Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  “Do you not, on this so-called journey of yours, invent another phantom place on high? So you, alone, can see this place – and others, myself included, cannot?”

  “The aim of my course, each step of it, is to discard my cloak as a priest, discard the cloak of myself, my ego, and walk in the footsteps of His shadow. To understand the wind I must become it. To know what a tree sees, I must see with its eyes. To know God, I must see through Him and not through me. Neither man nor priest, I must be the air, the mountain, the entire universe. I can become everything, only if I become nothing. That is what is meant in the Bible by the meek shall inherit the earth.”

  “And, thus, you become God. How grand your ambition.”

  “My ambition is the ambition of all men. Not to fear either life or death, tempest or darkness, the known or the unknown; to be part of God and godliness.Not a poor frightened soul on earth doomed until death takes him. Why must they wait, or I? Why wait till death takes us clinging to Orthodox faith in the promise of being taken to God? He says, seek and ye shall find … act now.”

  Dimitrios paused, then continued. “On earth we are the sum of memories past and memories yet to come. And we store them with our vanities in a closet locked in darkness. We possess them. To find God is to possess nothing, not even one’s self. I wish to become the air. Call it what you will. To enter the light stream of souls while still in life and not upon my death. That is my desire.”

  “You are entering the labyrinth of deceit, Dimitrios. The deeper you go, the less likely that you will return. I am not ignorant of these matters. Many of us have tried this adventure. The path you take goes nowhere but to failure and disappointment. The conclusion you seek is not there.”

  “Maybe what you say is true, but does it mean I should not try? Take the journey? Climb Oaxsa and stare at the universe? Should I return to the Church, my enclosed room, and gaze out through the small window high above?”

  “Dimitrios, this is a temporary place, our life here. This life is our preparation. God decided who will join Him, not us. You contemplate making the choice yourself by seeking eternity now, the endlessness of space and the invisibility of time. You ask yourself how many breaths have I taken in my life? Have I wasted all of them? You feel the doom and hopelessness and attempt to escape it, escaping from yourself at the same time. You try to become the wind, the rock, the mountain – and even God.

  “So shed your skin as every snake does and leave it behind. But you cannot escape yourself no matter how many skins you climb out of. You always return to you. That is the conundrum of life. Only in death are we set free of it.”

  He paused. There was no reply, so he continued softly. “You remind me of myself, once, a long time ago. I, too, went out in search of what was not there. And like me, you will return with nothing but lost hope.”

  “Hope is what I have, Your Eminence. I am filled with it. It has replaced the dimness in my soul and given strength to my heart. I feel His voice within the pebbles. He alone has set me on this course. He warned me to beware of truth, both real and imagined. It may be both – or neither.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means truth cannot always be weighed like gold or invested in alchemy. When it arrives, you cannot touch it but you will feel its weight.”

  There was silence. Semele’s heart thumped within her chest so hard she feared it would be heard.

  Dimitrios continued. “His breath blows life into me and deep within, surrounded by a glowing love. I feel His truth, His certainty. It shoots ever outward. I must travel this course.”

  A feeble voice replied, “Then God bless you, Dimitrios, and when you return there will be a place for you. May you succeed where I did not. I could not conquer the storms of fire, the fear of it. Never could I leave myself behind and move outward. I did not have the wings to fly, the strength to rise out to the sky. Earthbound I was and still remain. My love for Him is as strong as is His love for me, and yet I failed before the sword of fear. I feel deep regret. My scorn for you rests upon my failures.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “No, I will not come with you. I quit, never to return. I was frightened. Each step brought me closer to the feeling of death. I came home to smell the carnations in my garden; the sweet mountain rose. I made my choice. These small pleasures on this earth made me love it more. I never will leave this place before God calls me.”

  After those words, there was silence. Semele pressed her head against the wall and closed both eyes – and from them tears fell. She thought she may never see Dimitrios again. An emptiness collapsed upon her. She would be left behind with the memories of her years of servitude. So many memories. So many years.

