…she could stir her shaking hands imperceptibly trying in her foggy mind to recall images of her past greatness to the day that with slow steps she moved, they moved her, to the old folk’s home three children were born inside this room, descendants of an honourable family that vanished no none of them ever lived, one of them emigrated to America the other had a horrible death, a drunkard, and the third one is still somewhere as a lighthouse keeper here, yes, inside this room an immoral hand murdered that brave man to punish anarchy personally, he said, and the poplar leaned and died and that foggy stain on the floor there by the corner is the blood that was shed, like a river, from the wound…
Early Years Laughing benevolence our soles splashed into small water pools filled by moving life and Further away, our mother stooped, Mothers always drank bitterness, and collected sea snails and abalone My brother, my Fate’s choice moved his hand swiftly to grab the little crab Before it took refuge in the crevasse only a crab could see and We lived in fear, for our father was in a land unknown to our little world, exiled, away from the pangs of the police informants: such was our luck that early in life we tasted the bitter orphan waters yet like tree branches we stretched our limbs against the elements and like birds prematurely, we grew wings
I Brought to Art I sit and contemplate. Desires and feelings I brought to Art: some half-seen faces or contours, uncertain memories of unfulfilled loves. Let me give myself to her. She knows how to shape a Figure of Beauty. almost imperceptibly, she complements life, blending impressions, combining the days.
Sunday The sun will climb higher today, since it’s Sunday. The breeze flows and the stack of the shrub stirs over that hill. They’ll all dress festive cloths and shall keep a light heart look at the children in the street look at the flowers in the orchard. Now that the bells are chiming god must be true the clouds are blown far away the sky becomes immense. Oh leave the world in its joy and come close to me, my soul, a joyous song I shall sing for you: the song of death.
Questions of Survival “Why does Father Finten dislike me so?” Rordan held the post in place while Keallach lifted the beam into position and secured it with two strands of vine. “I’m sure you are mistaken, Brother. Father Finten cares for all of us. Hold that post steady. I cannot tie it secure if you keep waving it around.” Keallach lashed the two pieces together. Now he stood and faced Rordan. “I think Father Finten likes his Brothers to be trusting, not always thinking the worst will happen as if abandoned by God.” Rordan shook his head and spat a tiny mosquito onto the sand. “Do you really believe that? Finten does his own share of complaining. Then he tells us to have faith in Divine Providence.” He wished he could say what he really felt about Father Finten without having to feel so guilty about it, like he was speaking against some great saint. “Be happy; we’re free of those Viking slavers.” “That big wrestler could kill us all in our sleep.” Rordan did not really believe that, but he hated to be put in his place. “If Blonde Bear slits anyone’s throat, I am sure it will be yours. Now let’s get this other end up and perhaps we’ll have a place to sleep tonight.” Keallach lifted the other end of the beam into position and secured it, while Rordan held the post almost steady. White Eagle greeted the young brave, Broken Wing, with calm patience. He himself would investigate. Mountain Lion, levelheaded in times of emergency, would accompany him. This time, they’d approach the camp with great care. These hairy strangers were unpredictable. This much they had already learned. “Vikings have been raping and killing innocent people since I can remember. Why should Illska and Hrafen be any different?” Finten spoke as he took the lance Bjorn had cut for him from a straight sapling. He felt the sharp barbed tip with his thumb, having never before held such a weapon in his hand. Bjorn was cutting another sapling to form a lance for himself. “In the old days, it was different. Usually it was kill or be killed. Better to kill them first. Some fought for land. Some fought for family. Of course, many raided for profit. And yes, many were cruel and loved killing, raping and burning. But not all Norsemen are pirates.” Having trimmed off the side branches, he now began to cut a point at the small end. “My father and my father’s father were hunters. We lived on the land in peace. My father treated his thralls with care and respect. They were allowed their language…
…how to use the strainer made of woven palm leaves. She took me to a kind of oven that consisted of a circular structure with a large, flat earthen plate on top and a fire burning underneath. I poured the grated root and scattered it into a more or less round cake. I stood there watching over it, lest it burn. I admired my first cassava cake, an irregular spill, and fingered it so often that it cracked into pieces. I ate it that night—it tasted like triumph. From a tree beside the hut where I slept, I ate mamones by the dozen, playing with the big, velvety seeds in my mouth until my teeth felt as if they would fall out. The guavas, which had disgusted me because of the little worms that sometimes infested them, I now ate with delight—worms and all. In time, I learned to differentiate the people of the Teque nation from the others, who remained indistinguishable. Pure joy filled me when, thanks to the boys who had taught me to use a bow, I contributed a small, wild pig. After that, people spurned me less. Tiaroa, Guacaipuro´s sister, came to me one day and offered me an onoto—a red-dyed, sleeveless, hoodless tunic. My cassock was in tatters, but it was the significance of the gift that left me speechless: they had accepted me. I took the tunic and went to Tamanoa´s grave to show it to him, so that he could rest assured that I was making progress.
