Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  Steffanakis’ face offered no sign of agreement or contempt. The words of Aristides only heightened his sense of doom and the weight of it; the blame pressed on his chest. His breathing was erratic.

  “I know what you are thinking, Mimis. How ironic that I should come to you for help. Ask you to help the one who has come to remove you from your work. To help two men you probably despise. You may reject my plea, but I beg of you. I don’t know if I can change things now. I mean, change things as far as you are concerned. It may be too late, whether we find him or not. But I promise you I will try. I promise on my mother’s grave.” He shook his head, fighting back the tears, his pleading eyes reaching out. “I fear the worst. If he has died, there will be no end to our troubles. Not just for you and me, but for this village. We will have no peace. Ever!” He pressed his fingers hard against his weeping eyes.

  Mimis sighed heavily. The air between the two men was silent. Without hope. “It’s too late,” Mimis whispered.

  Aristides turned toward the gate, apologizing for the intrusion, apologizing for making such a fool of himself. “I have never cried before another man,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  Mimis closed his eyes as the man departed. He heard the clicking sound of the gate latch. His arms and legs seemed filled with concrete, the gravity of death and the repercussions of God upon him. Should Skoulis lay up there crushed beneath the weight of falling rocks, his body would be an unjust scapegoat in this tragedy. It was not for Skoulis to die this way, up there. He was a scapegoat for another.

  Mimis felt the presence of the ancient priest pointing his finger. “Why do you point at me,” barked Mimis, “and not at yourself? You used your blade to slay the boy. The scapegoat! It should have been you … the king. No one less than you. No one less.” He paused. “My enemy did not deserve to die up there. He was a scapegoat for me.”

  The image of the ancient man faded away. Mimis shouted for him to return. “Prove yourself! Prove yourself!” He called out again and again. There was no reply. He called, but no one came.

  In the cool night air Mimis’ eyes closed down upon his irrational world and into troubled sleep. His bed felt morbid, murky. The coldness of a dream pulled him deep into the underworld. He allowed himself to be taken under.

  If you make me sleep a night without my dream,

  I will rise in the body of a dead man who lived the days before.

  But if I fall upon the wings of my dreams

  then I will awaken as a new man

  and fly across the golden sea to greet the sun.

  Dacktilo, Crete

  1880s

  Beneath the Tree of Golden Boughs

  October 1980

  S

  leep. Gentle sleep. Mimis let himself be taken, slowly falling through the eye of a dream. The earth beneath his feet gave way and he fell deep within it.

  Beneath the bristly cone tree of golden boughs that once witnessed the coming of St Paul to Crete, Agamemnon and all the Kings of Minos, were roots that sank deep within the mountain, roots that sank through stone, rock and time itself. Above the ground the tree showed its ravaged shape, abraded by four thousand years of winds and burning sun, crippled by a history of unforgiveness. Though gnarled and stooped, it knelt as one who witnessed the presence of ancient gods, the realms of kings and conquerors and nature’s ruthless ways. The tree stored the memories of all that had passed. Memories entered the roots sinking, dangling, dripping in a cavern far below.

  Mimis’ eyes looked to the ceiling of the cave, to the glistening white strands dangling down. He heard Demetra’s voice saying, “Look! The tree of bristly cones, the ancient tree of life ends here where we begin our journey underground.”

  His eyes tried to focus in this sunless place. Through the orange torch glow he began to see hundreds of fragile pure white strands hanging from the ceiling.

  What is this place? he wondered. Had he come upon the procession of etetuma? Had he entered through a hole in Demetra’s cave? Or was this an invention of his dreamy mind?

  He was not alone. He heard footsteps of others and sensed their urgent breath. Beside him was a beardless man dressed in a cape and in his hand was a clay disc embossed with spirals. There were spirals on both sides. “The way in and the way out,” he whispered, “they are the same.”

  “Father Dimitrious, is that you?” Mimis asked.

