Νέον Μπλόγκ

Λοιπόν, επειδή αζούλεψα τζιαι επειδή άρκεψα τζιαι βαρκούμαι να μεν εκφράζουμαι στην γλώσσαν της μάνας μου, εξεκίνησα τζι εγιώ νέον μπλογκ. Τούτον λαλούν το 'Παττίχα τζιαι χαλλούμιν' τζιαι θα το εύρετε δαμαί. Έτσι για να μεν λαλεί ο παρέας ο Αντώνης ότι εν γράφω Κυπριακά. Άτε να δούμεν...

Exorcism pt. III

Continued from Part II

The brigadier was going from bad to worse, as he hadn’t had a whole-night’s sleep in weeks. He started to forget things, turned up to work in a dirty uniform, unshaven and deranged. He forgot his tendency to bully the major and his other subordinates, and was especially absent-minded to the point where he started leaving classified documents and important keys all over the camp. Despite his macho façade and his pretences of warrior status, he was a man constantly fighting to maintain control over everything and everyone in his life. He kept everyone at arm’s length, lest they saw through him and lost their fear and respect for him. He claimed to like guns and shooting and all things army, but at heart he detested it all. Weapons made his hands greasy and he hated the loud mayhem of practice shooting. He occasionally had to put on a show for the sake of hierarchy, but he loathed it all. His weapon of choice was one of his expensive pens tucked into his breast pocket, and his usual target was the daily crossword. He just felt that things worked out better when people feared him and did as he said-so he left no space for contradictions and arguments in any aspect of his life.

One afternoon he fell asleep in the office, only to wake up late at night when everyone was gone. As his driver had taken his leave, he decided to walk home. Passing through the sleepy village’s narrow streets, mud brick houses and dark arches, he felt that someone or something was following him, as if the dark itself was conspiring against him. He started walking faster, his legs making a vain attempt to run but failing to shift his heavy frame. When he finally got home he had the look of a mad man. His wife tried to calm him down, bathed him and put him to bed as if he was a baby. Then she picked up the phone. “Good evening Yiannís. We need to talk. Yes, tomorrow morning, I’ll come to the church. Thank you, goodnight.”

The brigadier was surprised to see his brother-in-law in his office. He couldn’t remember arranging a ceremony for the troops and it was definitely not a national holiday. Papa Yiannís had arrived informed and trod around the topic very carefully to avoid exposing the poor woman’s intervention. “You look tired Sofokli if you don’t mind me saying so. Have you been busy at work or partying hard?” he joked. When the brigadier tried to dismiss the priest’s concern, the priest insisted. “Seriously Sofokli, I’m worried about you as a friend and relative, and the man responsible for your soul. Is there something you want to tell me?” When the brigadier dismissed his concerns once again, the priest erupted in rage. He charged at him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently. “For fuck’s sake man! Look at you! You look like you’ve just crawled out of the sewer and you’re crazier than Pello-Kokos. I’ve seen men end up in the asylum for less! Tell me what’s going on before I kick your head in!” 


The brigadier had never heard the priest swear, or threaten with violence, and was shocked at his directness but also at his strength. The priest was a young man and was far from being typical. He was rather pragmatic and sceptical about any kind of claims to the supernatural, but also understood its great value to the Church’s cause. He was a rather secular priest, playing guitar in a local rock band and occasionally playing football for the village team. He was in fact quite a good player, with a tendency to get stuck in and even have the odd fight. In the evenings he turned up at the coffee house, played pool and darts and smoked endlessly. The only thing that made him a priest were his beard and cassock. But the brigadier was shocked none the less and immediately explained to him what he had experienced in the past few weeks.

Papa Yiannís listened with caution. When the brigadier finished, he sighed in desperation. He’d been hearing these stories for a while but was utterly dismissive. “Sofokli, there are no ghosts, this is nonsense.” Papa Yiannís went on to explain to the brigadier the local legend of a young girl who was murdered around the chapel of St George by a villain and whose spirit is said to roam the area around the anniversary of her death every August. The priest had a cynical take on the tale and treated it as damaging superstition. “You know the tale of Pafitis, don’t you Sofoklis? Old man Pafitis rode to the cemetery on his donkey one evening to light a candle by his late wife’s grave. He dismounted and drove a spike into the earth onto which he tied the donkey. He turned and got up to go to the grave, when he felt something holding his vraka* back. He thought the dead had reached out from their graves and were holding him back and he died from fear. In fact he’d pinned down his own vraka when he was tying the donkey. They found him dead in the morning, his vraka pinned to the ground and full of shit.” The brigadier stared at him with blank eyes. “What I’m trying to say is that this ghost story is as ridiculous and silly as the story of old man Pafitis. We have to get over it now. For the sake of your sanity, your wife and your soldiers.”

“Please Yianní, can’t you do something? I am really tormented”, insisted the brigadier, his spherical body sunken in his chair. “You are tormented because you have fear in you, and you believe in this crap.” “Can’t you do something, a blessing, an exorcism, something? The soldiers have been seeing things too, something is not right, for sure.” “Listen, you are an intelligent man. If it makes you feel better, we can have a ceremony and consecrate the grounds again, with the soldiers present. Hopefully this will make everyone calm down so we can get on with our lives. I want a favour in return though.” “Anything, as long as we can put this matter to bed once and for all.”

On the following day a sombre procession began from the outpost. The troops, some of which were carrying crosses and the banner of the Virgin which Papa Yannís provided, Captain Kitsis, Major Troullos, the brigadier, Mastre Hambís and Linda the dog were all walking slowly behind the priest’s determined and fearless figure. He was chanting and burning incense all the way to the end of the trench where the bones were found. When they got there, the group still cowering with fear but also hopeful, the priest recited prayers to banish the evil spirits. He went on to sprinkle holy water with a bunch of basil and the cross held in his right hand, making the sign of the cross. It all had a strange resonance in the peaceful countryside. The wind was lightly shaking the cypress trees and there was not even a cloud to blemish the blue sky. When it was all over they all looked relieved and happy. The priest turned around to address them. “My children, now all this is over and laid to rest. I urge you to go back to your daily routine without fear. The Lord will protect you and shelter you from all evil.”

For the next few weeks the soldiers whitewashed the chapel, repaired the door, rebuilt the perimeter wall which was crumbling away and fixed the gate. They pulled the weeds and cleaned up, just as Papa Yannís had ordered. They had a renewed air of youthful cheer and arrogance, their playfulness had returned, as if Papa Yannís’ prayers had disintegrated their worries and cleansed their minds from all doubts and fears. They started teasing each other, splashing Sotirakis’ boots with whitewash and pretending they were ghosts howling and laughing. It was all back to normal it seemed, they were eighteen again.

Papa Yannís came with the brigadier on the last day and together they complimented the soldiers for their work. “Perhaps this ghost should come more often”, Papa Yannís joked. The brigadier looked back at his best, ubiquitous and loud as usual, but also happy it was all over. The soldiers gathered their tools, spades, rakes, brushes and buckets and started walking back towards the outpost. Mastre Hambís would be coming by later with some kléftiko and beers.

Nobody noticed the black-clad figure peering at them from inside the chapel.


_____________________________________________________________
Vraka=traditional trousers/shalvar worn in Cyprus and Crete


Part of the Army Tales

Image from here

Exorcism pt. II

Continued from Part I


To make things worse, the squad’s bookworm, Sotirakis, had been reading Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft recently, and his wild imagination conjured images of masked aggressors, outlandish beasts with claws and fangs. He’d sit with the rest at night and always start with something like “what if..”, weaving an improbable probability of monsters, ghosts and ghouls prowling the night after the men’s souls. They often tried to shut him up. Antonís threatened to break his legs if he didn’t stop. Unfortunately, Sotirakis had frequent nightmares as a result, crucially waking up screaming as the oneiric beast was about to catch up with him on his patrol and rip his lungs out. He’d occasionally wake everyone else with his screams, and as they were already scared, Sotirakis’ screams froze their blood, until they realised what happened and started cursing him. He then started reading Huckelberry Finn again just for a change.