  She walked to the doorway where the light of the room shone on her. Father Dimitrios was kneeling on the floor. Her eyes moved from side to side. No one else was there. Only the priest. Her eyes reached out to embrace him.

  “Take me with you, Father,” she said. “Show me the way.”

  Dimitrios closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his forehead. “You were outside the door?”

  “Yes,” she replied softly. “I heard everything.”

  “Then you understand. You must stay. I can only take the thought of you and leave the thought of me. If the time is right for you, you will find the way.”

  Mimis Steffanakis was oblivious of the priest’s return. In his office he reread the final pages of his work, The Evidence of Archaeology from the Temple of Oaxsa. It was an encompassing and thorough work. It detailed the excavation room by room, the hundreds of objects found, relating each of them, their uses, within the rigorous framework of Minoan scholarly study. He had written it with the intention of continuity with the discoveries of the future. It claimed that each archaeologist adds to the history of knowledge and never professes to have come to a final conclusion.

  For Steffanakis, his life’s work was woven into the discoveries of others. His threads of discovery were tied to the old, adjoined by knots, creating synapses. New surges of meaning expanded outward to a continuation of knowledge. The knots, he hoped, would stand the test of time, tying only those he believed were undeniable. He wished that what he wrote would endure. His ending would become another archaeologist’s beginning in another time. This work was but a thread he knew had no end. As good as his accomplishments seemed, they were, in his eyes, incomplete. All in all, the sum of it added up to something indeterminate. What remained were many dangling threads, the loose ends of continuation.

  The sculpted heads of Alpha and Omega remained as he had placed them on the desk. Their gaze was fixed on him. The potter’s wheel had never stopped spinning since Minoan times. The spiral kept descending and ascending. Their death was not the end of their time. With the certainty of all his senses, within every fibre of his conscious being, he knew something of them would continue on forever.

  Mimis knew his written work about the excavation was now complete. He sealed the heavy tome and addressed it. He left a note for Aoide telling her to mail the parcel. Mimis stood from his chair, eyes fixed upon the sculpted faces, touching then gently. He smiled as his fingers touched the contours of the priest’s face. “Sweet, sweet muse, my friend, when will we ever meet again?”

  Mimis pulled the chord on his desk lamp, leaving the room in darkness. He locked the door behind him and walked slowly through the courtyard toward the gate. Gathering his large walking stick, he looked up to Oaxsa. This silent mountain had stood there unchanged since before the first man walked on earth. Silent mountain, who utters not a word, he thought. She, too, has left that to the poet.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled the air deeply. Between the mountain and himself there was music, a joyful sound, calling him to sing before his climb – one last time.

  Keftiu Winter

  1629 BC

  Varka the fisherman grew weak as the days grew cold. He felt his thumos fill with char from the island of the black smoke, coughing up the poisons each night. I visited my
friend each morning, telling him stories of the preceding day, of the fish brought back from the Great Green Sea.

  “I grow weak because I cannot fish,” he said. “But soon I will fish beyond the wall across the sea.” He laughed aloud with joy, embracing me with his weak arms. “Meterra’s ship awaits me. She will guide my new boat tonight. We go together.”

  I begged Varka to rest and not think of fishing this day, for the seas were very high. The air was cold and the sky was filled with white ash that covered the ground and melted in the water.

  Through the night, white dust fell heavily on Keftiu, covering all of Eleus like snow. By morning Meterra had swallowed the sun and sucked the warmth from the air and soil. The water in the wells had turned to rock, as had the skin of my friend, Varka. I tried to wake him, but his body was hard to the touch and I knew then that his weak thumos had been sucked away as well. I felt sick from loss and wept by his side all morning. His thumos had gone in the darkness. His prophetic words of sailing beyond the wall came true, though my eyes did not see him leave.

  Without footprints in the cold white dust, I knew Meterra had carried him through the air upon the wings of the mountain bird.

