Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  “Knows the truth? Are those his words or yours?”

  “I can’t remember. I think so. Anyway, he says the people are scared and it would be good for everyone if you spoke to them. Stop all the talk, and maybe stop Elefsis from becoming a circus.”

  “Why didn’t he ask me himself?”

  Dionysos shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess he doesn’t like you. And I do. So he asked me.”

  “What truth I know about the temple will not help him. He would much prefer I lie. He wants something I cannot give him. The same for Skoulis.” Mimis paused momentarily. “He wants immortality and that is beyond both of us.”

  “I should have squeezed his throat shut last night. Why should he take your hard work away? You are too meek. You are going to lose, Mimis. You must fight.”

  “If I lose it, it will give me no pleasure, I can assure you. But what pleasure will it give him? How will archaeology be advanced? The Minoan temple up there has presented things I never encountered before. The answers to these puzzles are not to be found in the artefacts. If I am removed from here, and even as Ephor of this region, I will excavate until I die to find these answers. And I may not even have to dig one shovelful of dirt to find them. But to say I know the truth … no.”

  “Mimis, you make my head hurt. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Then we are true brothers.”

  The two men chuckled as they left the House of Thyme and strolled down the lane. Dionysos sang along the way to Elefsis Port.

  “I hear you are playing Agamemnon in the Freedom Day play. How do you like being the general?”

  Dionysos scowled. “I don’t like him. I had a big fight with Pilofakis yesterday at rehearsal. He wanted me to kill the widow Ariadne. I refused.”

  “She plays Iphigenia?”

  “Hmmmm. And she is supposed to be my daughter. What kind of man would kill his own daughter, sacrifice her to the winds so his ships can sail to war? There is always another war, but only one daughter. And besides,” he whispered, “I love the little widow, you know – like a man. He expects me to kill the woman I am in love with. He can go to the devil with his stupid play.”

  As they passed through the town, they paused at the butcher’s display. Every Friday the butcher killed one young goat and one calf and placed each of the heads in the window. They stared out at the passersby, meeting them eye-to-eye.

  The two men stopped for coffee at Angalia’s and were immediately joined by Giorgos from his grocery store. He yelled, “Galia, two coffees and a carafe of raki.” Dionysos smiled, knowing which was for him.

  “I’m treating. I can afford it,” Giorgos said, slapping both hands on the table. “I made more money in one week than I did all of last winter. I never thought I would say this in my lifetime, but this is one crazy place.” He paused with a grand sweep of his arm to the whole town. “Look at them. And then the archbishop arrived this morning with a priest following him around like a puppy dog. It nearly caused a riot.” He laughed devilishly while slapping the table like a drum. “The pilgrims thought he was Father Dimitrios and chased him everywhere.”

  Mimis chuckled, imagining the chase.

  “The archbishop and the young priest barricaded themselves in the church. Aristides came down and hollered at everyone to go away. But they threw gravel at him and his new car. This is one crazy place.”

  Giorgos stood up and shouted for the coffees, then sat down.

  In the distance, coming towards them on the road from the isthmus and Eleus, came the tall, lanky figure of Constantino. He was carrying the dead, wet carcass of his goat. As he approached they could see his arms straining from the weight. His face was flushed red with tears and anger. He walked directly to the table, dropping the dead goat at the feet of Mimis Steffanakis.

  “This is what talk of sacrifice has done, Mimis. What god would want the death of a poor goat? I found him floating in the sea.”

  “Who did this?” Mimis shouted.

  Constantino pointed at the crowd of new arrivals with both hands as if to say take your pick. “Murderers!” he shouted. “Killing a poor little animal like this one is murder, not sacrifice. As pointless as any sacrifice up there,” he said, pointing to Oaxsa. He began to sob. “Pointless,” he whimpered.

  Mimis’ face was crimson with rage.

  “My poor goat,” said Constantino. “The murderers! Why? It happened on the day I went to Agia Eleni. I would have drowned whoever did this with my bare hands.”

  Angalia came out, bending over to pat the dead beast. Dionysos finished his raki with a gulp and stood up from the table. “Constantino.

