Mythos & Kallos · Part 19-20
Mythos & Kallos · Part 19 · Moirai δ
A: Friend, why do you watch me as I eat my bread? Are there crumbs upon my face?
B: Forgive me — it is only that the way you eat bread, so slow and unhurried, in small bites and gentle chewing, somewhat resembles a friend of mine.
A: So that is it. This is the upbringing I received as a child. The elders said that one must not eat too quickly, for all food is the Grace of the Gods, and we must cherish and give thanks for what the Gods bestow.
B: You are still so traditional. Ha ha — this saying that all food is the bestowal of the Gods, I too heard plenty of it when I was small. Such words were usually taken up by elders to lecture their own children not to eat too fast and not to waste food. Does your culture also have rites like prayer before the meal and thanksgiving after it?
A: We have them as well.
B: It seems this phenomenon exists across different cultures. From childhood I was weary of such religious rites and customs, yet who could have imagined that once I had children of my own, I too could not help wanting to use roughly the same words to teach them — only I no longer tell my children that this is the Grace of the Gods, but tell them that this is grain which people toiled hard to grow, that many in this world still cannot eat their fill, and that it must not be wasted. At mealtimes I too ask my children to eat more slowly; I say that scientific research shows it is good for the body, and that if they wish to grow taller they should eat slowly.
A: Understandable.
B: And yet in truth, when I was small I did not really obey these restraints upon eating either. People do sometimes become the very thing they once despised. But another friend of mine was not so fortunate — the discipline at home was exceedingly severe, and there was no daring to violate any...
At this point B suddenly began to cough.
B: Forgive me...
A: It is nothing, friend.
B faintly heard a timbre resembling that of the viola d'amore.
B: What a coincidence.
A: What coincidence?
B: Nothing — only that this sound of strings has once again reminded me of certain things from the past.
A: What have you recalled, friend?
B laughed softly, as though speaking to oneself: On the journey of life, does not each person, more or less, encounter certain people whom they both love and hate? Tell me, why is this so? Why is the world like this?
A: Oh, friend, I do not understand it either. The friendship and affinity (Φιλία = philia = friendship, affection, love) and the conflict and strife (νεῖκος = neikos = strife, quarrel, discord) of this world are perhaps a secret of the Gods. Why have these things come to your mind, friend?
B: Ah, forgive me... I was only reminded of a friend. Let me call this friend V. V, T, and I have known one another since childhood.
B cleared a throat that still felt not quite right.
B: V is that friend I just mentioned, the one with the strict upbringing. V's father passed away very early, and V's mother demanded a great deal of V. Sometimes to be born into a distinguished house of renown is perhaps not necessarily a good thing; the whole vast weight of the family's expectations is pressed upon you, demanding that you make good on them.
A: Is V's family very famous in your country?
B: V's family is not merely famous in my country — V's family is itself a part of our people's history. Certain famous figures in our history came from this family or from its collateral branches. Only under the frequent wars and violent political upheavals of the modern age has it become "slightly ordinary" — though even this "ordinariness" is ordinary only within limits. Great houses and great clans are truly colossal things.
B took a sip of wine.
B: It sounds glamorous, but V's own household was merely a collateral branch within the whole clan. V's father died unexpectedly early; in life he was a mid-level official in the state apparatus. V's mother also came from the old nobility, a house of name. According to V, V's mother was originally not meant to marry V's father, who belonged to a collateral branch, but the line of V's maternal grandfather ran into certain economic difficulties because of war and sundry reasons, and in the end, after some twists and turns, V's mother "married beneath her" to V's father — a man of potential, yet not quite the most outstanding.
B still felt some discomfort in the throat.
B: Heavens, what am I saying? I hope all this is not boring you? Blame it on V, who in the old days poured the wretched affairs of that family into me without cease.
A: Not at all, my friend. To learn of the culture and history of other places is most interesting.
B: If you find it tedious, interrupt me. After drinking, sometimes even I do not know where my talk will wander.
T, V, and I each came from different family backgrounds; compared with them, I was born into a very ordinary family. Perhaps I am not grateful to religion, but I am grateful that the religious school I attended did indeed offer quite a few useful scholarships. Had I accepted certain of those scholarships back then, I might now be working within the Church — a pity that from childhood I was never devout; I could not go against my heart and believe in things I did not believe.
