Tag: torment

Savages and Beasts

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perhaps closer than people thought, same as the change Anton
felt might perk up between the archons of this school and the
children of the savages, a change that perhaps might lead to a
dialogue between the two sides. Yet a doubt lurked deep in his
heart that what he hoped for would be proven to be just that.
He arrived at the school. He greeted Sister Gladys at her
desk. The spectacled nun graced him with a broad smile; the
nun knew that this young man was her insurance, her security,
this young man would make it impossible for her lover, Father
Jerome, to fool around, something her mind relished and seeing
here in front of her this young man she felt as if she had to get up
and hug him: to thank him for being here to protect her interest.
Yet she didn’t get up, she didn’t say anything more than what she
had to, and Anton walked away towards his submerged kingdom.
His mind recalled the beautiful body he held in his arms yesterday
and his attitude suddenly sweetened to the point that a broad
smile spread on his face.
“Mary, what would she be doing this early in the morning?”
He thought to himself and his mind ran to her sweet lips
which were whispering her morning prayer before she would get
ready to go to her daily responsibilities. The day was excellent,
such were her spirits, such was the attitude of the sun up in the
firmament, and such was the emotion of the north wind that
was blasting the old oaks and the chestnuts trees outside in the
School grounds.
Time passed. Anton heard the bell that announced the
first recess. Kids got out of their classes; Sister Anna and Father
Peter were on duty out in the yard. He walked up and taking
Mary from her office they too walked outside. There they walked
slowly towards the big oak on the eastern side of the yard. Father
Peter and Sister Anna saw them but didn’t care to disturb them;

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Savages and Beasts

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a few minutes to pretend of listening to their pleas and needs,
then the elections are over the politicians disappear as they have
done before and the Indians carry on living their substandard
life with no light anywhere to be seen. These are the people the
Anglos have to give a voice and a sense of what freedom means
by way of example and by way of re-distributing part of this
country’s wealth and share some of it with the Indians. However
I can’t see the Christian Anglo ever getting to that point
of psycho-spiritual advancement that he’ll accept this idea as
something doable. Then, they talk of racism and that they stand
against any form of it but not by example: only in their hollow
talk and the promises which they don’t keep.”
Anton’s father sighed and stirred in his chair. Then he
continued.
“Here we have two different cultures, totally opposite to
each other and each of them preaching their ways to the members
of their society and the hatred one feels for the other which
results only to a short-lived victory for either side thinking they
each make some progress while in reality the fundamental differences
remain and are perpetuated and all this because there
is no dialogue. None of the two sides truly want to sit down and
talk since each side distrusts the other and as long as that distrust
exists between them there won’t ever be a dialogue, there
won’t ever be an embracement. The only way forward is that
small room for dialogue, the exchange of ideas, views, thoughts,
images, and perhaps one day something positive will emerge; this
is the chance both sides must take because there isn’t any other
way forward, except of hatred, enmity, endless doubt, hell.”
He stopped again and took a deep breath; yes it was much
to take for anyone; besides the truth always hurt the ones who
didn’t like it.

