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FIFTEEN
Like so many nature-based, instinctual urges,
the labyrinth had a pagan birth, and then, as so often happens, it was co-opted
by the Christians, who acted as if it had been their idea all along – until
they got rid of it because it was too pagan.
In the Middle Ages, Gothic cathedrals routinely sported labyrinths, laid
out in the floors, for purposes of spiritual meditation. The winding, looping path represented the
perplexities of Christian life, they would say, or perhaps the entanglements of
sin. That kind of self-serving,
overanalytical horseshit aside, people just liked it, the simple, focused
concentration of the inward path (look up and you might get dizzy, might lose
your way); the vitalizing force and accomplishment of the center; the
anticipated freedom, the gathering energy of the outward path – the return to
life, or worship. Christians would even
journey to the cathedral to walk its labyrinth as a substitute for the much
more demanding and costly pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
The oldest
known labyrinth was constructed some four thousand years ago in northern
Egypt. It was a popular motif in Greek
and Roman mythology, most famously in the story of Daedalus, who before he
designed the fateful melting wings for his son Icarus was the architect of a
marvelous and deadly labyrinth for the Minotaur. In any case, labyrinth designs are also found
in ancient mosaics on walls in Greece, Italy and Austria, and on ancient seals
and plaques. Probably the most
well-known examples of the form are the garden-hedge labyrinths of the United
Kingdom, which originate in the same Celtic pagan traditions as Stonehenge and
the winding, spiraling patterns in Celtic jewelry and symbols.
The
labyrinth found in Chartres Cathedral is the last surviving example of a
medieval cathedral labyrinth in the world.
When the Reformation came around in the sixteenth century, and some pope
decided there had to be something sacrilegious about something that people
enjoyed so much, and so he did away with them.
(In fact, it’s a wonder that Chartres managed to hang onto theirs.)
“There. You sorry you asked?”
“I wouldn’t
say that,” said Gabriella (obligated by the question to be, at the least,
ironical). “It might well be true, but
I’m a polite person, so I wouldn’t say that.”
Before she
could drift into facetiousness, I cut her off with another quick factoid. “The very cool thing about the Chartres
labyrinth, by the way, is that, if you unwound the pathway into a straight
line, it would be the exact same length as the cathedral itself.”
“Okay,” she
said. “You get brownie points for that
one.”
“And
there’s actually a replica of the exact same labyrinth at Grace Cathedral in
San Francisco. If I would have known, we
could have walked it while we were there.”
“Honeydarlin’,”
drawled Gabriella, going suddenly all Blanche Dubois on me. “‘Bout the last thing you needed on that trip
was to get yourself more lost than you already was.”
“Point
taken,” said I.
We were
seated at a table in the dreaded buffet area of the Suquamish Casino, picking
over slices of meatloaf that seemed, frankly, more loaf than meat, held
together by some kind of mud-colored epoxy gravy. It was Thursday night, Gabriella’s first
night off in a long while, and I suppose her instinct had been to get as far
away as possible from the world of fine arts, or good taste. Thursday was Chief Seattle Bingo Night at the
Suquamish, and the cavernous cafeteria-style hall next door was filling up with
bitter, anxious, chain-smoking Bingo-istas as a squat, cowboy-hatted fireplug
of a guitarist crooned Elvis and Sinatra in that clipped, vaguely inquisitive
accent of the Northwest aborigine: I did it my way? Lay offa my blue suede shoes? Little sister
don’t you do like your big sister done?
That’s why the lady is a tramp? (I, meanwhile, was beginning to develop
a theory about the heretofore unknown journeys of ancient Hebraic tribes across
the Aleutian ice bridge.)
“Gabriella. Why are we here?”
“To bring
peace to the world? To help our
neighbors?”
“No! Here!
At the casino.”
Gabriella
broke into a scrunch-mouthed laugh. “I
have no idea. Nostalgia? Cheap food?”
“Food
poisoning, more like it. And you a week
away from playing Madama Floria.”
Gabriella
ducked her head under her hands and moaned.