  Let’s go. We’ll find the devils and put their heads in the butcher’s window.”

  Constantino shook his head in denial. “Who knows who is guilty?”

  Mimis touched Dionysos’ arm, asking him to sit down. “Tell Aristides I will speak to the people. Tell him I will do it, but only on one condition. I want Father Dimitrios to be brought back to the church. The archbishop is here. They can arrange it. It’s best for us all. If Father Dimitrios returns as priest, I will do my best. Have Aristides come to my house this evening.”

  As he finished speaking, the coffee in their cups began to shimmer, the cups rattling on the metal table as once again the earth began to shake. The rattling plates and glassware in the taverna could be heard outside. Those sitting held onto their tables or someone next to them. Giorgos turned toward his grocery store, waiting for all the canned goods to tumble to the ground. People sleeping or resting on the platea awoke with a fright to witness the shops of Elefsis being evacuated, proprietors and customers running into the street. The tremor was stronger than the one the day before, causing the sea to swell and the boats in the harbour to rise and fall.

  The thunderous earthquake burrowed past Elefsis, up the peak of Oaxsa and southward toward Neopolis. It passed like an underground storm and in its wake there was a silence, an anticipation that something worse would follow; something larger, much deeper, more evil. The hearts of the Cretans had never grown accustomed to the shaking of the earth. A hundred minor tremors or a thousand in a lifetime always chilled the human spirit, piercing it with fear. Is this the one? The big one?

  Dionysos leaned toward Steffanakis and whispered, “Number two. A bad sign, my friend.”

  Mimis’ eyes shot up toward Oaxsa. Skoulis is up there, he thought. Oaxsa is not a place to be when the earth gives way and shakes the mountain loose. Despite Mimis’ wrath, he felt a chilling fear for the man’s life.

  His thoughts flashed back many months to when the excavation of the temple first began and a quake had struck Oaxsa. It had caused instant fear and panic as rocks and boulders shook loose and came tumbling down the mountain. There had been nowhere for the team of excavators to hide. Some had lain prostrate in narrow trenches, some behind the lone tree, the ancient gnarled pine with bristle cones. It was this ancient tree they felt saved many from certain death. They named it the tree of life from that day onward. One man in a trench suffered a broken sternum and two donkeys died in the incident, one being cast over the edge. Mimis and his excavating team decided not to embellish the event when they descended to Elefsis, though the urge was to do otherwise. Silence was thought the more prudent course.

  It was this prudence, through silence, which now came to mind. The slightest hint or brief explanation of what had happened on the mountain may have involved fear and speculation about the excavation. As events unfolded, he let prudence slip aside. What little he had said about his discovery had been too much. Would any of this have happened if he had been silent? Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know.

  Elefsis, Crete

  October, 1980

  D

  emetra sat peacefully folding her nets in her boat along the wharf, but she was being pestered by the new arrivals that were in search of fresh fish to eat. They reminded her of a flock of seagulls rushing around and squabbling.

  From her positio
n she could see Mimis, Dionysos and Giorgos at Angalia’s and the mass of new arrivals parading through Elefsis. Demetra’s eyes captured Semele, the church attendant, shopping in the main street. She stopped for bread, then fruit, then cheese at Giorgos’. She moved from shop to shop in a manner that seemed odd and insecure, as she glanced from side to side, then behind her. Demetra felt the eyes of Semele touch her own. It might have been just a simple moment easily dismissed, forgotten. On this occasion it was different. The other woman was hiding something.

  Instead of returning to the church, Semele walked across the platea toward the fisherwoman. She slowly approached the wharf, her gaze never shifting from the absorbing eyes of Demetra.

  Within this wordless silence emerged an understanding. Demetra knew the priest had returned. She dropped the nets from her hands and glanced to the clock tower. He was there. The food in Semele’s basket was for him. She knew that through the holes in the mortar of the tower he could see every village and watch the movements of everyone, yet he remained invisible.

