LJ Idol 14 - The Place Which Can Not Be
The coffee tasted like swill, but then it was the cheapest of the cheap and had been barely even baptised with the faux cream which even now swirled upon its dirty brown surface. Twenty miserable calories, a lone island of asceticism amidst a sea of melting gelati, amber brew and wasp-laden, brightly-coloured plastic wrappers. A beer and a bowl of pistachios would have taken the edge from the hot sun which beat down on her head, but would she have dared? In public? Really? Better to stick to the irreproachable and bitter cup of dregs.
Better to take her mind from her belly and appreciate the view instead. Terraced fields, wells and walls reaching down to the twinkling, blue sea, all oddly beautiful in its way. Different, certainly. There were lemon trees of course, down in the red-soiled valley, and she could smell them now, sharp and exotic to her, but part of the landscape here. In the cobbled-over café there was nothing but a walnut tree bearing wizened, unripe fruits. Stick a thumbnail into the pith and the juice would turn your nail nicotine brown for a good, long while, an almost irresistible challenge. Playing with your food.
Then it was time to see the next temple.
It could not be forgotten that other people had found this place to be prepossessing. Perhaps she only imagined that a solemn hush was present in the hollow at the crest of the hill, the holy place. Someone had selected it as such and had had the land levelled here and had caused dressed stones to be carried and arranged just so. She felt herself panting in sympathy, corrected her gait from its tendency to waddle and went on along the dirt path wanting to see what those nameless others had seen so long ago.
There was not much to fire the imagination. Worn slabs of stone lined the floor, those few saved from the depredations of local farmers over the centuries. Others were long gone to become cow byres and parts of houses. There were heaps of rubble on the edges of the same honey-coloured stone. The tour guide himself recalled how, as a child, even he had found sport in climbing to the very top of the hill and seeing if he and his friends could topple the old walls. The temple had been there forever and, like the others, everybody had taken its existance for granted until fairly recently. Who knew what had been lost in this way? These places just were.
There was little shade to be had as she heaved herself through the forecourt, sweat pooling in the oily small of her back and running into her eyes. There was water in her bag and a package of peanuts too, all the better to calm her rumbling stomach and to replace some of the salt and fluid which was streaming out of her. She dared try the water, but never the nuts. There were teenagers in this party who, presumably bored, had already pointed her out, or so she felt. They would be delighted to see her stuffing snack foods, she guessed, but she wasn't part of the show. There wasn't much show.
No-one knew who had built this place originally which meant that no-one knew who or what had been worshipped here to begin with. This island had been subject to waves of invaders and settlers from all sides of the sea, an excellent strategic point with fertile soil and a temperate climate. From here one could comfortably command the waves or make further explorations. As a result, the people were a mongrel mixture and their culture a mongrel culture, something perhaps greater than the sum of its parts. Since the neolithic age they had farmed, fished, built, assimilated and been assimilated in turn. Thus it was that here there was a menhir stood next to a doric pillar. Here the walls were chased with a Phoenician design, but over there was something cruder and more unique to the area. Perhaps many deities had been worshipped here over the centuries or perhaps, essentially, the same one but with different names.
One chamber remained standing and was an oasis of coolness separate from the sound of cicadas and the scent of sweat. It looked as though it might be a squeeze for her to get there, so she hung back to the rear of the group, pretending to examine her throbbing feet for stones in her shoes. This one place, at least, had remained untouched. A stone wall in which there was a hole stood to the rear.
People had come to this place to consult with the oracle who had sat in the chamber beyond. Goods had been passed through the hole in the wall and offerings made in this very chamber. Traces of burned animal bones had been found in the soil here. The dip in the floor had perhaps contained honey, oil or wine and was designed so that it would all drip down below. Pot sherds with vestiges of these substances had been found, some relatively and surprisingly modern. Then again, if one went back a mere 60 or so years, this particular spot had been deemed a good luck place, so it wasn't so surprising. Go into any Catholic church on the island and see with what alacrity the locals had pinned bank notes and medals to the statues of the Virgin Mary, how many bunches of flowers sat at her feet, especially after crops had been planted. Prayers and supplications went on.
Outside, in a glass case, was the headless, limbless form of a woman all swollen, rotund gut and pendulous breasts, repeated many times over. They had all been dug up from around the temple precinct, all made from local clay, or so the tour guide said. They had a lot in common with other statuary found all around the Mediterranean and were believed to relate to fertility, either from women who wished to give birth safely or from those who wanted good harvests. The original Earth Mother who went by so many names. Perhaps these marks on the walls were ears of wheat or these were intended to be pigs or fish or brimming hives. Perhaps this rounded shape, which could barely be seen, was the Earth Mother herself, choosing to bestow or withhold bounty as she saw fit. Imagine so many people coming to give her propitiation over the centuries, reaching out to her via the priestess and the hole in the wall. Imagine that!
She tried to imagine that indeed as she sat in the café once again, leafing through Italian Vogue and trying to make sense of the captions accompanying the lissome models. Imagine Vogue in this ancient temple's style, with corpulent maidens drawing gasps of admiration from all. Imagine the high priestess, the oracle, decked in linen, fresh from giving wisdom from within her chamber, sitting resplendent in her rolls of flesh, revered by all, perhaps eating from a honeycomb. Her mass would inspire fear, lust, respect everything inspired by all that was womanly. Imagine...