“Oh God! Billy, I’m playing
Tosca! I can’t play Tosca!”
“Perche no,
signorina?”
“Tosca is
big, Billy!”
“So have
some more meatloaf.”
“I don’t
mean viking-big, Billy. I mean
personality-big, charisma-big. She’s a
star, a heroine, she’s powerful, and magnificent.”
I let the
complaint sit for a minute. “If you’re
fishing for compliments, honey, you’re gonna have to start taking me to nicer
places.”
Gabriella
picked up her knife like a fishing rod and cast a line my way, making reeling
motions with her free hand. “Bite the
worm, baby! Mama needs a brand new ego.”
“Okay. I am your mackerel love-slave halibut
groupie. Grouper. And yes, you can play Tosca. You’ll be fine. If you find yourself getting lost in the
acting, just sing the way you sing, and everything will swing.”
“Thank you,
Sammy.”
“Hey. I’m in a casino. Besides, I’m right. You have a huge voice, young lady. Let it be your evening gown.”
“Okay. Compliment taken, and approved. Can I take the hook out now?”
“Yeah. And have you had enough of this joint
yet? Can we blow, cat?”
“Sure.”
Gabriella stood and gathered up her jacket and purse (one of those black leather
Pony Express mail pouch things). “Oh,”
she said. “One thing, though. I want you to gamble.”
“Huh?”
“Before we
leave, I want to see you lay some money down.”
“I told you
before, Gabi, I’m just not into it.”
Gabriella
wheedled a finger up the buttons of my shirt, accompanied by a Rosina-like
pouting of the lips. “Aw c’mon,
Billy. Just once? For me?”
“Hmmm... after that little act, how could I say no?”
We waltzed
past the video poker games and up to the first blackjack table, where the dealer
was siphoning cash from a crusty old plaid-shirted lumberjack who made Maestro
look like Dick Clark. I tossed down for
a single five-dollar chip, laid it on the lawn, and received a first draw of
the ace of clubs and ten of spades. The
dealer gave my lone chip some company; I gathered up my winnings, thanked the
dealer for his time and headed off to the cashier’s booth.
“What are
you doing?” called Gabriella, trailing behind.
“Hi. Cash me out, please. Thanks.” I took my twelve-fifty and raised it
for Gabriella’s inspection. “The secret
to good gambling, Madama Tosca, is in quitting while you’re ahead.”
“Unfair!”
she protested. “Absolutely unfair.”
I was
already gone, pocketing my loot and crossing into the bingo hall where Tom
Mukilteo Jones was singing, “When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year?”
Gabriella caught me at the front entrance, where she delivered a series of not
entirely unpleasant fist-thumpings to my back.
“Ah,” I
sighed. “A little... to the right.”
* * *
I was about
to receive my nightly coronation, a solid Yankee hug followed by Continental
kisses on either cheek, when Gabriella spotted something over my shoulder and
let out a Sicilian gasp. She left my
embrace and raced onto Maestro’s deck.
“Omigod,
Billy! Somebody messed it up! It’s all... different, or... something.”
“It is
different,” I said, coming up from behind, surveying my personal
battlefield. “I got bored with Chartres,
so I tried something else.”
“But what
about Maestro?”
“Oh, I’ll
have Il Professore’s cathedral back before opening night, but I wanted this one
for myself.”
Gabriella
located the entrance and began to pace the organic-looking loops marked off by
my glowing pods of white, her red hair bobbing as she walked. Under a clear sky and a half moon, she had no
problem following. I stepped in behind
her, losing ground as I narrated the labyrinth’s pedigree.
“It’s based
on a turf labyrinth on Rockcliffe Marsh in Cumbria, England – the path is the
turf itself, marked off by dirt borders.
The labyrinth itself no longer exists, but someone took down the design
in the late 19th century, when it was still visible. There’s a marvelous numerical quality to it:
it’s got five coils wrapped around each side, and eight coils vertically from
the center. Five and eight is a common
labyrinth combination. The most common
is seven, which represents the seven heavenly bodies observed in pagan
tradition – but not in this one. Three is
important, too; you have to walk a three-coil heart-shaped spiral before oscillating
three times backwards and forwards over the center.”