Patrols passing near the chapel of St George thought they saw a figure in the cypress trees, lurking in the dark, although it may well have been the branches swaying in the night breeze. One night, as they were playing cards and singing, trying to beat the boredom, they heard scratching on the roof. They all fell silent and froze, listening what sounded like a huge pair of claws scraping the roof. In the end Kostís went out and saw that one of the branches of the eucalyptus tree was so low it started to scrape the roof. They cut it down the following morning.

They easy excuse for most things was the enemy. The Turks were probably teasing them, crossing the ceasefire line at night and throwing stones at them or crying out to frighten them. They kept telling themselves that, but didn’t really believe it. They kept their weapons loaded and bayonets fixed just in case.

Things went from bad to worse, when they stopped going on patrols and manning the detached outpost altogether. The threat of punishment was somehow preferable to the threat of the unknown. They’d take a scolding from the brigadier or the captain any time to facing the long walk in the dark to relieve the guard. Sometimes they agreed to keep guard in pairs, doing effectively double shifts. That was the only way they’d brave the dark. The patrols kept moving, as opposed to finding a sheltered spot for a nap as they used to. They stopped by the guard posts for longer periods, sitting all together, smoking and pretending things were all right.

Eventually Captain Kitsis found out about all this and turned up at the outpost to calm things down.  He thought that a considerate approach might work better than punishments flying. He tried to entertain their fears, claiming that they were just seeing things, but to no avail. They agreed in principle to go back to normal, but things just became worse after Kostís swore he saw some shadows follow him on his way to the outpost. They went back to spending their nights indoors and going everywhere in groups. Eventually, the regimental snitch grassed them up to the brigadier. They knew they were in for some trouble when they saw his car come up the drive unexpectedly, late one morning. The gate guard trying in vain to hold him up in order to give the rest some time to scrub up. He’d brought Major Troullos with him, as if to tell everyone off together. This caused Troullos great embarrassment as he knew nothing about what was going on.

“So what’s this I hear?” he addressed the assembled conscripts. “Apparently you lot have been seeing ghosts and what have you.” Nobody responded. “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?” he insisted. “Sergeant?” “Well, sir, it’s just that the men have been seeing and hearing strange things since we dug up that trench by the chapel.” “What about it?” demanded the brigadier, his face already beginning to feel the heat, droplets of sweat breaking on his forehead. “Well, there were some bones there, and we think we’ve disturbed the dead.” 

“Nonsense! Are you saying there are ghosts? Don’t answer that. There are no such things as ghosts, lads”, changing to a friendlier tune. “I can imagine how here in the wilderness you can imagine things, but I assure you there’s nothing to be afraid of. Generations of soldiers have passed from here and we never heard anything like that” he reasoned, conveniently neglecting the events of 1982. “Now listen, let’s all take a walk together to the chapel and see, except for the guard of course”, he chuckled.

They walked down the trenches, approaching the place the bones were found. When Kostís pointed out the place, the brigadier kicked it lightly with his boot, laughing. “What, this pile of dirt? Some dog probably buried a bone here and you found it. If there were ghosts here, where are they now? I’m actually kicking their ground.” The soldiers looked in disbelief. “Listen, all this is nonsense, I guarantee you that there is nothing to be afraid of. I know you lads have been really tired with long shifts, so to show you I mean it, I’ll post four more men up here, to help with the shifts and give you a break”, he added, eager to wrap this up and head back to the village where the mayor was waiting for him for lunch. The troops were visibly pleased at this, as they hadn’t had proper leaves for a long time.

They returned to the outpost, calmer and more relaxed. It probably was all in their heads; it was easy to get carried away in this solitude. They went about their business, and the officers got into the back of the car and the car drove away. As they were going over the bridge, they saw an old woman standing there, waiting for them to pass. The brigadier turned and looked at her, but thought nothing more of it. About half a mile down the road, there was another old lady, a typical yiayia dressed in black. As the car drove fast past her, raising a cloud of dust, she cursed at them, waving her hand. “Stop the car” ordered the brigadier. He shuffled himself out of the car and looked, but the old lady was nowhere to be seen. He thought it was weird, and stood looking around bemused. “You did see that, didn’t you Troullos?” he asked as he entered the car. “Yes, of course.” “Old hag probably disappeared in the trees” he dismissed unconvincingly.

But it did have an effect on the brigadier after all. He kept waking up at night, hearing a woman crying, and strange noises from the street. The yiayia appeared in his sleep, standing on the bridge, silent and dressed in black, her eyes staring hard at him, deeply set in her wrinkled face. He woke up, time and again covered in sweat, cold sweat rather than the usual sticky sweat and humidity of summer. His wife tried to calm him down but in his moment of vulnerability and insecurity he growled at her to hide his distress under a veil of testosterone. “It’s this bloody heat woman, don’t you bug me as well now” he snapped at her. His wife, a patient and stoic woman who learnt to submit to him and his outbursts over the years, just kept quiet once again, preferring to vent her own frustrations on other things. The brigadier’s nightmares didn’t go away, however. The yiayia kept appearing in his dream, always the same scene, her standing on the bridge, unmoved by the gusts of wind and dust and sometimes pointing at him; him unable to shake off her stare and implied menace to him.

In the meantime, the calm at the outpost didn’t last very long. The soldiers started seeing shadows and hearing whispers, wailing at night and howling noises. They tried to convince themselves that it was the wind and nothing else, but deep inside they were shaking with fear, as if they knew they’d committed hubris and their nemesis couldn’t be very far. Even the newly posted troops caught the fever. They quickly learnt from the rest that things were not rosy, and shared their fears. Luckily the power generator was fixed so they didn’t have to sit at night with just the petrol lamp. They could watch TV, but occasionally the power went out suddenly, always around midnight, something they attributed to the generator overheating until Sotirakis, like the encyclopaedia of horror that he was, helpfully informed them of the significance of the witching hour.

One evening Mastre Hambís turned up with a couple of bottles of brandy and some food, only to find them in an almost deranged state. They were all sitting inside the outpost, without a guard at the gate. They were all armed to the teeth, bayonets fixed and weapons loaded, as if the supernatural could be killed with 7.62 bullets. When they heard Hambís’ voice, they calmed down, as if the old man was their link to the soil, its ghosts and saints. The old man realised that something was seriously wrong. When they recounted the story of the bones to him, he told them the old legend of the village witch. According to the legend, there used to be a witch at the village, a vile woman who always dressed in black, had a black cat and practised magic, giving people the evil eye. This woman’s father was desperately trying to get her to marry, and brought the finest princes in the land to ask for her hand, but she refused them all. She even murdered one of them, and they say he was buried around the chapel, where the trench was dug. The evil witch disappeared and is said to appear around the time of the murder, terrorising the village, although few people can say they have seen or heard her. The soldiers realised that what they’d been experiencing had something to do with this tale. Mastre Hambís was the chorus in this unfolding tragedy, filling in with crucial information inside the amphitheatre of the sun-baked landscape. 


To be continued...
Part of the Army Tales

Image from here

Exorcism pt. I

They were all gathered inside the outpost-even Linda the dog was terrified, hidden under the TV stand. The guards did their shifts in pairs, so that they’d have someone to talk to. Patrol duties were largely neglected, not because of a mischievous streak, but as a result of The Appearance.  This was no truant dereliction of duty resulting from an urge to stay tucked in bed or hop off to the nearest town for ice cream. This was genuine fear.

