“I know, but how close are you to finishing?”
“I have four skulls. One is beyond repair. I don’t even know if it is a man or a woman. We can do nothing more with it. The other three have potential. The best is of a large male in his mid-thirties. Mimis, this man was over six feet tall. He would have been huge for his time. His skull is perfect. We have already begun forming the clay.”
“That one is important, Yannis.”
“They are all important.”
“Yes, but this man is special. Very special. I want to look into his eyes. I want to see into his soul. Can you sculpt his soul, my friend?”
There was a short silence at the other end of the phone. “We can create faces. We cannot sculpt a man’s soul. This is science, not art.”
“You will this time, Yannis. You will this time. Now, tell me about the others.”
“I can only tell you a little right now. You have called ahead of schedule. One of them is a young man, a boy of maybe sixteen or seventeen years. His skull will take a great deal of effort to reconstruct. We are working now on the big man. He was the one you seem to be most anxious about. You were right about the earthquake. He had broken bones, as you would expect if the building had fallen on him. You can assume that’s how he died. The boy is another matter. There is something very strange about him. I want to do more tests because he did not die from the collapsed building. He did not die from fire or an earthquake. He was killed shortly before the earthquake. He was killed shortly before the earthquake. Over half of his blood was removed. There could have been a large fire around the time the building collapsed. The boy was dead already.”
Mimis found it difficult to swallow, difficult to speak. “Are you sure?”
“You must wait for my report, but I’ll try to briefly explain. If a corpse burns in a fire, the bones are charred black. If the blood is removed, for whatever reason, the bones will be white. The upper half of this boy’s body, lying on one side, was white. The lower portion was black. The young man was without most of his blood. There is no doubt that your analysis is correct. The boy was sacrificed.”
He paused, waiting for Mimis’ response. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You haven’t fainted?”
“No, I’m listening.”
“You are a lucky man, Mimis. Since Homer there have been stories of Minoan human sacrifice. Now there is proof. There is no other explanation.”
“There will be many wanting to disprove this, Yannis.”
“Let them try.”
“Then I want to ask a special favour of you. A very special favour.”
There was a small pause of concern. “What is it?”
“I want you to hurry this through within five weeks. No later. And don’t let anyone on this earth know you are doing this work for me. No one from Athens or Elefsis is to know what you are working on. Don’t ask me to explain. Secrecy is critical. If not, what you have in your possession may be confiscated or stolen.”
“Mimis, you’re scaring me. What are you asking me to do? There would be a dozen people here right now who know I am working for you. I cannot change that. Not now. As for security, I can assure you everything will be locked away. Three of us have a key. I trust them all.”
“Then if the Minister for History and Culture should come to visit you and demand the specimens, what would you or the others do?”
“We would have to give them the specimens, of course. We would always call you, but we would give the remains to whoever had the appropriate papers. We would have no choice, Mimis.”
“Then time is most critical. Each day that passes increases the likelihood of someone from somewhere making enquires about my work.”
“Mimis, are you in trouble?”
“If I am in trouble, Yannis, you will know before me. Luck will take its course.”
Mimis sat back in his chair and sipped a small glass of raki. Images of Skoulis arrived quietly, sun-drenched memories of many years before.
They were memories of the two archaeologists working side by side.
Mimis, slim, tanned, shirtless, long slender fingers holding a sprig of basil, was an image of Adonis. Skoulis was shirted, bespeckled, pear-shaped with narrow shoulders, offering Mimis a glass of wine; the two of them toasting one another.
In this daydream, Skoulis stood on a small ledge wearing large leather sandals. He reached down to Mimis, pretending to be climbing onto his shoulders. He slipped on the ledge and began to fall. Mimis turned to brace the man from certain injury. As he caught Skoulis, he shouted, “Be careful. This is not the time to kill yourself.”
