Tag: love-story

Fury of the Wind

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Sarah smiled. “Oh surely, Ben, they wouldn’t ban movies in Nimkus
because they thought they were sinful. I think you’re exaggerating.”
“Yeah? Well, you don’t know them yet, do you?”
She shrugged and got up to clear the table. “Can we go to a movie
in Bradshaw sometime, Ben?”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” He got up to fill his pipe.
She could hardly wait until he went back to work. Finishing up
the dishes quickly, she shoved her feet into a pair of old runners and
went to find him.
In the yard, almost bare of vegetation between the house and the
horse stable, the dust swirled and danced in the incessant wind.
What few patches of grass remained were being uprooted by the
chickens that scratched happily in the earth all day long. She paused
for a moment when she passed the chicken house, a building as
dilapidated as the others around it. There had once been some sort
of wire mesh fence to contain the fowl, but it had long since rusted
and fallen apart. Now the chickens had free range of the yard. No
wonder the coyotes came so close to the house, especially with no
dog to run them off.
A grey tabby cat, sunning itself in front of the cow stable, looked
up at Sarah’s approach then skittered through the door which hung
on one hinge. Inside the stable a calf bawled, but she resisted the
urge to go in to see it. She wanted to find Ben before he got too far
away.
She found him behind the buildings, hitching an old tractor to
a sickle mower. She stood and watched for a few minutes before he
glanced up and saw her.
Sarah shouted above the roar of the motor, “I’d like to see Flicka.
Can you tell me where she is?”
“I haven’t time to be bothered now. I want to start cutting hay
over yonder.” He nodded towards what Dave McNeill had called
the north pasture.
“I don’t want to take you from your work, Ben. If you’ll tell me
where she is, I’ll find her.”
“Over there in the field.”
She followed his gaze to where three horses were standing near a
small dry slough bed in the shade of a stand of poplar trees.

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Redemption

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…most were ordinary-looking housewives of the gossip circle,
and of course, a few were the ones usually found in the aristocratic
bars and lounges, ladies with housemaids and black chauffeurs, with
small bedroom dogs and a gigolo on the side. Hermes always looked
down on the so-called upper class; a degrading and pathetic life, he
thought they were like snakes. Those people had all the money they
needed, with their luxurious cars and drug addictions or similar
kinds of crap, and they blindly followed whatever is “modern,” a certain
mania to do as the foreigners did, just to be part of the trend.
According to Hermes, this way of living did nothing to
improve a person’s life. He didn’t belong to the idealists and skeptics,
either, who ignored reality and lived in the clouds of their isolation
with the hope that the world would change on its own volition on
some fine morning and everything would just be splendid. What he
wanted was a major change in society, a change that would make the
commoners’ lives better and the upper class more decent and more
confident people.
What else he wanted to help achieve was to unhook the populace
from the iron fist of the church that had grasped the people’s
lives and orchestrated their comings and goings according to the
dogma of an eastern religion that forbids them from letting go and
adopting a freer mindset, Hermes believed was the inherited treasure
of the Hellenes.
That was the psycho-spiritual hold the church had over the lives
of people, which exerted such power that no one ever had stood opposite
to, from the days of their liberation from the Turks, beginning
of the 19th century. However, how that could be possible and which
method could be applied to get the desired outcome was unknown to
Hermes. Yet he hoped that that would appear to him at some time in
the future. A smile came to his face as if he had already been affected
by such a change.
He walked as he disembarked the ship. His uncle, Demetre,
was among the others on the dock, lordly as always, waving his hand.
Hermes beamed a big smile and walked to him.