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The Unquiet Land

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a while, but we don’t get along all that well. She’s a straitlaced Puritan like many here in the village. And I hate Belfast, don’t you? There’s a brother and his wife in Liverpool, but I’m never going to England. I have a good friend in Derry. You know her. Molly McEvoy. Her husband was killed last year. She has often said that she and I should live together.”
“Derry’s not much improvement on Belfast,” Finn pointed out.
“No,” said Mother Ross, “but it might have to do. I don’t have a great deal of choice.”
“Come home with me, Jinnie,” Finn said impulsively. “I need someone to look after the twins. They’re nearly six years old now, and Una Slattery’s finding them too much of a handful with four children of her own. Caitlin’s a self-willed little imp who needs some of the wildness spanked out of her. Hard to believe they’re sisters, let alone twins. My house is comfortable, and there’s plenty of room. Come on. I’ll take you up there right away. I’ve the pony and trap on the road beyond.”
That was twenty years ago—twenty-one come June—and Mother Ross had lived in Finn MacLir’s house ever since. Six months after moving in as the keeper of his house and the childminder of his two young daughters, six months of slander-scandaled tongue-wagging in the village of Corrymore, Mother Ross became the second wife of Finn MacLir. Arthur Hamilton, as justice of the peace, married them in the dining room of the large, stone house. A party began on that first Friday in December, 1898, that people still talked about two decades later. And the first Friday of every month since then, whenever he was home, Finn and his friends met to celebrate yet again the night he married the widow, Sinead O’Neill, otherwise known as Mother Ross. Though she was Mrs Finn MacLir by law, she was, and remained, Mother Ross by custom. Even Caitlin never stopped calling her by the only name she had ever known her by.
“My mother was Annie Hogan before she married Jimmy Ross,” Mother Ross once related to Caitlin. “She was the midwife here in Corrymore for many years. I was the youngest of her seven children and I used to help her at the birthing. I was with her that terrible night when you and Nora were born, Caitlin. When the arthritis crippled my mother’s fingers, I took her place. I never had any children of my own.” A sad, faraway look had come into her eyes. “I was pregnant when my husband was drowned at sea, and I lost the baby in a miscarriage. I survived on my own after Jimmy’s death using midwifery skills learned at my mother’s side. I not only took

over her job, I was given her name at the same time. Mother Ross. It has stuck to me ever since.”

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Arrows

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We hobbled jerkily, as directed, like some pathetic, three-legged
creature, until gradually we learned to swing our shared leg in
unison. In this humbled manner we were brought before the war
council of caciques.
The caciques were seated in a circle, with Guacaipuro given no
special place of honour. I was surprised to find Baruta among them.
Apacuana later told us that he had recently been made a cacique and
his body still bore the scars of the tests he had completed.
These were men who exuded confidence and authority, not the
kind of men one would cross unnecessarily. Their reputation for
bloodthirstiness coloured my apprehensions. I wondered if perhaps
we were meant to be slaughtered before them, as some sort of
ceremonial prelude to war.
I knew as well as Tamanoa that these Caribs were warriors,
conquerors in their own right. For generations, they had moved
from the south of the mainland to the northern coast, fighting their
way and conquering the gentler Arawaks.
Caribs fought among themselves, too, and made trading
incursions to the islands north of the mainland from which they
obtained not only goods, but also women. Not surprisingly, such
men were not inclined towards plans for surrender.
Though most of these men wielded authority over vast expanses
of land, Guacaipuro was chief of six other villages besides Suruapo.
Consequently it was the military strategist Guacaipuro who had
summoned the caciques of seven neighboring nations.
Whispering, Tamanoa quickly explained the gist of the
situation: Losada had founded the city of Santiago de León de
Caracas upon the settlement of San Francisco, and for the natives,
this had but one meaning: war.We were present because a cacique
called Mamacuri from the coast was arguing in favour of using the
shaman of the white men to obtain inside information about
Losada and his party.
Other caciques, like Paramaconi, great chief of the Toromaynas
from the valley where the new city had been founded, were more
inclined to kill me. Catia agreed with Paramaconi.

