by Lyn Hamilton
In any event, the job of getting the house ready took up more and more of my time and energy. I’d assumed, more than a little optimistically as it turned out, that by the time Sophia’s lecture rolled around, the house would be shipshape and the furniture winging its way to me.
Instead, after the incident with the car, I put in a rather exasperating and anxiety-ridden couple of days as our work on the house not only did not progress as quickly as it should, but we actually seemed to be losing ground. Galea had said he’d arrive Friday or Saturday to inspect the place, and we were far from ready. I was getting worried.
The electrician, for example, was supposed to arrive Monday morning. However, he and most of the other tradespeople I encountered ascribed to a casual philosophy I’d call a Mediterranean version of mañana, and it was late Monday afternoon before he got there. Then what had seemed like a simple matter of installing a few ceiling fixtures had turned into a major wiring problem requiring several holes in the ceiling and walls to put right.
Next we ran out of the glaze for the stucco and had to match it. A good designer, for example my ex-husband on one of the rare days when he was actually prepared to work, would have matched it in a minute or two. Joseph, Marissa, and I took considerably longer, and in the end we agreed we’d have to redo one whole wall to get it right.
Even this would have been manageable. The really big problem was the shipment from home, and my early optimism that meeting Galea’s deadline would be reasonably easy was fast beginning to fade.
A massive winter storm had blanketed much of the Great Lakes region and was now moving on to the eastern seaboard of the U.S. and Canada. Nearly twenty inches of snow had dumped on the Toronto area; temperatures had plummeted to way, way below zero; schools and offices were closed, as was the airport.
“We’re completely socked in,” Alex told me. I was in almost constant touch with him and with Dave Thomson as my anxiety levels headed for the stratosphere.
“Dave sent a truck out from his warehouse at the airport to pick up the furniture here and at Galea’s place on Saturday afternoon. He’d found an Air Canada cargo flight headed for Heathrow that night that had room for the shipment. But it was so cold the truck blew a tire on the highway.
“Dave tried to find another truck but couldn’t, then… Well, anyway, they never got here or to Galea’s house and we missed that flight. Then the storm moved in. The airport authorities estimate they’ll be back in business by tonight, so we’ll try and find a flight then. Dave says don’t panic yet!”
“Yet!” I grumped. But there was nothing I could do.
By late Monday night, Malta time, the situation didn’t look any better. The airport might be reopening, but the flights were backed up and Dave was having trouble finding space for such a large shipment at such short notice. Furthermore, a pipe had burst in his warehouse out near the airport, and he hadn’t been able to bring the two shipments there to pack them.
“I could probably get the stuff to Paris tonight,” he said.
“But I’m told there’s going to be a countrywide transportation strike in France as early as tomorrow, and they’re saying it may last several days. I don’t want to risk getting the stuff there and then not being able to get it out again.”
I knew he was telling the truth. I’d read the Paris papers on the way over and they’d said as much.
“So I’m working on something to Italy. Both Air Malta and Alitalia fly to Malta from Rome. Hang in, Lara,” he told me. “I’ll get it there somehow. As soon as I know which flight we’ve got, I’ll get all the stuff picked up and packed in a container, and deliver it direct to the plane. I’ve already contacted a customs broker at the airport in Malta, and he’s standing by to clear it through in a hurry and transport it to the house. You be ready to move fast. Mrs. Galea is being very nice about this, by the way.” Then he added, “But I haven’t talked to the Great One himself yet. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that conversation!”
By late Tuesday afternoon I was truly despairing of ever meeting my commitment to Galea. There was nothing more I could do that day, however, except worry, and I didn’t want to disappoint Sophia, so I decided to go to the lecture and to try to forget all the aggravations of the past couple of days, for an hour or so, at least.
But there was the small matter of making my way to the University on time.