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The Circle

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“Come on, sweetheart, you need to see all this; don’t forget you won’t have
this opportunity again anytime soon.”
She perks up a bit and looks at the immense horizon on her right side with all
the sand and light; the brightness blinds her. The sun is definitely something they
have plenty of in this part of the world.
“Everything looks so bright, honey. I can’t look at this for too long because
my eyes get tired, even though I’m wearing sunglasses.”
“I know, Emily, yet you must try to see all you can,” he insists.
They’ve driven halfway to their destination when Rassan stops the car at a
small town where they’ll have lunch and the chance to stretch their legs before
they carry on. They find a small restaurant. Rassan and Abdul go inside and
check things out; when they come back appear pleased the place looks good, the
women and Ibrahim with Talal go inside. The small restaurant is filled with
travelers and there are a few other women.
Ibrahim lets Rassan order food and wine from the menu. The food will be
shared by everyone as they don’t order individual plates. Emily likes this way of
ordering as she doesn’t have to ask Talal to order things for her.
They are served on big platters and the wine comes in a carafe; Rassan fills
their glasses and they toast the health of everyone.
To Emily’s surprise, the food is very tasty, although she doesn’t know what
everything she eats is. Talal leans closer to her and asks, “Do you like the food,
sweetheart?”
She smiles at him and nods with her mouth full of delicious, creamy pate,
and her wine glass raised, ready to take a sip.
They arrive in Basra by mid afternoon when the heat of the day is at its peak.
Basra is the second largest city in Iraq with a population of 1,700,000; it’s the center
of the oil-exporting facilities in the south. There are substantial petroleum resources
and many oil wells in the area. They pump out about 150,000 barrels a day. The
fertile land around the periphery of the city produces a variety of grains, such as rice,
wheat, barley and corn. They also produce many meat and dairy products here.
During the war, the British stationed themselves in Basra and the city experienced
few effects from the war. Now, the city is completely rebuilt and in full swing with
the export of oil. In fact, most Iraqi oil wealth passes through this city.
Basra was first built thousands of years ago and was considered the cradle of
the Sumerian civilization. These days it’s called the Venice of Iraq because of its
elaborate system of canals and waterways leading to the open waters of the
Persian Gulf. The canal system is a lot more visible and functional during the
high tide, than at low tide.

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Swamped

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Without pushing their luck any further, they went to the café and
had a soothing bowl of chicken soup, then said goodbye to the casino
hall and went up to their room to rest.
In the morning Eteo phoned home to see how the boys were
doing. Jonathan assured him they were all fine. Then he called Logan
at the office and got an update on the market, after which, satisfied
that everything was under control, he went downstairs with Ariana.
They strolled from one casino to the other for most of the day, stopping
here and there to gamble for a while, taking a break for coffee
and then for lunch, relaxing by the pool for an hour or so, and then
gambling some more in the afternoon.
For Eteo the most enjoyable thing about Las Vegas was the
chance to observe other people and their interactions and reactions
to all the sights and sounds of the place. He loved to just look around
him while Ariana played her slot machines in whichever casino they
went to.
On Friday night they went to the famous KA show at the MGM
Grand. It was the most elaborate and amazing show either of them
had ever seen. The story line was a simple fairy tale, but the presentation
was spectacular, mainly for its technological innovations and
the gymnastics of the actors. What impressed Ariana and Eteo the
most was when the stage turned completely vertical, huge levers and
axles moving it slowly from horizontal to vertical while the actors
continued to perform their elaborate choreography standing on arrows
shot on the stage. It was a combination of artistry, acrobatics,
and athleticism all at the same time and to a musical score that was
a phenomenal combination of modern and classic mixes that created
a unique atmosphere. As they left, Eteo could not resist buying a CD
of the music to enjoy at home.
There were thousands of visitors in Las Vegas, and everywhere
they went they were always among crowds of people coming and
going, laughing and drinking, partying and teasing drinking and eating
as they walked, as they sat on a barstool right on the strip, as they
entered one hotel, or as they exited from another. People drank and
partied everywhere: in the streets, the hallways of the hotels, the casinos,
the restaurants, the bars, the blackjack tables, the baccarat hall.