A place which could not be, not any more. Its time was surely past, just as surely as the time was past for the coffee which now soaked the pages of the magazine. Clumsily up-ended in an ungoddess-like fashion.
The coffee had tasted like swill, anyway. My partner this week is bitterlight whose entry on 'Precognition' is here.
Better to take her mind from her belly and appreciate the view instead. Terraced fields, wells and walls reaching down to the twinkling, blue sea, all oddly beautiful in its way. Different, certainly. There were lemon trees of course, down in the red-soiled valley, and she could smell them now, sharp and exotic to her, but part of the landscape here. In the cobbled-over café there was nothing but a walnut tree bearing wizened, unripe fruits. Stick a thumbnail into the pith and the juice would turn your nail nicotine brown for a good, long while, an almost irresistible challenge. Playing with your food.
Then it was time to see the next temple.
It could not be forgotten that other people had found this place to be prepossessing. Perhaps she only imagined that a solemn hush was present in the hollow at the crest of the hill, the holy place. Someone had selected it as such and had had the land levelled here and had caused dressed stones to be carried and arranged just so. She felt herself panting in sympathy, corrected her gait from its tendency to waddle and went on along the dirt path wanting to see what those nameless others had seen so long ago.
There was not much to fire the imagination. Worn slabs of stone lined the floor, those few saved from the depredations of local farmers over the centuries. Others were long gone to become cow byres and parts of houses. There were heaps of rubble on the edges of the same honey-coloured stone. The tour guide himself recalled how, as a child, even he had found sport in climbing to the very top of the hill and seeing if he and his friends could topple the old walls. The temple had been there forever and, like the others, everybody had taken its existance for granted until fairly recently. Who knew what had been lost in this way? These places just were.
There was little shade to be had as she heaved herself through the forecourt, sweat pooling in the oily small of her back and running into her eyes. There was water in her bag and a package of peanuts too, all the better to calm her rumbling stomach and to replace some of the salt and fluid which was streaming out of her. She dared try the water, but never the nuts. There were teenagers in this party who, presumably bored, had already pointed her out, or so she felt. They would be delighted to see her stuffing snack foods, she guessed, but she wasn't part of the show. There wasn't much show.
No-one knew who had built this place originally which meant that no-one knew who or what had been worshipped here to begin with. This island had been subject to waves of invaders and settlers from all sides of the sea, an excellent strategic point with fertile soil and a temperate climate. From here one could comfortably command the waves or make further explorations. As a result, the people were a mongrel mixture and their culture a mongrel culture, something perhaps greater than the sum of its parts. Since the neolithic age they had farmed, fished, built, assimilated and been assimilated in turn. Thus it was that here there was a menhir stood next to a doric pillar. Here the walls were chased with a Phoenician design, but over there was something cruder and more unique to the area. Perhaps many deities had been worshipped here over the centuries or perhaps, essentially, the same one but with different names.
One chamber remained standing and was an oasis of coolness separate from the sound of cicadas and the scent of sweat. It looked as though it might be a squeeze for her to get there, so she hung back to the rear of the group, pretending to examine her throbbing feet for stones in her shoes. This one place, at least, had remained untouched. A stone wall in which there was a hole stood to the rear.
People had come to this place to consult with the oracle who had sat in the chamber beyond. Goods had been passed through the hole in the wall and offerings made in this very chamber. Traces of burned animal bones had been found in the soil here. The dip in the floor had perhaps contained honey, oil or wine and was designed so that it would all drip down below. Pot sherds with vestiges of these substances had been found, some relatively and surprisingly modern. Then again, if one went back a mere 60 or so years, this particular spot had been deemed a good luck place, so it wasn't so surprising. Go into any Catholic church on the island and see with what alacrity the locals had pinned bank notes and medals to the statues of the Virgin Mary, how many bunches of flowers sat at her feet, especially after crops had been planted. Prayers and supplications went on.
Outside, in a glass case, was the headless, limbless form of a woman all swollen, rotund gut and pendulous breasts, repeated many times over. They had all been dug up from around the temple precinct, all made from local clay, or so the tour guide said. They had a lot in common with other statuary found all around the Mediterranean and were believed to relate to fertility, either from women who wished to give birth safely or from those who wanted good harvests. The original Earth Mother who went by so many names. Perhaps these marks on the walls were ears of wheat or these were intended to be pigs or fish or brimming hives. Perhaps this rounded shape, which could barely be seen, was the Earth Mother herself, choosing to bestow or withhold bounty as she saw fit. Imagine so many people coming to give her propitiation over the centuries, reaching out to her via the priestess and the hole in the wall. Imagine that!
She tried to imagine that indeed as she sat in the café once again, leafing through Italian Vogue and trying to make sense of the captions accompanying the lissome models. Imagine Vogue in this ancient temple's style, with corpulent maidens drawing gasps of admiration from all. Imagine the high priestess, the oracle, decked in linen, fresh from giving wisdom from within her chamber, sitting resplendent in her rolls of flesh, revered by all, perhaps eating from a honeycomb. Her mass would inspire fear, lust, respect everything inspired by all that was womanly. Imagine...
A place which could not be, not any more. Its time was surely past, just as surely as the time was past for the coffee which now soaked the pages of the magazine. Clumsily up-ended in an ungoddess-like fashion.
The coffee had tasted like swill, anyway. My partner this week is bitterlight whose entry on 'Precognition' is here.