It all happened when that wretched commander ordered them to dig the trenches as a punishment for not keeping the outpost free from cigarette butts and weeds. The commander, major Troullos, had been going through a particularly harsh streak recently. Punishments for unpolished boots and unbuttoned shirts had become his staple ever since that inquest into his handling of the munitions storage and a punishment coming his way from central HQ. Troullos just took it out on the lads. The trenches were dug some time in the ‘70’s, when a realistic possibility of conflict existed and made them necessary. They had since fallen into disuse and ended up being used as a rubbish tip or sometimes a cosy spot for lovers to hiding from prying eyes. When Troullos came round one morning, they were still shuffling out of bed, unshaven and scruffy. Antonís was standing there, boots unlaced and eyes half-closed, supposedly in attention but still clinging onto that last dream he was having about playing in a European final and scoring, running towards the fans with his arms aloft.

Troullos was in a foul mood. He kept yelling at them, calling them a disgrace. “If your lot was around during the war we’d all be speaking Turkish now! And you, Constantinou” he yelled in the sergeant’s face, “is this how you keep your soldiers under control? Look at them! They couldn’t fight a swarm of flies, let alone the enemy! Four days detention to all of you! Eight days to you sergeant! And look at this shit-hole, how can you idiots smoke so much? And why do you toss these cigarettes everywhere-you should be court-martialled for stupidity!” And then he just gazed at the sun-baked barley fields, frowning and thoughtful. “I think that our trenches are far from battle-ready, don’t you think?” The men said nothing, although a light grumbling and shuffling of boots could be heard. “Sergeant, hop in the jeep.”

He took Kostís to the trenches, about half a mile north of the outpost, and issued his orders: “I want all grass and weeds gone from here.” Jumping into the trench, if you could call that small ditch a trench, he said to the sergeant: “You see, Constantinou, if the enemy were to shoot at me, they could hit me anywhere from the chest up-the trenches are too shallow.” Kostís prayed for the shot there and then. “You and your men will dig them down to two meters deep”, he said with glee. Kostís gasped. “But sir, the sun is really hot and this is really hard work, how can we dig so much?” “Shame on you sergeant! If your father’s generation had said the same, we’d all be washing dishes in London now. I want it done by Monday-I’ll bring the brigadier to see your excellent work-so don’t let me down. And make sure you all look shaved and polished too, otherwise you’ll never see your homes until I retire!” It suddenly all clicked in Kostís’ mind. Troullos wanted to be in the brigadier’s good books. They had to do the digging in the August sun. It just wasn’t fair-but then again, very few things about the army were.

The regiment issued them with pickaxes, shovels and wheelbarrows. Kostís was really stressed about it, since he was explicitly responsible about this trench and knew the major would just punish him even more severely if they failed to do as he said. One problem was that Kostís’ rank was only useful to the major. The stripes did look good on his sleeve but he had no control over the soldiers-most of them were his friends from school. They were all conscripts, so rank did not matter at all. Finding himself in this tight spot, Kostís had to do more digging than anyone else, simply to save his skin. That the major asked them to extend the trench a few meters towards the chapel just made things even worse.

They started digging early in the mornings and late in the afternoons in order to avoid the worst of the sun. A couple of hours of digging either side of the hottest time of day and they would probably make the deadline. They all mostly pulled their weight, although Andreas saw this as another opportunity for a sick leave. He ‘injured his back’ during the first morning and was off for two weeks. The rest agreed to beat him to a pulp when he returned.

As Mastre Hambís drove past one morning to go to his farm, he stopped his truck and jumped off. “I wouldn’t be digging there if I were you lads” he exclaimed. “That was part of the old chapel cemetery-you don’t want to be disturbing the dead”, he added, wearing a worried frown across his forehead. “I’m afraid we’re only obeying orders Mastre”, Kostís replied. “Trust me, if it was down to us we wouldn’t even be here. “Well, I wouldn’t go around disturbing hallowed ground if I were you” insisted the old man, as he jumped back into his truck and drove off. “Stupid old man” chuckled the ever dismissive Antonís, who had just come back from helping his father with the potato harvest.

On and on they dug the sun-baked earth, their hands full of blisters from the wooden handles and scratches from the thorny bushes. Dusty, sweaty and demoralised, they shifted the earth on the outside of the trenches to create more depth and save on the digging. “Fucking trench! If there’s a war they’ll probably blast us via satellite” said Kostís in despair. “This is all pointless, the bastard just wants to torture us.” And on and on they shifted the earth, bucketfuls, wheelbarrows full of the red earth. Dead nettles and thistles, gravel, rubbish, broken cement and bricks, dumped by builders. There was even an old washing machine, rusty, with its mouth gazing at the sun. Its cause of death was that hunter had shot it for fun, the shot pellets burning a rusty galaxy of stars on its side. They  found old shotgun shells, broom handles, beer bottles, an old payphone, a doll with one leg missing, a broken tricycle, three dead rats, a couple of snake skins and a very alive viper, which shuffled away in search of a different nest. They threw all these close to the trench, but behind a pile of earth where the major wouldn’t be able to see them.

It was late on Sunday afternoon and they were almost finished with the digging, when Antonís was heard exclaiming “what the fuck?” They all stopped and looked at him-his dirty hand holding what seemed to be a branch. On closer inspection they realised it was a bone, probably a human thigh bone, as Sotirakis confirmed. They all looked at Antonís, as he let the bone roll off his hand in disgust. They all looked at each other, not sure what to make of this. Hambís’ words rang in their ears, and the hair on the back of their necks stood in attention. As the earth where Antonís was digging started crumbling, a skull rolled to his feet, its eye sockets filled with earth. Antonís screamed and jumped out of the trench, while the rest cautiously followed him. Linda kept barking at the bones from a safe distance.

“I think we’ve done enough lads” said Kostís. Gather the tools and let’s go. But almost as if a hand was pulling them away, they left everything where it was and took the path back to the outpost, speechless. Antonís, embarrassed at his display of fear, started to make fun of it all to try and lighten the mood. “Ah come on, you don’t believe old Hambís’ stories now do you? They’re only bones. People dig up bones in cemeteries every day.” But this was different-they knew it was, and as the night started to throw its dark veil over them, they were certain something was not right.

On Monday morning the major turned up with the brigadier, a rotund man with white hair and a camouflage fatigue like the ones the US marines wear, only a few sizes bigger and with a couple of pens in his breast pocket rather than weapons. They had scrubbed up really well and the outpost was spotless. The brigadier was not the kind to be messing about with-he handed out 20-day detentions at minimum, so everything was sparkling.

“Attention!” barked the sergeant, and they all looked at the sky, muscles tense, fists clenched on their sides. “I report: outpost men present eight sir!” yelled the sergeant, perhaps overzealous, as his high-pitch voice started to crack.

“At ease” croaked the brigadier, his voice gravelly from years of smoking cigars and drinking only the finest whiskey. “Major Troullos here tells me you soldiers are an example to your peers. It’s good to hear that. Remember that you are the future of this tormented country and that it is upon your shoulders to protect your homes and families from the barbaric enemy. Just like Leonidas and his thr…just like Leonidas and his three hundr…just like Leonidas and his three hundred fought the enemy at…Th…Thermopylae, so will you have to fight and sacrifice yourselves for the good of th…the nation” he pomped, waving his hand to drive away the flies swarming around his face. He hated coming out to the outposts-the dust, the smell, the pointlessness of it all. He’d sooner be back in his air-conditioned office, reading the papers while drinking his coffee. But he had to play along, as the general was on his case after recent reports of maladministration in his regiments.

