Morning Open your eyes and unfold the black cloth wide and stretch it open your eyes well, fix your eyes concentrate, concentrate, now you know that the black cloth unfolds not in sleep not in water not even when the eyelids close wrinkled and sink at an angle like conches now that you know that the black skin of the drum covers your horizon fully when you open your eyes rested, like that. Between the vernal equinox and autumn equinox here are the running waters and here’s the garden here the bees buzz amid the branches and chime in the baby’s ears and the sun, here it is! and the birds of paradise a great sun greater than light.
usual from the heat and being on them all day, were propped on an ottoman. “I really am vexed with you, Will.” “Oh?” Will did not look up from the prize list in his hand. “Yes, you certainly were not using your head when you put that Fielding woman to work in the same booth as Jean McKinnon.” Will leaned over and switched on the lamp beside his chair. “Damn it, Molly, I’m not in the mood to argue.” “I don’t intend to argue,” Molly said in a tone Will recognized as being sarcastically sweet, “because you must have realized by now that you were in the wrong.” Will looked at her over the top of his eyeglasses. “If giving the girl a chance to get to know the town women was wrong, then I plead guilty. As a matter of fact, now that you’ve mentioned Sarah, I’ll tell you I’ve been thinking of asking her to join the Agricultural Association.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “With her background she’ll make a great secretary.” Molly’s mouth fell open then clamped shut with a click of her dentures. “Will Andrews,” she gasped, “you wouldn’t dare.” “Why wouldn’t I?’ “You know perfectly well why. Not one of the town women would ever have anything to do with the Association again, and you know it.” “Then it would be their loss, not mine.” He felt his bile rising. “Anyway, none of you even know Sarah. What’ve you got against her except that she married Ben Fielding?” “Well, that’s it, isn’t it? She married Ben Fielding, and only a coarse woman or a slut would have considered doing that.” “Then,” said Will mildly, “there must have been sluts in Nimkus long before Sarah arrived.” Molly sprang to her feet, her lower lip trembling. Turning her back to him she strode, with all the dignity she possessed, to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Will watched her over the top of his gold rims. Oh drat, why wouldn’t she talk about it, even after all these years? “Oh, you’re an old fool, Andrews,” he muttered under his breath. He should know by now that needling her never got him anywhere. He sighed and looked down at his papers.
‘This has been a splendid day.’ Clifford Hamilton pronounced each word separately, distinctly and with obvious satisfaction. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said John Simpson, a prematurely balding colleague of Clifford’s at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. He was an English-trained heart specialist who had come to Belfast from the Royal Army Medical Corps after the war. ‘I think we can all drink to that.’ Clifford’s wife Fiona displayed her prominent teeth. ‘And to your fiftieth birthday, darling. What a wonderful way to celebrate.’ A chorus of ‘Hear, hear’; ‘Happy five-o, Clifford’; ‘Great day altogether’ responded to Fiona’s remarks. The five members of the jovial party had spent the day in Clifford’s new Bentley—a birthday present to himself—driving around the countryside of the Drumard hills and visiting places that Clifford had known as a boy. He had amused his passengers like an Irish jarvey with stories and histories and half-remembered ballads about drumlins and dolmens, outlaws and rebels, murders and massacres, big houses and castles, and their restless ghosts. The sun had shone all day from an unblemished sky; the road had shimmered in front of them; the sea glimmered and sparkled; and the mountains languished in a lavender haze, like a herd of huge animals sprawling in the sun at noon. The journey had ended at the Drumard Strand Hotel, a large red sandstone building on the green foreshore at Carraghlin, where Clifford and Fiona’s twenty-year-old son Julian and his girlfriend Catriona had joined them. ‘I admit it’s not my favourite bit of architecture,’ Clifford had said of the hotel. ‘But here we can dine in a manner befitting the mood of the day—splendidly. A grotty little cafe on the main street just wouldn’t have been right.’ ‘And what can you tell us about this place, Clifford?’ asked John Simpson’s recently married wife, Susan, a short, slim, sharp-featured young woman from a wealthy, landowning politician’s family in Oxfordshire.
