Time Trance of the Gods (Book Two)



  Time Trance of the Gods

  BOOK TWO

  By Linda Talbot

  Copyright Linda Talbot ~ February 2013

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are from the author’s imagination.

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  Contact blog: https://lindajtalbot.wordpress.com

  ~~~~~~~~Table of Contents~~~~~~~~

  Time Trance of the Gods - Introduction

  Moonblind

  The Song Of Logoth

  The White Shell

  Niobe

  Labyrinth

  The Prize Of Procyon

  The Catalyst

  The Second Season

  The Ghost Gift

  The Tyranny

  Thodorou

  Monogamy

  Author's Note, next publication and contact

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  Time Trance Of The Gods

  BOOK 2

  ~~~~~~Introduction~~~~~~

  In Book Two of Time Trance Of The Gods we meet more mortals mingling with gods and wandering inexplicably through time. The old gods had decidedly ungodly habits as do many of the humans with whom they tangle in these tales.

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  Gods of good and malicious mischief

  still haunt our little lives. L.T.

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  Moonblind

  Defiantly, the Spartan town thrust ruins at the wind; carved with shameless clues and laced with sanctuaries still charged with awe.

  I paused by the theatre built on the mountain's edge, as though, with words, the actors would defy the gods. I absorbed the past with senses primed but barely saw the obdurate stones. I wept with the wind and humiliation.

  I had found Thanos with the Swedish woman in the cluttered back room of the agency. He had not heard me come in to stand, sealed silently in shock. Then I had hurried into the fury of the night, where the wind lashed the tamarisks beside the black beach. I reeled, unable to reason and next day climbed, as though to purge the pain, the steep path to ancient Thera.

  From there I would strive to regain perspective, watch Kamari recede until its ant-like activity was unreal.

  But on the great slope, gazing as the Dorians had, into the huge horizon, I was doubly reduced, rocked by wind and unable to regain equilibrium.

  I had met Thanos on my first visit to Santorini and had lived with him for six years. I had succumbed to the island; wooed by the fractured frailty, belying the destructive potential of Earth's Aegean and African plates as they moved on a collision course beneath the sea.

  Watching the lambently symmetrical shape of Nea Kameni, that had risen from the water, I strove to envisage an ancient eruption - a hundred times more powerful than the hydrogen bomb - that shattered the round island of Strongyle, plunging its centre into the caldera that now washed with a depth of four hundred metres, corroborating the legend of Atlantis, deep below the town of Fira.

  I had grown familiar with Therasia, the island that was another splintered aspect of Strongyle, as was tiny Aspronisi, its white back like a ridge of snow, and I knew too the timelessness of Paleo Kameni, the Holy Isle of the ancients, with its hot springs, that had risen from the water in 197 BC.

  Thanos had lived on Santorini for ten years, initially returning each winter to his home in Athens. But he too had succumbed to the island and settled in a simple house in fields near Mesa Gonia, the village devastated by the earthquake of 1956.

  I had relinquished my London job and joined him to help set up the tourist agency. His elemental energy, tempered by gentleness sustained me through the tempestuous winter winds.

  But this year in early spring I had sensed him almost imperceptibly withdrawing. His courtesy and warmth were undiminished yet he had lapses of preoccupation. It was mid June, as visitors laid claim to the island, when I discovered him with the woman who had helped in the agency.

  Now I shared the ancient city with those, who, like me, would be beguiled but who would not stay long enough to hear the howling of her hollow ghosts. I prepared to descend.

  I moved to Fira, renting a small white room overlooking the caldera. I decided to take the boat trip that plied between its islands. It was five years since I had viewed Santorini from the sea. I was seeking another means of perspective.

  I relished again the precipitous descent to the port of Athinios. At sea I scrutinised the multi-toned layers of volcanic rock around the headland and the haughty profile, poised above the water.

  Beyond the solitary rock of white lava ash soaring starkly from the sea, I saw the glinting roofs protecting the Bronze Age city of Akrotiri that had been buried, virtually undamaged, beneath the ash of the early eruption.