“Major Troullos here” he pointed at the major who was beaming “tells me that you men have, under his enlightened leadership, restructured and expanded the trenches. This work is crucial, as this will no doubt be your own Therm…Thermopylae. Defensive work is our priority, and I urge you to carry on with your duties with the same vigour as usual. Major, let’s have a look at this trench!” The major waved at the sergeant to join them and they all entered the brigadier’s brand-new chauffeur-driven saloon car. Kostís had been dreading this. They would find the bones and the deserted tools and he could kiss goodbye any hope of seeing his family any time soon. When they reached the trench, the brigadier commented on the quality of the work, the depth of the trench and the speed with which the men finished the work. When they reached the part where the bones were found, Kostís was amazed to find that there was nothing there-no sign of the bones, and no sign of the tools. As they were heading back to the outpost, he thought that thieves must have carried the whole lot away. He would probably get the rap for the loss of the tools, but he preferred that to a scolding from the brigadier.

“Good job major-this should be an example to the other outposts. Please make sure that all trenches are up to this standard” said the brigadier, bringing a handkerchief to his nose as the whiff of a decomposing sheep from somewhere caught him as he was entering the car. The major joined him and the car disappeared back towards the air-conditioned civilisation from where it had come.

The men were baffled. They went back and looked around for the bones and tools, but found nothing. They asked Hambís if he saw anything or anyone, and Hambís’ frown appeared even deeper, his face darker than before. “I told you not to dig there didn’t I? Now you disturbed them, god knows what will happen.” That wasn’t the answer they were hoping for. They thought Hambís arrived early in the morning and took the tools away, tidying the place up as a favour. But that was simply not the case. And that’s when strange things began to happen. Guards heard wailing at night, but they couldn’t tell whether it was just the howling of the wind or something more sinister. The dog had become more uneasy, and she barked at the darkness for no obvious reason. As they were sitting around the petrol lamp at night, the dog just jumped to her feet and dashed outside to bark at something. Nobody followed her to check. One of the patrols thought they saw a light flickering at night inside the chapel-where no priest had lit a candle for centuries. They kept hearing strange, creaking noises from the roof, scratching and sometimes a noise which sounded like heavy sighing. A general feeling of fear and unease descended upon them, and they all kept thinking of the bones, the tools and the trench. Some tried to make fun of the situation in order to lighten up the mood and conceal their own fears. Some others just kept to themselves. Hambís somehow came round less frequently and looked more serious than usual.

One night the patrol came back terrified, their faces blank and white. They kept hearing heavy breathing and panting, as if a pack of dogs was following them. When they turned and looked they could see nothing. They kept walking, going faster and faster, but the panting followed them until they entered the outpost. Some nights they could hear the sound of horses galloping on the road. Nobody dared to look-there hadn’t been horses in that part of the world since the English made the railway. Linda kept barking. 

To be continued...

Part of the Army Tales

Image from here

Lavoura's tale

A long time ago, long before the time of the Turks, when the Franks were ruling the land, there was a rich feudal lord by the name of Markéllos. Markéllos had a daughter, Lavoura, who was of marriage age. Lavoura was a difficult woman, hard to please and very proud, and she rejected all proposed husbands her father found for her. As she was growing older, rumours started to spread that she was a witch and no man could ever have her as she was already married to Satan. As the peasantry in the area was fascinated and terrified by the stories, Markéllos desperately tried to find her a suitable husband to take her off his hands. He brought the village priest and even the bishop to bless her and drive away all evils, but to no avail-Lavoura’s attitude became even more difficult and she appeared destined to end up a spinster.

Lavoura was not what you ‘d call a beautiful woman. Her dark complexion and curly raven hair were only matched by eyes of burning coal. She was rather eccentric and always wore funereal black-something which fuelled the witch rumours about her. However, she had an inner beauty-she was a creature of great determination, loyalty, and above all intelligence. She resented the fact that she was seen as this burden to be rid of, this liability in the household. So much so, that her father was even willing to forego the traditional gift a groom had to pay for the marriage to take place. This attracted many eligible, if penniless bachelors from the area. Markéllos’ wealth and social standing was not to be sniffed at, being married to a ‘witch’ was a small price to pay for those eager to climb the ladder.

Lavoura spent her days doing embroidery, and reading the chronicles and histories, descriptions of events and places far away. Her only friend was her milkmaid Ploumou. Together they embarked on long walks in the fields where Lavoura talked to the birds and flowers. They often went on pilgrimage to the deserted chapel of St George, hidden among the cypress trees outside the village. Ploumou was the only person who understood her, and always defended her when the villagers talked about her. She knew that Lavoura was a prisoner of her fate, her gender and her social standing. That fact increased Lavoura’s resentment towards all the hopeful grooms-to-be. These ranged from sons of well-to-do landowners who were eager to marry the wealth to wealth, to the dregs of feudal society, rogues who’d spent their little property on gambling and ambitious and foolish pirating ventures they masqueraded as crusading. These were little more than raids on hapless villagers on the Anatolian mainland, where they plundered and kidnapped with a view to ransom and handsome profits. Inevitably, their meagre profits were blown on either more foolish ventures or drinking.

One of these, Franjéskos, was determined to lay his hands on Lavoura’s dowry and the land it came accompanied with. He had had enough of the fighting life and wanted to settle down, and Lavoura’s wealth represented a golden ticket for him, one he wasn’t prepared to let get away. When Lavoura treated him with cold contempt, he wasn’t put off. He knew of her reputation but thought he’d manage to break her resistance. He tried everything, approached her with sweet caution and honey-glazed stubbornness. When that didn’t work, he played the hard man role, treated her harshly and appeared arrogant and sure of his chances with her. Lavoura came to detest him and couldn’t wait for him to lose hope and join the hordes of the other failed suitors. In vain. Franjéskos was different in that he never gave up the chase until the day he died.

Markéllos felt that Franjéskos was the one who would finally make Lavoura his wife, and so allowed him extraordinary access to his daughter. He even allowed him to join Lavoura and Ploumou in their long walks in the country, which fuelled Lavoura’s hatred even more. Franjéskos, this vile, brutish man, had managed to invade one of the few spaces where she could find calm and joy. As Franjéskos became bolder and more forward with his approaches, Lavoura became increasingly uneasy and alarmed at the unprecedented intrusion and threat.

And so it came to that fateful day before the 15^th of August, when the peasants believe that unless the Virgin goes to sleep on the day of her dormation, one should be extremely mindful of accidents and carelessness. There was nothing accidental or careless about what happened that morning inside the perimeter of St George’s chapel.  Lavoura and Franjéskos were sitting on a large rock, under the cypress trees, with Ploumou at a cautious distance. Lavoura’s hatred boiled over and Franjéskos’ considerable patience finally ran out. Like two cats cornered against a wall, they began hissing and growling at each other. Lavoura, in a fit of rage, called him a vagrant and a bandit, when the violence which ran through Franjéskos’ blood began to surface, and he started waving his fist at her, calling her a witch and a hag. Lavoura had heard this once too many-the witch thing had become harder to swallow and hit her hard. She sat down with her face in her hands, weeping. Franjéskos looked at her, thinking that he was finally victorious in this battle of wills and that he had finally broken Lavoura’s pride. He immediately changed his tone, and stooped over to her with kind words, hoping that it was the coup de grâce for Lavoura’s stubbornness. He suddenly staggered back, both shocked and surprised at the pain caused by the dagger stuck in his throat. What swarms of pirates and town garrison men had failed to do, was delivered by a woman. Lavoura had thrusted the dagger so swiftly that Franjéskos could hardly react. He held the dagger from the handle, blood spurting out, and as he looked at Lavoura incredulously he opened his mouth to say something, but he instead fell flat on his face, bleeding to death.

Lavoura then disappeared. Markéllos searched everywhere for her, had his men scour the countryside and notified his contacts in the cities to look for her, but to no avail. It was as if the very ground which was soaked with Franjéskos’ blood had opened up and swallowed her, bringing her unfortunate life to an end. Markéllos could not contain his grief and the great shame the crime brought upon his name. He roamed the village streets, the fields and orchards at night, wailing and calling out her name until his legs could carry him no more and he ended up a crazed old man with no heirs.

