The Minoans
* * *
In the world of the Bronze Age, one civilization stood alone and, some say, above all others. The ancient Minoans from the island of Crete were renowned creative architects, commercial sea traders and brilliant inventors. Their art was feminine and optimistic, but little is known of their religious practices and the mystical conduits that came out of them.
Some believe the Minoans stood with the living but could walk beside the dead. Their mental switch, a quantum shift, would startle us today.
Their secrets are protruding, so slowly being revealed, while we dig at the crossroads of time.
This edition published in Australia 2012
Copyright © Christos Morris 2012
Shadowtown Publishing
christosmorris.com
Cover Design by Ben McIntyre, BJM Design
Typesetting and text design by Chameleon Print Design
The right of Christos Morris to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organizations) in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication
Morris, Christos, 1944–
ISBN 9781742982526 (ePub)
Distributed by
Port Campbell Press
www.portcampbellpress.com.au
Conversion by Winking Billy
To my wife
Though at times she thought I lost it
Falling through
or flying away
She was there on every cloud
every rock
My Desireé
Notes
* * *
The meanings of the italicised ancient and modern Greek words are explained in the glossary located in the back pages of this book.
Chapter symbols
The SNAKE GODDESS, who holds the viper and feels the pulse, can enter the chthonic world beneath the earth.
The LEAPER: to make the leap you must leave yourself behind … you must be brave.
M
imis Steffanakis was an archaeologist who exhumed ancient mysteries. Though able to reveal secrets from Minoan Crete, he concealed his own. A private person, his professional armour protected the gentle man within. I never really knew Professor Steffanakis till late in my life. He was my father.
As a young girl I eagerly awaited his yearly pilgrimage from his excavation sites to our home in Athens. For one month of every year, my mother laughed and her spirit soared. She said their love grew fonder the longer they were apart. They fell in love again each time they were reunited.
When I was young, I was such a shallow girl. Each time he returned I feared the deep enquiry of his eyes. There was nothing deep within me, nothing at all. When he left us to return to Crete, I felt the presence of his eyes in my room, looking into my emptiness. I was determined that one day I would make him proud.
My name is Persephone Steffanakis. I am the Professor of Ancient History at Cambridge University. I followed in my father’s footstep to this campus where, for many years, he was the visiting professor of archaeology. From where I now sit I can see the light from his old office. It warms my soul.
This light from my father’s office reminds me of a story which I related to my students. It was a story about the villagers from a South Pacific island. When the king of the village died, the natives placed him on the highest peak, where a fire was lit. It was kept alight for many months. This was their custom. When the fishermen went out to sea, they knew the king was always near and the fire would guide them safely in the night. The light across from my office offers this same comfort.
Mimis Steffanakis found such a light on the mountain of Oaxsa in north-eastern Crete, high above the village where he was raised. The discovery of the sacrificial temple would alter the course of his life and the lives of many around him. Once uncovered, the buried secrets from the past began to unfold in a labyrinth of mysteries. The events that took place could not be reconciled within my father’s scientific mind. How might he explain to others what he could not understand himself? He reported only what could be verified. The rest he hid.
His excavation unearthed old superstitions in the nearby village. Some believed my father disturbed the dead or was digging up the devil. When death descended on the village, there were accusations of murder, and even of the devil’s return. These events caused Mimis Steffanakis to withdraw further from humanity. He fell into the crevices between two worlds 4000 years apart.
He did not die with his secrets locked away or buried. As the years passed, his eyes grew softer, more gentle, and he began to tell me stories of the temple on Oaxsa and the tales of his life. In time I began to record his stories and as I did, our hearts grew closer. What he had concealed throughout the years was revealed to me.
He told me that a man of science always leaves behind mysteries for another to take up when he is gone. “It is part of life’s continuum,” he said. “An archaeologist should leave behind the pure white bones of truth, and not his vanities.” He was certain science would answer these mysteries and believed the revelations would change religious doctrine around the world.
I believe my father knew I would write about his life one day in a manner he could not. I will reveal, as best I can, the truth of it from the stories he and others told me.
The story begins …
I hear the colours of the day.
I hear the colours of the night.
The sounds wake me in the morning
And they soothe me in the night.
Mavrokakis
Circa 1880s
Elefsis, Crete
Saturday, May 24, 1980
A
gust of wind shook the door as though an invisible hand was trying the latch. The frail eyes of Manolis Theepsos fixed their gaze on the handle. He shouted toward to door, “Go back to the devil.”
The tired door blew open inwards, scraping the floor, allowing a triangle of bright light to jump inside. He made the sign of the cross. Manolis Theepsos knew the power of demons and took no chances. Above his head on the door lintel, a charcoal cross had been drawn to keep evil from entering.
Bow-legged, the old man stepped awkwardly into the laneway with stiff, laceless shoes that bent upwards. He surveyed the position of the morning sun, shielding his cataract-filled eyes with the cap his wife had made him before her passing. Manolis rubbed his grey stubble, took a breath of sea air and sighed with pride. He often boasted that the light was brighter here than anywhere else in the world, making morning melodies across the heavens.
