Digging at the Crossroads of Time

by Christos Morris

  Slowly she pulled one shutter inward when it scraped across the worn wooden frame. While reaching for the other, she heard a noise. She paused to listen, believing she heard her name. Voice full of hope, she whispered, “Father Dimitrios?” And then she saw him standing near the gate. In one outstretched hand he held a small bouquet of lilacs that he had picked along the way. In the other hand he was offering her the only possession he had in his life – two sea-washed pebbles.

  “These are for you,” he said in a faint voice. “For our journey, you and me.”

  Eleus, Ancient Crete

  1618 BC

  Monos was alone, the last remaining Keftiuian in Eleus. This was his belief. Meterra had swallowed the city. Those who survived had fled and not returned. Many seasons passed before life could grow out of the grey dust, then the people of Mycenos arrived.

  Monos was weak with loneliness. My sons and I sat beside him while he told the story of when Akrotiri split open and Meterra pushed the sea into the sky. It was the day he became a cursed man.

  It had been his duty to climb Oaxsos behind Basilius and the other priests and priestesses. He and the other guards carried Sarapos, with his arms and legs bound to a long pole, to the temple of consecration. Mendaphi wept beside him, singing, calming her son’s thumos. At the entrance to the temple, the priests took the weight of the young man. This was a sacred place for the gods and the priests. Monos and the others turned their backs to the temple and looked away.

  From Oaxsos they felt the fear from the fires of Akrotiri rising high up to the sun. The sky was dark and thick with soot. Their throats were choked with it. Grey dust now covered every living thing and death was in the air.

  Monos heard the screaming voice of Sarapos. He turned. Through the open central doors he could see the bronze dagger in the hands of Basilius. His eyes refused to turn away. In his thumos he prayed the priest be swift, that the life of all Keftiu be spared a violent death.

  The knife was lowered. The throat of Sarapos was slit. The kneeling priestess filled one rhyton with the sacrificial blood. Monos heard Meterra’s voice shout, “Look away! Look away!” but his eyes did not obey. The earth began to shake and rocks fell from above. The priestess lifted the blood-filled vessel and ran out to the corridor with the life of all her people in her hands. But nothing would change their fate. A giant rock was torn from the mountain by the hand of Meterra and heaved upon the temple, smashing the priestess and her crimson cargo onto the temple floor.

  My sons and I were fearful as Monos spoke. He stood before us, his hand waving in the air, showing how the giant sea lifted over the shore, over the isthmus, and over all of Eleus, crushing everything. Meterra swallowed everyone; every house, even the palace was pulled back out into the black water. The earth slid up and down and shook so hard the temple walls collapsed. Another giant stone fell from the mountain onto the temple roof. Meterra’s vengeance was without remorse. The walls of the temple fell, killing everyone. Monos knew the world was coming to an end.

  The shaking did not cease. Monos said he ran behind the golden tree of many cones and held it with all his strength. The other guards leapt from the cliff in horror. The ruins of the temple burst into flames. The flames lifted high into the sky, burning an opening in the clouds above. A perfect circular hole was made. Through this large hole he saw the light of a fresh sun.

  Monos believed the dead were pulled up to the light. He watched through the hole in the sky, hoping he, too, would be pulled through, begging Meterra to take him. She did not. She left him alone, the only man alive in Eleus who knew her secrets.

  The telling of this story brought down the weight of grief into the phrenes of Monos. He fell on the ground beside me and began to sob. Heavy were his tears. “Meterra has cursed me,” he said.

  He believed his eyes had entered a sacred place and for this he was being punished. Meterra did not save him from death. Instead, he was condemned to life on Oaxsos. Though he fled away to the south, the voice of the Goddess forced him to return to this place where his eyes must endure the sight of the ruined sacred temple every day of his life. He would never leave; his life would never end. He would remain alone forever. This was Meterra’s curse on him.

  My thumos ached in fear of this story and its curse upon Monos. I closed my eyes and begged my sons to do the same. I held them gently, like a mother, afraid the curse might enter their phrenes, and we cried out in fright.