Part of The Army Tales

Picture from here

Chaff

Mastre Hambís put out his cigarette with his boot. 'Come on boys, not much left'. The soldiers lazily got up from the comfort of the giant carob tree's shade and prepared themselves for another couple of hours of work. Mastre Hambís owned the farm right next to their outpost, and they were helping him collect all the hay bales and stack them up in storage for the winter ahead. The July sun was scorching the red earth as they reluctantly came out of the shade.

Panikkos had a soft spot for Mastre Hambís, as he reminded him of his father who was also a farmer. Mastre Hambís only had one daughter, who had married and moved to Australia, so he had nobody to help him with the farm. An old man of an age impossible to accurately guess, he had the vivacity and spring of a mountain goat. He'd often turn up at the outpost with a tray full of kléftiko and a crate of beers for the boys. It was almost as if he had de facto adopted the soldiers at the outpost. He'd seen them come and go, fresh out of training and into the boredom and solitude of the ceasefire lines, hardened, disillusioned and hopeful out into real life. On his farm he grew potatoes, barley, kept sheep and goats and had the obligatory fruit garden, so common a pattern in the region. Whatever the season, there was something to harvest, something he needed help with, but also something he could offer the boys. Oranges, mandarins, potatoes, peaches, apricots, plums, water melons. They sometimes pinched some fresh milk from the jars he put out for the dairy collection. His contribution came to substitute the dreadful slops the regiment's kitchen insisted on calling food, a pile of something or other which arrived at the outpost in a tin container at the back of a truck, covered in the red Mesaoria dust. The contents of the tin pot inevitably became food for the six or seven dogs and puppies the soldiers kept at the outpost.

They hopped on the cart drawn by Mastre Hambís' tractor and he led them to a field about a mile from the main farm. The hay bales, cubic beasts peacefully sunning themselves, were waiting to be collected. Mastre Hambís parked the tractor in the middle of the field, and the boys started stacking them onto the cart, hauling them from the two plastic strings they were tied with, their heavy boots clumsily stumbling in the caked earth. It was hard work, the sweat was pouring down their bare backs, bits of chaff and dirt covered their bodies and faces, making them look like those images of the peasants of a bygone time. Their youthful bodies were so tanned they had the appearance of leather, their eyes burning bright from under the dirt.

"Aman kopelia*! We're fucked!", exclaimed Andrikkos. They all turned and looked at the cloud of dust following the fast-approaching regimental Mercedes jeep. There was no point trying to either hide or pretend they were on a patrol. Their weapons and kit were left behind at the outpost-they were there to carry hay bales. They just stood there, waiting for their approaching fate. The sight of the Mercedes usually meant the regiment commander or, even worse, the battalion commander, a development which would surely land them in court-martial.

The jeep pulled up and out came Lieutenant Hristofís with a folder in his hands. Their despair started evaporating, because the only person who could possibly let them off lightly was him. Hristofís was a mild-mannered chap who was clearly in the wrong profession as he couldn't harm a fly. His dream was to be a primary school teacher, but he got his exam preferences mixed up and ended up in military school instead. He was always bossed about not only by his superiors and his peers, but also by the odd conscript who overstepped the mark and gave him a hard time. The only time he punished a conscript, because the presence of the commander gave him no choice, he offered a tearful apology afterwards.

"Hey guys, what's up?", he asked as he approached the boys with his folder under his arm. "I went to the outpost and the lads there sent me here. Did you all become farmers now?". "Erm, Mastre Hambís here needed a hand sir, so we did it out of boredom. I hope you don't mind" said Kostís, the sergeant and technically the person responsible for the squad. "That's fine, I didn't see anything", replied Hristofís "as long as the commander doesn't get wind of this, he'll have your balls on a plate". Swearing just didn't agree with Hristofís, and the word 'balls' just sounded odd coming from his lips, even in an environment such as the army where swearing was common speak.

"They are very nice lads Mr. Hristofís, they were giving me a hand, I hope you don't mind", added Mastre Hambís. "No, that's fine, just don't say I said so" smiled Hristofís. "Anyway lads, I'm here for your payment". The statement was immediately followed by loud cheers which echoed in the almost desert-like landscape. The conscripts only received about £20 per month, barely enough for cigarettes, but pay day was always a good time nonetheless. "Thank you re Hristofí!*" they said, patting him on the shoulder, as if he was a mate who'd come back with cans of lager. After they'd all signed the form and pocketed their money, Hristofís jumped in the jeep and he was on his way to the next outpost.

They returned to their job with renewed vigour and in a good mood, quickly throwing the bales onto the cart. Mastre Hambís smiled from under his moustache. The sun was beginning to dip to the west, and the sea breeze was finally starting to blow.

______________________________________

*Aman kopelia = god help us lads

* re = you, hey you, mate

Part of the Army Tales series

With thanks to KnifeJuggler for the photo

The dining table of life

As someone who lives abroad, I always dread phone calls from Cyprus announcing losses of loved ones. It's the fate of the voluntarily (or involuntarily) displaced. They always tell you that [insert name of loved one here] is in hospital and it doesn't look too good. Half the times your loved one is already dead and they're just trying to soften the blow. It doesn't work of course, it just makes it easier on the unlucky messenger to deliver the dire news.

Just over two years ago, I lost my grandmother. She'd fallen and broken her hip bone, they operated on her and apparently it went well. 'Yiayia' was always afraid of anything remotely related to death however (she'd stopped going to funerals decades earlier), so when she was in the clinic she decided that it was probably her time to be on her way. They said that she kept saying thing like "I'll be seeing my Kostis soon" (her dead husband). I suspect that her death was partly due to her frail condition (she was 96) and partly a conscious decision-she'd simply had enough.

In her final years her eyesight had started to fail her, and she gradually lost her hearing. I loved her very much though, and she always recognised me and asked me whether I'd found a wife yet (Firfiri you are not alone). She only knew how to read a little bit, hadn't gone to school, worked the fields and raised children all her life. She always sat on an old-style chair outside her door, looking at the gate. Every time I passed from there, on a bicycle (childhood), moped (teens) and more recently in a car, I'd turn my head and see the figure clad in black sitting there, enjoying the breeze. It was reassuring somehow, as if my own roots were still secure, firmly in the ground.

When my brother rang and told me the bad news, I kept my composure up until I hung up. I then cried bitterly, like I'd never cried before. By the time I heard the news they'd already gone ahead with the funeral and it was all over. I never told them this, but I was upset that they didn't at least allow me a day to get there for the funeral. I don't know, somehow I wanted to be there and go through the grieving process with the family, and especially my dad who lost his mum.

When I go to Cyprus, we always gather for family feasts. I think it was last year, or perhaps the one before, when I noticed that my brother's children are now sitting where my brothers and I used to sit when we were children, at the edge of the table. Where my parents/uncles and aunts used to sit is where our generations sits now. My parents sit where my grandmother used to sit, as if the conveyor belt of life is slowly but surely moving us from one end of the dining table to the other. The dining table itself is life. I must say that the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright every time I think of the concept. Life is a dining table, and as we grow older, we shuffle down to make space for the next generation. Figure that one out.

Every time I pass outside yiayia's house, I always look, as if I am still expecting her figure to be sitting there.

[Apologies it's a bit of a sad one-I promise you a nice recipe to make up for it]

Image by John Thomson

Things I hate about Cyprus

Right...here it is. I'll try to keep the rant to a minimum. (Following on from 'Things I love...')

1) Class mobility

Especially in the countryside, where an up-to-recently peasant class has quickly transformed into a middle class. Nothing wrong with that, I hear you say. However, the problem is that what makes the hitherto peasants middle class are simply more material possessions. No cultural/spiritual progress has taken place, and in a way, this is much worse, as at least the peasantry had an organic relationship with the land. Its children have 4x4 BMW's and houses with two kitchens (a Cypriot first?). Our grandmothers raised 7 children while working in the fields. Their grandchildren employ Vietnamese servants and hire limos for their children's birthdays (this last one I was told, never witnessed, thankfully).

