A 3:00 A.M. phone call can never be good news. At least that is the prevailing wisdom. When the call came, waking me from a deep REM sleep cycle, I prepared myself for news about my mother’s death, my sister’s horrific auto accident, or some other tribulation such as intersects all our lives. So, my surprise was total when I heard Dr. Dimitris Papadakis, lead archeologist at the University of Rhodes and director of the Minoan site in Knossos dive into a conversation seemingly already in progress from the comfort of his office at a respectable 10:00, Greek time.
“I read your work on the blue monkey,” he said through thick, heavy words, English being his fourth or fifth language. “I have following your work. You have some fascinating insights. Come here, test them. I am convinced the monkeys hold a secret, tell something about the Minoan people, something we don’t understand. Perhaps you can solve their mystery. My assistant will help you with the arrangements. I can fund one year, stipend, housing, transportation.” Then the line clicked dead. Apparently, Dr. Papadakis was not so much offering me the opportunity of a lifetime to work at one of the most significant historic archeological sites in the world as ordering me up like an Uber. I sat in our comfy Foggy Bottom bed stunned, confused, fearful I had been pranked by my colleagues at GW. I woke Tess with the news hoping she could clarify if I was dreaming or awake because at times such as this it is challenging to differentiate reality from illusion. She favored dreaming and rolled back on her side; eye cover pulled into position. I approached the next workday gingerly, my wild fantasy dancing like a muse before my mind’s eye, luring me, seducing me. My colleagues, students, and the baristas at Peet’s Coffee who know me so well, gave no hint of a conspiracy. Then at 2:00 a perky young woman, Eleni, from Dr. Papadakis’ office called to tell me she had secured a little house near Heraklion and to ask if I preferred to fly out of Reagan National. It made me a little dizzy. Was this really happening? “It is small, very old” she admitted, “but two bedrooms,” she paused dramatically, “a lovely patio with eucalyptus tree, and a part-time okimonos.”
Perhaps even more surprising than winning this professional lottery was Tess’s enthusiastic embrace of the idea. It’s true, one of her most attractive qualities was her sense of adventure, her embrace of a challenge. She was certain she could take a sabbatical from teaching art history, and since Sophia was only five, relocating her for a year would not be difficult. With surprising efficiency, we found ourselves boarding a flight to Athens via Paris, our belongings already shipped ahead of us courtesy of Dr. Papadakis’ magic grant. We transferred to Heraklion Airport where Eleni, an orb of energy and hyper gesticulation, wished us kalimera, whisked us to an awaiting white Mercedes van, and briefed us on everything from house keys to bank accounts and from my afternoon meeting with Dr. Papadakis to the location of my office. “Settle in tonight. Tomorrow night there is a welcome event in Palia Poli, Old Town” she spoke as if time was limited, and she was desperate to finish before a timer dinged. “You will meet the team the next day. They are, how do you say, anxiety to meet you.”
We sped past rows of tall white resort hotels that lined the beach, blue and white umbrellas planted in the sand. Open air restaurants advertised fresh fish, handsome Greek men in boat necked shirts trolling for potential guests. Boutiques offered sun hats and totes, tee shirts and sundresses. The landscape turned dry and beige as we moved away from the salty scent of the Aegean Sea, the ground cracked and parched, desperate for rain. We crossed several rivers and creeks that had dried up as if victims of a giant vacuum. Little houses and sheds that longed to be houses stood next to decaying barns, an occasional donkey enduring the Cretan sun. Orchards of figs, olives, oranges, and pistachios struggling to survive flew by us. We came to a ramshackle, oddly placed fish and chips shop that looked abandoned and turned off the main road, a tiny chapel off on a distant hillside, convenient for, apparently, no one. I half expected to find Zorba himself walking along the road. The driver pulled onto a dirt and rocky road and stopped before a quaint little abode sitting in a cluster of olive trees, white with green shutters, an imposing green door, and a pergola heavy with tired, bright red bougainvillea.