  I recalled how on my last visit, I had glimpsed a woman in a flounced skirt, her head shaved, save for a long lock gathered tightly on top, disappearing down a deep staircase. I had been surprised. It was out of bounds to visitors. I had peered down the steps but had seen only a shadowed storage space filled with pithoi. There was insufficient room for even a small person to pass.

  The boat turned and sailed back to the caldera, past Aspronisi and around Paleo Kameni. People leapt from the boat, to swim like blind fish drawn by an irresistible force to the sulphurous hot springs. As they returned and we started towards Therasia, I watched the slow passing of Fira, spread on the severed rock like crystalline snow.

  After eating in Manolas, high on Therasia, we sailed to Nea Kameni.

  The sinister sprawl of black lava was invariably a shock; the violent inner earth spewed indiscriminately to flow in fire. It had solidified; a misshapen imposter in the sun; a smooth surface fantasically carved by a crazed hand.

  Stepping from the boat I walked through the random rocks, black against the distant snow of Fira. I climbed, pervaded by the silence that had settled after extremis. Even here grasses thrust; tenacious beard on a black face. But the interjections of scythed and bulbous lava intimated turmoil.

  The Indonesians believe a volcanic eruption is an indication of human disharmony, which at least leads to reassessment, but also the illusion that man can influence the elements. The fact that he, a microbe on his planet, can do nothing to halt the movements of the earth, is less palatable.

  The volcano sprawled with several craters, some rocks retaining evidence of fire, reddened as well as charred, as though newly stacked in frenzy. From the largest crater wall, sulphurous steam rose.

  I left the crowd. Isolation enclosed me; the essence of exacerbation frozen in poignant pinnacles and ungainly blocks. I passed a rock jaggedly spliced as though by the machinery of man. I sank by a flat-backed block of lava, drowsy with heat and emotional dismay.

  The boat did not signal its departure. I was roused by an inexplicable sensation of unease. I rose and slithered down the precipitous path. I saw the boat moving placidly away. Frantically, I waved, but it sailed blithely on to Athinios. For some minutes I did not grasp my predicament. Then as I retraced my steps to the rock where time had been suspended, I sank in bleak realisation of how I would have to await the arrival of another boat the following day.

  I had neither food nor water. I tried to hail passing ships. I might have been invisible. As the snow of Fira softened and began to glow, I was aware of faint rustlings with hints of the human voice as tho
ugh distilled by time and intent on communication.

  I tried to dispel the oppression that was rising as though from within Nea Kameni. I watched the civilising sun redden and lay a final path of faint gold on the water. I had the irrational notion of walking along it into infinity. I crouched as the sun darkened and lowered. For some seconds it fell on the lava field as though reigniting the sullen ground. Then the first deluding hues of night crept like curious fingers to where I sat. They reached for me coldly, as the first lights appeared in Fira. People there would be sentimentally watching the darkening volcano.

  Tortured by thirst, I felt blackness push possessively about me. Low wind moaned through the wiry grass and as I moved, it seemed the earth stirred too. The voices grew distinct while their words were indistinguishable. Compelled to rise, I walked down the slope and stood above the caldera; a black abyss charged with catastrophe.

  Now the moon rose and walked coldly on the water. I envisaged man's first weightless steps in that airless, apparently fossilised world. Contrary to poetic conviction, it was coal black, although bathed in reflected sunlight which now fell on the eastern rim, creating a tentative crescent.

  As it drew away from the setting sun, it would wax, and later in the month, I would see the great plains, once thought to be seas and named by the Jesuit, Giovanni Riccioli as the Seas of Tranquillity and Serenity and the Ocean of Storms. They were hollowed by meteorites, so there, as on Strongyle, molten lava rose and hardened.

  As I neared the suck and swell of the caldera, I thought I saw Thanos, borne as effortlessly as man on the moon, away from me, across the silvered sea. I stepped into the water.

  I was standing, lashed by the Meltemi on a lush hill where white lilies rocked on a cloth of crocus gold. Swallows wheeled. Below, the wind wilfully plucked the sea.

  I looked onto an imposing city. From the main street, men, some wearing helmets, made apparently from tusks and carrying spears and shields of animal skins, swarmed towards the sea. Women milled helplessly behind.

