The first thing I noticed was the humid, sulfuric air that flooded into my nostrils. Immediately following was an ethereal sound, like chanting, a chorus of Gregorian monks, only female. I opened my eyes to an interplay of firelight and shadows dancing amid the jagged ceiling of a cave. I lifted my head to see the statue of the Great Mother looming in a dreamy swirl of vapor. I was lying on the floor of the Labyrinth of the Cave.
There were people—women in flowing garments, priests, a dozen maybe—standing at regular intervals around the labyrinth. The flame of a single candle mounted on a slender pole directly in front of each priest added a surreal appearance to their faces. These were the singers. Directing their voices to the statue seemed to enhance the airy strains they sent reverberating through the room.
I stood, uneasy on my feet. Two women in yellow gowns appeared before me. Neither spoke, but I knew I was supposed to follow them. We walked the few steps to the labyrinth. I stared at the path; it was much narrower than I remembered. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. A voice spoke.
“Do not be afraid.”
The voice came from behind. I turned to see Euphemia. She was wearing a long white gown with a golden headband, her hair flowing in waves over her shoulders, her smile reassuring.
“Listen to the Zadim,” she said. “It will guide you safely on your journey. Now turn around, close your eyes, and see only the path.”
I turned back toward the labyrinth. Against every survival instinct, I closed my eyes to that gurgling death. She lifted the hood of the robe and brought it over my eyes.
“You sure you have to do this part?” I asked.
“You will only succeed if you follow the Zadim,” she said, securing the hood with the ties. “Do not be afraid; just listen. It will be like the Labyrinth of Roses. You will see.”
I stood in absolute darkness and listened. The only things I could hear were the chanting, water boiling, and the sound of my heart about to burst from my chest. I took a short step and waited, searching desperately for a vision to appear through the blackness inside the hood. Another step. Nothing. This was suicide.
After one more step, the loose edge of the path gave way. I started to fall, but I jerked backward and landed on solid ground. My left leg plunged knee-deep into the scalding water. I screamed and clawed away, gripped with terror. I gathered my feet and stood, completely disoriented, testing weight on my blistering leg.
“Trust the Zadim.” It was Euphemia’s voice, but now it seemed to come from inside my head. “You cannot fail. Walk.”
My leg stung so badly that it made me lightheaded. I tried to will away the pain. Weight on the leg made it throb. I thought of Niki. All I wanted was to get out of this brackish hellhole, hold her in a cool breeze, and drink in the beauty of her face against a lingering sunset. This was madness, an insanely pointless threat to our future together. I’d struggled too long to find her, and now I was risking everything. For what? I clutched at the hood and started to rip it off.
Then, the labyrinth appeared to me as clearly as if I were looking at it with normal vision—maybe better. I forgot about my burned leg; I took a careful step and then another, testing, gaining confidence with my newfound vision. Then, I saw something on the path ahead, a column of light so dense that I couldn’t see beyond it. I came up beside it and carefully pushed a hand into the beam. I could feel nothing.
“You are looking at a Station of Remembrance,” Euphemia said. “When you step into the light, you will relive significant past-life memories that have contributed to the advancement of your soul. Each has special importance in understanding your destiny. Observe. Listen carefully. Do not be afraid to relive these memories. They are meant only for healing.”
I drew a quivering breath and stepped into the light. Everything changed.
“Who is this strange man?”
I was sitting cross-legged before a group of about twelve men. From a clay bowl, I was eating cooked grain and vegetables, and I was drinking water from a skin flask. I was trying to eat with my usual manners, but I was starving, and I consumed the food greedily. My skin was peeling, badly burned by the sun.
The men wore white garments spun of rough wool. Some wore colorless, unadorned vests. They sat in a semicircle talking in subdued tones and watching me with great interest. They seemed to mean me no harm. Still, I was afraid, though I was determined to conceal it.
Other men in the group raised more questions.
“Is he a spy for the Romans?” another man asked. “Was he sent to report our whereabouts to the authorities?”
“No,” another said. “He is not a Roman. He has the face of a Greek, but his boat is not Greek.”
A third man spoke up. “Why was he drifting alone with no food or water? Who would be so foolish to embark on the open sea without sail or even so much as a single oar?”
I knew from my training as a temple scribe that the men spoke Aramaic. They did not know that I understood their questions or that I could answer them all, for I was too hungry to do more than eat and observe.
Their island was a desolate, forbidding place—red, sparsely vegetated, a smoking volcano whose air stank with the same odor that rose from the fissures on Pialigos.
At the base of a wall of red cliffs were a series of caves. These appeared to serve as the dwelling places for these men. Many others milled about the caves. Strange, I thought, that there are no women among them.
I concluded that these were ascetics, men who had shied from material distraction, even from the inspiration drawn from natural surroundings. What other type of man would choose such a deprived environment?
Yet, barren as it was, I could hear a flock of goats bleating from somewhere in the distant hills. And the food that I so greedily consumed told me that these frugal men were able to coax enough grains and vegetables from their impoverished land to at least meet the minimal requirements for their existence.
With my hunger satisfied, I set the bowl in the sand next to me. The men watched with intense interest, wondering what I would do next. I was doing the same.
Then, one man stood. “There must be something wrong with his mind. He has not tried to say a word.” He walked slowly around me. “Perhaps a demon controls his tongue. Perhaps he is full of demons.”
“No,” I said in Aramaic. “I have no demon.”
An excited murmur rose from the men. The one that made the accusation took a step away from me. “This man speaks our tongue!” he said. “Tell us, who are you, and where do you come from?”
“Anatolios,” I said with a brave face. “I am Anatolios, a scribe from Pialigos.”
“Anatolios?” another old man said. “But this is the name of a Greek.”
“I am not a Greek,” I said.