  Monos read my thoughts and walked into his cave. He returned with some smooth pebbles which he placed in my hand. He said he took them from the ruins of the temple. I threw them to the ground in fear.

  “Take them,” he said. “They will do you no harm. The curse of Meterra lives only in me.”

  My eyes wandered out across the Great Green Sea and back to the shore, where I saw my memory in Eleus. This had been my home for many years. It was a land where all things breathed the pneuma of life. Once I could hear the songs of the trees and rocks and the voices of the sea. It was the home of the man I had become, the Keftiu man. This was a place of life.

  How could it be that everything I knew was in ruins or destroyed? Keftiu had been buried with the grey dust of death. It covered bushes and plants, choking them to death. My thumos was heavy with sorrow, but there were signs of life again, growing through the ash. Maybe one day my Keftiu friends would once again return, as my crew had returned to me.

  It was the face of Basilius I wanted to see. Nothing could replace the joy I felt when this man walked next to me. I hoped, if I were a true Keftiuian, he would return and walk within my phrenes. Yet my thoughts were filled with doubt, for I am but a useless man, the voiceless merchant of the sea.

  I embraced Monos on my farewell and walked on to the sacred temple with sadness in my eyes. My sons, who had learned the words of silence, proudly walked with me, knowing I must stand before Basilius one last time; the man I loved like no other.

  I stood before the ruins of the sacred place, not knowing if the bones of the high priest lay buried beneath. I shook from the emptiness around me and the loss of him. It was then I placed all but two of the sea-washed pebbles within the broken mortar of the temple and covered them with earth. What I took with me, I also left behind. I would be connected to this place forever. I could feel this in my phrenes. Whether in Egypt or sailing on the sea, Basilius and I would be joined. So strong was this desire, I knew it to be true.

  I closed my eyes and arched my back in honour of Meterra. I prayed she would remember me as a Keftiuian and not the lost man of the sea; that she would join us together, Basilius and I, wherever we may be.

  My sons and I departed from Eleus on my ship with twenty oars. I spoke not one word until Oaxsos could not be seen. When my eyes could not see Keftiu, I closed them. In the darkness, I felt myself return as a bird in flight, swift on the wing. I flew low over the water, and upon reaching Eleus, I soared high above Oaxsos. There, on a point looking northward, stood Basilius. In life! His body was erect and arched backward. Basilius, my friend, had returned.

  I sailed upon the Great Green Sea to the land of my God and Pharaoh, a free man. My sons listened carefully to my stories of this place as I remembered it. As I spoke of this sacred land and its mysteries, I saw tears in their eyes. My sweet sons. How much I was like them as a boy. I opened my arms, holding them tightly. I pointed toward the sea, saying that one day I would go with my Ka and they would take my place on my ship, rowing through these waters of great mystery. My gift to them would be engraved on the bow with words learned from my father. This gift he gave to me, I would give to my children. They, in turn, would pass it on – and on – and on. Silent thoughts. Safe journey.

  The Ithos Plateau, Crete

  1982

  O

  n completion of his work in 1981, my father was free to return to Athens. He chose to take the longer journey by sea. He preferred to watch Crete fade slowly in the Aegean, emptying his thoughts along the way, arriving in Piraeus free and unpossessed.


  For one glorious year we were a family once again. My mother’s face glowed with pride, with love regained. She discovered again my father’s sensuous nature; the hand that held hers gently when they took their evening stroll.

  As I remember it, this was the most perfect year. I learned from him that ancient life was as timeless as was our own. My father told me: “Like archaeology, life is a continuum. Along the way a knot is tied, a moment ends, only to begin again and from the very same threads.” I learned from my father that the knots were merely moments in time. When it was time for him to leave, we tied the knot again with peace in our hearts.

  My father’s long exile from Elefsis made him often yearn for his home and the people he knew there. He spoke with Aoide once a month. She would often make sure that Demetra was present when he called. He loved hearing their voices and their wise words. From these conversations he learned of Father Dimitrios’ return and the long journey he had taken.