As for T, T was born into a cultured family; parents and grandparents alike were intellectuals. T's family was not very wealthy; the paternal side enjoyed a somewhat good reputation locally, while the name of the maternal family was connected with the ancient priests of our people — though now there are no longer any priests in our country.
V was the one among the three of us from the most substantial household. In V's home I saw for the first time in my life what an antique instrument was — an instrument that looked like a violin. V told me it was not called a violin, but a viola d'amore, some two to three hundred years old.
A: Viola d'amore?
B: Also called the soft-toned viola (柔音中提琴). It has a design called sympathetic strings; once the sympathetic strings are set into resonance, the viola d'amore gives forth a peculiar echoing timbre. A few passages of music here just now truly sounded rather like the voice this instrument produces.
A: So that is how it is.
B: V's mother was a person of very powerful aura. I think no one would wish to be fixed by her eyes. When I first went to V's home to play, I did not know this.
Friend, can you imagine — a child going happily to a good friend's home to play, only to be scrutinized from head to toe by the friend's mother, and then interrogated about how one's studies were going and what one's family circumstances were roughly like — what kind of experience is that?
Even at school I had never met so severe an elder! Heavens, from that day forward I understood why V cared about our homework even more than I did; with so strict a mother, V could not help but be afraid. And it was not only I who was frightened — that was the first time I saw V, whom no one at school failed to like, with legs trembling, while I was drenched in cold sweat. Fortunately T was there.
A: Why so?
B: Compared with V and me, who were praised daily by our teachers, T's grades at school in those days were not outstanding, but T loved reading strange and curious books of historical tales. I mentioned to you that the name T derives from a defeated general; this fondness for history began when T was very small.
A: Oh.
B: After I had been "quizzed" by V's mother as though facing the final and ultimate examination, it was T's turn. When "quizzed" by V's mother, T for some reason brought up certain figures of the past, and unlike my stammering answers, once T came upon a beloved subject the words flowed in an unbroken stream. V and I both went pale, thinking V's mother would be angered by such a digressive answer — yet unexpectedly V's mother simply listened quietly, and before long departed. V's mother even instructed the household servants to buy us some very delicious pastries.
V was utterly stunned.
A: How interesting.
B: Looking back after so many years, I too find it interesting. Yet if I could turn back time, and the me of then and the me of now were set in that scene once more, I would still feel the urge to flee. V's mother's aura was too strong, her presence too overwhelming — truly suffocating. I have always felt that even after growing up I never met anyone bearing so heavy a sense of oppression; perhaps this counts as a childhood shadow. I truly find it hard to imagine what V's childhood must have been. But do you know what T thought of V's mother?
A: What?
B: T said V's mother was an elder very easy to get along with, and said that never before had T eaten such delicious dessert — truly too delicious. My heavens, T is indeed a thick-nerved person lacking in perception; from childhood to adulthood this seems never truly to have changed. The circuitry of that brain is rather peculiar. Speaking of this, I recall a few more things about T. Friend, do you know what my parents' expectations of me were?
Seeing A's curious expression, B went on unprompted.
B: When I was still small, my family's greatest wish was that I might find a respectable job, establish a family and a livelihood, and pass this life in peace and contentment — that was all. They spent all their strength to send me into that fine religious school, hoping too that I would never again have to suffer the hardships they had suffered. Of course, as you see, I did not fail their expectations — I only failed their faith... never mind, let us not speak of that for now. And V, friend — what do you think V's mother's expectations of V were?
A: What were they?
B: To become an outstanding presence that draws every gaze, whom no one anywhere could ignore — that was the endpoint of all V's mother's discipline of V. And V achieved it, or in some measure accomplished it more brilliantly than V's mother ever imagined. V has now become a great celebrity; so long as V is not utterly alone, no one can ignore V's presence — heh, far too many admirers. Ah, what a headache. Let us not speak of this either for now. Friend, guess what T's family expected of T?
A: Oh, I cannot guess, friend.
B: Ha ha — T's family wanted T to pursue "freedom." That was the expectation laid upon T.
A: Freedom?
B: Yes, freedom. Sometimes V and I truly envied T. T's family placed no restrictions whatsoever upon T. I suspect T's laxity was not entirely a matter of temperament, but of the family's way. The three of us once fought a war of words over this — let me think, how should I put it.