  The beardless man did not reply but pointed to Angalia behind him. She was holding a small mountain perthekes in her hands. Mimis sensed other nearby, but could not see them. There was a comfort in knowing he was not alone in being swept to the underworld below, falling through some crevice in Oaxsa. Most comforting of all was Demetra and the very smell of her nearby. Her finger pointed to the darkness and to the path they would follow.

  “We begin from the cavern of hanging roots. From here we go deep. Very deep. Into the tunnels of darkness, through the fear of death and beyond. What you will see here is real and you are all in danger of being taken. So I must warn you. Silence your thoughts.”

  Demetra carried the torch to light the way. Without it they were all in danger of falling through the gaping bottomless holes in the cavern floor. It was damp and wet, with water forming channels. As they walked, the channels turned into streams, the streams turned to rivers, and the rivers into the seas of the underworld.

  Demetra stopped upon the edge of the blackness; the light of her torch showed they had reached a cliff rim. Beyond it was nothing, a universe, and below, an abyss. Her words, “We must cross,” chilled Mimis’ skin.

  She followed the edge of the precipice as it narrowed into the thinnest ledge. Everyone followed, their hands and backsides pressed to the rock. Their legs trembled at the prospect of falling. Silent thoughts.

  Mimis heard Angalia’s whimper as she struggled not to lose her footing. Unable to hold the anxious perthekes and the cliff wall at the same time, she released the partridge. It flew out effortlessly over the abyss, then hovered above them. Soon the bird grew tired. Its frantic eyes searched for a place to rest. It returned to Angalia once, and then again, but her hands clung to the wall of the cliff behind. The wings of the perthekes flapped against the rocks over Mimis’ head, and then over Demetra’s. Finally the bird landed on the narrow ledge. As it landed, the body of the perthekes dissolved before everyone’s eyes. It was transformed into the human form of Pharmacos, Angalia’s dead son.

  Angalia cried out his name and reached for him with one outstretched hand just as Pharmacos dissolved into the air and in his place the perthekes returned. It flew beyond the ledge and hovered in front of her.

  “Careful, Galia,” hollered Demetra. “Be careful. Not all is what it may seem in the beginning.”

  The ledge was so precarious and the dangers so apparent, yet Angalia reached out toward Pharmacos. Demetra shouted at the precise moment that Angalia stepped out into the darkness, disappearing into the black abyss. She was gone. So was the perthekes. Demetra pressed ahead, forcing those who remained to follow on.

  Mimis, stricken with a terrible grief, bellowed at the thought of Angalia’s fate. Her demise, and Demetra’s dismissal of it, had shaken him. The fear of falling off became so intensely real he began to tremble and stumble. He carefully prepared each step and considered every movement.

  From the abyss blew the smell of damp stale air. Mimis’ body began to shiver from the cold. He became aware he wanted no more of this. He wanted to go back.

  “Mimis!” shouted Demetra. “You will die here! You will die here a worthless thing unless you conquer fear. Let go, Mimis. Let go.”

  The beardless man repeated Demetra’s word: “Let go, Dimitros. Let go.” He extended his hands, in which he held two smooth, sea-washed pebbles, outward. He tapped them and waited for a sign. He tapped the pebbles again, this time enlivening the stale air. It blew wildly upward. The rush of it snatched him, and no one else, carrying the priest away.

  Mimis stood frozen with fear. Demetra inched along the ledge, expec
ting him to follow. The glow of her torch grew faint in the distance and then disappeared. Never had Mimis felt this helpless … so hopelessly alone.

  He moved along slowly, in search of a wider ledge where he could sit more comfortably. He shuffled along in the dark, searching, finding not a wider ledge, but an ever decreasingly narrow one. He laughed aloud. Oh how heartily he laughed, realizing the ledge that supported his life was diminishing to nothing. Empowered by defiance, he would not go back. He chose to continue on to the end. He shuffled on without fear, without any expectations of being saved.

  With the blackness all around him, the stale air felt suddenly warm and began to taste of freshness. Mimis smiled at the irony of being unshackled from the cold while proceeding to his death. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. When he opened them, the blackness had faded and it was becoming lighter. As he inched forward, he began to see a vast landscape. Below him was a beach of sparkling sand and beyond was a sea with mountain escarpments rising along its edge.