  Dimitrios wrote to my father in the summer of 1982. In his letter he wrote:

  We travel the visible road throughout our lives, rarely seeing the fork that diverges toward something magnificent and divine, into enlightenment. How is it that we miss the signs along the way? Maybe we seek these things from someplace far away, unaware that they are within us.

  We all meet upon the crossroads. In death, our energy continues on its way, as it has in life. And why not?

  It was unusual for my father to respond to a letter of this kind, but in his love of mystery, he did. He wrote:

  Dear Father Dimitrios,

  I have started on another archaeological adventure. We have to finish the difficult preparations before excavating an underground cave on the plateau of Mt Ithos.

  This cave was once a very holy place. The ancient poets called it the womb of all life, home of the Earth Goddess. Since before Minoan times, people have come to this sacred place to offer gifts to the Mother Goddess within.

  Outside, at night, there is a silence my words cannot describe. The stars are very close to us. Please come and join me; at least, for a visit. From what I understand from your letter, you will like this place, as I do.

  We both have long been aware of our differences, our basis for discovery, but I have learned it matters little. Here, like Oaxsa, the way in and the way out are both the same. This, I believe, you already know. When can I expect you?

  Regards,

  Mimis.

  Dimitrios took up my father’s offer. He arrived early in the autumn of 1982 with Semele at his side. At my father’s request, Demetra, his closest friend, came too.

  The story of that day was told to me in detail many times. Although I was not present, my father’s account of it was so precise that, to this day, I see all of them atop Mt Ithos. I hear them speak. I smell the air. This is his account of it, through my eyes.

  My father took them to the ancient cave, its darkened mouth enormous and agape. They entered it in awe while Mimis revealed how the entrance had been buried by earthquakes and erosion throughout the centuries and how he expected to discover offerings to gods and goddesses going back thousands of years, a layered capsule of human worship.

  From the mouth of the cave, Mimis, Dimitrios, Demetra nd Semele peered outward. Beyond them lay a vast flattened plain, many miles across. It was as though a volcano had died and in time was filled to the brim with fertile earth. Above it a few fluffy clouds drifted across, a mere one hundred feet from the ground. Mimis pointed into the distance.

  “Out there – you cannot see them – all the shepherds from Gania spend the warm months with their goats and sheep. Once a year they sacrifice their finest, giving thanks for the birth of many young creatures. Today they will roast lamb on an open fire and we will eat on top of the world.” He inhaled the air with delight. “You have come on the best day of the year.”

  The track to the far side of the grassy plain was well worn from years of use. It wove between countless rocks that seemed to have rained down from the sky.

  Seven shepherds tended their flocks between April and October, living a solitary life just like their fathers had done, and generations before them. Though family histories went back more than a thousand years, the tradition on the mountain was coming to an end. The remaining seven shepherds were all old men now, with leathery skin and faces warm as the sun. These men would be the last to roam the plateau, the last to perform the sacrifice, giving thanks to God that the ewes had given birth and that the food would be plenty during the winter months ahead. This was to be a special day of sacrifice for them and their families who had journeyed up the mountain to join the feast.

  Three fires were alight and the smell of roasting lamb inflamed the senses. The homemade spits were turned by the children, who basted the meat with oregano and olive oil. People sat on the rocks overwhelmed by the aroma. Wine was poured and stories were told of the Second World War by the old men who remembered it.

  Invading Germans fell from the sky and many of the shepherds, much younger then, killed them with pitchforks and knives as their parachutes landed. This vast plain was the home of the resistance. Here, amidst a million rocks, they were invisible. The old stories made the storytellers young again, wide-eyed, slapping their thighs in excitement.

  Dimitrios sat on a large rock beside Mimis, his senses trying to absorb everything: the stories, the smell of lamb, the plateau and the sky fading to darkness; yet it was the lack of wind and the silence that enamoured him. Though he heard chatter and human laughter and the crackle of fire, the entire plain was without sound. Windless.