“They’re family. That’s different.” Ula stood up at the sound of footsteps and tumbling pebbles just above their perch. It was Brother Ailan. “You two are out early. Brother Rordan, Finten’s been looking for you. You skipped morning prayer again.” “Thanks Ailan. If I didn’t have you to look out for me, how would I possibly survive? We’ll be there for breakfast.” “You had better hurry then or Brother Keallach will eat your share. I’ll make sure he leaves some for you, little sister.” Ula smiled at the chubby monk. “Thanks Brother Ailan. We’re coming.” She offered a hand to Rordan and pulled him to his feet. Rordan and Ula allowed Brother Ailan to get well ahead of them before following back to the Brothers’ lodge. For the first time in many weeks, the Native village appeared to be deserted except for Finten, Ailan, Keallach, Bjorn, and Ari who stood waiting at the lodge door until they saw Rordan and Ula arriving and Finten gave the signal to enter. Once everyone was seated in the centre eating area, Ari produced a steaming bowl of baked gull’s eggs and cod. Father Finten intoned the grace. Although Father Finten managed to rattle off the entire prayer, the first mouthfuls were stopped short by shrieks and loud whoops coming from outside the Brothers’ lodge. Brother Keallach jumped up to look outside. “My God! We’re under attack.” Bjorn grabbed a smouldering piece of wood from the breakfast cooking fire. Keallach grabbed another and followed him through the door blanket with Ari, Ailan, Rordan and Ula right behind. Finten didn’t follow but fell trembling to his knees, seeking help from a Greater Power. No sooner were the six outside the lodge than each was grabbed and clubbed over the head by warriors with partially shaved heads. Only Father Finten remained behind, crying to God in whispered Latin,“Déus, salvam mé.” Rordan came to with blood trickling down his face and into his open mouth. Shards of pain stung his naked chest and privates. His hands were tied tightly behind his back and he was standing, roped to a pole. He opened his eyes to a wild, painted face before a blazing fire. The sky behind the face was filled with a million sparks. Whoops and yelps of a hundred savage voices rent the air. Painted Face bobbed up and down in front of him and banged a stick against a burning bough, sending sparks to burn Rordan’s skin, shouting “Nikamu! Nikamu! Nikamu! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!” Rordan gritted his teeth and shook his head to clear his thoughts amidst the yowls. “Nikamu! Nikamu! Nikamu! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!” The warrior applied the burning bough to Rordan’s hair and, as he felt the searing on his scalp, Brother Rordan cried out the same “Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!” The warrior laughed and Rordan understood that he wanted him to sing. “Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi! Yi!” Again the flame singed Rordan’s scalp, and again he sang, more frantically than before, Painted Face laughed and singed his scalp once more. That song’s not helping. If I’m to die by fire, I will go out singing. Rordan had one song he loved above all others. He raised his head, took a deep breath and called out beyond the pain. “Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.”
The vegetable garden is a large area at the back; located on the north side of the property and sheltered by a fence to the north. Their house faces east so that the garden is on the western part, with the western and southern sun hitting it almost all day. On one side, William has a small area covered with plastic and Evelyn tells Bevan that’s where they plant the tomatoes and eggplant which like the heat and not rain. “We get a lot of rain here, as you know, and tomatoes don’t do well in rain, so he covers them every year. Everything else we plant is exposed to the weather.” “What do you usually plant, Evelyn?” “We grow everything, you name it; we grow potatoes, celery, leeks, beets, Swiss chard, garlic, onions, greens for the salad, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, spinach, beans of three different kinds—oh, Bevan , everything is grown here, believe me,” she says, quite proudly. “In other words, you literally live off the land.” “Yes, and you’ll see all that when you come this way next year.” Bevan smiles, and it’s his turn to clear his throat. Evelyn looks at him and smiles. “You’re not planning to come our way when you retire, are you, Bevan?” “Well, to be honest, Evelyn, I haven’t given it any thought as yet; I have a few things to do before I retire.” “What do you still have to do, my brother? Isn’t it enough that you have given this service of yours your whole life? Aren’t the tragedies that have taken place all over the world in the last thirty years enough? However, I don’t want to go there again and upset you; after all, you’re an admiral. Your job is to serve the armed forces of this land.” But Bevan doesn’t get upset with Evelyn. He has made peace with that side of himself, and his sister doesn’t get him upset anymore. As a matter of fact, he’s at such peace with himself lately that he feels just great, even when she talks harshly about the army. “Are you at peace with yourself, Bevan?” He takes a deep breath and looks at the garden with all the vegetables they grow. He sees his sister being so relaxed and in a state of complete satisfaction with herself. He knows he’s in that same state also, but it’s very hard to explain why. He knows why and that is good enough for the time being. When they read in the papers later on what has transpired, they’ll understand. She’ll understand why he’s at peace with himself at this time in his life. “I am quite happy to see that you and William are in good health and in good spirits, as always. I’ll make a point of coming back here again some time and then perhaps we’ll talk about being at peace and all. Right now, I’m very happy to see you are well, my dearest sister.”