Mimis stared at himself and Skoulis, replaying in his mind what he had just seen. He studied the clothes, the sandals. Mimis thought, Where did this take place? I don’t remember. Fassoliki or Psychros? I knew him then. But who is this? The face of Skoulis smiles as he raises a glass of wine … so do I. Someone is dancing in the background, out of range, out of focus. Why is this? He dances alone. We turn to watch.
Mimis returned from his trance and stared at the phone in his hand. He held the phone to his ear, listening. No one was there. He replaced the phone on its cradle.
Opening the drawer of his desk, Mimis removed a thick photo album. He began to leaf through the pages from the beginning. There were photos of almost every day he had spent on Oaxsa. There were sequential photos of layers of earth being whisked away with a small broom to reveal slowly the walls, the hundreds of jars, the feet of the xoanon, the bones of four people. He paused at the bones, the photo showing perfectly their positions and their slow uncovering. He tapped the photo of the bronze knife with a feeling of pride. “Perfect,” he sighed, closing the book.
He looked at the envelope leaning against the desk lamp, then turned off the lamp.
I watch you, Aerras, windy traveller
High above the sea I see you,
As a child, all of you.
Children of the air.
Mavrokakis
Circa 1880s
Angalia’s Taverna
September, 1980
A
lone giant albatross arrived from the east with the early morning sun and followed the fishing boats into the port. This bird had not been near the port in years. The villagers rushed down to watch this graceful bird of ancient lore, knowing it would accept their gifts of fish for a short while before gliding back out to sea.
The albatross came like an ancient god upon the wind, effortless – majestic – and when it flew away, it left something profound within the hearts of every man on shore. It left a longing, a desire, and the agony of their earthbound loneliness.
People watched the big bird fly in a wide circle from Spinalonga to Eleus, gliding concentrically toward the harbour as though surveying the land and all who lived upon it.
For those who had ever lost a lover, a spouse or a seafaring father, the blissful coming of the albatross was a symbol of their return. Some silently watched as pure white thoughts of love returned. Soon a fire was lit within their hearts and a feeble light began to glow.
The giant creature lingered near the harbour during the morning and then flew away. It left those above the waterline forlorn. Their silent voices cried out: Don’t leave, don’t leave – while within them glowed a tiny beating heart that was weak, but filled with hope. For a brief moment, imaginations leapt out on the wings of freedom: Take me with you. Take me with you.
Though the albatross was gone, the villagers lingered near the harbour as the hours passed by. Some fell asleep and fell inside their dreams. This was a perfect autumn day.
The warm afternoon sun painted a golden path along the gulf as if to announce the coming of Dionysos by sea. Captain Dionysos, as he was called, sauntered up the gulf by sail, singing so loud he could be heard in all four villages. No one in all of Crete had a voice like Dionysos. It was as loud as the entire choir at Agios Giorgos. He had left a year before, enraged, giving chase to a monstrous st
orm and the gale that had caused it. Many thought he should have been born in another time when dragons ruled the sea. He feared nothing, not even God. That the wind had cowered this day in his presence reaffirmed his mythic aura. He was a giant, a bull of a man. Yet few could warm a room like Dionysos with his hearty laughter and a smile as large as the moon. Those dark eyes, so warm and embracing, could go feral in an instant, bringing terror to the hearts of men. This wild-bearded Cretan had no equal, but he was loved and the villagers forgave his drunkenness and vulgarity – and the constant smell of onion and cheese on his breath.
Dionysos was one of the few Cretans who did not fear Spinalonga. He cursed the island for taking his only son, smothering the boy’s face with sores, disfiguring him so badly that after two years of leprosy, not even his mother could recognize her child. The big man blamed the leper island and God equally.
“You killed my son and my wife. Both of you, my enemies.”
Upon the death of his wife and son, twenty-one years earlier, Dionysos went out to sea to find them and drank raki to dull his memory. Though his mission was a failure, each time he returned, he was a hero.
Dionysos anchored his sailing ship and rowed a dinghy to shore while singing the Greek national anthem. He seemed to want all of Crete to hear and entice those at Angalia’s and along the platea on shore to stand from their chairs to join in his song of freedom. Friends rushed to greet the Capitanos. Together they sang as they crossed the platea toward Angalia’s to toast his return.