  I ran to Basilius, who rejoiced upon hearing my story. He said it was a good day for my friend Varka. I was alone in grief, bewildered by the events that were to follow.

  The body of Varka was placed in a clay sarcophagus painted with many double-headed axes, sacred horns and the image of a boat. The priestess, Keesos, explained that it was the sacred boat of the underworld sea. Varka’s words came to me upon his smiling face: Meterra’s ship awaits me.

  Varka was placed inside the small sarcophagus, his legs brought to his chest like a newborn child. He was being prepared for a new birth and new life according to Meterra’s laws.

  Before Varka began his journey, the mystical power of fermented Keftiu grapes was swallowed by all. Basilius poured the drink from a beautiful stone rhyton, asking that I join the ceremony as a Keftiuian. Then he asked that I walk behind Varka, with others from Eleus, to the cave of the dead. The honour I felt was as great as any my Pharaoh had given me.

  Like the harvest procession, there was dancing and music and merriment. I felt my gloom rise like the mist and disappear as I absorbed the joy of those around me. Arriving at the mouth of the cave, I sensed Varka at my side, laughing and dancing with me, saying: You see, you are Keftiuian now.

  As we walked, I wondered if this was true, for in my noos dwelled Minunep, servant to God and Pharaoh. If my thoughts were pure and Meterra’s grace accepted me, maybe one day I could stand tall with pride and say, I am a Keftiuian.

  The ceiling of the cave was painted blue, like the sky, so Varka could watch the moon and the stars of the night pass by. Dromos pews were hewn into the walls and there we sat awaiting Varka’s departure.

  The priests placed the sarcophagus deep inside. Wine, like the blood of Varka, was poured into the soil around it. I smelled the burning aromatic leaves and watched as the cave filled with a divine haze.

  I recognized Isidoros, the man of clay, who carried a basket of clay faces he had made. I hugged him and kissed both his cheeks, for I was drunk with pleasure and happiness. The faces in the basket looked out to me as my joy was replaced by fear. They were the faces of Varka and they were looking at me. The faces were so real and alive. I screamed, falling back against the wall.

  Isidoros proceeded deep inside the cave. He placed the contents of his basket inside the tomb. He knelt with Keesos and Basilius. I watched, though the others around me closed their eyes, putting their heads between their knees. The hazy smoke of incense crept into my phrenes, making my eyes see a bright light from within grow larger. With the light came a sound from deep within the cave. Slowly it swelled within my ears like the voice of a thousand men. I heard singing from someplace far below, moving out of the darkness toward us.

  I shielded my eyes from the light, covering my mouth to prevent my thumos from leaving me. The smoke rose out of the tomb of Varka and with it came the sound of his sweet voice singing. It was Varka’s voice I heard, praising the beauty of the underwater sea. For just one moment I saw him through the haze. I saw the figure of a man walking alone into the bright light. Then he passed from view. The light dimmed and the sound seeped back into the earth, leaving us unharmed and in darkness together.

  As we left the cave, Basilius sang a song of joy, a song of life everlasting. We all sang in harmony, praising the trees, the plants, and all the life on Keftiu. Meterra dwelled within all life and all life lived within her. How simple she was to find.

  Outside the entrance to the cave, I saw a bird, a mountain bird, which we all stopped to watch until it flew away. Secure that Varka was safely on his way, we returned to Eleus, singing all the way.

  The Isthmus of Oleus to the Cave on Oaxsa

  October 28, 1980

  D

  emetra’s procession was about to commence. Vroedromion and etetuma, she called this Tuesday; the day of discovery and truth. She told all the newcomers who had arrived that they were about to go on a procession to Oaxsa and through its caves. It was the annual journey into the mysteries of darkness and light.