Marissa had given me rather complicated directions for taking the bus into the terminal and then another one out again. The bus route network in Malta seemed to operate on a hub and spoke model, with all routes radiating out from the Valletta terminal. This meant it was not possible to take one bus from the house to the University. On top of that, the lecture was in the evening, and Marissa had told me the last bus service was about ten. I decided to drive. The car had been locked in the garage ever since it had been repaired, and I checked the padlock carefully to reassure myself it would be safe to use the car.
I knew from Marissa’s instructions that the University was at the intersection of the regional road to Mellieha and the road to Balzan. When I consulted the map she had given me, it seemed to be almost due north of the house. The island was only eight or nine miles wide, and I prided myself on my sense of direction. I also prided myself on my ability to drive almost anywhere. My buying trips had taken me all over the world, and I’d found myself in pretty obscure places. I’d driven on the left and the right. Why, I’d even driven in Rome. And I was used to almost any kind of vehicle. I once rode a donkey up a steep slope to get to a village that had particularly lovely weavings. How difficult could this be?
As the saying goes, pride goeth before a fall.
I mapped out a route that took me to a place called Siggiewi, then Zebbug, to Attard, then Balzan; then on to the University. But I ended up on the road to someplace called Rabat. Cars roared past me on both the passing lane and on the inside shoulder; I dodged donkey carts and potholes the size of craters on the moon; I passed through towns that reminded me of illustrations in my childhood book of Bible stories; I whizzed around roundabouts; and I got totally, utterly, irretrievably lost.
I also learned that second gear is a really important feature in a car. Without it, I either had to go very slowly, or speed along in third. Stalling was only a hairsbreadth away at any given time. I listened enviously to the sound of more fortunate drivers gearing smoothly up or down. I became obsessed with not slowing down.
Finally, I got on a relatively well-kept road that unfortunately headed in the wrong direction, toward the aforementioned Rabat and something called Verdala Palace, which if I remembered Anthony’s lecture was built by his idol, Gerolamo Cassar. That meant, at least I thought it did, that I was headed west, not north, but my innate sense of direction had totally deserted me so I couldn’t be sure. I could only hope it would lead to something headed north, or at least a place name I recognized.
As I moved along this road, I overtook a car moving relatively slowly. There was an approaching truck, but it was still quite far away, and rather than slow down, I decided to go for it and pass the other vehicle. I floored it, roared past, then pulled quickly in front of the other car, in a way that, if I’m being honest, I would have to consider rather rude, if not a bit reckless.
I glanced guiltily at the driver as I passed the car. He was looking at me too. We were both surprised to see each other. It was the Great White Hunter yet again, and he was not pleased to see me.
Normally I think I would have found this a funny coincidence, but now, with the business with the brakes, there was an edge of menace to it, not the least because of what happened next. When the oncoming truck passed us, he geared down, then passed me much too closely, pulling in so tightly that I had to slam on the brakes, which mercifully worked in a manner of speaking. The car started to skid, and for a few seconds I thought I’d lost control of it, but I was able to pull over to the side of the road, where I sat for a few minutes listening intently to my heart pound. The Great White Hunter I could
n’t see for dust.
It took me a few minutes to stop shaking. I kept telling myself I sort of deserved it, what with my rush past him. But to be forced off the road? I could hardly believe what had happened.
While I sat there, a man on an aged bicycle pedaled by, and I flagged him down. He was a pleasant person who gave me new directions, briefly explaining the intricacies of navigating around Malta: which is to say, road signs, where they exist, are only relative. One gets a general sense of the direction one is going, then sticks to it, ignoring signs for towns and sites along the way.
It was good advice and I managed to find the University, then most fortuitously a place to park. I got out, pulled up the window on the passenger side, which had done its trick of falling down into the door at the first roundabout I encountered, then eyed the car. I sincerely hoped I would not return to find it minus several critical body parts. A young boy offered to watch the car for me—such a nice car, he said—for a small fee of course. I paid him on the spot, walked into the hall, flinging myself—there is no other word to describe my hasty and inelegant entrance—into the seat that Sophia and Anthony had saved for me just as the speaker mounted the platform and moved to the podium.