And so B recalled an episode from when the three were still students.
B, unable to bear T's absentmindedness, grabbed T by the shoulders and shook hard.
B: Can you not take this seriously? You asked us here to help you catch up on your lessons, and you will not properly remember anything!
T, entirely oblivious to the irritation of B and V, kept twirling a pen and laughing.
T said to the two friends: But I truly cannot remember these things.
B: Is your brain not good? Hurry up and memorize!
T: My brain is not as good as yours.
B: Your brain is better than mine.
T: No, my brain is the worst — my grades are not as good as either of yours.
V: Stop shaking that idiot; shake any more and what little brain-matter remains will be shaken clean out.
T: See!
B: Why can you not put your heart into it? If you will not, what did you call us here for?
T: Sorry, but I truly cannot remember. How about we stop studying and do something else? Did I not mention to you before that I wanted to go to the seaside? How about the three of us make a plan?
V: I am going home. I still have to practice my instrument.
B: And I am off to my part-time job.
T: Do not be like that — could you truly bear to abandon your good friend of so many years?
B: I can bear it. You are not more important than my job.
V: You are simply too idle, and too free.
B: Right — no discipline. If you went into the army, you would be finished on the very first day.
T: I do have discipline, but I truly cannot remember. I have already tried very hard to remember; it is just that memory does not leave deep enough traces.
B stared at V and T.
B: You did not follow V to that drinking gathering yesterday, did you?
T: No.
V: Sigh — you two never come.
B: Are you not the darling of the multitudes? If we came we would fear stealing your limelight.
V: All I hear is the voice of envy. Honestly, it would be better with the two of you there.
B: Is socializing not your favorite thing?
T: Yes, yes, yes.
V: There is no talking with you two.
T: Yes, yes, yes.
B: Yes your head! Back to business! This truly is not hard to remember. You can recite obscure anecdotes of famous people and mathematical and physical equations by heart — do you think this history is harder to remember than those strange little hobbies of yours?
V: Leave T be. This one will behave once the course is failed.
T: This truly is not easy to remember.
This time it was V's turn to shake the still-laughing T.
T: I am dizzy.
V: Tell me honestly — where exactly do you find it hard to remember? Have we not already marked out all the key points for you?
B: Right — are the points we marked not eye-catching enough, not beautiful enough? Would you be satisfied only if we drew them in seven colors?
T: But I feel it is unreasonable.
B: Come, tell us — where is what we marked unreasonable?
T: No, it is not that what you marked is unreasonable; it is only that I feel something is a little unreasonable.
V and B looked somewhat displeased.
B: Speak! Tell us exactly what is unreasonable!
T: Do not be angry — I only feel that these few books have a few slightly unreasonable places.
V: What is unreasonable? Speak.
Then T spoke of a whole heap of places in the books that seemed unreasonable. At first B could still follow, but T's speech grew ever more circuitous, and by the end B had no idea at all what T was saying. B looked blankly toward V.
B saw only V frowning, that fine-featured face wearing a solemn expression.
V: Did you think all of these up yourself, T?
T: Just thoughts that wandered off while you were helping me study just now.
B: I said you were absentminded the whole time — admit it.
V turned T to face V.
V: Promise me — in the exam, never ever write these on the answer sheet, and in daily life never mention these ideas of yours to others.
T: Huh?
B: Did you understand what T just said?
V: Not entirely — about half of it.
T: Huh?
B: What on earth did T just say?
V: T is using some method learned from who knows where to "creatively" interpret history.
T: Huh?
V: Is this what your family taught you?
T: No, they only told me to pursue freedom.
B: What does this have to do with freedom? Free improvisation? Free interpretation?
Seeing the two good friends staring in silence, T finally felt embarrassed.
T: I am sorry, I did not think this would waste your time; I simply could not help having these thoughts.
V, however, was more earnest than B, and continued to question T.
V: This is related to freedom?
T: My grandfather told me that freedom is not disorder.
V: And so?
T: What is reasonable makes one free; what is ordered makes one free.
T nodded.
V: Is that so?
V fell silent for a good while, tapping the tabletop, as though pondering something.
B, seeing V unusually serious, did not interrupt V's thought.
V: As a good friend, I hope that from now on you tell these ideas only to the two of us. In exams, truly do not write like this, and do not tell anyone else. Promise me, will you?