Eleni escorted us inside and showed us around with a touch of trepidation, as if we would be disappointed. It was a rustic house but charming. Tess immediately allayed her fears by checking the electricity, the water, the toilet. I tested my mobile signal and found it acceptable. “The mobile signal will be challenge,” Eleni warned. “Sometimes, yes, sometimes, no.”
The house’s most endearing feature was the patio, which Eleni showed us only after we pressed the issue, as if it was somehow taboo. Tucked behind the small dining area, it was walled around a eucalyptus tree with a cluster of olive and palm trees just outside, providing delightful shade. The floor was in the traditional Greek black and white pebble design with several cracks and fissures, remnants, Eleni confessed, of past earthquakes. Several clay pots were situated with rosemary, oleander, and Sea Lily. A little table and two chairs were tucked into one corner. “Look, Sophia,” Tess exclaimed, a perfect place to play!”
Just then the door burst open and announced a rail thin woman dressed in black, kerchief on her head, bucket in her hand. “Apo ola ta spitia!” she exclaimed. “Me xegelases,” she spoke bitterly.
“Chreiazesai doyleia,” Eleni assured her. This is your okimonos, housekeeper, Thekla. We nodded politely and Thekla launched into a caustic diatribe. “It’s fine. They don’t care about your superstitions. Unpack Dr. Horton’s bags,” Eleni instructed her curtly.
“Geia sas,” Tess extended her hand, but Thekla just stared at it. “My name is Tess. This is my husband Paul, and this,” she placed her hands on our daughter’s shoulders, “is Sophia.” Thekla froze and stared at the girl as if she was an artifact, a sacred relic in a museum. Her head scanned up and down. She leaned one way then the other, even attempted to look behind the girl.
“This no girl,” Thekla declared. “Einai thea.”
Tess and I looked with concern, but Eleni giggled, “Yes, she is quite beautiful.”
The driver brought in our suitcases and as Thekla moved them into our rooms, Eleni outlined our next steps. Someone would pick me up in the morning to meet with Dr. Papadakis. A car would eventually be arranged for our use. Thekla would prepare some of our meals, clean, and handle household chores. We found some fresh orange juice in the small refrigerator and decided to drink it out in the courtyard. Our expedition, our whirlwind, our Greek odyssey had begun.
The next few days were filled with meetings, briefings, and explanations of protocols. Finally, I set foot on the grounds of this remarkable Minoan civilization, this peaceful, prosperous, city known for the Greek myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, the fabled labyrinth, and, to some of us, the intriguing wall paintings of the blue monkeys, the subject of both my master’s thesis and my dissertation and my professional obsession for no reason I can explain except they posed so many questions, aroused so many possibilities. There were no monkeys here, even 2,000 years ago. So, how did these Minoans know of them? Why did they paint them? And why blue? I discovered in my first briefing that the team believed they were on the verge of discovering yet another blue monkey painting and wanted me to assist in extracting it, examining it, perhaps interpreting it, maybe even excavating for another one. The anticipation left me breathless.
At home, our days were spent acclimating to our exotic new surroundings, learning the rhythms of the day, the language, the customs. Tess learned how to shop in town, how to deal with the locals, how to relish her time with Sophia, and how to procure supplies so she could paint. Sophia, meanwhile, found everything a curiosity, a puzzle to be solved, a joy to be discovered. She played happily on the patio and tagged along behind Thekla asking questions the poor woman could not understand, let alone answer. Yet the two of them developed a kinship, each fascinated by the other. They found each other to be mysterious, mythical, even magical. Sophia stood on a chair and watched Thekla prepare moussaka, stuffed grape leaves, and souvlaki. They baked baklava, kataifi, and sfakianopita, all the while Thekla gazing at Sophia as one admires an idol. One afternoon, as I sat reading on a bench by the front door, the earth began to rumble. I was, of course, aware of this area’s propensity for earthquakes but grew concerned when the reverberations grew louder, sustained, more violent. I dashed inside as our belongings danced and hopped. Tess rushed out back to find Sophia and I followed. Our only child sat on the far end of the space next to a potted sage bush, completely unconcerned. She looked up at us with no expression and watched as the floor snapped, leaving a one-inch gap all along the center, jagged edges poking up. “Sophia!” I gasped, and Tess cried out, “Baby girl!” Then the rumbling ceased. We moved toward our daughter when I smelled a toxic odor, like rotten eggs or spoiled meat. I clasped my hand across my mouth and nose so I could bare to move forward but was stymied by a most disconcerting sound. Little Sophia, our blond cherub, looked up at us and spoke, though the voice was not hers. It came in a tinny screech, a pitch almost too high for human ears, “Zoyme stis petres,” the unhuman voice shrilled. Sophia’s eyes rolled up and disappeared so that she looked like a marble statue of antiquity, like an ancient sculpture. Her face drained of all color, she sat completely still, her back stiff and proper. A vapor-like mist leaked from the crack in the floor and enveloped her. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the smell dissipated, the fog lifted, and Sophia’s eyes reappeared, clear blue as always. We dashed to her, I scooped her into my arms, and Tess examined her for scars or wounds, or signs of, she didn’t know what.
