is Skoulis,” he said with pride. “The Ministry of Culture has sent me to peruse the excavation site. I understand it has been enclosed in a wire fence.”
“It is locked,” said Demetra sharply. “You have the key?”
“No … no, I don’t. It seems I neglected—”
“There is another,” she interjected. “Follow this path to the last tree. It is the only tree up there, and the oldest on the mountain. At the base are three dark aconi stones. Beneath them you’ll find the key.” She paused. “You’ve come alone? Without Professor Steffanakis?”
“I’m seeing him later,” he snapped. “I had to see the site first, for the security arrangements.” He seemed annoyed as he explained himself so unnecessarily to her. He turned to leave. “He’s not a young man either. I don’t know how he walked up here every day.”
Demetra laughed. “He doesn’t. Sometimes he flies on the winds of the gods.”
Skoulis looked back with a questioning frown, then continued on his journey.
“Be careful, mist
er. This mountain has a way of knowing who belongs here and who doesn’t.”
Skoulis angrily yanked the donkey’s lead and proceeded on his way. A smiling Demetra looked skyward toward the north as a gust of wind pushed her, then subsided. The clouds in the sky rushed furiously by. The crimson hues were being replaced by a thicker mass of grey and brown dust gathered from the ground.
“Be careful!” she shouted in her deep masculine voice, but her words were swallowed by the wind before they reached him.
Down below, Mimis approached his gate and pulled it open. Something heavy from the other side forced it to crash inwards. Dionysos, sitting up against the gate, fell inside. Mimis helped the big man, half in slumber, to his feet.
“You slept here?” asked Mimis with a grin. “The widow Ariadne threw you out?”
He flicked away the question with a tsk. “I came late last night. You were sleeping. We have to talk.”
“I’m going for bread. Can we talk along the way or would you care to rest first?”
“There’s no time for that. Big trouble came to town last night. Big trouble.”
“Skoulis is in town.”
“You know?”
“He wrote to me.”
“I met him last night with Aristides. He comes like a thief to steal your work. I can feel it in my bones. His cold eyes told me he’s up to no good. He planned to climb Oaxsa at daybreak – without you.”
Mimis sighed. “I expected it, though I wanted to be with him. The excavation has finished. The walls are rebuilt to one metre and there is nothing left to dig.” He looked at his watch. “He’s probably there now. I’ll have to imagine this small pleasure.”
“There’s more, Mimis. Aristides wants me to speak to you, convince you to speak to the people of Elefsis about the rumours. Make them believe there are no gods or ghosts walking around up there, or people coming back from the dead. He thinks all these crazy visitors are just the beginning, and more will come. The only man who knows the truth is you.”
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 20