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Eagle Talon and his son, Honiahaka Little Wolf, emerged from the forest with a
magnificent buck slung from a sapling pole between them. The two men paused to
rest and massage their aching shoulders. Below them stretched the mighty water,
birthplace of the sun and home to the great creatures who blew fountains into the
air. It was also home to the friendly man savers.
As Eagle Talon looked far out to sea, he remembered how his youngest son, Kosumi,
was washed out of his canoe by a savage wave. He thought he’d lost his son to
the sea, but two man-size sea creatures, those who blew fountains of water into the
air, came to Kosumi and swam him safely to shore.
From that day forward, the Nation declared these man-savers Friends of the First
Light People. Never again did they hunt them for food. Since that time, the sea mammals
leapt from the water to greet the young men whenever they sailed out to spear
the white fish or to dive for the clawed sea-cleaners.
Eagle Talon whispered his thanks once more for his son’s life. Then he whispered
his thanks to all the creatures of the sea that fed his family and his people.
Little Wolf saw it first and crawled on all fours to the edge of the embankment for
a better look and beckoned his father to join him. On the beach below was a great
canoe, big as a longhouse. Strange, white-skinned men with hairy faces shouted at
one another and banged at boards of split pine, inside. Outside, men were painting
the frightful beast whose head was a double serpent totem of scarlet, blue and green.
Eagle Talon and his son watched in awe. They must return quickly to the village.
Surely the sachem, White Eagle, would have an answer to the appearance of such
strange visitors.
Since Eagle Talon and his tribe greatly respected White Eagle as a wise elder, a
confederation of villages elected him sachem. He governed the people of his district,
upheld the law, allocated farmland according to the size of each family, collected
tribute, provided for widows and orphans, and taught all boys up to the age of sixteen
the arts of manhood. He also acted as arbitrator, whenever war threatened.
White Eagle sat erect. His grey hair flowed unadorned in long shiny strands to
his lower back. He wore a beaded doeskin jacket, pants and moccasins. The sachem
raised his hand to call for calm and addressed the gathering of braves.
“My brothers. These strangers have surely come in peace. Let us welcome them
with gifts of food, as is our custom. We will honour them with song and dance at our
Lodge Fire and celebrate Broken Wing’s success in the hunt. If they allow us, we will
help them repair their strange craft that they may soon be on their way.”
The gathered braves turned to one another in discussion. Then they voted by a
show of hands to follow the sachem’s advice.
White Eagle continued. “I will approach the strangers at their camp. Broken
Wing, Crow Foot and Eagle Talon will bring sweet corn, the gift of the gods, and
fresh salmon. I go to prepare my face and body with red earth as a sign we are men
of the earth.”
Freki, ever on the lookout, was the first to see the four Natives approach the fire.
They wore only tan breechcloths. Three of the Natives wore crow and turkey feathers
in long braids. They had their heads shaved except for a long strip of stubble…

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Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume III

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14th of November
As we focus our eyes to notice a difference
among the pieces of day, we don’t know how to get
a hold of ourselves, we miss the shape, the hour, colors,
faces. We only listen carefully so that we might
discern a sound that confirms the passing of time,
so we can reverse the performance, box, broom handle,
name, the dice that roll on the table,
the limping wind that stumbles onto the barbwire
the fork that hits the plate and its sound that continues
internally.
Otherwise a circle without a center remains, a whirl
in the air with no movement but its own;
it can’t become a car tire that crosses a forest
and if once it becomes a square
it’s not a window through which you look at the world
or the three lined carpentries in an unfamiliar
neighborhood,
but only the relativity of straight lines, the analogy of corners,
boring, very boring things. A mathematician and
an astronomer could create something concrete and
clear out of all these.
I can’t. Yet I always liked the Observatories; the dark
stairway, the clock, the telescope, those photographs
of stars in homely positions: Orion without his sword,
with no underwear, Verenice with her many freckles,
unwashed, frumpy, a whole urban kitchen
transferred to a metaphysical location, boiling cups,
jugs, casseroles, the grater, salt cellar, baking tins,
white spots, a bit of steam hanging onto the smoked
walls of the night.
Someone was talking of numbers and more numbers,
light-eons, leagues and leagues. I wasn’t listening.
Today a friend was telling me that when he was thirteen
he was selling oranges and lemons in Piraeus;
he also had a young Armenian friend who was selling
socks. During the summer afternoons they’d meet in the
harbour behind a pile of sacks, where they’d put down
their baskets and read poems; then they’d eat a sesame
bread ring and an orange and gaze at the sea, the jumping
fish, the foreign ships.
From today I also have a friend who smells of orange
and harbour. He keeps many evening whistles of ships
in his pockets. I see the movement of the big finger
of the big harbour clock on his hands. From today on,
I’ll love him, I’ll unbutton one of his coat buttons.
Now I think of going to find his young Armenian friend
to find a basket with socks on the road, to cry out, socks,
beautiful socks, cheap socks. At noon, I’m sure I’ll find
the Armenian youth behind the sacks, I’ll get to know him;
he’ll recognize me since we both have the traces of our
common friend’s eyes on the lips. If I missed that
basket with the socks and the one with the lemons I
wouldn’t know how to fill my day, my words,
my silence.
Yet I believe every comrade wishes to have such a basket,
only that I don’t know where to find it and I get angry and
I search.