2) Racism, xenophobia, a swing to the right

The direct consequence of the Cypriots' newfound affluence and material cornucopia is a certain insecurity and fear of losing their prized possessions. Enter fear of: gypsies, foreigners, asylum seekers, the EU, Greece. Add to that the perennial fear of Turks, Brits and Americans and society is shaping up nicely for ghetto-ing its 'lesser' members. Even people who used to be left-wing-and still pretend to be-have developed right-wing, xenophobic ideas (sorry Omonoia fans, the Che Guevara t-shirt is simply not enough)

3) Land for sale

The same people who fear foreigners are more than happy to reap the benefits of globalisation and the EU. Example: what was until recently a rural landscape was largely carved up by 'developers' who built huge complexes of villas for the well-off Brits and Russians who fancy a house in the sun. This is all built and supported by Sri Lankan and Syrian builders, Vietnamese au pairs and servants, Ukranian, Belarussian sex slaves, Bulgarian farm hands, Polish hotel workers and so on. On top of that, people are xenophobic, because the people who do the dirty jobs for pittance are visible. Have cake/eat cake? That is the question. My dream is that one day we will tear down villas with our bare hands in order to plant potatoes again in order to survive. I can dream, right?

4) Individualistic realism/Realistic individualism

The fact that most people are looking after no. 1 without consideration for anyone else. Driving through Frenaros, I saw a car parked on a pavement (common practice). The problem was that a lady on a wheelchair had to get into the road to get through. Fucking barbaric. The examples are endless.

5) Being cosy: bad for reunification

Many Greek Cypriots find the current political situation rather cosy, and would secretly prefer it to remain like this or even be formalised with two independent states. The reason, product of years of brainwashing and material insecurity, is a lack of interest in living with the Turkish Cypriots. I suspect the latter don't feel very differently.

6) The obliteration of farming

The EU told us to stop growing things and buy them from other countries. So now we have Argentinian oranges, whereas in the years before 1974 Famagusta hosted an orange festival. And farmers gave their land to 'developers'.

7) The complete politicisation of heritage

See number 8 here. The Turkish-Cypriot Department of Antiquities will simply not put a padlock on this beautiful medieval Armenian church, just because it's not their heritage (their words). Medieval heritage, especially Frankish and Venetian, is simply not highlighted, in case someone thinks the island is not thoroughly Greek/Turkish.

8) Inadequate or non-existent public transport

The only people who walk in Cyprus are tourists and the previously-mentioned foreign workers. They often die on the streets, as there are many areas without proper pavements. People drive everywhere, no matter the distance.

9) The Greek-ification of Greek-Cypriot TV

By this I mean that our newsreaders, sports commentators and advert producers feel that they have to imitate Greek as spoken in Athens, even suppressing the Cypriots' ability to pronounce harder sounds so that they sound more 'Greek'. It sounds just stupid, as if forcing everyone in the UK to sound like the Queen. Fuck that. Be natural. We are Cypriots.

Things I love about Cyprus

Every time I go back to Cyprus for holidays (and to see family) I have to readjust to life there, even if it's just for a few days. It goes without saying that the differences with the UK are fairly sharp. Some things I have to revert to, some others are totally new. However, I always find things I love, new and old, discovered and re-discovered. And of course, things I absolutely hate. Here we'll deal with the nice things, because they matter more.

1) The light

You forget how brightly the sun shines. The photographs are easily over-exposed, and everything is awash with sunlight

2) The sunsets

Sunsets in Cyprus are exceptional. The sun shines red, illuminating the barley fields and painting purple the few clouds that always seem to appear above Pentadaktylos, the northern mountain range.

3) The smell of the evening dew on the freshly-harvested barley fields

Sorry, I can't possibly describe this. I guess you'll just have to travel there

4) The fact that fresh and locally produced fruit and veg are (still) easily available

Despite the best efforts of Carrefour and Alpha Mega with their Peruvian grapes and Kenyan onions

5) The beaches

But then again, I'm biased...

6) People's attitude to children

People don't disapprove and tut whenever you take your toddler to a restaurant or a museum like they do in the UK. People in Cyprus love children, and it's very relaxing. Brits, especially older people (shockingly, as they should know better) always show their disapproval with this expression they make, the one where they look at you and quickly turn away. I've had this in restaurants and also places like National Trust properties. In addition, in Cyprus people don't believe in the whole 'strict routine for children' nonsense. Nobody forces their kids to sleep at 6pm.

7) The fact that you can (still) escape

Despite its small size, Cyprus still has some beautiful, undiscovered spots which I cannot reveal here. All the 'development' couldn't ruin the countryside. And it's all within an hour's drive.

8) The history

I am stunned by it every time. The Cypriots' (both Greek and Turkish) fixation with their respective Hellenistic/Byzantine and Ottoman 'pasts' means that the island's huge medieval, Frankish and Venetian heritage is largely unexplored, under-promoted and relatively hard to find. And when you do find it, it is simply spectacular. Limassol Castle houses one of the best museums (in terms of content rather than presentation) of 'Crusader Cyprus'. Famagusta, due to decades of political limbo and neglect, is a rough diamond half buried in the sand (as the name Ammochostos suggests). The old town was one of the richest cities in Christendom in the 14th century and it shows. Its Gothic architecture and Venetian ruins are simply impossible to fathom. And yet we're fixated with Hellenistic...

Did I mention the smell of the dew on the freshly-harvested barley fields? OK then...

See also: things I hate...

Πηλά τζιαι ρόφκια (μέρος Β')

(συνέχεια από το Α')

Άμαν τζιαι εφκήκεν ο ήλιος για τα καλά, τζιαι η φύση γυρόν τους ήταν πιον όξυπνη, εσηκωστήκαν σιγά-σιγά τζιαι εμπήκαν πιο μέσα στο περβόλιν. Ερέξαν που μες τα δεντρά ως την άλλην άκραν του περβολιού, εγυρίσαν τζιαι αρκέψαν να παρπατούν που μες το περβόλιν, φακκώντας παλαμάκια, σφυρίζοντας τζιαι πετάσσοντας μέσα-μέσα καμιάν πέτραν ποτζιεί-ποδά για να φαράσουν τα πουλιά να πετήσουν προς τες ελιές που είχαν στημένα τα βερκά τους. Την ίδιαν ώραν, είχαν τζιαι τον νουν τους άμπα τζιαι δουν τίποτε που εμπορούσαν να παίξουν με τα λάστιχα τους. Ο Αγγελής είδεν έναν αμπελοπούλλιν πας το κλωνίν μιας ελιάς. Εσημάθκιασεν με το λάστιχον τζιαι ξαπόλησεν το αλλά εν το κούτσιησεν. Έφερεν το λάστιχο στο στόμαν του, έφτυσεν μέσα αλλό έναν βούκκον σκάγια τζιαι εσυνέχισεν με το φάραμαν.