T: Mm, alright.
V: I want you to promise me seriously.
T: A serious mm, a serious alright.
B: Then what about T's exam?
V: We shall speak of it once the course is failed.
T: Don't... save me.
V: No saving.
Recalling these things, B laughed softly.
B: Afterwards V truly paid T no more mind at all; it was I who later turned down my part-time work and secretly helped T catch up.
A: So did T pass that course in the end?
B: Failed, as expected. In the end it was V who somehow worked things so that the professor gave T a pass — otherwise T would have had a hard time of it.
A: The three of you truly share a close bond.
Yet a desolate expression came over B's face, the smile tinged with bitterness.
B: Yes indeed — long live friendship.
Through the window B gazed toward the nocturnal sea; all that met the eye was pitch darkness, and perhaps only by lending half the mind to the sound of the waves could one confirm that the sea still existed.
Mythos & Kallos · Part 20 · Moirai ε
B: Friend, in truth I have never liked the sea.
A: Why is that?
B: Perhaps it has to do with my having nearly died by drowning — ha ha — but the sea is indeed not a thing that invites fondness; I truly do not like the ocean. The sea is too vast; its depths cannot be fathomed; it has no direction whatsoever; it has no front or back, no left or right. Any creature of the land that stumbles into it is swallowed without mercy. The sea, to humankind, is in truth not friendly — would you not agree?
A: Understandable.
B: Even though people can build ships, a ship is but a small leaf adrift upon an infinite terror. A sea with no shore in sight may be more dreadful than a desert.
I have an elder who was a seafarer — my uncle, my mother's brother.
My uncle would sometimes tell me that someone he had long known had lost their mind at sea; that someone had sunk into depression and anxiety and fallen into strange delusions; that those who make their living on the far seas may harm themselves, or even take their own lives.
More terrible still, there were those who one day simply vanished from the ship, and however one searched, the person could not be found.
Perhaps suicide, perhaps murder —
and aboard the ship rumors might spread of wronged souls claiming their due, of possession by spirits and goblins, of foreign and wicked gods. Sounds like a horror tale, does it not?
B rubbed their nose.
B: Friend, to tell the truth, I sometimes suspect my uncle too had long since gone mad — only he did not show it very plainly.
I heard from my aunt that my uncle would at times sit quietly alone, staring into nothing, as though lacking a little of the breath of soul and life; no one knew what he was thinking.
Probably because my uncle had been rather close to me since I was small, there were certain matters of the sea he told only to me.
My uncle went to sea year after year to earn money, and my aunt needed only to manage the affairs of the household. She was a devout believer, actively taking part in the activities of the Church, which at times brought no small suffering upon my poor cousins.
To my aunt, the Gods not only exist — they must exist. Once, the ship my uncle sailed on suffered a grave accident in which people died, and my aunt held that it was her unceasing prayer that had taken effect — that the Gods had protected her man and protected her family. Throughout my uncle's long leave my aunt dragged him day after day to pray and give thanks to the Gods. My uncle found it tiresome, yet did not refuse his own wife.
Forgive me — am I perhaps saying too much and wearying you a little?
A: Not at all, my friend.
B: And so from childhood to adulthood I have never liked the sea. The seashore, to me, is no romantic fancy or holiday haven; it is a cold, dark, damp unknown devoid of humanity. Perhaps it bears you no malice, yet it holds absolutely no goodwill either — like a sleepwalking whale that, even as it slumbers, swallows into its belly the small fish and shrimp that pass by. It does not know you exist; your life and death are nothing to it.
Nor have I ever liked places such as aquariums. People always think that this jellyfish in the aquarium is so beautiful, that that fish never seen before is so marvelous.
But to me, the creatures of the aquarium seem to live in a world wholly parallel to that of humankind. Puppies and kittens and some land animals can respond to a person — but the creatures of the sea? Meeting a person, they either flee, or kill you, or poison you without even being aware of it. I truly cannot bring myself to admire them.
Is the ocean beautiful? Perhaps. But that is not a beauty in affinity with humankind.
A: Friend, hearing you speak reminds me of a story about the ocean.
B: Go on — I knew it was about time your craving for storytelling flared up.
And so A recalled a myth concerning the ocean.