  Semele walked to the edge of the stone wharf. She lifted her chin with pride. No words were spoken. Demetra watched as Semele took a deep and conclusive breath, a slight upward curl forming on her lips. She then continued on her way toward the church, smiling with certainty that her signal had been received.

  Demetra clasped her hands together softly. Father Dimitrios was back! The look on the face of Semele said so. The priest had returned in triumph, and not a weak and beaten man. “This is a good day,” she whispered as she stepped from her boat.

  Demetra walked toward Mimis, Giorgos and Dionysos at Angalia’s taverna and stood before them. “Look at all the worried faces. What’s the matter with you men? Tonight is going to be the best night of the year. Mimis, tonight we go fishing. You and me!”

  Mimis looked up without enthusiasm, lifting his chin in denial. “I know nothing about fish, Demate.”

  Demetra slapped the wooden table, startling Dionysos and Giorgos. “Tonight will be the perfect night. Why would you sleep in your bed when we can swim with the stars?”

  Dionysos’ eyebrows peaked as he looked out to sea. “Mimis,” he whispered. “She might be right.” He pointed seaward with his nose.

  Mimis threw him an uncomplimentary glance. “Thank you, Dionysos. I have a lot of work to do tonight.”

  The big man cocked his head to one side and shrugged. “If you die tomorrow, I will carve on your gravestone, ‘He preferred to sit in his office.’ ”

  That evening, Demetra finally lured Mimis out to sea. They left Elefsis Port at 2am, slipping past Spinalonga, and came upon the calm skin of the Mediterranean lying flat as a black sheet. A large full moon gave birth to itself, squeezing out of the eastern horizon. The air was still, breathless. The engines were silenced and their vessel hovered in the calm.

  Mimis’ ears hunted for a sound. He listened, but there was nothing; not lapping water, not a creak in the boat, not even the beating of his heart. This was the surprise she had planned for him. He wanted to speak, but Demetra shooshed him, whispering, “When the brain is empty, you are free. Your big keffali opens like a flower and you can go – or they can come. It’s all the same.”

  Mimis’ head was not empty. It was filled with expectations. The glow of the moon fell over the water yet his eyes were on Demetra. She filled his heart with love and admiration. He had learned more from her about the ancient Minoans than from all his excavations combined. She was the teacher. He gazed upon Demetra’s silhouette. Maybe he could follow her silent vision, catch a ride on the slipstream. He knew her thoughts went outward, yet his still weighed heavily in the boat.

  She had spoken of visions and voices many times, but they were invisible to him. Mimis suspected that the mind of the Minoan had visions and heard voices, most of which were attributed to the goddess or to the dead. Once he believed this ancient behaviour was a fantasy or caused by hallucinations. Demetra was trying to prove him wrong. He knew she was having some success.

  In the calm glow of the moon, Mimis’ thoughts strayed to the moonlit balcony in Oslo and a comment made to him by Professor Wolf Odelstun. The question Mimis had deflected at that time began to burn again in his mind. What was the connection of the coming of the written word to the death of the ancient voices, to the demise of the goddesses in every civilization? Was there any connection with this to the sudden appearances around the world of the vengeful male god? This night, in the stillness of the open sea, he reached out for an answer.

  Sometimes he wondered if Santorini had never erupted and the civilization of Crete had been spared, would they too have gone the direction of the nations to the east? Would they have replaced goddesses with gods? Would they have glorified war and built elaborate tombs for the rich and powerful?

  In the bliss of this night, he came to feel the end of the Minoans, in a sense, was the perfect art. The Minoans left at the peak when they could still dance to the music of the entire universe, not like modern man who has been left stomping to a tune of his own invention.

  As dawn approached it was time to pull in the nets. Demetra stretched and then said to Mimis, “Don’t worry. You need a little more practice. It will come.”

  Though he tried, he failed to see in her numinous way. She was generous in saying it would come. For Mimis, it had not been a wondrous night. While Demetra roamed the stars, he was shackled to his limitations. As rare as this evening was, even with her guidance, he still could not walk in her shoes. How would he ever follow the footsteps of his ancient priest? The voyage back to port was without joy for him. As Demetra sang songs about the rising sun, Mimis’ thoughts were still in darkness. The dread of his own failure made him weak.