“Who will speak for the Goddess?” she began, a tall, bigboned woman with wispy, greying hair, owlish glasses, a less than stylish print dress, and what my mother would call sensible shoes. Not that my mother would be caught dead wearing sensible shoes herself, mind you.
The lights in the hall dimmed, then were extinguished, a single reading lamp on the podium the only light in the room, casting eerie shadows on the wall behind the speaker as she spoke.
“Who will speak for the Goddess? Try now, if you can, to set aside the kind of world we know today, and imagine yourself living in the world of six thousand years ago. To do so, you must leave behind you all those technological wonders we take for granted. Lights, cars, running water, telephones, television, computers. You must also forget all you know about the world around us: what causes the rain to fall, lightning to strike, the wind to howl, a bright orb to rise in the sky and then disappear into darkness, plants to grow, and most especially, for a child to be born and for people to die.
“Imagine yourself a fisherman, perhaps, or a sailor, setting out from your shelter in a cave or a mud-brick hut on the island we now call Sicily, to cast your nets on the sea, or ply your trade along the coast.
“As your small craft nears these islands, you catch your breath in amazement and perhaps in fear. For rising from this rocky terrain you see huge structures that you can scarcely believe are made by human hands, bigger and higher than anything you have seen before, maybe thirty feet or more in height, towering from the cliffs above you.
“You may wonder who built them, or even how they were constructed. But you do not ask yourself what they are used for, or to whom they are dedicated. Because when you and your ancestors before you try to explain the unexplainable, when you turn to a deity for succor, inspiration, or an explanation of the mysteries of nature around you, the god you turn to is female. She is the Great Goddess, giver of life, wielder of death, and for at least twenty-five-thousand years and arguably much, much longer, She has provided the focus for human existence.”
The speaker’s name was Anna Stanhope, Dr. Anna Stanhope, Sophia and Anthony had told me. Principal of a posh English girls’ school, she had taken a sabbatical to come to Malta to study the Neolithic Age on the islands. While here, she had taken it upon herself to enlighten Maltese students as to their own history, and had taken a part-time teaching assignment at the school Sophia attended. As she spoke, I sat in the darkness and tried to concentrate on her words.
But it was difficult work trying to keep my mind off the unsettling journey I’d taken to get here. Try as I might, I could not keep from thinking about the incident with the Great White Hunter, a man I’d regarded as something of a buffoon when I first laid eyes on him on the plane. Now his ridiculous outfit and pretensions of grandeur had taken on a more sinister cast. Could it have been he who killed the cat and tampered with the brakes? Did he know where I was staying? Had he followed me home from the airport? That seemed a ridiculous idea, and anyway, he’d been in no shape to do much of anything, and he’d been delayed in customs.
Furthermore, it couldn’t have been he who killed the cat. I’d seen him several times in Valletta, and I didn’t think he’d have had time to get to the house ahead of us. Did that mean he had an accomplice? The hooded man at the back of the yard?
The more I thought about it, the more difficult it was to assume that it was a coincidence that our paths had crossed so often. Could I recall seeing anyone else from the airplane since we’d landed? GWH’s original seatmate, his “lovely lady,” for example? The priest? My own seatmate, an executive with Renault, I think he’d said. No, not one of them. Only the Great White Hunter. Why? I told myself to stop thinking about it. I was driving myself crazy.
“Twenty-five thousand years! Since the end of the last great Ice Age! Not one of the great religions of today can claim a fraction of that! From the steppes of Russia, through the caves of France, all through what we now call Europe and beyond, humankind worshipped the Goddess. How do we know? For one reason, for every phallic symbol or male statue we find in these times, we find many, many more triangles or female statues. All over the ancient world, people buried their dead with tiny statues of the Goddess, they dyed the bones with ochre, the color of blood, symbol of life and of the Great Goddess.