Άμαν εφτάσαν πάλαι στο τέλος του περβολιού, τζιαμαί που εκάθουνταν πριν, εκάτσαν πάλαι πουκάστην τερατσιάν τζιαι αννοίξαν τες τσέντες τους. «Ελπίζω να έφερες κανέναν χαλλούμιν ποτζιείνα της μάνας σου» είπεν ο Παράσκος του Αγγελή. «Ακατάγνωτα, εν κάμνουμεν δίχα του» επολοήθηκεν του ο Αγγελής. Έφκαλεν που την τσένταν του το χαλλούμιν, λλίες ελιές, κανέναν-θκυό αγγουράκια τζιαι λλίον ψουμίν φρέσκον που έψησεν η στετέ του, ούλλα τυλιμένα σε μιαν μαντηλιάν της κουζίνας. Ο Παράσκος έφερεν τζιαι 2-3 αυκά βραστά τζιαι εμπουκκώσαν κάθοντας πουκάστην τερατσιάν, θωρώντας τον ουρανόν τζιαι παρατηρώντας τα πουλλούθκια. Ένας κουρκουτάς εθώρεν τους με περιέργειαν που μιαν τρύπαν στον κορμόν της τερατσιάς. Είδαν έναν μπουλούκκιν μαυρόπουλλους να πετούν ψηλά, προς τον νότον. Αχ τζιαι να πιάνναν κανέναν που τζιείνους, ήταν όμορφα πουλιά τζιαι το κελάηδημαν τους ήταν πολλά γλυτζιήν. Αλλά είχαν άλλα πουλιά να πιάσουν προς το παρόν.

Εποσπαστήκαν που το μπούκκωμαν, εσυνάξαν τα πράματα τους τζιαι αρκέψαν να παρπατούν προσεχτικά προς τες ελιές τους. Που μακρά εμπορούσαν να δουν ότι είχαν πιαστεί λλία πουλλούθκια, αλλά εκοντέψαν σιγά-σιγά άμπα τζιαι φαράσουν άλλα που ήταν κόμα μες τα δεντρά. Ο Παράσκος είδεν μιαν τζίηκλαν πιασμένην πας σ’εναν βερκίν τζιαι εβούρησεν να την πιάσει άμπα τζιαι καταφέρει τα τζιαι φύει. Εφκήκαν πας τα δεντρά τους τζιαι εσυνάξαν γλήορα ότι επιάσαν: αμπελοπούλια, κοτσιηνολαίμηες, μούγιους, κοτσιηνονούρες, δακκαννούρες. Ο Αγγελής έβαλεν ούλλα τα πουλλούθκια που ετρώαν σπόρους μες το κλουβούιν του: κανέναν-θκυό ζαρτηλούθκια, έναν τσακρίν τζιαι θκυό κουτσομουττούθκια. Ότι έτρωεν σπόρους εκρατούσαν το για το κλουβίν, τζιαι κάποια ήταν πολλά πολύτιμα για την ομορκιάν τους τζιαι το κελάηδημαν τους, όπως τα ζαρτήλια τζιαι τα κουτσομουττούθκια. Τα άλλα πουλλούθκια επνίαν τα, τζιείνα ήταν να καταλήξουν στο τραπέζιν.

Εστραφήκαν πίσω στην τερατσιάν τους να πνάσουν. Αφήκαν το κλουβούιν με τα ζωντανά πουλιά πουκάστες ελιές για να φέρουν άλλα με το κελάηδημαν τους. Εκάτσαν λλίην ώραν τζιαμαί αλλά εβαρεθήκαν να κάθουνται ύστερα που λλίον. Ο Παράσκος ήβρεν έναν ττενεκκούιν αγιωμένον τζιαι εκούμπησεν το χαμαί, μπροστά που την τερατσιάν. Ο Αγγελής μεμιάς εκατάλαβεν το παιχνίδιν. Εσταθήκαν τζιαι οι θκυό λλία μέτρα που το δεντρόν τζιαι αρκέψαν να το σημαθκιάζουν με πέτρες μέστα λάστιχα τους. Μετά που θκυο-τρείς απόπειρες, εκούτσιησεν το ο Αγγελής. Το ττενεκκούιν έκαμεν έναν κούφκιον ήχον τζιαι πετάχτηκεν κανέναν μέτρον πιο τζιει. Εξαναστήσαν το τζιαι αρκέψαν ξανά π’αρκής. Ούλλα ήταν τσιάττισμαν για λλόου τους.

Μετά που λλίην ώραν, είπαν να ξαναπάν στα βερκά τους. Αρκέψαν να παρπατούν προς τα δεντρά σιγά-σιγά, αλλά η ησυχία εταράχτηκεν που την τσιριλιάν του Παράσκου που έδειχνεν με το δάχτυλον προς τες ελιές: «Μαυρότζιηκλα, μαυρότζιηκλα!» Ο Αγγελής εξαπόλησεν ότι εβάσταν τζιαιμαί που ήταν τζιαι αντάκωσεν του βούρου, φτάνοντας στο δεντρόν μετά που εκουτσούφλησεν τζι έππεσεν μες το φρεσκοκαμωμένον χωράφιν. Εφκήκεν γλήορα πας το δεντρόν τζιαι έφτασεν πας το κλωνίν που ήταν πιασμένον το πουλλίν. Έπιασεν το απαλά-απαλά με το δεξίν του, κρατώντας το βερκίν με τ’αριστερόν, ξικολλώντας το σιγά-σιγά να μεν του χαλάσει τα φτερά του. Εβάσταν το σαννα τζιαι ήταν το πιο εύθραυστο κομμάτιν πορσελάνη στον κόσμον. Ένιωθεν την καρκιάν του να χτυπά γλήορα τζιαι δυνατά. Εκατέβηκεν σιγά σιγά που το δεντρόν, κρατώντας προσεκτικά το πουλλίν. Αγαπούσαν πολλά τες μαυρότζιηκλες, γιατί εν επιάνναν συχνά τζιαι εκελαηδούσαν πολλά όμορφα. Εκαθάρισεν την κόλλαν που τα ποούθκια της με λλίον νερόν τζιαι έβαλεν την μες το κλουβίν.

Σιγά-σιγά ήρτεν η ώρα να συνάξουν τα βερκά τους τζιαι να παν έσσω. Τα πουλλούθκια μες το κλουβίν εθέλαν σάσμαν. Αρκέψαν το σύναμαν, με την αντίθετη πορείαν που εκάμαν το πρωίν. Εσυνάαν, ετυλίαν τζιαι εβάλλαν τες μάτσες μιαν-μιαν μες τες κουκκουρκές τους. Άμαν ο Παράσκος ήταν πας τη δεύτερην του ελιάν, άκουσεν έναν φτερούγισμαν βαρετόν πουπάνω του τζιαι είδεν την νοσσιάν νου γερατζιού να κάμνει κατά το δεντρόν στο τέλος της σειράς. Είδεν το τζιαι ο Αγγελής. Αρκέψαν να φωνάζουν πέρκι φοηθεί τζιαι φύει αλλά τίποτε. Το γεράτζιν έσσιησεν τζιαι έκατσεν πας σ’έναν βερκίν που ήταν πιασμένος ένας μούγιος. Άρπαξεν το πουλλίν τζιαι πέτησεν, παίρνοντας τζιαι το βερκίν μιτά του.

Εσυνάξαν τα πράματα τους, εχτός που το χασημιόν βερκίν του Παράσκου, τζιαι εσαστήκαν να στραφούν έσσω. Ήταν μετά το μεσομέριν τζιαι αρκέψαν να πεινούν. Ο Παράσκος εφιλοσόφησεν το πράμαν: «Ε, νομίζω το γεράτζιην εκέρτησεν τον μούγιον, παίζει τζιαι τζιείνον το ίδιον παιγνίν με μας». «Ναι, μεν έσιεις παράπονον. Ρίζει περίτου που λλόου μας πας τα πετούμενα τ’ουρανού», απάντησεν ο Αγγελής. Περπατώντας προς το περβόλιν με την τερατσιάν, οι μιτσιοί εσταματήσαν τζιαι συνάξαν λλία ρόφκια. Εκάτσαν πουκάτω που την τερατσιάν τους, εκόψαν τα, εγλύψαν το ζουμίν που έτρεξεν μες τα σιέρκα τους, τζιαι εφάν τα λαίμαργα. Θέλεις ήταν η ώρα, η πείνα τους, ο ήλιος που έλαμπεν μεσοούρανα, τζιείντα ρόφκια ήταν τα καλλύττερα που εφάν.