  Behind the ledge where Mimis stood was a facia of white rock with many holes. At first they appeared to him to be tiny caves, but he soon realized they were too small to enter. Gazing upwards, Mimis saw they were serpent caves. His presence seemed to bring them out with their tongues flicking. Some climbed up, some climbed down. There were hundreds of them. One slithered along the ledge between Mimis’ legs and feet. Another one dropped from above, its body thick and heavy as it slid across the archaeologist’s face and down his chest. There were thousands protruding from each hole in the cliff face, hanging out like gargoyles before descending. He felt them everywhere; coiling, squeezing, their thick black tongues flicking. He might have felt fear or revulsion, but instead he felt pleasure. Their bodies were entwined with his.

  The caress of the vipers was brief as they all slipped away toward the sparkling beach below. They crawled to a central rock upon which stood a xoanon. The ancient statue was created as Mimis had expected it would be; the feet of sculpted clay, the body of carved wood and dressed in colourful paint and woven thread. His beloved ancient friends were here! They, too had made the journey! To see it with his eyes, so complete and perfect, filled his poor starving soul with life.

  There was now a faint bronzed glow from across the underground sea and it settled upon the sparkling sand that writhed with white serpents. Mimis was seized with ecstasy. He was following the ancient footsteps of others. He knew he must leap from this ledge to continue on, join them, and dance amidst their mysteries.

  The words of Demetra suddenly filled him with a thundering voice, “Release yourself, Mimis. Let go!”

  He began his descent; not as Mimis Steffanakis, not as a man, but as a snake, gripping small protrusions of rock, finding the many holes along the cliff face, moving from one to the other with the rhythm and ease of a serpent. He stepped down upon the sand and turned toward the xoanon. The statue was aglow as though leafed in gold. On the shore were rays of wriggling furrows in the sand. The snakes had left their mark and disappeared beneath the rock on which the xoanon stood.

  The statue and Mimis Steffanakis stood before each other. He looked into the eyes, which were made from two sea-washed pebbles. They were smooth, dark and inviting. They were sacred eyes. The Goddess, once a total mystery, now confronted him in perfect detail. The clay feet were the same as those he had found. Attached to them were the wooden legs and body carved into an amorphous human form and painted with the krocus, the hyacinth and the poppy rose. He wanted to touch it, but did not dare. He was in awe of her and consumed by her golden glow.

  Mimis had penetrated through a domain not bound by time and stared into the face of it. If his life were to end here, in this place, at this very moment, it seemed appropriate and just. As he contemplated this, the deep and heavy voice of Demetra returned, saying: “Not the living. Not the dead. You stand on the place where dead hearts begin to beat again and where lost souls are found. It is neither the past nor the present. Neither life nor death. You stand at the crossroads and you must go on.”

  At the foot of the xoanon, beneath the heavy stone, was a hole in the earth, a giant cave-like hole through which the serpents had all passed. He looked inside and realized he was out of humanity’s reach. He must finish his journey alone.

  The Great Green Sea

  1633 BC

  In the time of my father and his father before him, the Keftiu hand of friendship reached to the farthest northern edge of the Great Green Sea. The people of Mycenos were rich with gold and precious stones, which were traded for the gifts of Keftiu. Wanaka, the King of Mycenos, was wise enough to welcome foreign art and foreign ways, sending many of his artisans to Keftiu to be journeyed. In my father’s time, many people from Mycenos came to settle on Keftiu. Their spirits were weak from constant battles with crude and warring tribes. The northern tribes were thieves and not traders, murderers with no art save the art of war. They sat upon the backs of running beasts whose swiftness was frightening. Their gods smelled of venom and foulness and on these tongues was the taste of blood.

  The people of Mycenos prevailed, but the battles made them weary. Many sought the peace of Keftiu. Those who left Mycenos brought treasures, which they gladly gave to the honour of Meterra in return for a safe journey.