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Savages and Beasts

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schedule from the wall and placed it on the desk; he’d like to give
a fresh coat of paint to the place.
Evening came as an August surprise; cool air blew from
the northeast horizon gracing Kamloops with a soft feathery
touch, people’s faces rejoiced in the soft reprieve of the twilight;
muffled chirps of birds were still heard coming from the bushes
and trees, the odd owl call was heard from a deserted barn or
the top of the huge oak trees or the wild chestnuts. Anton had
cleaned his beddings and had placed them on the bed, he had
finished all the drying of children’s clothes for the day and had
them in bins ready to get to the maids in both the boys’ and girls’
quarters; He sat for a minute to recall the events of the day and
closed his eyes in satisfaction that the day was as productive and
busy as it should had been; after a couple of minutes of meditative
recollection he got up and one by one he pushed the loaded bins
two to the boys’ sleeping quarters and two to the girls’. Maids
took them from there and did their side of work.
He was getting ready to leave for the day when Mary
rushed in his domain. Her face gleamed with joy to come and
see him; she closed the door before she fell in his arms. They
kissed. They touched each other. They wanted each other. Eros
took over their moments and before one could imagine it Mary
and Anton were under his clean bed-sheets. Lust commanded
their bodies to join, there where the earth smelled of endlessness
where time didn’t matter nor existed and moments passed fast
like their pulse that galloped at the demands of lust and nothing
was reserved, nothing was held back. Only their muffled moans
were heard for a good length of time until the consummation
overpowered everything and relaxation followed.
Later that evening, after Anton went home and had the
family supper he went to his room to reflect on today’s events

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Arrows

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Although she had suffered terrible humiliation at the hands of
Gregorio, and possibly Baruta, there was nothing weak about her.
She was undefeated, strong. Like the jaguar, I thought, bold and
proud. Perhaps Tamanoa found her independent spirit was
unbecoming for her sex.
As she bathed, Apacuana told us more. The night before,
apparently Baruta had gone to the river looking for her in vain.
When she returned, they argued, for she had told him she was going
to get water; instead, she went to feed me. That night she had cried in
my arms because Baruta wanted to take her with him to Suruapo,
Guacaipuro’s village up in the mountains, as his woman. Apacuana
had refused and ended up telling him she did not want to marry
him, at least not yet. Baruta had reached for the macana, intending to
hammer some sense into his betrothed.
As I had guessed, Baruta had pressed Yulema into talking. She
sang like a nightingale, telling him everything except the precise
whereabouts of the cave. Instead she had led him off the track,
thereby allowing time to forewarn Apacuana. Fuming with his
inherited hatred of white men, Baruta had set off to find me, but he
had looked further east of the river.
“Will Baruta keep looking for us?” I asked.
She thought not. Guacaipurowas anticipating Paramaconi’s answer
with the greatest urgency, and so Baruta’s duty to his father would
have to take precedence. It was very important business, Apacuana
told us. Paramaconiwas being summoned to a war council in Suruapo.
The meeting would take place very soon, in a matter of days.
All the principal caciques of the region were being called upon to
unite forces in a major attack against Losada in the valley of San
Francisco.
I waded further downstream where I might discreetly disrobe
and wash my privates. I was obliged, by my race, to warn Losada,
but Apacuana had just run away from her betrothed because of me,
she had been raped by Gregorio, and I couldn’t possibly take her
back to the valley of San Francisco.

