ON A GREEK island, just behind this village, along a path through woods and over rocks, is a small chapel — a new one, brightly whitewashed, standing proudly on this ancient ground as if claiming its victory over the past. The Bishop ordered the villagers to build it in this spot — so they did.
Beside the chapel, lying on its side, is an ancient column, its capital curving in the Ionic style. Yorgos points to it in embarrassment. We found that when we were digging to build the chapel, he says. We had to build the chapel here, the Bishop said so. But if we report our find, we will be put in jail.
I look in awe at the column but I do not touch it or even photograph it. I, too, fear that he will go to jail— or the villagers will be fined, and they have little money.
The Bishop told you to build the church. Shouldn’t he go to jail?
Ah, bishops and priests —they never go to jail. Just us.
Near the church, and the column, is an ancient platanos, or plane tree. Yorgos points out that the thick trunk is the width of five men. I take photographs of the tree and the chapel, but not of the column.
We continue our walk along the path. I stumble over the rocks that almost block our route, picking my way slowly. We pass behind a row of gardens, many of them no longer cultivated, and pastures where people keep their sheep and donkeys, though only a few animals bleat and bray as we pass. Until this year Yorgos’ garden was almost magical in the size and taste of its fruit and vegetables. Now he is ill and cannot garden; his land is overgrown, wild.
Yorgos picks a fig from one of the many fig trees along the way, opens it, and offers it to me. The sweet fruit drips down my chin. He tells us that these figs will rot on the trees, for they cannot afford to pick them. Prices on the market are too low to make it worthwhile.
We come back into the village near one of the three tavernas and stop for an ouzo. The owner brings us lamb chops, horiatiki salad with large chunks of feta cheese on top, gigante beans, and fried potatoes. The village is peaceful; as the sun sets, we hear children laughing and singing as they run through these safe streets.
This is a village that has survived, that clings to its traditions just as it clings to the mountains surrounding it. Families still live here and milk their flocks of sheep in the early morning and early evening. There are signs, though, of change: houses left empty by families who have moved to cities or to other countries; houses collapsing because owners cannot pay to maintain them; modern buildings on what was once open ground for grazing goats and sheep.
There are still women who know how to avert the evil eye and how to make medicinal potions. That is changing, too. Years ago when I first came here, I was struggling with a cough I had had for months. I had grown very thin and weak. Women came to me in a dark room, dropped oil into water, looked at the result, and spoke mysterious words I did not understand. The next day my cough was gone.
Several years later, I came back. Again, I had a cough. I was confident that the women would cure me. But when I mentioned my cough to the woman who had previously healed me, she looked puzzled — as if she almost remembered something but couldn’t quite think what it was. She made no offer to help me, uttered no words of power. But, for a moment, she hesitated.
When we return to the house, Yorgos shows me an old book with information about ancient civilizations that existed on this island. The location in which this village sits is listed as a place that was occupied in those distant times.
He is filled with anxiety about his decision to keep the discovery secret. On the one hand, he and the other villagers who helped build the church were acting on the instructions of a Bishop. On the other hand, Greek law states that all discoveries of ancient artifacts must be reported. He thinks of the probability that old gods were worshipped where the chapel is now, of the importance to Greece, and to architects everywhere, of those signs of classical civilizations.
I am torn, as well: caught between my desire that the ruins be excavated, so that I, and everyone, can see what is hidden underground — and my fear that Yorgos and other villagers will be fined or imprisoned.
I imagine the possibilities:
Scenario 1: The discovery of the column is reported. Underneath the chapel is an ancient temple. Archaeologists have the chapel moved to a different location and excavate the site. Slowly they discover something beautiful and find relics from the ancient past that will explain much more of that civilization than we have known before. These archaeologists will need places to live and places to eat. The taverna owners will make money. The people will rent out rooms in their houses. They will be able to repair broken walls, renovate buildings, build new houses. Then tourists will come. A hotel will be built, along with new restaurants and clubs, all probably owned by people from Athens. Souvenir shops will open. Though the village will be fined, the money coming in from the archaeologists and tourists will make up for the money lost and will benefit the people. Though the peace and safety of this place will be destroyed, something magnificent will arise from beneath the ground, something smooth and cool to the touch, so old that it will make my fingers tingle.
Will they let us touch it, walk into it? Or will ropes surround it, keeping us back, making us admire it from a distance?
Years ago, there was no electricity: we used oil lamps in the house and when we went outside at night we walked slowly, holding hands, hoping not to trip on the cobblestones. We would spend the evening swinging on one large swing hanging from a tree — taking turns, with everyone singing old folk songs as the swing was pushed back and forth. Before us the smooth surface of the cliff rose up and turned into a dark ghost as night fell. If the village becomes famous — a place for scholars and tourists to visit — the silent darkness, the soft creaking of a swing, young voices singing those haunting traditional melodies, will belong to the past.
Scenario 2: The discovery is reported. The villagers are fined but there is no money for excavations for years to come. The village will go on in its peaceful state, as it always has. But times are changing. People will move away. Children will grow up and leave. There is, after all, no high school here, only a small village school for young children. Already there is a scarcity of donkeys. A vegetable truck comes once a week with fresh produce, since fruits and vegetables are no longer grown here. Most of the people with gardens and livestock are old, their children gone to Germany or Canada or America or Australia, visiting once a year, if that. These people can no longer spend hours doing physical work. Already the land is becoming neglected. Reporting the find will not change anything.
Scenario 3: The villagers do not alert the authorities. The column remains, perhaps to be discovered someday by a traveller who takes a photograph and sends it to a friend. The friend puts it on his website. Eventually, someone notices the photograph and seeks out the location of this column. The authorities arrive with a team of archaeologists. No one is fined since no one knows any longer who built the chapel, who found the column, who kept its existence silent.
Scenario 4: The column is never reported; the ancient temple is never discovered. An entire city lies underground, sleeping quietly.
For now, the column sits there beside the chapel. I wonder what god was worshipped here. I wonder if Sappho climbed to this village, to this temple, to worship. I long to see that glorious temple hidden underneath the chapel, buried below layers of earth.
I wish I had touched the fluted column. I wish I had taken one secret photograph.
I will tell no one.