“Raki,” yelled Dionysos, “for everyone. Orange juice for the women.”
Paki Pilofakis grinned from ear to ear. “I don’t think if Venizelos came back from the dead, he would receive such a welcome. It’s a pity we’re not at war with someone. This man could cause every man in Crete to raise a pitchfork.”
Manolis Theepsos nodded. “He makes my blood run fast again. He makes me want to dance.” He slapped his knee to press the point. “Tonight I dance … and make love to all the women who will have me.”
Dionysos kissed the cheeks of every man and woman who was there, but jumped back from the cold-wax face of Pharmacos. “Angalia,” he bellowed, “make the boy some soup. He’s frozen.”
“He’s dead,” whispered Perdos.
“He’s dead?”
Perdos nodded shyly.
Dionysos took a full glass of raki and raised it to the sky, then downed it in a gulp. “God bless his soul,” he said softly, “and the grieving heart of his mother.”
Angalia returned with a small bowl of soup and placed it gently in front of the clothed waxen figure of her son. She made the sign of the cross, which prompted others to do the same.
Demetra’s large figure came rushing up the street while she waved two loaves of fresh bread.
“Holy Virgin Mary,” the captain shouted. Leaping from his chair to greet her, he lifted the woman into the air with his embrace. Everyone chuckled, thinking he was the only man capable or daring enough to do such a thing. She handed him the bread, spat on her hands and proceeded to try and lift the great bull off the ground, without success.
“You’re too fat around the middle, my friend. I brought your favourite bread. Today is your name day.” He tore off a piece and sank his teeth into it. She lifted a glass of raki and made a toast to his honour. “To Odysseus, the wanderer. Elefsis welcomes you. And what demons did you slay on your way home?”
“Show us the devil’s tail,” yelled Kolikos.
The big man laughed. “I’ve come back home for peace and quiet.”
“You’ll find no peace here, Dionysos. The demons have moved in and now surround us all,” quipped Kolikos. “It is timely you have come to chase them away. The gods must have sent you.”
Dionysos turned a sharp eye to Demetra, then looked to the sky. “Well, they are not here today. So, let’s drink to life.”
The afternoon grew hot, forcing everyone to move their tables into the shade. By late afternoon Elefsis was tired, sore-eyed and ready to nap. The streets emptied but for the lone figure of Pharmacos whose waxen face and arms had begun to melt in the sun.
No one had seen his nose slip down his chin and the head tilt, then fall, resting on his back. The fingers melted and the arms slipped from the table, leaving Pharmacos severed from humanity once again. The cool night air hardened the mass of wax into a grotesque form.
Perdos discovered it at sunrise the next morning. He wanted to hide the wax corpse, lift it out of the chair, but found them fused together.
Angalia approached the taverna and witnessed her husband carrying the chair, with Pharmacos attached, to the wharf. He threw it in the sea. She ran to him shrieking, thinking Perdos was drunk and out of his mind.
“Stop, you crazy man. Stop!” She ran wildly toward him, toward the wharf, as fishing vessels began returning to the port.
Perdos was yelling, waving his arms to the heavens. “Sink! Sink!”
But the wooden chair and the disfigured globule of wax floated upside-down. The horror of this image struck Angalia with such force she collapsed upon the ground. In distress and confusion Perdos jumped into the sea to save Pharmacos and nearly drowned trying to turn the chair right side up. Both he and the remains of his son were saved by a fisherman’s hook pole and pulled to the wharf and safety.
Angalia sat on the ground where she had collapsed. In front of her lay the disfigured remains of Pharmacos and in her mind’s eye, the image of Perdos throwing the body into the sea. Nothing would save her husband from her curses. No excuse would undo the image burned into her brain.
She mourned in silence. The taverna was closed for the remainder of the day. Perdos sat alone at one table near the street. Angalia sat at another by the door, gazing at the fluffy clouds.