  Mimis returned home with his mind buzzing with thoughts. He worked in his office until early evening, when he sat back in his chair and opened his diary.

  He thought of the very first moment the temple was discovered: the intuition of certainty that preceded even one glimmer of scientific proof. There were only signs in the beginning. A portion of Oaxsa’s rocky spine had been bitten and spat away, leaving a flat triangular piece of earth facing northward toward Santorini. Years before the discovery, there was an afternoon’s purple haze in the air that fell upon him, touching his neck with the chill of a cold finger … “Dig here”.

  He wrote in his diary: Was this pure intuition or were the signs logical enough for any archaeologist to carry on? Or was it coincidence, or luck? Was it luck that the ancient priest was there, the same man who came to him as a child in the orchard? The perivoli man!

  Mimis relived that special moment, dusting the bones of the ancient priest; his heart pounding at the first glimpse of the seal stone, and then the bronze knife; his throat pounding with the certainty of human sacrifice. Before the evidence slowly revealed itself, he knew. Months would pass before it could be proven, but he knew. Every cell of his body felt the power of illumination. His intense certainty seemed to have arrived upon the wings of intuition. In that brief instant, he sensed he was no longer the man of empirical reason. He had become part of the earth and the purple air above him. He had become the shovel and the brush and the bones he uncovered. It was a moment when both past and present condensed into a bubble midway between the living and the dead; a bubble of space not transfixed by time. Epiphany and ecstasy led Mimis to whisper to himself, “I dust the bones of myself.”

  Was this what Demetra meant when they spoke about peering through to the other side? Her words whispered in his head: “For those who take the journey, there is a beauty far removed from here. It is a place on earth where you can discover God and yourself at the same time.” In his thoughts he watched as Demetra slowly turned to look at him. She was suddenly replaced by the face of the ancient priest with his startled eyes upon him. The priest than pointed sharply in accusation.

  The voice of his uncle shouted inside him: Let the dead rest, Mimis. You’ll have yourself to blame – and now you must be punished.

  Mimis h
eard the voice of a man scream in horror. At first he thought it was his own. There were the sounds of rocks splitting, falling from the west face of Oaxsa. He heard the sound of rocks snapping, popping; mountain pustules being squeezed and breaking off, falling away like icebergs, crashing down upon the temple, crushing the fence he had built around it.

  Again he heard the scream, but this was not his voice. As the earth shook, rocks broke from their moorings where he saw Skoulis fall to the ground. He shared the man’s eyes, his pulse, his attempt to escape and crawl away; fingers dug in the dirt pulling the body forward. He felt the numbness of his legs, the sharp pain in his back as the black breath entered his lungs.

  The image ceased and disappeared, leaving Mimis gasping for air, his heart lurching for oxygen. The asphyxiating moment left him fighting to breathe, his windpipe sealed, trying to inhale over and over again. The moment of airless panic forced him to stand, pointing frantically to the blockage in his throat. His eyes were now bulging in distress and a numbness filled his brain, numbness and the chill of horror.

  He felt his body being hoisted into the air and held by the arms of someone who squeezed the breath from his lungs. The membranes beneath his eyelids sparkled, flashing a redness of blood. “You see”, said his uncle, while raising his bastooni like a club in the air. “You see! You are to blame!” Mimis watched as the cane of gnarled olive wood came flashing down upon him. “You are to blame.”

  Mimis was awakened from his courtyard nightmare by a frantic knock on the gate.

  A distraught Aristides was on the other side of the gate, pleading to come in. Mimis unlatched the gate and the businessman entered. He stood in the centre of the courtyard, visibly distressed. “I’m sorry to come to your home this late, but Skoulis never came back today. Something terrible has happened up there. Mimis, you know the mountain better than anyone. You can find him.” Aristides put his face in his hands while whispering, “That bloody mountain is evil. That bloody mountain.” He glanced toward Steffanakis. “I beg you, Mimis. Take the big man with you and find Skoulis. I beg of you. No one else knows the place, knows where to look.”