Each morning he heard the music as the rising sun skipped across the sea and danced on Elefsis with new life. Wake up! Arise! Rejoice! He often said, “A man must be blind or dead not to want to dance with the morning sun.”
A fishing boat, sputtering toward Elefsis Port, passed his hillside home on Dacktilo, its wake unzipping the sleepy stillness of the water. He knew it was the fisherwoman, Demetra, but in his dreaminess, as with every passing boat, he imagined himself at the helm. Through failing eyes he saw a younger Manolis Theepsos on the boat with baskets filled with tasty red barboonia.
Years ago, Manolis would have risen with ease before th
e sun, leaving with the others to pull in his nets. Now his old legs carried him down the hill each morning to watch the fish being brought to port.
Theepsos shuffled along the water’s edge to the Church of St Constantino and Eleni, eyeing the priest in the clock tower. “Stupid clock,” he muttered to himself. “It’s always too fast.”
The modern brick tower that housed the church bells had been donated by the wealthy Aristides. At the unveiling a few years earlier, Aristides told the villagers the bells were there to wake them. The clock was to remind them of time wasted.
As Manolis passed, he lit a cigarette, spilling a folder of poems he had discovered months earlier beneath the rotting floorboards of his house. “Arghhh,” he growled while bending to collect them, trying not to damage the original 19th century handwritten pages, each signed by a long forgotten poet named Mavrokakis.
Manolis read the poetry aloud to his Dacktilo neighbours on the evening he found the hidden works. One old man recalled a story he had heard of this poet from the 1880s. This story spread from door to door and soon all the villagers began to claim Mavrokakis to be their ancestor, but Manolis Theepsos knew it was his discovery that brought the poet back to life.
While kneeling to gather the poems, cigarette ash fell into the folder and his cap fell to the ground. “Arrgh!” he shouted, this time looking toward to priest. “Your stupid clock.”
Theepsos walked on to find his favourite chair outside Angalia’s taverna. Silently, with half closed eyes, Angalia served his coffee. From the rush-seated chair, Manolis surveyed his world. He sipped from his small cup of metrio coffee and gazed out as far as he could see, recalling the dream that he had been having for many years. In it he awoke and kissed his wife while she slept. He would set sail in time to reach the horizon before sunrise, and there he would pass through the white light beyond. If he failed to pass that day, he would try again the next. “The other world is out there,” he told his wife in the dream. “I will find it one day before my life is over. If I find the way now, I won’t get lost when I am dead.”
With his head still full of the dream, Manolis Theepsos made his stavro on his chest with three fingers – Father, Son, Holy Ghost – and again for his wife. And again for his boat, the Pomegranate, which had found eternity before he did. He recalled warning the fishermen, “My boat was my first wife, but she was never home to me. A boat is home to no man. It belongs to the sea. At the sea’s choosing, she will take it … down.”
Across the street in the village square, Nani Pandazizis and his brother-in-law, Mihilis, continued their game of tavli that had begun three months before. They shouted at each other with no less verve than when the game began. Each man bellowed with the throw of every dice. Throughout the day the game attracted others from the street to watch and offer advice. Three years ago they had both taken leave from their businesses, giving this pleasure to their wives. Manolis and Mihilis went on to conquer pleasures of their own. The wisdom of this approach was given the stamp of approval by the words of Aristides, Elefsis’ only millionaire. At the time, he told them with a wry grin, “You have mastered the art of delegation.” It was the words mastered, art and delegation they had repeated to themselves a thousand times since.
Constantino, the hermit, entered the main street, riding sidesaddle on his grey donkey, Moustafari. His unmarried sister, Calliope, the one the fisherman call ezvouvos, followed behind with two goats. Constantino blamed the village men for not wanting Calliope. He cursed the Greek custom that prevented his marrying before his older sister. There was a woman once, but that was long ago. Constantino gave Moustafari his Turkish name in order to spite every Greek patriot. Constantino entertained none of the villagers. He did not engage in any conversation unless out of life’s necessities.
Each morning Moustafari, Constantino, Calliope and the goats would follow the donkey’s nose around the curve of the gulf, along the Eleus isthmus that was once the home of ancient Minoans whose sunken city lay beneath the sea. They crossed the canal bridge and went onto Elefsis Island. There they would stay with their creatures until the sun grew weak, collecting firewood and clearing the family plot of rocks and stones. Like generations before them, they added rocks to the boundary walls. After a century, the walls grew higher. With every stone removed, another would appear poking out of the earth. One of their tasks was to create order out of an infinity of stones.
Constantino was tall and thin, like a seedling left in a pot too long. He was not a man for social graces or conversation. For himself he had no dreams, but in his dreams he wanted more for Calliope, his sweet and gentle sister.
“They all think she is ugly. No one will ever see how beautiful Calliope is inside. She has so much to give. If I die,” he had admitted to the local priest, “she will be left alone. That will be her life’s tragedy.”