I paused
and looked up to check Gabriella’s progress.
She was just past the midway point, passing next to the center before
the last series of switchbacks, and completely entranced, watching her feet
carefully as she made her way inward. I
set myself back to my own path and continued the story.
“The name
of the labyrinth is The Walls of Troy.
Troy seemed to be a common theme among British labyrinths. Troy Town, The City of Troy – stuff like
that. This particular pattern suited
Maestro’s deck just about perfectly, twenty-four by twenty-six, pathways about
eight to nine inches across.” I stopped a moment to study the half-moon, felt
dizzy, had to find my shoetops again in order to regain my momentum. “This type of labyrinth is frequently found
in Scandinavian countries, where it’s connected to the attached spirits of the
dead. I’m not sure, but I think an
attached spirit is sort of what we would call a ghost, a lost soul with
unfinished business who hangs around haunting mansions and such. It was believed that these Scandinavian
spirits could travel only in straight lines, so if you could get one of them
into the labyrinth they would be unable to get... back out.”
Such was
the end of my labyrinthine story, and my real point – a closet confession that
I had been reduced to practicing Scandinavian Celtic pagan voodoo where most
reasonable people would have simply hired themselves a psychotherapist. My admission made no obvious mark on Gabriella,
who was too wound up in her looping stroll to notice. Besides, she had succeeded in achieving the
center, and marked her victory with a fervent double-booted stomp to the
deck. She turned my way and grinned, our
eyes locked in a strangely piercing volley of dark light through the
water-laced air. Then she turned away,
craning her gaze to the big white sans serif capital D of a moon, opened her
arms to the heavens and set loose her voice.
It was “Non la sospiri,” her persuasive pastorale to the painter
Cavaradossi from Act I (“Don’t you sigh for our little house, waiting for us,
hidden among the trees?”), and it covered the silvered green of Cape Umbra in a
snowfall of sound.
And I, I
had that feeling again. Built-up music
inside my body, my heart racing, the muscles in my arms twitching, pressure
building up behind my sinuses, my temple.
Before I knew what was happening, my legs took over, running me off
toward the water, my breath coming out in ragged spurts, my feet scuffing a
chunk of quartz right off the deck. I
found myself kneeling on the belvedere (always the belvedere), drawing myself
down until my forehead met the rough, moist grain of the planking. Once I made contact, it was like twisting a
valve – the water poured from my eyes, a steady stream flushing out the
pressure from my head and stopping the music, all at once.
A few
seconds more and I could feel Gabriella’s hands along my back, coaxing out the
tears. When I could finally raise my
head and sit back on my haunches, I opened my eyes to the sight of a moontrail,
paving the water in slippery white cobblestones all the way from Seattle. Gabriella knelt behind me and wrapped her
arms around my neck, placing her chin on the top of my head.
“That
wasn’t so bad as last time, was it?”
“No,” I
coughed, my voice still scratchy from flight.
I listened until I could hear the animal sounds of water lapping against
the rocks below us, then cleared my throat.
“Did I ever tell you, Gabriella... that you have my mother’s voice?”
“No,” she whispered,
her jaws moving against my hair. “But I
sort of wondered about that.”
“Yes. You do.
I didn’t realize it until I told you her story. But you do.”
I took a
deep breath and rubbed my eyes, clearing them out till I regained my focus and
could see a tall buoy in the center of the moontrail. The glare of the light behind it gave it an
unsteady, kinetic silhouette, its edges fading in and out as though it were
about to be sucked into some parallel universe.
“When I was young,” I said, “eight years old, I think, my mother and I
were sitting next to some lake in upstate New York, out on the edge of a
pier. There was a fierce full moon
coating half the lake in moontrail, and my mother told me.… She said that the moontrail was actually made
of milk – a special kind of milk. It was
magic healing milk, produced by a rare species of underwater jersey cow that
populated that region. And these
aquacows, as the locals called them, would only produce their special healing
milk at night, and only when the moon was out.