  He looked to Semele. She and Demetra were crouched with the families and shepherds, hearing of their long histories on Ithos. This place was the shepherds’ second home. Ithos and Gania. Two worlds so close yet so far away.

  Dimitrios glanced at Mimis sitting beside him on a large flattened rock. His face was contented and dreamy, entering the vapours of the stories going back in time, stories passed down from father to son. The serious face of Mimis Steffanakis had flown away and beneath it lay the smooth skin of serenity.

  Dimitrios looked backward to the stone Mycenean tombs scattered nearby. These were imitation caves where the dead were buried in a foetal position, returned to the Goddess in the pose that brought them into life. On the horizon, all but the tip of the sun had fallen, and in the distance, an orange glow lit the rocks across the plateau.

  Dimitrios spoke softly. “This is a timeless world up here. Like Oaxsa.”

  Mimis stretched his arms and replied, “Timeless indeed.”

  “Which do you prefer, my friend, the life below or the life above?”

  My father thought for a moment. “I had planned on asking you the same question.”

  Dimitrios inhaled a large breath of air. “For me, the answer is simple. I love them both, not one above the other. To live in one and not the other is to be half a man.”

  “Ahhhh,” Mimis sighed with delight. “You are a wise man, Pappas. I believe a Minoan would have answered exactly that way.”

  Dimitrios smiled. “As you said, there is very little difference between us.”

  The two men stared at each other, their eyes locked in investigation.

  My father enquired, “I heard you were gone for many months. Where did you go?”

  The priest hesitated. “I took the pebbles you gave me, but took another road. I went my way, not yours. But you were right, Mimis. The way in and the way out are the same.”

  Mimis sat up. His mind was locked onto the face of Dimitrios and his final words, “… the way in and the way out …”

  This brief moment would fix itself in my father’s mind forever, as would his friendship with this man. He embraced Father Dimitrios warmly with his eyes. The thoughts between them were silent thoughts. They needed no words to understand where the other had been.

  My father felt the look of Demetra’s arching eyebrow. She was the seer of hidden souls whose eyes could hear the silence of a vast mystic plain. In the magic of
that moment, Mimis thought his heart would burst.

  With all the bellies filled with roast lamb and Cretan wine, human eyes reached outward toward the night sly. The stars lit the heavens and a glow from the fires lit the earth. Demetra, overflowing with joy, jumped to her feet and began to sing in her glorious voice.

  A shepherd unwrapped his shiny mandolin and plucked the strings like an angel. The strings began to vibrate in perfect harmony with Demetra’s voice. They were joined by the sweet idyllic sound of a lyre and together they aroused many passions. As the music filled the air, it rose up into the night sky. My father rose to his feet and pointed his face toward the moon and said, “I want to dance!” He unfolded a handkerchief and offered it toward Dimitrios. “Come! We will dance above the earth.” If some alien had been watching from the moon with a telescope, they would have seen the smouldering fires atop a large mountain in Crete. The glow of it lit a portion of a vast plateau where a special ceremony was taking place. With the finest of the flock being sacrificed in the fires and the carcasses consumed, they now were witnessing the dance of the chieftain and the priest – dancing into ecstasy.

  They may have wondered at its meaning: the fires, the meat, the dance. Maybe by swallowing the meat they also swallowed the fire, lifting their spirits to soar beyond gravity’s reach.

  Demetra, Mimis, Dimitrios and Semele danced that night together with fire in their thumos and joy in their hearts. Hand in hand they twirled and swirled, dancing like the wind.

  Though their feet were of this earth, each of them, in their own way, had found an entrance to the unknown and tried to travel through it. They were explorers choosing different routes, learning that the mind was not flat and imprisoned by the limits of a skull.

  Demetra learned how to find a oneness with the earth, Mimis a oneness with the ancient Minoans, and Dimitrios a oneness with his God within. Semele uncovered the awaiting secrets in her heart.