“My dolls are digging for treasure, like Daddy,” she said.
“Sophia, are you alright?” her mother called.
“Does it hurt,” I asked?
But she seemed to be completely unaware of what had happened to her, that, indeed, anything HAD happened to her. When questioned, she had no answers and was not interested in our questions. She simply asked for a glass of juice.
That night, after Sophia was tucked into her little bed, Tess and I began our deliberations. Had we imagined, hallucinated, this? Was the episode an effect of the local ouzo? We checked our translation app and puzzled over Sophia’s words, “We live in the stones.” Our imaginations ran wild. Were the Minoans speaking to us from the past? Were they sending a distress signal? Of course, not. Oracles are but glorious myths. Fun to play with but mere fancy. We decided to dismiss the event as an anomaly, a dalliance in Greek lore.
The next day began in the early morning crispness at Knossos, that glorious ruin with the stunning vermillion pillars at the North Entrance, the masterful mural of a strange bull-riding event that was either punishment or prize in this advanced civilization, the throne room, the queen’s boudoir, the exquisitely preserved wine jugs, and my beloved blue monkeys, playful in their sky blue fur, frolicking among the vegetation, grasping at vines, swinging among the clouds, mysterious, incongruous, enchanting. I had spent considerable time pondering their purpose, their origin, their significance and might now be able to apply my theories, test my hypotheses. I joined the team at a corner of the site closed to the public, where Dr. Papadakis believed other monkey paintings might be located. Over the next few weeks, we dug and dusted and inched our way through what might have been a room used by the royal family, perhaps a dining or family room. With each flick of my brush, I sensed we were closing in on an important discovery, one that could, perhaps, make my career. Suddenly one day, the ground began to shimmy. I heard rumbling like thunder. Several team members began to shout, instructing everyone to seek open ground, to move away from the ruins. I sprinted into an open field of scrub adjacent to the site, the soles of my feet tingling from the earthquake. A group of us huddled together and watched as the ground around our work area opened like a giant maw and swallowed our tools. Picks, trowels, shovels, tape measures, sieves, bins all collapsed into the gap and disappeared, leaving our labor completely undone. After an all clear was given, I approached my workspace to find no evidence of our excavation, a sliver of sky blue, vanished. Months of effort had perished in a few seismic moments, left piled in a heap of rubble.
My drive home amounted to an exercise in self-pity. Had my moment, my chance at glory passed? I beat my palm on the steering wheel in frustration and swore in Greek because it sounded more scathing. As I pulled up to our oikos, Tess sprang from the front door and onto the gravel drive, meeting me as I opened the car door. “It happened again,” she spoke somewhere between a whisper and a plea. “Sophia. That voice. On the patio.”
“Oh, no,” I sighed. “Tell me,” I rose, my arm draped atop the open car door.
“She was playing with her horses on the patio. I was in the kitchen with Thekla fixing lunch. Then a tremor started. We looked up and started toward her when we heard that awful, screechy voice. ‘Afiste tis petres,’ ‘Leave the stones’.” It was horrible. The poor thing’s eyes went blank, she turned white as a sheet, her back ramrod straight. By the time we reached her, it was over.”
