Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

Eositeus’ ship entered the wide Midland Gulf, open to all south and west winds. Not one, but three ancient cities were situated above it, and the oldest one, Phestes, could rival Knossos, with its foundations sinking into the darkness of ancient times. Before sailing to the Beautiful Harbors where they would stock up on water before the long voyage to Egypt, the ships docked at Matala. They would remain there for several days.

Dark, rounded ledges on tree-covered mountain slopes descended toward the water. They were separated by moon-shaped cut-outs of sunny harbors filled with glittering foam and rolling mirrors of transparent water. The glorious blue of the open sea turned purple near the shores of Crete, then to green at the edge, where it splashed indifferently over the black lime pits and caves.

Blue mist of the plateaus hid the ruins of huge structures of unimaginable age. Giant, thousand year old olive trees grew through cracks in foundations and between staircases shattered by earthquakes, seeming to emerge from out of the gigantic slabs of stone. Powerful pillars, widening toward the top, still supported porticos and loggias; the entrances of long forsaken palaces stood gloomy and menacing. Sycamores and cypresses rose high above everything, overshadowing the remains of the walls, where the surviving crossbeams protected the frescoes. There, human figures were still visible in bright and delicate colors.

When she was near one of the better preserved buildings, Thais followed a vague feeling and ran up the still-intact steps of the upper platform. There, in a circle of cracked columns with dark stains was traces of a long-extinguished fire. Under the roof slabs, which were arranged like steps, was a round basin. Beautifully set slabs of marble lined by green veins made up the upper edge of the deep pool. Water trickled through porous lime, blocking the outlet of a spring, thus becoming filtered and acquiring a particular transparency. It then flowed down a pipe which had sustained a consistent water level in the pool for many centuries. The bright blue of the sky was visible through an opening in the center of the roof, turning the sacred water blue as well. This basin had been intended for the ritual cleansing of priests and priestesses before approaching the images of the awe inspiring deities: the Great Mother and the Earth Shaker, Poseidon, who had destroyed the Cretan kingdom and its great people.

Thais thought she sensed a strange smell. Perhaps the stones of the basin still held the aroma of the healing herbs and oils for which Crete was once so famous. The walls of the pool had absorbed forever the fragrance of the sacred cleansings, performed here for millennia. Thais dropped her clothes and lowered herself into the barely rustling water, as if to get in touch with sensations once experienced by her distant ancestors.

Egesikhora’s worried exclamation returned her to reality. The Spartan girl found herself overcome by a vague fear, brought on by the imperious ruins of unclear and unknown purpose. Thais got dressed and hurried to meet her friend.

Egesikhora paused, then beckoned her companions. She stood before an image of a woman in a pale blue dress, her thickly curled black hair flying in the wind. Her large eyes held an open and mischievous expression beneath thin lines of proud eyebrows. She had a straight nose, slightly longer than a typical Hellenic one and with a somewhat lower bridge. Her peculiarly shaped mouth combined sensuality with a childish outline of a short upper lip, protruding slightly over the lower portion of her face.

Egesikhora looked from the fresco to Thais, then hugged her friend’s unusually slender waist with her hands and pulled back the folds of her chiton. The Spartans clapped their hands in delight. If not a sister, then certainly a close relative of the woman in the fresco stood before them, incarnated in Thais.

A strange feeling of worry penetrated Thais’ heart. Death, from which this Cretan woman had temporarily escaped in a fresco, was too ancient. Those who had built these palaces, painted portraits of beautiful women, danced with bulls and sailed the seas had long since descended into the underground kingdom. Thais hurried back into the sunlight, towing her quiet companions and Egesikhora behind her, feeling as if she had had a glimpse into something forbidden.

On the southern shore of Crete sun showered the earth with bright, blinding light, but the air did not possess the divine transparency it did in Hellas. Bluish mist overshadowed the distant horizon, and the heat seemed meaner and stronger than at the shores of Attica.

A band of stone tiles, sunk into the soil and half overgrown with dry grass and lichen, stretched from the ruins across a gently rolling plateau. At the end of that ancient road, where it vanished into a valley, stood an enormous boulder with tall bull horns carved into it, as if one of Poseidon’s underground bulls tried climbing to the surface. It reminded people they were but temporary dwellers of Gaea. They walked over the shifting soil, while invisible forces nested beneath their feet, strengthening and preparing for terrible cataclysms.

Long shadows fell from the horns and stretched toward Thais, as if trying to grab her between their tips. This was probably how the sacred spotted bulls of Crete had aimed their horns at the young girls during a performance of the ritual dance. The hetaera quickly walked between the two strips of shadow, heading to the sunlit top of the second hill. There she halted and looked around.

Her entire being was overwhelmed by the realization that the land of her ancestors was the world of the dead. Their souls had been wiped away by time, taking their knowledge, skill, feeling of beauty, faith in gods, songs and dances, myths and fairy tales into the dark kingdom of Hades. They hadn’t left behind a single tombstone, the way Helenians would have, asking the best sculptors to capture the lifelike enchantment, dignity and nobility of the departed. Looking at them, their descendants attempted to emulate their ancestors or even surpass them. Thais could never forget the marvelous tombstones of Ceramic, dedicated to young women much like herself. She remembered the hundred year old monument of Gegeso, capturing the image of the young woman and her slave. But there were no Necropoli here. Closed in on their island, inaccessible to anyone in those days, Cretans did not pass their spiritual treasures onto other people.

Godlike children of the sea, they had hidden their island behind the curtain of naval might, never fearing the attack of barbaric nomads. Thais did not see any reinforcements, and none were ever described by travelers. Beautiful palaces were built right near the harbors. Rich cities and warehouses that were both wide open to the sea and unprotected from the land spoke clearly of the power of the sea people.

The impossibly beautiful Cretan art never portrayed military heroics. Images of victorious kings, tortured victims, tied and humiliated prisoners of war were absent from these palaces and temples.

Instead, the art was of nature: animals, flowers, sea waves, trees, and people walking among them, primarily women. Ritual sacrifices and bull games, strange animals never seen either in Hellas or on the shores of Finikia were all portrayed in these frescoes. The sophistication of their taste and perception of beauty amazed

Helenians, who considered themselves to be above all people in the Ecumene.

The delicate paintings were full of joy, light and purity of color. There were statues of women, animals and domestic pets, amazing seashells made of ceramic, but no mighty heroes, swinging swords or raising heavy shields and spears.

Where else in the world was there a country that dedicated all of its art to the harmonious connection between people and nature, and above all to women? Powerful, ancient, existing for millennia … Did they not know of the simple law of gods and destiny? They ought not to have been tempted by a lengthy period of flourishing, for it would surely be followed by retribution, the terrible interference of underground gods. So the gods punished the children of Minos for forgetting the sort of world in which they lived. The splendid palaces crumbled, the writing remained unread, and the delicately painted frescoes lost their meaning. Alien tribes had moved to the island, warring among themselves and all others. They felt the same toward the true dwellers of Crete as the barbarians from Hyperborean woods felt toward Helenians and their Pelasgoan ancestors.