  On the Sunday before the procession, a pig had been cleansed in the waters of Eleus. Now it was to be sacrificed in the ancient tradition. A hole was dug in the earth and surrounded by sea-washed pebbles over which the blood from the pig was poured. The blood was returned to the earth. All the initiates chanted the words Hye, Kye – Hye while they looked to the sky, and Kye when looking to the sacrificial hole in the earth. The pig was then cooked in the fire, stuffed with herbs and eaten by all thirty-three initiates. Each of them drank kykeon poured from a bladder. The purple-coloured mix of barley water and mint was to calm the restless soul, cleanse the mind of earthly thought and prepare them for the mysteries that might unfold. The procession would be difficult for all. It would be impossible for many to complete. Each would confront their own mortality. Beyond that, the bright lights of the universe would lie open to them.

  They gathered around Demetra, awaiting instruction.

  “You will climb Oaxsa by donkey to the cave where I live. From there we shall go by foot,” she explained. “Be brave.”

  Arriving at the cave, they would walk inside. Each must pass a test before descending. During their journey, they would come face to face with the unknown, be touched by fear and death. “It is not for everyone.

  Most of you will fail the test and flee, return to your homes. Do not be ashamed if you are unable to continue.”

  The mystes mounted their donkeys and began their ascent. The procession had begun.

  Demetra only hinted at the bravery they would need to enter this place. She spoke nothing of the frightful curse that would fall on them like dew: the chill of death, the sense of loss as they began to lose their breath, their conscious mind, and the beat of their hearts. What they had always been, their nature, would bleed out into the surrounding darkness. In the silence, nothing would remain of them. Nothing.

  Potnia, with her headband of narkissos, took the lead. Miropi and Angalia followed immediately behind, their necks draped with garlands and yellow-flowered herbs. Demetra, in a new purple sweater, wished them all fair journey as she waited for them to pass.

  Before she continued, she glanced out to sea where a small vessel moved slowly toward Eleus, toward the isthmus and canal. A small boat, oddly shaped with a turned-up bow, was approaching. Within it, a man stood tall. Demetra shielded her eyes as the vessel came closer, motorless and silent. The man was bare except for a woven cloth around his waist.

  In his hand was a long object, like a kamiki spear for hunting octopus, which he pushed into the shallow waters. “In daylight?” she muttered.

  Fishermen speared their prey only at night. It was not a spear at all. It was a pole. He was poling his boat through the water and was about to enter the canal.

  “Death arrives,” she whispered.

  As she gath
ered stones, Demetra’s face grew red with rage. Though he was too far away, she threw them in his direction and shouted for him to turn around, to leave the place. “Go! Leave us in peace.” She ran closer to the shoreline gathering more stones to throw.

  She never saw his face. He never looked her way. Just as his boat was entering the canal, he pushed the pole in shallow water and veered away, slicing the skin of the sea above the sunken ruins of Eleus, and continued northward.

  Demetra watched him disappear from view around the point, skimming slowly without effort. “He is in no hurry,” she sighed. “What is time to the boatman when death is near?” The boatman comes for one and all, quietly, without favour, she thought. We all take our turn to be ferried across the Great Green Sea. Each of us before him, facing the stern, looking back at time – time past. We all sail toward time future, when my thumos once coughed out and fell into darkness, into the abyss, and he was there. The boatman. Through the spiralling vortex, we sailed away across the Great Green Sea, carried by the wind.

  Ageless ancient boatman, Demetra thought, upon whose soul will you ride out to sea? She mounted her white donkey, her eyes looking up to Oaxsa. At the apex of the mountain, clouds were swirling, twirling, dancing and vanishing. As she rode, she caught sight of Mimis holding his knotted bastooni as he peered beyond the mountain’s edge. Her eyes raced toward him, flying like a bird to warn him. His eyes were closed to the dangerous updraft of the wind. The desperate flapping wings of the perthekes were pushed from side to side. Her voice called out, “Open your eyes, Mimis. Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me. The boatman comes. He comes for thee.”

  “Demetra! Demetra!” It was the voice of the mystes calling, interrupting her thoughts. The image of Mimis faltered and left her. It could not be retrieved, yet in her ears the poet’s voice called out: