I saw the recent news about the death of Carol Christ. Although I never met Carol, I was struck by the similarities between my experience in the Dicktaean Cave some decades earlier, and her book, The Serpentine Path. I have read many other books by her and have travelled to Crete on three occasions. Once in winter in early 1977; once in October in 1986; and again, in summer of 1992. On each occasion I visited the museums, the archaeological sites; I drank a lot of Greek coffee and ate sweets in the streets. I would go back at the drop of a hat. The first visit prompted me to learn Demotic Greek for about a year, not enough to develop any fluency, but enough to survive and read the signs. By the time I returned in 1986, I had studied Classical Greek for several years. At bus stops, the old women and I would troll my dictionary looking for the crossover between Katharevousa and Demotic Greek. Katharevousa is formal modern Greek, used in the media, government legal and academic documents, though this was changed by law in 1977 and since then Demotic Modern Greek has been the official language. The old women at the bust stops knew it.
The first extract below is from The Falling Woman which I wrote in the late 1980s and was first published in 1992. In the extract below, I refer to boustrophedon, a form of writing from Crete in which the words resemble the way a cow ploughs a field with words going back and forth across the surface without any breaks.
Crete was another world. They spent a day in the Museum at Herakleion staring in wonder at the riches there.
Julia had given Estella a labrys, a double axe, for her birthday, which she wore on a leather thong around her neck. In the squat in London, Roberta had told her about its origins in pre-patriarchal Crete. In Italy she’d been advised to hide it, since Mussolini had appropriated the symbol in the thirties and many Italians still associated the labrys with fascism. In the museum in Herakleion there were whole cases filled with tiny gold ones; huge tarnished-bronze ones on long poles; others painted on the sides of pots and pithoi, along with birds and snakes, flowers and octopi.
They visited the palace at Phaestos that overlooked the plain with its wide steps and corridors. Stella, still experimenting with her new camera, was taking photographs of double axes engraved in stone. The stones seemed to lie any which way, as though they had simply fallen there.
Stella was reading writing engraved on stone. For all her Greek she couldn’t decipher more than a few words, though she could follow the continuity of words that started on the left side, turned and returned across the stone from the right. A continuous squiggly line that imitated the way in which an ox ploughs a field.
Stella was developing her own errant theory of writing, from the Phaestos disk to the boustrophedon of this stone. It’s all snakes, she thought, whether they coil in a spiral or slither in curves down the page.
But Julia was sceptical.
The second extract is from Dark Matters, in which the main character Kate (Ekaterina) is the daughter of a woman from Greece. Many Greek refugees came to Australia after the Second World War. The small country town I lived near included a Greek run café and a Greek run newsagent.
It was Ochi Day, and I was travelling in the mountains in Crete. I hadn’t remembered the story of Ochi Day. It was the day the Greeks celebrated saying no, ochi or οχι to Mussolini. That no, meant that Greece would be attacked as they were on 28 October 1940.
I was on the Lasithi Plateau in the village of Psychro chasing archaeological sites. It was cold so I went to bed early and woke to the sound of such loud music I had to get up and see what was happening. A building some distance from my room, a hall filled with people. Women were flinging their arms and legs about in wild dancing. I sat for a while, not wanting to intrude but as the music wound up even more; I had to dance. The walls spun, the music swelled, faces and bodies in movement. The people around smiled at me, a woman grabbed my hand and led me across the dance floor and back again several times, and as she let go, she sent me spinning. I sat down again and caught my breath.
The next day I headed for the Diktaian Cave. It’s the cave where Zeus brought Europa when he abducted her. Zeus transformed himself into a white bull. Europa, like all ancient girls, was out picking flowers with her friends. She patted him and being an adventurous young woman, climbed up to ride on his back. Bad mistake because Zeus took off, swam towards Crete and brought her to Diktaian Cave. It was her line from which all the Minoans were descended.
There wasn’t much to see outside the gate to the cave. The tourist season was finished, and the gate was closed. I climbed the fence and entered through a narrow cleft as you’d expect from an old site sacred to the mother of Crete. It opened out into several ‘rooms’, some with beautiful stalactites. I paused, feeling my heart expanding. Not one for acts of reverence, I was surprised to find my hand touching my forehead then my heart. The darkness enclosed me. So rare, but a feeling of immense safety swept over me. I took tentative steps into the deeper darkness, my hands tracing the lumps of wall as I moved slowly down. I have no idea how long I walked and sat and listened.
It might have been years. As I turned to retrace my steps, tears – like the drops of water in a cave – were running down my face. I paused again in the first circle of light. I headed back, up the now bright path into blinding light. I scrabbled over the fence hoping no one would see me and returned to town for a sweet coffee.
Insert image https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cave_of_Dikti,_entrance,_Sept_2019.jpg
Links to books:
The Falling Woman (1992) https://www.spinifexpress.com.au/shop/p/9781876756369
Dark Matters: A Novel (2017) https://www.spinifexpress.com.au/shop/p/9781925581089