Long, long ago,
people did not in fact live upon the land as they do now;
the people of the ancient age were amphibious lives (ἀμφίβιος = ἀμφί + βίος) —
waking, they lived upon the land;
dreaming, they slept submerged in the sea;
dwelling in no fixed place,
they migrated without cease across the world, following the monsoons and the ocean currents.
Other lives asked humankind:
O humans, you who thus roam the world without end,
going from one place to another —
for what reason do you do so?
The people of that time replied:
We envy and yearn to fly as the birds do;
that is the lullaby (καταβαυκάλησις = singing a lullaby) the Gods softly croon in our dreams.
The other lives asked:
Have the Gods said something to you?
The people answered:
The Gods said to us:
Embrace the sky (Οὐρανός = Ouranos = Sky, Heaven),
touch freedom (ἐλεύθερος = liberty, free),
newborn child (παῖς = child).
The other lives asked again:
How strange you humans are —
have you no place that belongs to you?
Have you no home?
The people wondered in perplexity:
Home? What is home?
In that age, the boundaries between life and death, between waking and dreaming, were blurred and indistinct.
For the people of that time,
one generation being born and another generation dying (Θάνατος = Thanatos = Death)
was simply one generation waking and another generation falling asleep (Ὕπνος = Hypnos = Sleep).
People lived amphibiously between land and sea;
people lived amphibiously between waking and dream (ὄνειρος = Oneiros = Dream);
people could not tell what difference lay between the two, nor did they seek to.
The chance and the necessity met with while waking,
the chance and the necessity met with in dream —
there was no difference between them.
And so it was:
generation upon generation blossomed,
generation upon generation withered;
while waking, some would ponder what home is,
and in dream, some too would pursue the question of what home is.
Generation after generation, for who knows how long,
this question became an unsleeping echo (Ἠχώ = Echo) between the generations.
Because of this attention to and curiosity about "home,"
people, without being aware of it,
began in their dreams to pray to the Gods, asking what "home" is.
Devout prayer condensed into the supplications of each person,
and these supplications, great and small, embraced one another,
gathering into an expedition,
from the shallow sea to the deep sea,
from faint glimmering light into darkness,
in the icy waters of the sea,
searching for that legendary abyss (ἄβυσσος = abyss, bottomless depth) whose bottom cannot be seen —
where, it was said, the God who truly rules the ocean dwells.
When the people awoke,
they forgot the prayers to which they had given breath in dream.
They had only a faint impression,
as though they had asked some question.
The stars revolved,
and after who knows how long,
a new legend circulated in the dreams of the people.
That rumor, never heard before, said
that a beautiful white bull had been born from the farthest end of the deep sea.
And then more and more people said they had seen that legendary white bull.
"Oh! So the white bull is truly real!"
And so those who discovered the white bull in the sea followed behind that miraculous creature,
and new witnesses joined without cease this ever-swelling procession brimming with curiosity.
The people wished to see
where the beautiful white bull truly wished to go,
and whether it had a final destination (τέλος = telos = end, destination, fulfillment).
Someone could not help asking the white bull:
Beautiful white bull, where are you really going? Are you searching for something?
The white bull said:
I dreamed of a beautiful seven-colored rainbow (Ἶρις = Iris = Rainbow);
in the dream, the rainbow in the vault of heaven was singing to me.
The people asked again:
So you wish to find the rainbow in the sky —
but we cannot fly; when the time comes, may we still follow you?
The white bull said:
I do not know either.
The people who shared the dream with the white bull asked no more, and continued silently to follow.
Without clamor or commotion, like an orderly school of fish,
they circled the luminous white bull, swimming back and forth in regular rhythm.
Light and shadow alternated,
and after who knows how long,
the white bull said it heard a tremendous sound.
Slowly it swam upward,
leaving the deep sea,
leaving the shallow sea,
at last breaking free of the surface,
and breathing the air of the land.
The multitude of people followed the white bull onto the shore,
and they saw, upon the earth beneath a torrential storm, a dreadful and enormous rift (χάσμα = chasma = chasm, rift, gulf),
as though struck by a lightning never seen before,
the flames it left behind not extinguished even beneath the falling drops of rain.
At this moment the white bull seemed to lose all its strength;
it knelt upon all four legs, its breathing ever thinner.
The people asked it:
What is wrong? Are you ill? Should we return to the sea?
The white bull answered:
Thank you,
but I think I shall soon die;
my life is ebbing away without cease.