“It is here in Malta that Her worship reached its peak, its most creative expression. Here the Goddess became the presiding deity of every aspect of life. At least forty temples, the oldest freestanding structures in the world, older than the Great Pyramid of Egypt, older than Stonehenge, were built to honor Her. Hagar Qim, Gigantija, Tarxien, names you know well.
“The tools that built these massive structures have been found. Remnants of the huts and cave dwellings of the workers and worshippers have been uncovered. What we do not find from that time period is archaeological evidence of weapons. What does this mean? Quite simply that these people lived in peace with their neighbors, in harmony with nature, secure in the workings of the universe. That they knew their place, part of the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. That they understood the interrelationship of all things. That they saw life and all things of it as a circle, not a line.
“But even as She flourished here, Her worship was under threat elsewhere….”
Maybe he was following me. Maybe right this minute, as I sat in the darkness, he was watching me, or outside watching my car, I thought. Or perhaps he was back at the house doing something even more awful than before. Try to get a grip, I told myself. Your imagination is running away with you. Think this one through logically.
I tried to do that. Either it was a coincidence that our paths kept crossing, or it wasn’t. Either way, there had to be some rational explanation, a missing piece of information that would make it all make sense.
“What happened to the Goddess? Where did She go? Around about the fifth millennium B.C.E., a new group of people moved into the area which later became known as Europe. These people, some historians have called them Kurgans, brought a different belief system, a different religion. They worshipped what have come to be called sky gods, gods not of the Earth as the Goddess was, but rather deities, usually male and warlike, who ruled humankind from another place, a place without. Like Mount Olympus, for example, or the Elysian Fields, or more recently and perhaps closer to home, Heaven.
“Gradually these people, warlike like their gods, began to take over. In some cases, they lived in coexistence with the people of the Goddess, but by the time of the ascendancy of Greece, and even earlier, active attempts were made to stamp Her worship out, attempts that would ultimately be successful. Here in Malta, isolated in many ways from the rest of the Mediterranean world, the Goddess ruled supreme, omnipotent, long after Her worship had vanished elsewhere. Longer, but not forever. Suddenl
y, about 2500 B.C.E., the part of Malta’s history that belongs to the temple builders abruptly and mysteriously ends.”
Maybe, I thought, I needed to know more about the places where I had seen him, the places built by Gerolamo Cassar. I had the guidebook Anthony had chosen for me, and had already started reading it, in part because I thought he might quiz me later and I didn’t want to appear to be a total ignoramus where his country was concerned, but also because I was beginning to find the history of this tiny island absolutely fascinating. If I could do some study on the places Anthony had taken me to, I might find a connection. At the very least, it should take my mind off the morbid thoughts I was having about the Great White Hunter and his intentions toward me. I resolved to do that.
“While we may not know exactly what happened to the Goddess here in Malta, we can find hints as to what happened elsewhere in the stories, the epic poems, the mythology of those times. Many say myths are born of fantasy, but I believe they often have an historical basis, and that a careful reading will give us clues to the political and religious events of the day.
“And many tell of the replacement and subjugation of the Great Goddess and those who worshipped Her by ‘heroes’ of invading peoples. By the time we reach the world of classical Greece, we have an active attempt to rewrite the story of the Goddess to justify the new order as defined by the Greeks, and to denigrate the old. In the stories of that time, we have numerous examples of the conquest of centers of Goddess worship. We find these in the stories of Zeus and other members of that quarrelsome pantheon of Gods of Mount Olympus.
“Zeus’ rape of Europa, for example, probably tells us of an invasion of Crete, where the Goddess was worshipped for centuries. Think also of the story of Ariadne of Crete, whose name means holy or sacred, and who was probably an earth Goddess. She helped Theseus slay the dreaded Minotaur on his promise that he would carry her away with him. He did, but then he abandoned her on the island of Naxos. There are many stories of this kind—the beheading of Medusa by Perseus, Apollo’s attempted rape of Daphne—all representing invading peoples’ conquest and assimilation of centers of Goddess worship. The Goddess had been tamed.