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Jazz with Ella

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The galley kitchen was utilitarian and old-fashioned with a two-burner gas stove, a scarred countertop and a tiny porcelain sink. Marta peeled cucumber and kept her back to Jennifer, her posture erect.
“May I help you?” Jennifer asked. There was no answer. Suddenly Jennifer knew exactly what to say. “Is that cabbage rolls I smell?” she asked. “Mom used to make those—were they ever good.” The shoulders relaxed slightly and Marta turned, wiped her hands on a dishcloth and said with a wan smile, “Yes, they are Misha’s favourite, too.”
The conversation was polite but not warm over the dinner table although Nadya recovered some of her childish energy and rattled on to Jennifer about her school work and her friends. As soon as the dishes were cleared away, Marta directed Volodya and Jennifer to Nadya’s room, hastily vacated for the night in order to accommodate the travellers. The single bed had been made up with clean sheets for one person and a series of cushions had been placed on the floor with a quilt on top.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more beds and another room for you,” Marta said coolly. “But I think you will be comfortable in here.” Marta closed the door behind her, leaving Jennifer and Volodya staring at each other wordlessly. She turned away, wanting only to sleep and too exhausted to challenge his behaviour. He began undressing with no further comment. But as they prepared for bed, a knock on the door startled them. Misha’s head appeared around the door.
“Can I see you, Zhen? I’ll be in the living room.” Wrapping her robe around her, she glanced at Volodya and left the room.
Misha was sitting on the uncomfortable sofa. “This is where we should have started—right when you arrived, Zhen.” He patted a worn, leather-bound album. “Forgive me that I did not show you this sooner.”
Family photos, thought Jennifer. How will this help? Misha opened the album lovingly, smoothing the pages. She sat beside him. Most of the pictures had been taken in the last few years and they showed the couple at their wedding, traditional photos posed in front of the war memorial, some scenes from their trip to Sochi and many of Nadya’s childhood. Flipping through the book quickly, Misha opened it at a page of older, grainier photos. He pointed at one dog-eared print. Jennifer gasped. The picture depicted two teenagers standing together solemnly, kerchiefs around their heads, their faces forming weak smiles, their arms linked.

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Fury of the Wind

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Back in the Saddle
Two weeks after her marriage Sarah Fielding had a visitor. She
was cleaning and rearranging cupboards in the pantry when she
heard the thud of a horse’s hooves in the backyard. Through the
window she could see that it was not Ben as she had expected, but a
stranger dismounting from his horse.
He stood for a moment and looked towards the stables before
walking to the back door. When Sarah opened it, the young man
removed his hat to reveal a head of curly auburn hair. His smile
reached to his eyes and lit up his face.
“How do you do, Mrs. Fielding? I’m Dave McNeill. Live over there
about a mile.” He jerked his thumb in a south-westerly direction.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. McNeill,” Sarah said cheerfully,
“you’re the first neighbour I’ve had the privilege of meeting.”
“It’s Dave, please. Is Ben around?”
“Yes, I believe he’s gone over to that field behind the stable.” She,
too, pointed.
“Oh, the north pasture. Thanks, Mrs. Fielding, I’ll see if I can find
him.”
He replaced his hat, and was turning away when Sarah, surprising
even herself, said quickly, “But won’t you come in? I was just
going to make a cup of coffee. Would you like one? And,” she added
stepping aside to let him enter the kitchen, “I’d be pleased if you’d
call me Sarah. I’m not used to Mrs. Fielding yet.”
“Right, Sarah it is then. We’ve been anxious to meet you, Penny
and me.” At Sarah’s questioning look, he added, “Penny’s my wife.”
Sarah bustled from the pantry to the kitchen and back again,
anxious to get the coffee started before her visitor should become
impatient and decide he had to go. But he seemed in no hurry.