And why was that? I asked her,
and she said, ‘Why Billy, because they have a strong union.’”
I had to
pause as Gabriella tried unsuccessfully to fight back her laughter. Although I did enjoy hearing her laugh. She signalled me to go on by lifting her head
and running both hands through my hair.
“So, as you
can imagine, to milk these aquacows directly would take some doing, what with
the cost of the scuba gear, pipelines, water-resistant alfalfa, et cetera. What the local dairy farmers had discovered,
however, was that aquacow milk, much like oil, would not mix with the water at
all, but rather would settle on top of the water in long, shiny trails, after
which the farmers would come by in their boats and skim it off into their
tanks.
“‘So how
come this special milk isn’t available at the supermarket?’ I asked, to which
my mother replied that the dairy farmers were very protective of their simple
and natural way of life, and they feared that if they sold the milk to
outsiders, big mega-milk corporations would come and build ugly offshore
milk-harvesting platforms all over their beautiful lake. Even so, she said that she had once ventured
out into the moontrail herself to scoop up some of the magic healing milk, and
that she kept it in a secret place inside our house, and brought it out only
when I or my brother were sick.”
“Did it
work?” asked Gabriella.
“Sure
did. From what my father told me years
later, whenever one of us was sick, my mother would heat up some milk and then
drop in a tablespoon of vanilla extract and a splash of blue food dye. Dad said it had a remarkably positive effect
on our recovery times.”
Gabriella
scooted in front of me and sat down Indian-style, resting her chin against her
hands. “Okay, so I can probably guess
this, but did you ask your mom about moontrails in the ocean?”
“Of
course. I was a very thorough little
kid. She said that was salt-water milk,
completely indigestible to humans. But
the whales love it.”
I could see
Gabriella’s smile grow, a slim crescent in the moonshadow of her face. “Your mother was one hell of a storyteller.”
“Yes,” I
whispered, and felt the tears sneaking back up again. Gabriella unwound the scarf from around her
neck and handed it to me. I looked at
her, puzzled.
“Go ahead,”
she said. “That’s what dry cleaners are
for.”
“Thanks,” I
whispered. I cleaned up my eyes and face
and snuffled my nose into the scarf’s silken recesses. “Do you know, in Celtic tradition, the center
of the labyrinth is believed to be the meeting place of heaven and earth.”
“That’s
what it felt like,” said Gabriella.
“That’s why I was singing.”
She
stretched herself out on the deck and settled her head into my lap. I stroked her cinnamon hair and watched the
moonmilk waiting for harvest on the water.
A fishing boat chugged by, sending out wakes of dairy white. Gabriella closed her eyes and began to hum
something, and I realized it was the duet from Ponchielli’s “La Gioconda,” “La
luna discesa nel mar.” The moon descends
into the sea. Perfect.
“Apropos of
nothing, Guglielmo,” said Gabriella, her eyes still closed. “What the heck are you going to live on now
that, you know... now that the money’s gone?”
“Oh, I’ll
be okay.”
“Well, what
did you used to do? I mean, for a
living?”
“I was an umpire.”
“Billy! That was your brother.”
“No,
really. I actually was an umpire,
although I wasn’t very good. I lasted
only a couple of years. Before that, I
was in business. I made a lot of money.”
“What kind
of business?”
“Oh,
financial stuff. Nothing very
interesting.”
“So you
retired early?”
“Yes. I retired early. And it’s about time for a certain young diva
to retire early, also. You don’t want to
ruin your throat, this close to opening night.”
“Yes,
daddy.”
I pulled
Gabriella to her feet and walked her to Maestro’s kitchen door along the
jumbled pathways of my own making.
Before returning to my cottage, I found the rock I had misplaced during
my mindless dash, used a hose to wash the mud from its crystal white flanks,
then restored its designated place along The Walls of Troy.
Photo by MJV
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