| 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 of peoples known as
"People of the Sea." They conquered North Africa,
Crete, Asia Minor, and the Levant each in their turn. The
Egyptians called one of the tribes Peleset; the Bible calls
them Philistines. One by one the countries around the eastern
Mediterranean fell to them, Cyprus included. Only Egypt under
the Rameses the Great was able to fend them off.
Ahead of the People of the Sea were refugees from them. 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 brought this religious symbol to Crete.
In the present day, you can walk through the foundations
of one courtyard with buildings and 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 the
Priestesses 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 are the
priestesses of the Goddess and our townsfolk, those who believed
our words and fled with us across the sea. Our ancestors had
faced earthquakes and tidal waves and still they rebuilt.
But from this shaking of our homeland, from this wave of disaster,
there can be no rebuilding.
They came in many boats, 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.
Today the men are out capturing the bull. They will find
the best one they can among the flocks our people have so
slowly built up. They will throw a net over him and bring
him across the fields to this place.
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.
Later 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.
The men are coming now with the bull. At home, we would have
leaped through the horns of the bull until he was bewildered
and worn out. Perhaps one of us dancers would be gored and
die the death. Then the bull would live. Otherwise we would
have sacrificed him and shared his flesh with the divinity.
But here, we have so little, we cannot give up our bull, nor
can we risk the life of one true believer.
We honor the bull with garlands, but take little risk in
presenting them. We give him wine to drink. And we send him
into the pen with the waiting cows.
Soon the sistrum will rattle and the drums will play. I will
dance up to the bull and lay my garland across his horns.
He will bow his head. Once I could vault between his horns.
I am older now and have risked my life for the Goddess in
other ways. But I can never be afraid of the bull.
Look at him paw the ground. He is strong and the calves he
begets will be strong. Now we will feast with the believers
on bread and olives and wine. We share with the native people
who share their property with us. We priestesses eat only
a little. Soon we will turn and turn under the hot sun. An
empty stomach is best for us.
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.
All through the rainy winter we have added colors and bright
metal disks to these flounces. Now they catch the light and
gleam.
One of our people, 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. Another old woman
brings us wine. Again we drink deeply. And the beat is just
a little faster, but not fast enough. We are consumed now,
consumed with longing. Our hearts beat with the drum. Please.
Please. Please.
We are patient as trees in a storm, for she comes to trees.
We are steady as rocks, for she comes to rocks. But please.
Please. Please.
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?
Sounds are coming from our throats—we know not what.
But an elder writes down whatever she can. Later we will ponder
those words in hopes of reading the future.
But now we are exhausted. Now we will sleep.
Copyright 2006 SeaTerra
For a non copyrighted version of this article which can be
reprinted please go to North
Cyprus Alter at Pigadhes
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