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Redemption

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these voices of the innumerable people, pagans as they were called,
the ones who had died under the knife of the first Christians, who
exterminated thousands and thousands, as the scholars claimed,
perhaps even millions, to establish the new religion? It was written
in certain books, not of course in the regular books taught in
schools, that millions of Hellenes were eliminated so Christianity
could spread over the lands, and perhaps these voices and groans
Hermes was hearing coming from the depths of the earth were none
other than the pain those millions of Hellenes suffered.
He stood motionless as if to listen to a discourse coming from
somewhere deep under the floor of the monastery, groans of people
killed and buried under the soil of this church, when unexpectedly
a thought came to him: did the purpose justified the means when a
man is condemned to death for the success of a movement, did the
death of a man in the hands of another was rightfully approved by the
system which always craves to retain power over the people? And what
about the killing of a brother by brother, only for the killer to gain the
approval and help of a superior? Such thoughts overtook Hermes to
the point of feeling sick, indeed he felt the need to run away, far away
from this place, which he had visited with all the positive intentions of
looking into the monastery correspondence. He felt suffocated. He put
the papers away, he walked out of the church, he didn’t stop to thank
the monk who helped him, he just walked out at a fast pace as if to distance
himself from voices and images he wanted to forget.
Then, when far out, he felt his heart had calmed down as he
climbed a short hill since he wanted to change his route and followed
a narrow trail towards the top of the hill to reach his village on the
other side. He surely felt a lot better, and quite unexpectedly, a tune
rose from within his essence to his lips, and he started singing a local
tune; soon, he reached the top of the hill and found an old man on a
donkey right ahead of him. He greeted him and then asked,
“Are there any partridges around here, Uncle?”
“I have seen a couple of flocks over that mountain,” the old man
pointed to the other side of the horizon.

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Jazz with Ella

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It was delicious and she washed it down with a sip from a tumbler full of what appeared to be neat spirit. She was sitting in the family’s combination living and dining room where the ornate, antique table was laden with small plates of food. Wise in the ways of Russian dining from having partied with Ukrainians and Polish, she knew that these were only the zakuski, the appetizers, and that a more substantial meal would follow. “No, really, now I’m full up.” At least the food is dampening the effects of the vodka, she thought. “How about you, Paul?”
The man referred to as Paul looked up from a plate of bread and sausage and smiled shyly. “Thank you. You are good hosts,” he murmured.
“Your Russian is so good. Did you study long in university?” asked Marta of Paul while Misha seemed distracted and regarded Jennifer solemnly. Paul-Volodya did not reply right away and Marta was interrupted by the sound of something bubbling on the stove. The afternoon so far had been wonderful, full of affectionate hugs and cheerful toasts toward Jennifer, friendship in which she reciprocated and in which Paul had been generously included. Their daughter, Nadya, was at school but the couple promised that she would return home very soon.
After refreshment, the cousins had spoken of their own hopes to leave the Soviet Union and live in Canada. The nervousness with which they raised the topic and the intensity with which they spoke made Jennifer realize how important this move was to them. They would need help and support in Canada. She didn’t know much about Canadian immigration laws, but wouldn’t they need a sponsor? Someone from within the country—a relative who would vouch for them, promise to provide for them? She thought at first of her mother as the closest relative but had an uneasy feeling these two were grooming their newfound cousin for the role.
Yet nagging questions persisted. Were they truly related to her? She wondered at their eagerness. They seemed to have everything here: a private apartment of their own, not too big but with a balcony that gave a view of the playground opposite. Their daughter enjoyed school and Young Pioneers, they said, and they were both working, he as a technician and she as a bus driver. This last gave Jennifer pause as she tried to envision the dainty, polite Marta in the driver’s seat of a soot-black, fume-spewing bus, but she knew that the Soviet Union was ahead of the west in ensuring women joined the work force in many non-traditional jobs. Marta worked shifts so was off-duty right now…