Suspicious Sleep There, at the edge of the sky, just above the mountain peak, a little star announces its happiness, with a rhythmic though out of tune voice like the young fruit seller who sells the first summer fruits with a voice so convincing, almost deserted. And you felt guilty because you didn’t have the urge to respond. If you at least hadn’t seen, hadn’t understood. Guilty, not counting the guilt of others. You, all alone, put all the responsibility on your shoulders and you understood all your innocence. You went inside so that you wouldn’t see anymore; you got dressed and after you put on your shoes, you lied down, and fell asleep.
“There’s no mistaking it, Mr. Mayor. I saw your face for fully half a minute before you bucked me off and made your escape. I have never forgotten your eyes, your distinctive eyes. I thought I recognized you from the back of the hall when you spoke, but I had to be certain. You know, indeed you know, what I’m talking about.” Torgerson glared across his desk at Engine Fred. “You expect people to believe something dredged up from twenty years ago?” Fred smiled. “I didn’t say how long ago it was, but your memory is fairly accurate. It has been twenty-one years. Poodie James and I were discussing it just this morning. As for people believing it, I hope that it won’t be necessary for anyone to know. That includes Poodie.” “What do you mean?” Torgerson said. “Poodie doesn’t know who beat him up. He doesn’t know who attacked Old Sam, and he doesn’t know, as he puts it so simply, why you don’t like him.” Glowering at Engine Fred, Torgerson said, “I could have you thrown out of here.” “Yes, you could.” Torgerson got up, turned around and stood looking at cars passing on the street below. “What do you want?” “I don’t know why you beat Poodie James when you were a young man. I don’t know why you are persecuting him now. It doesn’t matter. I want you to leave him alone, Mr. Torgerson. Just leave him alone.” Torgerson spun around and leaned across the desk. “I’ll tell you why, mister. Because he’s a freak, an unclean little freak. He contaminates the town. He should have left after he got his warning, but he stayed here, dragging that wagon around, rummaging through peoples’ garbage, bothering children. All those things you said in the hearing, all those things Gritzinger said, that’s crap. Poodie James is nothing but a bum and a beggar. He’s bad for the town.”
Message An arm waving a message to you the inexpressible standing in your red gown moonlight vaguely shines on gleaming lips wet tongue caressing my smooth skin of logic night laments her dark role in the photosynthesis of your absence and my longing for you
Today and Just Before Today and just before light covers the sky I hear bells chiming faraway in the city. Bells that I hear as if they slowly spread evil and solemnly stir the remaining darkness. Where have I left my sweet childish heart? In what era, in which bell’s chiming I’ve tied it? In what era and today I’ve kneeled on my weak knees and prayed? A prayer to beauty, to the forgotten mother to ignorance, the smile, the voice of a dream listening to the saddened chime of the bell today that talks of the untimely death.
He inspected the fire pit and felt the warmth coming from the ashes. He took some wood and restarted the fire, then his small saucepan from his backpack, filled it halfway with water and half a handful of sage tea, and set it over the fire to boil. He wondered what to do with the dead wolf. He ate a piece of his bread along with a cup of the hot, boiling tea. The sun had climbed to its height on the eastern horizon. George decided to bury the wolf and took his club and a piece of wood and placed them on each side of the dead animal. He covered the wolf’s body with stones and rocks, which he put on top of the wolf’s grave, making a small mound that completely covered the dead animal. Upon finishing his rite, he stood momentarily and looked at the grave mount. His mind ran to the time when he let a handful of dirt fall over the casket of his grandfather. It was his farewell. And today he said farewell to the dead wolf by placing the last stone over the burial site. He felt good. He smiled. Before leaving, he put out the fire, gathered his things, put the backpack on his shoulders, and walked away with a smile still lighting his face.
Manolis Aligizakis 