  Like me, these people were both blind and deaf to Meterra’s voice. When new children were born of them on Keftiu, they, too were voiceless, and beyond Meterra’s call. The children of these children were the same. Though they became Keftiuian by birth, the pneumos they breathed was not. Meterra accepted their arrival in giving them safe passage, but spoke not one word within their phrenes.

  The people of Mycenos accepted the ways of Keftiu, building temples on high peaks for Meterra and Potinija, the goddess of their homeland. The ways of Keftiu were brought back to Pilos and accepted by Wanaka, the king. The two nations grew in understanding of each other. Yet the voicelessness would always make them strangers. The bonds of trust could never be complete. Their emptiness, like mine, would remain a deep regret.

  Though without voices, the people were humbled by the privilege of remaining on Keftiu. The language they spoke was also written, like my language in Egypt. Thoughts could be recorded and preserved for many years. They could be inscribed on clay tablets. For this, Basilius showed his displeasure.

  Wannaxsos, the king, saw great joy in written words and was pleased when he saw recorded lists of goods within the palace, the exact amount from harvests which were kept in every store. The description and quantity of goods aboard every ship coming in or going out could be recorded. The benefits outweighed the concerns of his high priest.

  Agraphisos, the man of words, was born of parents of Mycenos and it was he who showed the gift of writing to the king. That he had no voice did not disturb Wannaxsos. To him the writings were a science that would benefit trade and improve the minds of many, should they learn this written language.

  The thumos of Basilius was heavy with concern. To him these words were of an alien god who would change the very nature of all who learned to write. He believed the people of Mycenos were made voiceless by the coming of these etchings in clay. As for my people and me, he felt the same.

  He knew that the subjects of my Pharaoh had once heard voices. As proof of his belief, he asked me what was the cause of this loss? I did not know. He then asked when the written word arrived to my people? Again, I did not know. I felt a coldness down my back. He asked, “Did your voices leave you when the power of the word was formed on papyrus and slabs of clay?” The chill of certainty within my phrenes was as sharp as any blade. At that moment, I could feel the chill of his complaint upon my skin. My phrenes was cold with truth. Yet Basilius gave me warmth from his wisdom.

  His thoughts dug deep beneath the mysteries and far beyond the time of our time. His eyes looked far across the Great Green Sea to a time yet to come, with danger crouched and patiently waiting.

  The strongest and the bravest of men searched the horizon for invaders of the
land. Basilius looked through the whiteness of the sun for invaders of Meterra’s voice, invaders of their phrenes.

  In my time on Keftiu, I would come to know the people of Mycenos. I learned their words on clay. Being a voiceless man of Egypt, they would do me no harm. There was nothing these words could thieve from me. What was taken from my phrenes was taken before my time.

  The people from Mycenos, like my people of Egypt, were strong, but suffered the weakness of doubt and self-decision. We longed for peace, but let it slip away for pride. We searched for joy, but never through ecstasy. The harmony of Keftiu we desired to embrace, but Meterra’s mysteries were always far away. Keftiuian people, with their voices and voyages to invisible lands, their dance and songs of ecstasy, and their joy of art and play, were all born from Meterra’s impulse, to be inhaled from the breath of Her winds. I believed one day I would learn to breathe these winds, to free myself. I longed to embrace my father again. I longed to release the ropes that bound me.

  I was to learn that there were two faces of Meterra: the Goddess of joy and harmony, and the Goddess of horror and destruction. Both were of the anemos, the wind, and began with her breath. One could become the other in an instant. Men who travelled the Great Green Sea all trembled at the thought that their lives would cease upon the sight of her coming from below. This other face, the demon of the deep, would come to life during my time. The head of joy would be severed as her evil twin would throw her burning eyes toward Keftiu shores. It was the purpose of every Keftiuian, of all of us, not to be the cause of her fury, the horror of Erinys, of Meterra returning. My blind eyes saw nothing of this future, but the eyes of Basilius did.

  There is the sound of water lapping