Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  “Your Grace! Do you want Dimitrios back? Father Dimitrios? Or is it too late?” asked Aristides.

  The archbishop stopped and stood in one place without looking back.

  “He is here,” said Aristides in a near exhausted voice. “I saw him last night.”

  The archbishop remained still, his eyes looking ahead toward the church.

  Aristides continued, “He may be beyond us now, and the Church. But he is here, somewhere.”

  Elefsis, Crete

  Sunday, October 1980

  B

  y Sunday morning, those who had not seen the dead man lying in the platea had the horror of it described to them. The tales were becoming more exaggerated with each telling. One story was told of a headless naked monster killed atop Oaxsa, slain and pulverized by the pilgrims. Was it a demon or a man? By Sunday morning, few villagers were without a brutal mental image of the dead man in their heads.

  Oblivious to the events in the village, Mimis Steffanakis spent the night asleep in his courtyard. For him it was a beautiful night, pristine and clear. His mortal eyes tried to see through the depth of it, from galaxy to galaxy. If he fixed upon one star or constellation, he could then be drawn outward and approach it.

  He focused on the Pleiades, his favourite constellation as a boy. Wasn’t it a kite someone had lost to the wind; being pulled, up there, where it remained? He saw the seven stars of Pleiades, the seven daughters of Atlas reaching out to greet him: Electra, Maia, Alcyone and Taygete … Celaeno, Sterope, and the secret and most difficult to see, Miropi. This night of infinity drew him outward until the pleasure of it waned, returning him to sleep before dawn.

  Mimis slept blissfully through Sunday morning, light years away from the events taking place only walking distance from his home.

  By 9am the stage at Eleus had been completed, the lighting tested and put in place. Rented chairs, two hundred of them, sat in perfect rows. All was nearly ready for the play that was to be held in two days time. Paki Pilofakis scurried through Elefsis handing out leaflets about the play. They read:

  A PLAY OF SACRIFICE AND REVENGE

  BY EURIPIDES

  IPHIGENIA AT AULIS

  TUESDAY NIGHT, 7.00 pm

  Outdoor setting by the canal, beside the sunken city of Eleus

  Theepsos lingered near Miropi’s kiosk. The shutters were closed. Paki poked fun. “You’ll be waiting a long time for your special herbal tea today, Manolis. Miropi has gone to the world of the gods with Demetra and Potnia. As we speak, they are washing a pig in the sea.”

  “A pig?”

  “Today is the first day of etetuma, the procession of life’s secrets. I saw them myself at Eleus doing magic with the special herbs and teas you like so much. In two days they will sacrifice the clean pig to the ancient wind and then eat it. Oopah! A perfect beginning to the opening of my play, where the winds refuse to blow for Agamemnon’s warships unless he sacrifices his daughter. Perfect!”

  “I haven’t eaten pig in years.”

  “Then you have a choice. Join Demetra’s procession or follow me to church. It’s a big day! And on Tuesday, it will end with a big night.”

  As Pilofakis walked on toward the church, Manolis Theepsos licked his lips, pondering his course for the morning. Not often were such choices available in a village: church with the archbishop or fresh pig with Demetra. He considered it: with Demetra I will fill my soul and my belly, but my poor bones will have to walk so many miles; at church I will fill neither, but I will please God. What do I do? He thought for a moment, looking toward Eleus, then toward the church. If his wife were alive, she would pull his arm toward the church and say, “Pay your respects to God! Not a pig!” If she were alive, he would sit in the Church of St Constantino and Eleni all morning, pitying his poor stomach, licking his lips and dreaming of fresh roast pig. He looked again to Eleus, then toward the church – and walked straight ahead to the taverna where his favourite chair awaited him.

  By 10am the church overflowed with people standing outside the door, pushing to get inside. The archbishop opened the service with a smile and open arms, welcoming everyone and pointing to the sparrow of a priest. “Be generous to him.”

  He smiled while the congregation grinned and chuckled to each other. The heaviness was lifted, giving rise to the smell of candle wax and incense.

