| The Bronze Age sanctuary at Pigadhes
dates back to about 1600 B.C. But we are "visiting"
it at about 1300 B.C. At that time the eastern Mediterranean
was being attacked by a confederation known as "People
of the Sea." They conquered North Africa, Crete, Asia
Minor, and the Levant each in their turn. The Egyptians called
that tribe Peleset; the Bible calls them Philistines. Only
Egypt was able to fend them off.
About this time we see the introduction of the Horns of Consecration
in Cyprus, at Pigadhes and elsewhere. The Horns of Consecration
are prominent in Crete and it is reasonable to assume Cretan
refugees fleeing the People of the Sea brought this religious
symbol to Crete.
In the present day, you can walk through the foundations
of the sacred courtyard with the well and the altar. The altar
is about twelve feet high and is crowned with the Horns of
Consecration.
Imagine, if you will, that you can hear the thoughts of a
Priestess of the Great Goddess who was worshipped here, a
refugee from Crete, as she prepares for a festival.
We are refugees here, far from our native Crete. We were
able to bring only the clothes we were wearing, we priestesses
of the Goddess and our townsfolk, those who believed our words
and fled with us across the sea.
We fled from the People of Sea. One of their kings sits in
the great palace at Knossos. His underlings and soldiers are
in every other stronghold on the coast. Our people are enslaved
in their own land. And I fear that soon, soon, People of the
Sea will come here to Cyprus, our refuge.
But today the poppies bloom in sun-kissed fields. We were
given this property, sacred from time immemorial, to be our
sanctuary. We built a dormitory, a school, and a dancing ground.
We have marked out only this dancing ground as a sacred space.
We gave it a low wall so that all may watch, but only believers
may enter. There is a well, to quench our thirst as we practice
the sacred dance in the heat of the day. There is a bench
where believers sit and watch. In some places there are mementoes
of a believer who has died and gone back to the Goddess. In
the center of our enclosure we built a tall tower, and on
it, we put the horns of consecration.
The natives tell us this place is sacred to their goddess.
We tell them the Goddess is one, ours and theirs. But they
don’t quite believe that and neither do we.
At home, we would be on a hilltop. But the natives do not
trust us to share a hilltop. They fear we might signal to
strange ships, bring on a pirate attack. But we would signal
no one. If more of our townsfolk remain, they will find us.
And as for others, we dread their coming, even if they come
from Crete.
For we have had enough of palaces and priests. We shall live
here in our little house, sharing what we have with the people.
We have healing, and writing, and we have the Goddess.
Today we will dance, slowly spinning, slowly turning around
the altar. We will drink the new wine, the blood of the earth.
We will turn and turn, our wide skirts flaring, our bells
jingling. And as the drums beat faster and pipes play higher,
She will come. She comes upon us as morning mist upon the
fields. She is Mother, and Sister, and Daughter. And so are
we. So are we.
From a corner of the bench comes the drumbeat. Now we begin,
slowly, slowly. We stand with our arms out from our shoulders
and bent at the elbow so our hands are up. One leg points
out and we turn on the other, so our flounced skirts flare.
An old woman brings a flask of wine. We drink deeply. The
beat heightens. The sun pours down on our head-dresses. They
are heavy with gilt thread. They force us to keep our heads
up—no looking at our feet.
We want the beat to go faster, faster to take us quickly
to the Goddess. But it is slow, so slow. We are patient as
trees in a storm, for she comes to trees. We are steady as
rocks, for she comes to rocks.
More wine. The sun is in the west now. As we turn we have
brightness in our eyes one moment and darkness the next. Without
our years of training, we would surely stumble.
And now, at last, the beat of the drum lets us spin loose,
faster, faster. There is no world but the flash of golden
sun, then blackness, light and dark, light and dark, faster
and faster.
She comes. We are lifted up and we fly around her as she
stands there between the horns of consecration on the high
altar. We are spinning like leaves in a whirlwind. And she
is the still center of the universe standing in our midst.
It is forever, it is an instant. We cannot sustain this contact
with the divine. We are but mortal. We sink to the ground.
Were we really flying? Did we really see Her?
Northern Cyprus is one of the last unspoiled
landscapes in Europe. Prices for real estate & holiday
homes are still very reasonable. Learn
more about owning a Northern Cyprus property or call toll
free in the UK: 0800-849-4168 or + 90-533-8613588 |