Another man spoke up. “You say you are a scribe.” He dangled an amulet in front of me. I quickly recognized it as the warning my priests had forced me to wear. “Tell us,” the man said, “what is this that we have found around your neck? We do not know your language.”
“It is a message for those who would find me. I was told that if I removed it, I would die.”
“As you can see,” the man said, “it is removed, and you are not dead. What does it say?”
I knew the inscription from memory. “It says, ‘This is Anatolios the … the blasphemer, banished forever from Pialigos for his failure to follow the way of the Great Mother. Whoever helps this man will be cursed.’”
The men looked at each other, chuckling with amusement.
“We are Essenes,” the man said. “We are not afraid of any curse. So, you are banished, are you?”
“Set adrift with no food or water, given over to my fate. As I have told you, I am a scribe, not a sailor. The priests assumed that my lack of experience at sea would force me to drift until my death.”
“Well, you nearly succeeded,” the man said. “Tell us, Anatolios the blasphemer, who ordered your banishment?”
“The high priestess, of course.”
“High priestess? A woman is your … high prie …” The man was puzzled, but then he smiled. “You did not tell us that you were banished by a woman. Perhaps we should fear this curse of which you speak.” There was great laughter among the men.
Another man—tall, his hair and beard long and graying—stood. His eyes were bold but warm, steady with wisdom, yet they burned with a youthful fire. The laughter stopped when he raised a hand. Those who had been standing took their seats. No one had to tell me that this man was the leader of my inquisitors.
“I am Marcus,” he said to me, “and I am most fascinated by your story. The philosopher Plato wrote of a great and ancient nation utterly destroyed by a volcano. Only a few escaped the horrific cataclysm. There are those among our brothers of the desert who believe the people of Pialigos are the descendants of these unfortunate souls. Is there any truth to this?”
“I do not know this tale of your philosopher,” I said. “But it is true that my ancestors were forced by a volcano to flee their land. Many perished in the great wave that followed. Others fled to Crete or to other lands. Only the people living on Pialigos were spared from death or dispersion.”
“Fascinating,” Marcus said. “I am curious, Anatolios. What must one do to become banished from Pialigos? You are a scribe, a commander of your language and ours. Surely you are a valuable asset to the needs of your … priestess. Am I wrong to assume that you have greatly offended someone?”
“Offended? If exposing the great lie is an offense, then yes, I have offended the high priestess. Konstantina is herself the mother of the great lie. I have known it since I was a child.”
Marcus sat down. “Please, you must tell us about it. We are all interested in hearing your story.”
Another man about my age—twenty-five—with black curly hair and beard and a gentle, pleasing smile, introduced himself as Joshua. “We do not get many visitors,” he said. “I agree with Marcus, and I surely speak for us all when I say that I would love to hear your story.”
The men all nodded in agreement. I relaxed, for I knew without any doubt that they meant me no harm. To the contrary, their faces reflected genuine interest and great curiosity.
I started to stand, but I was much too weak. Marcus encouraged me to speak from where I sat, so this is what I did.
“When I was very young, still unable to walk, I had been given the gift of writing.”
Joshua immediately became incredulous. “You could not yet walk, yet you could write?”
“Yes. I began by drawing figures in the sand. I remembered this from a previous life, when I was the keeper of inventories.” I paused to watch the reaction of my audience. I did not know if these Essenes believed that the soul reembodied after death.
“Do not worry, Anatolios,” Marcus said, sensitive to my concern. “Many here, I among them, share your sentiments. Please continue.”
“One day when I was older, my father noticed this writing of mine, and he became very curious. He asked how I learned to write, and I told him. He explained that the figures I made in the sand very much looked like the sacred writing of our ancestors. When I was five years old, he took me in secret into the temple and showed me the very ornate chests where the sacred tablets were kept. Only the priests were supposed to know how to read the tablets, he explained. He wanted to see if I could read them as well.
“We went into the temple at night. The room was dark, lit only by a few oil lamps. My father carefully removed the lid of the box and lifted me up so I could see the tablets. Though the light was poor, I could read them immediately. My father was utterly confused by what I read. The tablets were nothing more than lists of things like materials for building projects or the censuses of forgotten cities. Some listed the contents of ships. Some were even inventories of grain reserves. My father was deeply troubled by this revelation, but he warned me to tell no one. To do so, he said, could place me in grave danger.
“I told one person only—Panagiota, my friend from childhood. I taught her the language of our ancestors. Aside from my father, Panagiota was the only other person that knew this terrible secret.”
Marcus said, “You must have trusted this young woman, Panagiota, very much.”
“Yes. I intended to take her as my wife before I was banished.” A lump formed in my throat, forcing me to pause. “At an early age, my skill in writing earned me my position as the apprentice to Pericles, the Chief of Scribes. One of the responsibilities of this important position was to accompany Konstantina into the temple’s inner chamber. There, she would read from the sacred texts. Pericles, who himself confessed that he could not read the tablets, would transcribe her readings. I was greatly puzzled by this, for the transcriptions were often prophetic utterances or new laws that she said were mandated by the Great Mother or by our ancestors. I could only assume there were other tablets that I had not yet seen.
“When Pericles took sudden illness and died, it became my duty to accompany Konstantina and transcribe her temple readings. She selected one of the ancient tablets, sat running her fingers over the markings, and, with her eyes closed, began speaking. I recorded her words exactly as she had spoken them. She was quite pleased with my work. When she finished, I saw clearly the tablet from which she had read. To my surprise, it was as I had remembered. This was nothing more than an inventory of grains from a certain storehouse on Thera.
“When I confronted her on this matter, she became very angry. Then I knew that she too was unable to read the language of our ancestors, that she was merely inventing the words she spoke. This is how I discovered the great lie and how I came to be here.”
J Douglas Bottorff 