  “Before beginning, I have been asked to remind you of the Freedom Day play to be held on Oxi Day at Eleus, just past the canal. The play is a Paki Pilofakis adaptation of Iphigenia and promises to be a great evening filled with surprises. There will be fireworks at the conclusion.”

  The archbishop and his underling performed the Sunday service in tandem, transforming the Church of St Constantino and Eleni into an imaginary cathedral. Archbishop Iakovos was one of the most respected men in Greece, and here he was performing the role of a simple priest. It was unprecedented here and provided the locals a moment of pride. They felt honoured to be with him.

  There was an air of expectation surrounding the service. The singing voice of the young priest was beautiful and crystalline, like the voice of a boy. It lightened their hearts and lifted their spirits upward with the rising incense to the blue-painted heavenly dome of the church. Though these songs were the same ones they had known since childhood, they were different today; so much more meaningful. Some lost control and sang along with the priest, lifting them further into God’s realm.

  The archbishop could sense the success of his service. He could see it in their eyes. As for the others, the new arrivals, they were yet to be fulfilled.

  When the service ended, the archbishop walked slowly to the sermon lectern and stared at all the hopeful eyes before him. He waited until there was total silence.

  “Many of you are visitors to this church for the very first time. Some of you have come because of media reports of a sermon given in this church many weeks ago. What was reported has caused a great deal of harm to this congregation and the credibility of the Greek Orthodox Church. The mental state in the acting priest has been affected to the extent he felt he must resign.”

  “Resign?” came the questioning cry from a woman near the front. “You got rid of him for speaking his mind – for speaking the truth.”

  The archbishop gazed down, considering whether he should respond to the interruption or dismiss it out of hand. He was confident, however, and chose to make a rebuttal.

  “I am not about to lie in the House of God. The choice to leave the parish was a decision Father Dimitrios made alone, without prompting. In fact I would have preferred he was here today as he could have explained what he meant and end all this invented speculation.”

  “Speculation?” shouted another man. “A man has been killed – up on that mountain. And there were others. Tell us this is a coincidence. Prove these were all simple accidents, nothing more, and we’ll leave. We have been to the mountain, seen the ancient temple, and heard the stories of human sacrifice up there. Why did they choose that place and no other? Why was it so special?”

  The golden gown of confidence hid the anxiety the archbishop was feeling. As the holy man considered his reply, he caught the eye of Aristides standing near the back. “If a sacrifice occurred up there many thousands of years ago, it does not mean that every death upon that mountain is also a sacrifice. We must use logic now. The mountain is a dangerous place. So is standing on the wing of an airplane in flight. Why would a rational person climb up there knowing of its savage winds and falling rocks?

  “In this Church, as in all Christianity, there is only one over-riding sacrifice: Christ’s. Our God is one of kindness. He does not act in murderous ways. If the Minoans sacrificed a human life, it was because they were pagans and had an ancient mind. So why does your imagination run wild with speculation about an ancient cult? Why would you leave your place in Christ’s army and the promise of eternity for total emptiness? For those of you cursed with your flirtations with occult, I ask that you choose the righteous path to our salvat
ion. It is time for you to go home. Go home to your friends and families. There is nothing here you haven’t seen with your own eyes. Nothing. Anything else is just invention.”

  “What’s happened to the priest?” shouted the woman. “We came to hear the priest. Can he no longer speak freely?”

  The archbishop was being tested. The answer that leapt into his mind was untruthful, but one so often used to explain a priest’s departure. The words that formed on his tongue spoke a lie and he waited, trying to think of something else to say. He paused while the ears in the church urgently waited for an answer. To say the priest had lost his mind or had a breakdown was unthinkable; if he implied these things, he could deny them later.

  “Father Dimitrios will be missed by me and this congregation, but we have offered him help and solace to overcome his troubles.” He paused, considering the next sentence. “The words spoken by Dimitrios were ill-chosen. At the time he was not well and we pray for his speedy recovery.” As he spoke these words, the rapturous eyes before him grew sallow. The news was despairing to the congregation. Again he saw Aristides, expressionless, though almost grinning, his eyes gleaming in recognition that he, the archbishop, had wittingly become his accomplice.