  I saw ships heading for the shore. The city men ran to elegant long craft beached nearby and set out to meet the oncoming boats. They clashed. Daggers drawn, the aggressors leapt aboard the long ships.

  The combat persisted, but the city men were superior. The invaders drowned and their boats were towed ashore. The women, with long flounced skirts lilting in the wind, ran to meet their men.

  I descended and walked between the houses to the shore. Initially, in the confusion, no one noticed me. Then a woman, her face darkly agitated, stopped tending her man and stared. Suddenly everyone was watching me. I still wore a simple white dress. My hair was gathered high in a scarf. I towered above these small, olive-skinned people, who approached me now with inherent grace. Some men wore long robes, others tunics or kilts. The women were bare-breasted in tiered skirts, also tied over tunics.

  A bearded man, whom I had seen lead the defence, stepped towards me. I did not recognise the words he spoke, yet I understood, as though they had been simultaneously translated.

  "Who are you?"

  I mustered a smile. His face was composed, despite the recent engagement.

  "I don't know." Uncannily he understood my words, but was confused.

  "Laerces. Captain of Akrotiri's fleet." He introduced himself.

  Akrotiri. A name from some future, I felt, yet could not grasp.

  "Where are you from?" he asked. Others, listening, came close. I was dumb. I could not remember. He probably thought I was a spy.

  "Come."

  He took my arm and steered me through the wind and sun towards the town. Speculation murmured in my wake.

  We passed by stone built houses of two and three storeys. Inside one that was exceptionally large, I saw two artists painting the freshly plastered walls with a woman walking with a necklace in her left hand towards a girl who appeared to have wounded her foot. I was impressed by the paintings' spontaneity.

  "What year is this?" I asked Laerces. He viewed me quizzically. Tentatively, he touched the tip of my blue head scarf. He registered respect, then awe.

  "You have been sent to us?" he asked. I was baffled. How and why had I come?

  "What land is this?" I persisted.

  "Strongyle, as you must know."

  He paused, stood back. We had reached a square and the townspeople encircled me. Suddenly Laerces kneeled and everyone followed suit. I heard the murmur, "Goddess," move like a wave among them.

  "No!" I recoiled, appalled. Laerces smiled and gestured that I should follow. We entered a large house, climbing stairs to an upper storey. He indicated I should sit in one corner and from the shadows a young woman, whose hair was beginning to grow after apparently having been shaved, brought me figs, pears and meat that tasted like venison. A dry white wine followed. All was served from clay utensils.

  After the meal, I was led to a bed; a wooden frame stretched with an animal skin. Before lying down, I asked Laerces, "Who were you fighting today?"

  "Men who came to plunder. Fortunately, the Mycenaean mercenaries on their way to Egypt, were breaking their voyage here and helped us."

  "Why are they going to Egypt?"

  "To help the Thebans oust the Hykos. But you must know this."

  "I must be suffering from amnesia," I said, "I remember nothing."

  "Sleep now," he said.

  But I lay awake, listening to the night sounds of Akrotiri. The wind worried the empty streets. From the hills I heard unfamiliar cries. Then the ground beneath my bed shuddered. An earth tremor. I heard voices outside. Then silence. I tried to sleep. Footsteps. A man's breathing. I recognised Laerces's hands as he bent to touch me.

  "I know I should not," he said, but leaned nonetheless to brush my face with his. "The earth is angry because of the men we killed today," he said.

  "No. It was an earth tremor. Volcanic, "I assured him. While I could not recall who I was or why I was here, I spontaneously offered this knowledge of the earth. Laerces gently withdrew, in awe again.

  "But WHY should it move?"

  "Molten earth pushes through the earth's crust," I explained. "It's a warning. It may come again, more violently. You should be prepared."

  "It has happened before. We left before the worst disruption. We've only been back a short time."

  I recalled now the signs of hasty repair I had noticed in the town. Again, I experienced a half-grasped knowledge of some catastrophe related to the earth....

  Laerces left. Fitfully, I slept.