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Redemption

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insisted, so his uncle and auntie said their farewells at home. Eleni
and Hermes met in a nightclub a couple of years ago on the island of
Ios, where they were both vacationing. Hermes loved to play with her
blonde hair, and he mostly enjoyed letting his eyes dive deep into her
blue eyes.
He walked toward the deck bar, passing by the pretty tourist
girl sunbathing. It was not easy to walk along with all these people
sitting or lying around on the deck.
He ordered a cold coffee and glanced around. Next to him was
an old man drinking his lemonade: tough features, wrinkles on
his face, white hair, black circles around his eyes. The old man felt
Hermes’ glance and turned toward him:
“And where are you from, young man?”
“From around here, Uncle,” Hermes answered, imitating the
old man’s accent. It was customary to address an older man as “Uncle”
when one didn’t know his name. Whenever coming to the island,
Hermes liked to talk with an accent close to the locals to conform to
their ways as much as possible.
His coffee was brewed, and he took a slow sip to check it out.
The old man observed his ritual manner, satisfied.
“Could I ask you something, Uncle?” Hermes felt the need to
kill the silence between them.
“Sure. What is it, my son?”
“The island, why is it called Crete?”
The old man raised his eyebrows. Not many people asked this
kind of question.
“We call it Crete because it means wines and meats.”
Hermes was surprised. He never knew. Did this mean that this
island used to be fertile and fruitful, and the people never had to
worry about their food?
The old man turned and asked him.
“What do you do in Athens, my son?”
“I attend the university, Uncle. I am graduating this year.”
“Oh, you are a sand pebble then.”

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The Unquiet Land

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…lack of ambition contrasted remarkably with that of Clifford Hamilton who had different aims on human brains. Yet when Caitlin thought about it, she could not avoid the conclusion that maybe Liam’s desire to fill young brains with learning was more worthy, if less prestigious, than Clifford Hamilton’s desire to open them up for medical probing. She admired Liam all the more for his altruism. He was indeed a true disciple of his idol, Father Padraig.
Beyond the school the pebble-dashed, two-storey rectory stood back a bit from the lane. Lamplight shone through the window of Padraig’s room upstairs; the rest of the house was in darkness. Padraig shared the rectory with Father Donagh Costello, the priest of the neighbouring parish “over the bridge” in Aughnashannagh. The pious widow, Brid O’Flaherty, lived in the same house as servant and cook to the two parish priests.
Caitlin paused outside the rectory, then passed by and climbed the rough-cut steps to the church. Aligned along the ridge, Our Lady Star of the Sea church occupied a spread of flat ground covered with the same beach-pebbles as the footpath from the road. Caitlin paused in the doorway at the west end of the church, stayed for a moment by the clarity and peace of the evening. She gazed out over the gravestones and the grass to the errant line of the cliff-top. Dark grey was the sea beyond, and blue the sky above. The blueness of the sky paled to limpid opalescence where the sun had set. No sound. No movement. Only a shiver in the short grass where the breeze blew across it. Inland the evening shadows darkened the purple hills, the green fields, the grey stone walls, the yellow flowers of spreading whins. Lights in farmhouse windows twinkled like stars. Thin twines of smoke uncoiled from cottage chimneys.
Caitlin felt a surge of joy within her. No-one knows how much I love this land, she thought.
She opened the church door with a click of the latch and closed it gently behind her. The hush of the evening out of doors deepened between the white walls and the dark, varnished roof-beams of the church. Three small windows high up along each wall admitted light by day but they were gloomy now. Below each window a picture hung. Padraig had told Caitlin their stories. Along the right-hand wall that overlooked the sea the first picture showed Jesus calling the disciples Andrew and John as they worked at their nets by the shore; the second showed Him in a crowded boat ordering the stormy waters to be calm; and the third showed Him walking upon the sea, holding an outstretched hand to Peter. Along the opposite wall the first picture was of Jesus pulling ears of corn as He walked through a field with…

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