  Iakovos felt the weight of sin upon him as if a thick stain of treacle had covered his golden robes. It was a lie, but he knew he could argue differently. In order to protect his own interests, Dimitrios would be the scapegoat. He was sickened by himself as he reached out with his eyes, only to see Aristides leaving the church. In a loud voice, for all to hear, Aristides said, “Yes, we will pray for his speedy recovery.”

  The young priest came from the altar with a large platter of blessed bread cut in cubes. They were to be handed to everyone who came forward. Archbishop Iakovos asked everyone to partake in the agapi, the love and fellowship of man.

  The congregation approached, one by one, most of them bending to kiss the righteous man’s hand. He whispered prayers to everyone as the church slowly emptied, the line dwindling to only a few. He could hear his regrettable words being spoken in his mind: We will pray for his speedy recovery. The last person approached. The archbishop was feeling relief that the service was over. It was not a feeling of success or accomplishment, more a feeling of ugliness. The stain of deceit remained and the unfinished taste was still souring his lips.

  He offered the last piece of bread and the young priest departed with his tray. He jiggled the bread again to the man who stood before him.

  He chose to place the agapi directly in his hand, but it fell to the floor. Stooping to pick up the bread, he glanced up to see a beardless face with gentle eyes. These eyes entered his most private thoughts, making him weak with humilation. In a frail voice he whispered, feeling a stab of guilt in his heart, “Dimitrios.”

  Isthmus of Eleus

  October 1980

  D

  emetra stood in the shallow water inside the isthmus. The millions of grains of fine sand and crushed shells had slowly dissolved over time and she imagined herself to be a single tiny grain. An orange octopus, lying quietly nearby, did not disturb her. Before the pilgrimage, in two days time, she would cleanse herself of earthly thoughts, shoo away the fireflies within her mind, subduing them one by one; one strand, then another, and another, until there was but one thought. She imagined being reduced to an atom, dissolving into air. By leaving herself behind, she was free to advance.

  A voice spoke softly inside her, “Step in and breathe the air. Taste the roots of narkissos, the bulbous rose of wilderness. Close your eyes, step into the veil, and there – the light. Step into it. Through the veil into souls of not one person, but all.”

  Over the years she had stepped beyond herself into the welcoming arms of her husband at the gate. He was her smiling beacon, seen from far away. In death, as in life, his light had always shone brightly for her. The power of his guidance was her secret. The procession to the gate was always through him. They would meet again as lovers do, soul to soul, but for a moment. It was the beginning. To go beyond she must leave herself and him behind. This was the course of the procession; to go beyond. The selfless journey would be difficult for many of the mystes.

  Demetra knew few would succeed.

  The landscape of Keftiu is made of jagged rock. What grows from the earth is sparse and struggles to break through, splitting the hardest aconi stone, its tiny branches reaching toward the sun. And for their efforts, the desire to survive, they are greeted with rainless days and spiteful heat. These poor tender things. But those who survive are rewarded with wondrous strength and long life.

  Do not look for pleasantness here, a lush beauty to absorb, a feast for your eyes. You must look within – and beyond. This is a place of deep riches, a luminous island of light.

  We strive for the light, to become the light, seeking to fly forever. In a moment of doubt or fear, we collide with darkness, with the horror, falling to earth and beneath it, reclaiming who we are, rejoined, embracing our limitations. We are lost between two forces comfortably weighted in our cowardice, unable to remove ourselves from matter – or unwilling. We are warmed by the hands of humanity, unwilling to cut the wire, cut the throat from which we breathe.

  Be brave. Call. Cry out! You will hear the wind, her voice, and you will see the bright light somewhere within your thumos. Listen while your noos sleeps. Shed yourself as the butterfly sheds its earthbound casing; follow the voice, find the pure light, and there, in my realm, you will be a free man.