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Savages and Beasts

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Yet the evil pouring out
of that entry shook him up as if a powerful tempest unlocks a
house off its foundations, such was the thunderous burden put on
his mind to comprehend the atrocity the details of which he read.
“Why, father? Why a man would end up doing these evil
things?” Anton asked.
“Most of these behaviours relate to the man’s psycho-spiritual
essence or level of human’s advancement but in this particular
case it all flows out of what these people who run the Residential
Schools believe, on what philosophical basis they have been
brought up, what values they have been taught in their schools,
and believe me, in the era we live in this country, the Anglos, still
live with the colonial era mentality. They still consider themselves
occupiers rather than co-existent people next to other
people they see themselves as the archon class and everyone else
down under them. That’s where all this misery springs from.”
“Dad, how could that be possible, we live in the 20ieth
century, this is an advanced country, this is not Africa,” Anton
resisted his dad’s negativity.
“Yes, son, it is true this is Canada, yet think of it seriously,
how did these evil things could ever occur? Where would their
origin be but in the colonial era mentality of the people? Because
when we supress we follow in the steps of tyrants who declare in
speech after speech their desire to bestow freedom to all and to
work for the betterment of people’s lives whereas they indulge
in self-deception and monologues which have themselves as the
only audience, satisfying themselves and their ideologies, whereas
when we reject suppressing others and accept others the way they
are we transcend deception and become true societal citizens.”
Anton said nothing. He felt his father was right. He felt
it in his heart and he only hoped that one day things might get

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Brother Rordan looked around for Svend or Ul, whichever his name was. Determined
he’d find him, he only wished to apologize for his earlier blunder and perhaps
be his friend. Maybe Ul was being ‘used’ by the captain and felt ashamed of his position.
The crew, apart from the captain, seemed to give him a wide berth. Perhaps
already on board, the Irish thrall was nowhere to be found.
When the feast wound down, the late summer sun had moved along the far horizon.
Songs and games became more boisterous. The Norsemen wrestled, stripped
to a narrow loincloth, their bodies glistening with lamb fat. Bjorn, strongest of them
all, won every bout. Bjorn was aptly and fondly named the Blonde Bear for his massive
bushy beard and hairy chest. No Norseman ever refused his challenge. Each
preferred to be thrown by the mighty Bear than be seen as any less than a brave son
of Odinn, god of war. Spectators circled the wrestlers, cheering on each challenger
in his turn. Sometimes, Bjorn allowed a man to hold him for a while, but never long
enough to claim a victory. As each challenger lay defeated, the great champion lifted
him up with the love of a Nordic brother. In all his show of strength, Bjorn was
almost gentle.
When the wrestling was done, other games of skill took place. Some competed in
feats of archery and knife throwing with targets set at greater and greater distances.
Prizes of bone-handled knives and silver jewellery were awarded to winners in each
category. Several men began a game with a leather ball. They used sticks to hit the
ball and one another’s legs. Competition grew loud and fierce. The ball, the size of a
man’s fist, flew hard and fast.
At last, the casks of beer were drained. One by one, the players left the game to
sit in small groups and talk about home and women and their dreams. Each man
speculated on his share of the profits, when they’d sell their catch of sheep and slaves
at the marketplace in Thulé.
By the dying embers of the fire, the captain filled his men’s cups with sweet mead.
He and his crew toasted further adventures and Valhöll, where all slain warriors
would live for all time, happily feasting with Odinn. All grew serious for a while.
Then Bjorn tossed the ball to Kyrri, the Quiet One. Kyrri tossed the ball to Captain
Hjálmar. This was a different game, played with a twist of humour. While Bjorn and
Kyrri covered their eyes, the other men began a song.
“Treasure hidden in the night, so safely out of view,
will not be gained without a fight. The search is up to you.”
Hjálmar tiptoed off to hide the ball. Much to the amusement of the onlookers,
he slipped it up the loudly snoring Finten’s tunic, then stood apart chuckling. On a
signal from the singing crew, Bjorn and Kyrri began the search from man to man, accompanied
by cheers and sighs of “koer, varmr, heitr, kaldr” and the Brothers joined
in with their own shouts of “close, warm, hot, cold.”
Finally, with whispered hints from various members, Bjorn snuck up on the apparently
sleeping monk. But as Bjorn reached under the priest’s tunic in search of
the hidden ball, Finten grabbed his wrist and bellowed, “Do you take me while I am
sleeping? You are desperate, my poor fellow, but I have a vow, and my vow applies to
women and to men. I cannot satisfy you asleep or awake. For shame.”

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