  Soon after dawn, I rose and went downstairs. Already artists had started work on a wall. They were depicting yesterday's sea battle, eliminating the bloodshed with a few of the defeated thrust overboard, while life in Akrotiri proceeded unperturbed. Outside people knelt as I passed.

  "Please!" I indicated they should rise.

  Laerces was conversing with the Mycenaeans. These men were war-like. They did not kneel as I approached. Laerces appeared embarrassed. The Mycenaeans stared candidly at me.

  "Come." Laerces indicated I should leave with him.

  "What is your race called?" I asked.

  "We are the Sea People. Our king is Minos of Crete. And you were sent to save us."

  "No - please, you are mistaken. Heed the earth and if it moves again, leave. Is there a safe place you can go?"

  Laerces looked dismayed. "We could go to Crete, but our destiny is in your hands." There seemed no way of dissuading him.

  "I would like to leave if the earth moves,” I told him. At last he seemed disconcerted.

  We parted at the end of the main way. "I shall walk for a while," I said and started for the hills. I met four young men coaxing a netted bull along a track towards the town. I climbed among crocuses and herbs. The land was laced with steep terraces bearing olives, figs and vines. Briefly, I glimpsed what might have been an ibex. Long grasses cowered beneath the Meltemi. The sun sowed diamonds on the sea.

  Then, from a hill near the island's centre, I saw a wisp of smoke. A volcano
. It seemed otherwise somnolent. Yet I shivered in the sun.

  On my return, Laerces was waiting on the outskirts of Akrotiri. He indicated I should follow and led me to a house where he carefully unfolded a loose robe. He approached me like a supplicant, holding wide the robe. Apprehensively I let him drape it on my shoulders.

  Throughout the day, an air of expectation pervaded the town. I ate, slept and was introduced to those who were clearly high in the hierarchy. Women appeared to be in charge.

  Outside, spring was elevating and brought with it, I sensed, more than a simple renewal of nature. The people were in preparation, moving with alacrity among numerous tasks, some of which were mysterious and performed out of sight.

  My memory stirred. I thought of annual fertility rites performed by the ancients and wondered if some similar ceremony was underway.

  The next day I was taken to the great house where the artists were painting the wounded girl. Now they were depicting others gathering crocuses. The painting ceased as we entered. Laerces took me to an upper storey and seated me on a dais. He left. There was little light, but below I glimpsed young women, their heads shaved and dyed blue except for a piece of hair drawn high from the top of their heads. They seemed apprehensive, bunched in a corner, each reverently holding two small objects.

  They moved into a line, hushed now, their slim bodies barely beyond puberty, their eyes warily wandering to stairs that descended at the end of the room. I could see only part of what lay beyond. I suspected it was an altar.

  As though instructed, the six young women proceeded slowly towards the steps. The tension was almost tangible. One by one they moved down. The first to reach the inner sanctum gave a strangled cry. Forcibly I felt her fear. The next, perhaps prepared, was silent but emerged shaken. The third, carrying crocuses and a vase, paused, a long thorn, held high in one hand. Crouching, she ripped her right foot until it bled. I remembered the girl in the wall painting. As she set her face against the pain, the other women turned away, then walked, in turn, down the steps. After several minutes the girl emerged without the flowers and limped to join those who had already been below.

  Now they climbed the stairs to where I sat. Solemnly, still overcome by their awesome experience, they approached me, holding out their second gifts. These they lay at my feet. None raised her eyes to look at me.

  I wanted to speak, to reassure them and learn about the ritual. I felt absurd, a charlatan. Had I been younger, I would rather have been in their place. They passed on. I waited. Could I now leave? Laerces appeared and gestured that I might descend.

  He explained later that the earth must be annually appeased and that, as I suspected, the girls were obliged to undergo initiation into womanhood. I wanted to ask about sacrifice. Was there an altar in the inner sanctum where it was carried out? But some instinct checked me.

  Laerces took Zaphaea, the young woman who had cut open her foot, to live with him.

  In the evening, after eating, they joined me and Laerces told me of King Minos, who had sent citizens from Crete to settle Strongyle.

  That night the earth moved again. The tremor was more pronounced and prolonged.