Perhaps this is my end (τέλος = telos = end, destination, fulfillment).
The people asked:
But what of the rainbow?
Did you not say you would find the rainbow?
We have not yet seen the rainbow.
The white bull said:
Dear friends,
I can still hear the song of the rainbow (ᾠδή = ode = song, ode).
Perhaps the final stretch of the road cannot be reached by the body.
Could you deliver me to the rainbow's side?
This is a pact.
The people asked:
What must we do?
The white bull said:
Have your leader of song adorn me;
we shall bathe together in pure clean water;
then lay gold leaf upon my great horns,
and set my strengthless body amid fragrant wood.
The people asked:
Is that all that is needed?
The white bull said:
Oh —
have your leader of song, amid singing and dancing,
take up that flame which does not go out beneath the rain,
and set me alight together with the fragrant wood.
I shall become formless smoke and fire,
and under the witness of the Gods,
bearing our hopes with me, I shall behold the rainbow.
Please consent to this oath (ὅρκος = oath, sworn pledge) between us,
my best friends, faithful companions on the journey of my life.
The people asked:
But, if that is so, you will die.
The white bull said:
Dear friends,
I have been away from home too long;
I too must return home.
Please promise me
that once I have become smoke,
you will share and eat my flesh and blood;
this shall become our common memory,
a mark passed down through the generations.
And the bones I leave behind,
and those horns touched with gold leaf —
please, by no means take them away;
arrange them into a fine and pleasing form,
and let them sink beneath that rift into the waters of the sea.
My soul shall follow them home (νόστος = nostos = homecoming, return).
The people did not understand:
Home? What is home?
What kind of place is it?
The white bull said:
Do you not know?
The people answered:
We do not know.
The white bull said:
Then please bind the longest rope in the world to my white bones;
when the rope falls wholly still,
you will know that I have returned home.
The people asked again:
Then what is home?
The white bull answered:
Dear friends,
returning home and home are different ways of speaking of one and the same thing.
So long as you feel the rope fall wholly still,
in the moment you know I have returned home,
you too will surely understand what home is.
The people asked once more:
And what of us?
When you have died, where should we go?
The white bull said:
I do not know either.
Perhaps, after I have returned home,
you might wait and see whether the rainbow appears in the sky,
pray to the Gods,
and then consider where you wish to go.
I am sorry
that I cannot bring you to behold the true rainbow (Ἶρις = Iris = Rainbow),
nor invite you back to the place where my dream began.
If you should miss me,
you may look upon and touch that rope;
it is the gravestone and symbol of my rest (σῆμα = sema = sign, mark, tomb, monument),
it is the memory in which I and you still take part (μνήμη = mneme = memory, remembrance),
and it is the miracle promised by the Gods (θαῦμα = thauma = wonder, marvel).
May the Gods protect you.
Weeping and laughing,
the people, as promised, burned the white bull amid the fragrant wood.
The white bull neither suffered nor cried out;
only, seeing the people weep for it,
it too shed its final tears.
A great fire never seen before
drove away the darkness and the cold.
From the still-blazing flames,
the people carefully drew forth the white bones the white bull had left behind.
The gold leaf upon the horns had not fallen away,
but had instead fused into the whole pair of horns,
granting them the radiance of pure gold.
The other peoples wandering the world,
seeing from afar the vast flame,
became the final participants in this rite of sacrifice;
they were invited to witness (μάρτυς = martyr = witness)
how the bones of the white bull sank back through the rift into the deep sea.
The people saw
that the longest rope in the world,
like a fish drawn out of water,
trembled without cease in the dryness,
giving forth a sound at every moment,
never resting, day after day and night after night.
Sun and moon rose and set,
life and death turned in their cycle,
and no one knows how long again passed —
several generations, perhaps? Or perhaps more than ten?
Beneath the oath,
that rope, already become legend, was still kept watch over by the people.
Until one dawn, when most were still asleep in dream,
the rope suddenly gave forth no more sound,
and fell still.
The people, who had long since bid farewell to the amphibious life
and no longer entered dream within the sea,
gazed upon the faint rainbow of the dawn,
embracing one another, trembling,
and in accordance with the final pact with the white bull,
named in remembrance its unseen relic at the far end
anchor (ἄγκυρα = anchor).
That was the people's final memory of the white bull.