Demetra arrived, resting her hand on Angalia’s head, stroking her hair gently, then sat in the chair beside her. The afternoon sun, oblivious to the depth of the sadness below, painted the tips of passing clouds a soft pink.
Demetra pointed skywards. “You will not be sad for long, Galia. There is too much joy in the heavens.”
Angalia tried to smile, nodding courteously. Demetra squeezed her hand and smiled. “Look! There is someone up there looking at you. Look quick before she goes away.”
The clouds had formed into the shape of a woman with long flowing hair and a dress of pastel pink with purple streaks. It moved gently across the sky. The flaming cloud changed shape and colour. The train of the dress was stretched, the hair became wild, and the face contorted as it reached the draft near Oaxsa where it lost its shape in swirling winds. Throughout Elefsis, fingers pointed skywards; eyes stared in awe, momentarily.
Demetra drew a breath of contentment and touched Angalia’s hand once again. This was a vision shared, not a wistful invention of the mind. They all saw her form above the village, and then they saw her pass away. “You see, Galia, this is a good sign. I think a sign for you.”
“This is not for me,” she said sharply, but with a tired voice. “Why is this for me?”
Demetra shrugged. “I don’t know.” She paused in thought. “Maybe she has come to lift your sadness. What a beautiful thing to happen.”
Angalia looked to the clouds for another sign, studying them with hope in her heart, until after the sun had set. Perdos sipped from a carafe of raki, alone, filling himself with sorrow.
He wanted to embrace his wife but could not. He felt he had shrunk to the size of a small child wishing he, like the cloud, might disappear altogether. Within him was the emptiness of trust that had been thrown into the sea; trust lost. He wiped tears from his eyes. Though the evening was warm, Perdos began to shiver uncontrollably.
The evening lights of Elefsis began to twinkle. Angalia, hearing her husband’s sobs, stood up and walked toward him with her chair. She waited for him to look up but guilt prevented even the lifting of one eye. “Come,” she said, in a gentle voice. “Let’s put the chairs inside and go home.”
Elefsis, Crete
Se
ptember 20, 1980
A
week had passed quietly in Elefsis. In his room at the back of the church, Father Dimitrios put down his pen and began to read the draft of Sunday’s sermon.
He had written: Sacrifice. It is made out of love, not fear or anger. In the Bible it is written that the voice of God came to Abraham saying he must sacrifice his son, Isaac, upon the burning pyre. And Abraham, because of his love of God, obeyed this command. He built a mound of sticks and wood and prepared for his son’s death. But God’s voice spoke again, saying to Abraham, save your son, for now I know how much you love me. Such was the love of Abraham that he would sacrifice his own son for God.
And God sacrificed his only begotten son for all of us, sacrificed on the cross for our sins. Does this show the enormity of the love God has, that he would sacrifice his Son? Was Christ not expecting to be spared, like the son of Abraham, when he asked: Why have thou forsaken me?
Father Dimitrios struggled to focus on the difficult task of preparing the sermon he had promised his parish, but his thoughts continued to stray toward the temple and into the centre of the ancient calamity. He sensed the horror they must have seen falling from the sky and rising from the sea. He was drawn to the decisions that must have confronted the ancient priest and imagined the bronze knife in his hand. What would he have done? Dimitrios considered his choices, or the lack of them. What would he have done four thousand years ago in an attempt to save himself and save the world he knew from annihilation?
He continued to contemplate. Were not all sacrifices made out of obedience? Were these acts out of fear? Out of love? Abraham, did you prepare to kill your son Isaac out of fear or out of love? Was it the fear of not being obedient that caused you to agree to remove your son from life on earth? These doubts descend upon me. How can I understand the present if I cannot reconcile the past? How can I accuse the ancients of being lost pagans when my church has been built on old pagan traditions and myth? My God, why have you sent me to this treeless forest? I am your servant for life and yet you have filled my heart with doubt. I fear each thought that enters me. I fear these clumsy steps I take. How might I prove my love, my obedience? What must I do?
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 13