“Is she alright?”
“Seems fine. She has no memory of any of it,” Tess verged on tears.
“Did you smell that odor again?”
“It was powerful, almost unbearable.”
“Thekla?”
“Fled. Ran out of the house screaming, yelling in Greek. Her son came and got her. She said something about a curse, I think, but my Greek isn’t that good.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” I urged.
“Well, something strange is happening and I want no more of it. We’re leaving,” Tess insisted.
I telephoned Dr. Papadakis for advice while Tess packed her suitcase, headed, she said, for a hotel in town.
“No, stay put,” Dr. Papadakis begged me. “I will come and explain.”
I convinced Tess to stay until Dr. Papadakis could come and offer his insight. I opened a bottle of Vilana, light and crisp, and tossed some tomatoes, cucumbers, feta, and olives in oil. Sophia slept, exhausted from her ordeal.
Less than an hour later, Dr. Papadakis pulled up to the oikos in his white Mercedes, his black and silver hair disheveled as always, his skin swarthy against a flowing white linen shirt. He accepted a glass of Vilana and plopped an olive into his mouth as he sat at the dining room table.
“This is my fault,” he began. “I apologize from deep in my heart,” he placed his hands, those of a worker rather than a renowned scientist, over his heart. “This how-se was my only option for you. I know of the rumors, the myth about the oracle, but I daunt believe in them.”
“Oracle!” Tess and I gasped in unison.
“Some superstitious ones believe this how-se is built on the site of an ancient oracle, a priestess who told futures for the people of Knossos. They banish her here out of fear. Some say she protects the city, keeps its secrets. But is foolish, no?”
“And knowing this, you brought us here anyway, under false pretense?” I asked.
“It’s legend, not real. I saw no harm. I couldn’t anticipate. It only happens when earth quakes.”
Tess leaned across the table as if to strike the doctor, “Yet it is all too real. We saw it, we watched it happened to our daughter. And you said nothing,” she slammed her hand to the table.
“The girl is unhurt. Such occurrences are folklore, not real,” he insisted.
“We know that” I concurred, “but it happened, nonetheless. Twice.”
“Here’s what I know,” Tess seemed wound to fire a diatribe. “You brought us here. You knew about this place. You placed us in this bizarre, frightening situation. So, you can either relocate us, or I, for one, am taking my daughter and going back to the United States tomorrow. Screw your oracle and your damn blue monkey shit!” She stomped away and, ironically, out into the courtyard, standing before the rift in the black and white tile, the very spot where the oracle, or whatever, emitted its gaseous odor and enigmatic words. Where she seized control of our child and used her to convey a message.
After a few awkward moments, Dr. Papadakis took a sip of his wine and asked, “Did it speak of the stones again?”
“How did you know?”
“I live here once. I have heard it. It always speaks of the stones.”
“What stones?” I asked.
“I believe it speak of Knossos, of our excavation work,” he lowered his voice.
“Why?”
“I think she is trying to protect it, save it from excavation, from disturbance,” he looked sympathetic to the notion.
“The age-old conundrum. Do we dig to discover and understand those who came before us or leave it and let them rest in peace?” I had struggled with this dilemma since my first archeology class in undergrad. I think all archeologists, historians, and our ilk wrestle with it.
“But I don’t believe in such hokum,” I stressed.
“Yet, you witnessed it firsthand.”
“Yes, but maybe it was an illusion, a delirium from the gasses erupting from the ground,” I argued.
“I told myself that too,” he demurred. “But I know what I saw and heard when it happened to my niece. My sister hardly speaks to me because of it.”
“So, what do we do?” I questioned.
“I have Eleni find you a new place to stay, maybe an apartment in town for now. Nothing else we can do,” he sounded resigned to the situation because, after all, this was Greece.
“And the oracle?” I wondered aloud.
“We leave her in peace. We do our work and hope she understand that only if we know about the past can we hope to have a future.”
And if she doesn’t understand?” I quizzed.
“Then we die in one of her earthquakes.”