Weeks turned into months. I kept my distance from Apacuana. As far as I could tell, she was not living with Baruta, and yet she was not with other men either. Sometimes when I went to my cave to pray, I would wonder to myself what might happen if she ever followed me there, and I struggled to dismiss these thoughts, and often flayed myself accordingly. I preferred to make progress teaching my language to Guacaipuro. If he could one day learn to read the New Testament, he might be awakened to the ways of our Lord. I often ate at his house and exchanged words with him. He was particularly puzzled…
Hour of Song Next to the wine jugs next to the fruit baskets we forgot to sing On the evening of our separation with the consent of the evening star alone we sang
Treason It was the second month of his betrayal, he dared died, our God and we had come so far that we felt the need to yell it from the depths of our lungs to make sure the neighbors heard it: we were still here and we were still poor. Emptied syringes laid on the ground, relatives heard the news, one of them, teary eyed, filled a glass of brandy to our saints who died of sorrow, truly what else was expected of us at this hour of reckoning? Suddenly the bankrupt priest refused to eat with us and taking his leave didn’t forget to claim his right to his heaven, a man of principles that he was and we knew the vacated house of the priest was already occupied by Hades.
VOICES OF THE SEA Drink your wine in the dark tavern by the sea, now that the autumn rains have started, drink it with sailors facing you and stooping fishermen, men whom poverty and angry seas have punished. Drink your wine so that your soul grows free and if grim Fate arrives smile upon it and if new sufferings befall you let them also drink and when Hades comes, calmly offer Him a drink as well.
“What are you doing in those clothes, Rachael? You look like a hippie.” The words had only just left his mouth when he realized that was exactly her intent. Looking up at him, she giggled. “We were danshing. It wash … it wash fun.” Her head fell back onto the sofa and she closed her eyes. Ronald could not bring himself to move from where he stood staring at her. He had rescued Rachael from many scrapes, or worse, but this time he was at a total loss. What could he do with her? She was drunk, that much was obvious. Ronald had seen the signs before but never, God forbid, in his own family. He had the overwhelming urge to sit down and cry. Taking a tight rein on his emotions, he leaned over her, took her arm and tried to pull her to her feet. “Don’t you dare go to sleep. I’ll make some strong coffee, then I’m taking you home.” Let Morley and Tyne deal with her; this time she’s gone too far. “Let me sleep, please Ronnie,” she begged. In her plea Ronald heard again the cries of a little girl – lost, cold and near death in a frozen wasteland created by a prairie blizzard. Hesitating for only a moment, he said, “Okay, you can sleep it off in my bed. Come on, I’ll help you upstairs.” “Oh no, you won’t, Ronald. She’ll sleep down here for what’s left of the night.” At the sound of Aunt Millie’s unusually stern voice, he swung around. She was standing in the doorway of the downstairs hallway. Gray hair formed a cloud around her pale face. One hand clutched a terrycloth robe around her ample bosom; the other hand held out a long flannel nightgown and a blanket in the direction of the startled girl on the sofa. “Get out of those clothes and put this on. You’ll stay on the sofa tonight, young lady. Ronnie needs his sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning when you’ve sobered up.” Millie Harper turned abruptly towards her bedroom.
Manolis Aligizakis 