  If you must be brave just once in your life, just one moment, put the knife to the wire that binds you to the self you know and discover the senses that never can be called your own. Both man and God, both this side of time and the other; eternal and ourward. Enter it for one moment. then, if you wish, return – as we did.

  You have called, and through the thin veil I have come. It is a veil as dense and silent as the universe. It is thin, so thin the wind passes through, as I do. I return upon your call.

  My thumos breathes the air it once possessed, the scent of it familiar to a memory, a hint of sea, a touch of sun, a sniff of mountain herbs, vapours dancing within me and high in the air. In and out. In and out. I breathe through the veil so near to you. Whispering. Whispering. Vapours dancing, breathing the same breath between the veil. We meet – as one.

  Demetra stood erect, lifting her arms up toward the sky. Wearing their Minoan costumes, Dionysos and Kolikos stood together on the lip of the erected stage at Eleus. They witnessed the raised arms of Demetra in the distance.

  “Silly old woman,” quipped Kolikos.

  “Mind your tongue,” snarled Dionysos. “It’s bad luck. Themophoris is not for our eyes. Put your eyes out to sea.”

  Kolikos turned his face to the sky, then out to sea. “Something is not good – out there. The sea has bubbles. The dead fish come up from the deep.” He shook his fist toward the horizon. “You are up to no good,” he shouted toward the water. “There is something going on under there. The demons! I know! I am Calchas! The sky is the colour of Demetra’s sweater. It’s a camouflage.”

  Dionysos pondered Kolikos’ words and growled in agreement. “Camouflage and trickery. How many times have I set my ship into the storm to find this creature, only to find, in the end, her sweetness and a calm sea? This demon with two heads. One day I will kill that vengeful thing. Cut off all her heads. Before I die, I swear to God, I will find this evil one and kill her.”

  “Be careful,” said Kolikos. “She will take you down, Dionysos. You tempt her power, you tempt your fate.”

  Dionysos pondered. “Maybe the twin head is not a woman. Maybe it is a man. Maybe I am looking in the wrong place.”

  While the men discussed fate, Semele stood quietly in the hallway of the church rectory listening to the voice that spoke from the church.

  “Will you return to this church?” the voice asked.

  There was no reply. The voice continued. “You wear the cloth of a simple monk, like a shepherd from the mounta
ins. Can I believe you have begun again on the road to reaffirm your faith?”

  “Faith?” came the questioning reply. “By this you mean the ordained faith of this Orthodox Church? I have come to see how barren it is, Your Eminence. Solid to the core, but immovable, too heavy to leap out from the earth. Over time it has stiffened with intolerance and corroded upon the foundations of manmade doctrine. Of that faith I want no part. I am on the road, as you put it, a different road: not to find faith, but to find God and to follow in his shadow. It is an active state, not a passive one. I cannot sit and wait and pray he comes to me. It requires a journey far beyond where I sit.”

  “Don’t delude yourself. How grand your intent, how self-absorbed it is. You corrupt the beauty of the faith, the benign passion it instills in us all.”

  “What good is faith alone? What good is it if we do not act? Our people, all our congregations, are entrusted to us and we fill their brains with cement. We say to them, faith alone will find God. And so we disempower them while empowering only ourselves, the clergy, the grooms of Christ. It is clear to me we are no better off than they are. Through the centuries, we have been motionless men in black cloaks.”

  “What evil has beset you? Our action is through prayer. Through prayer we enter the sacred Kingdom of God. Through prayer we speak with him.”

  “Through prayer we offer our humility and worthlessness and plead like beggars for health and good fortune. A loving God did not make beggars. Since the beginning he made men to aspire beyond himself. He gave them directions, offering signs to find Him, to discover eternity, the Kingdom of God. The Church has made them followers and beggars. And high above them we stand, way up here, this phantom high place of our making. We are in poverty, the lot of us. In piety we offer a deceit not of God’s making, but our own. I wear the cloak of a shepherd. I am above or beneath no one. If I should ever return I will preach what I say to you now.”