Wisteria vines scaled port shop fronts, looping onto the balconies and trellis walls. Their purple flowers dangled gently down. The colour was chosen to represent the goddess Demeter, who locals believed once lived in the Minoan city of Eleus.
They believed when Zeus secretly sent Demeter’s daughter, Persephone, to Hades, the goddess flew into a violent rage causing the village of Eleus to sink into the sea. For mortals wishing to visit the underworld, Demeter made a purple-coloured drink, which gave special powers to those who drank it. Some say it helped them to visit the dead. Unable to replicate this drink in modern times, the villagers drank raki instead. Though they did not visit the dead, it helped them to forget many of their troubles.
Young Giorgos, the grocer, sleep still in his eyes, looked out the doorway of his tiny food store, watching Calliope and Constantino pass by. Gripped by a fit of coughing, he flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the street and sipped a small glass of raki to soothe his throat. Leaning against the outside wall, he opened the book he held and began to read. Inside his store were three shelves of books. One shelf was devoted to the Greek struggle for independence from the Turks, another was for the Greek poets and a third was for his political hero, Venizelos, a Cretan, a revolutionary and a former Prime Minister of Greece.
Hanging on the wall above the bookshelves was a large photograph of his father and grandfather, each with sleepy eyes and tired faces. Only Giorgos’ tousled long hair separated him from his ancestors, all grocers to the end. He was proud when visitors to his shop remarked about his likeness to his kin hanging on the wall. He proudly told them they all shared the same name day of St George.
These photos were the only memories he had of these men, for as fate would have it, grandfather Giorgos died before his son was old enough to remember him and father Giorgos did the same before his son was three.
In his faded black gown, the retired Bishop Kondros shuffled down the street toward a seat beside Theepsos, where Angalia’s generosity beckoned him in the form of a free cup of coffee. The old cleric sat silently. His ninety-year-old eyes had long ago been laid to rest. The remainder of his portly body was now waiting for its time to pass.
“Good morning, Pappas,” said Theepsos, rubbing the week-long grey stubble on his face.
“Good morning, Manolis,” said the bishop, hunched heavily in his chair. “How is your mother?”
“She’s been dead for thirty years.”
The old bishop shook his head and whispered to himself. “Too bad.”
The sun rose softly over Elefsis Island, filtering through the moist sea air. The flat water of the gulf was bathed in a gentle pink haze. The wind was fast asleep.
The fishermen lined their boats in a row along the wharf and prepared their fish for the morning sale. They each stole a glance at what the others had caught. Again it was Demetra who had found good luck, three large baskets filled to the brim with red barboonia. Her catch was greater than the sum of all the others combined. The fishermen had grown silently accustomed to her success, though their pride had not.
From inside the taverna kitchen came the loud clanging of metal pans and Angalia’s vo
ice shouting to her son. “Pharmacos! No more talk about what’s on that mountain. I work day and night so you can learn some brains at university, not to waste time up there.”
Pharmacos angrily walked outside the taverna, searching for some place to escape. He settled for a chair away from everyone else. He looked out to sea.
Angalia appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands with a cloth, then used it to point at her son. “I want him to be educated, earn some money so I don’t have to work like a dog. He wants to become an eagle and fly around all day. That mountain makes people crazy.” She removed her black kerchief from her head and sat heavily in the lone chair beside the door, mumbling to herself. “Eighteen years old and he wants to be an eagle.”
“Psst!” Manolis wiggled his hand, motioning to Pharmacos to join him. The young man flicked his head backwards and tsked in Greek denial. Manolis gestured more forcefully, lifting one eye to suggest secret men’s business. Pharmacos hopped closer while still sitting in his chair.
“As men we have something in common,” Manolis whispered. He spoke slowly so he need not repeat himself. “God put us on earth so we can disappoint our women.”
Theepsos opened his folder and began to read one of the Mavrokakis poems in a loud whisper:
You make me dizzy, my mountain, Oaxsos, Oaxsa.
Seeing you as I do through your eye.
You watch the fishermen now out to sea,
Where time slips silently
Backwards behind human memory.
I touch some ancient face that smiles back …
As he read the words, Manolis recalled the stories he had heard about the poet.
While in life, Mavrokakis was thought to be a dreamer whose feeble mind God cursed with uselessness, to the villagers of Dacktilo, he was their son nonetheless. It was said his life was spent in solitude upon a single rooftop where he wrote, gazed beyond the rim of the sea and shouted at the wind. A howling noise from the poet was often heard at night, a wretched sound awakening faint sleepers, prying into the darkness of their dreams. The villagers felt they had unwillingly heard a voice not meant for them as it rushed toward the peak of Oaxsa and back again. To many in the village, Mavrokakis was angering God, shouting to the eye of the mountain where demons of the underworld were listening, maybe even answering the crazy man. During the night, his wild cries caused mules to bray and dogs to bark and villagers to make the three-fingered sign of the cross to protect themselves from evil.
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 1