(φώτο δαμαί)

Πηλά τζιαι Ρόφκια

(Translation of mud and pomegranates part I)

Ο Αγγελής επετάχτηκεν που την καρκόλα άξιππα, σάννα τζιαι θώρεν όρομαν. Εκοίταξεν το ξυπνητήριν. Η ώρα εν ήταν ακόμα τρεισήμισυ το πρωί. Το ξυπνητήριν ήταν να παίξει η ώρα τέσσερις αλλά που την ανυπομονησίαν του ένωσεν πιο πριν τζιαι ξύπνησεν. Οι Κυριακές ήταν οι καλλύττερες μέρες-έν είχεν σκολείον τζιαι εμπορούσεν να κάμει ότι έθελεν, συνήθως να παίξει μάππαν ή να πάει τζυνήιν. Εσηκώστηκεν, εφόρησεν την παλιάν στολήν του τζιυρού του που τον τζιαιρόν που ήταν έφεδρος, έναν πράσινον παλλιοτρικόν με τρύπες, κλάτσες χοντρές. Ήπιεν στα γλήορα έναν ποτήριν γάλαν, βλέποντας πόξω που το παράθυρον. Ήταν ακόμα πισσούριν. Εφόρησεν τον σάκκον του, τες ποΐνες του, άρπαξεν την τσένταν του τζιαι εγύρισεν το κλειδίν τζιαι έφκηκεν έξω μες τον ψόφον του πρωινού.

Έμπηκεν μες την παράγκαν τζιαι μετά που λλίον έφκηκεν με την κουκκουρκάν του τζιαι έναν κλουβούιν στο σιέριν. Εκρέμμασεν την κουκκουρκάν πας τον ώμον του τζιαι ίσιωσεν κατά την άλλην μερκάν της γειτονιάς να εύρει τον φίλον του τον Παράσκον. Ο Παράσκος ακόμα εν ήταν τζιαμαί, μάλλον ήταν ναν στην ώραν του-εν θα επετάχτηκεν που την καρκόλα του νωρίς όπως έκαμεν τζιείνος. Έκατσεν πας το σιμιντιρούιν τζιαι είδεν γυρόν-γυρόν. Η γειτονιά ήταν ακόμα αμίλητη, ακίνητη. Τα περίτου φώτα ήταν σβηστά, εχτός που κανέναν-θκυο, τζιείνων των άτυχων που έπρεπεν να σηκωστούν νωρίς να παν δουλειάν. Έκατσεν τζιαμαί τζιαι απορρόφησεν το παγωμένον πρωίν του Οχτώβρη, τα τελευταία της αστρόλουστης νύχτας, την γλυτζειάν μυρωθκιάν του γιασεμιού. Αγάπαν πολλά τζιείντην εποχήν, που το καλοτζιαίριν ακόμα εποκράτεν, αλλά άρκεφκεν ο σιειμώνας σιγά-σιγά να κοντέφκει, σαν νοικάρης ανυπόμονος να μπεί στο σπίτιν.

Ήταν χαμένος μες τες σκέψεις του τζιαι η φωνή του Παράσκου αντελόσσιασεν τον. «Ίνταμπου ρε Αγγελή; Ονειρέφκεσαι πάλαι; Εν θα πιάμεν τίποτε έτσι!» «Έσιει ώρες που σε καρτερώ ρε αμπάλατε», επολοήθην ο Αγγελής, προσπαθώντας να ξυπνήσει που τες σκέψεις του. Ο Παράσκος εκουβάλαν την δικήν του κουκκουρκάν, έτοιμος τζιαι σε μεγάλα κκέφκια. Εφύαν που τον κύριον δρόμον τζιαι επιάσαν έναν μονοπατούιν που επήαιννεν προς τα χωράφκια. Το πισσούριν εκατάπιεν τους, αλλά εξέραν πολλά καλά που επηαίνναν. Τζιείντην στράταν εκάμαν την πολλές φορές τζιαι εξέραν την με τα μμάθκια κλειστά. Εσυνεχίσαν να πειράζουν ο ένας τον άλλον για κάμποσην ώραν, όμως τα παιχνίθκια τους σιγά σιγά ελλιάναν τζιαι εσσιέπασεν τα τζιαι τζιείνα η νύχτα αφήννοντας τους μόνους τους με τες σκέψεις τους. Ήταν έναν όμορφον πρωίν, ο αέρας ήταν γλυτζιής τζιαι ήταν χαρούμενοι.

Σιγά σιγά ερέξαν που τα πηλωμένα μονοπάθκια προς το τέλος του χωρκού που επηαίνναν συνήθως για τζυνήιν. Εφτάσαν στο περβολούιν του Μάστρε Κογκολή με τες αρχαίες ελιές, τόσον παλιές που εν εκάμναν πιον ελιές. Είχαν συγκεκριμένα δεντρά για τα βερκά τους, ο καθένας τα δικά του-τζιαμαί τα εβάλλαν κάθε φορά τζιαι εξέραν τα κλωνίν-κλωνίν. Τα δεντρά ήταν πανάρχαια, με κορμούς κούφκιους, σαν να τζιαι ήταν κάμαρες σε σπίτιν, τζιαι τζιειμέσα επαίζαν χωστόν τζιαι πόλεμον με τους φίλους τους. Κάποτε ο Μάστρε Κογκολής άφηννεν την μούλαν του διμμένην πας το δεντρόν, τζιαι επαίζαν τζιαι μιτά της τους κκάουμποϋς.

Τζιείντο πρωίν έν είχεν με μούλαν με Κογκολήν. Τα κοπέλλια εκινούνταν όσον γλήορα εμπορούσαν μέσα που τα ολοκότσιηνα πυλά. Επήαν ο καθένας στα δεντρά του. Ο Αγγελής έφκαλεν μιαν μάτσαν βερκά που την κουκκουρκάν τζιαι έβαλεν την πας σ’εναν κλωνίν στο πρώτον δεντρόν. Εφκήκεν σβέλτα πας το δεντρόν, με τες ποΐνες του να γλιάζουν πας τον αρχαίον κορμόν. Άμαν έφκηκεν τζιαι επάταν καλά, άρπαξεν την μάτσαν τζιαι έβαλεν την νάκραν του πρώτου βερκού στο στόμαν του, εκράταν την μάτσαν με το αριστερόν σιέριν τζιαι έκοψεν το βερκίν με το μασιαίριν που εβάσταν στο δεξίν, κόφκωντας προς τα έξω. Έστησεν το βερκίν σε έναν άννοιμαν των κλωνιών, να το θωρούν καλά τα πουλιά. Έστησεν ούλλην την μάτσαν τζιαι εκατέβηκεν, εφκήκεν το διπλανόν δεντρόν, τζιαι το πάραδιπλα ώσπου η κουκκουρκά εφκαίρωσεν. Έξι δεντρά, έξι μάτσες βερκά. Έβαλεν τα δαχτύλλια του μες το στόμαν τζιαι σφύρισεν κατά την μερκάν του Παράσκου. Ο Παράσκος εσφύρισεν τζιαι τζιείνος που την άλλην μερκάν του περβολιού. Ο Παράσκος έν εφτύχαν πολλά, έτσι που ήταν τζιαι λλίον σγούρτουλλος, τζιαι ο Αγγελής ετάνισεν του για να ποσπαστούν. Άψε-σβήσε εποσπάσαν τζιαι την κουκκουρκά του Παράσκου.

Εσυνάξαν ούλλα τους τα πράματα τζιαι αρκέψαν να περπατούν γλήορα, μακρυά που το περβολούιν, κατά την μερκάν νου άλλου καμιάν εκατοστήν μέτρα μακρυά. Έπρεπεν να ποσπαστούν τζιαι ναν μακρυά που τα βερκά πριν το χάραμαν, τζιαι ήδη άρκεψεν να φαίνεται ο ορίζοντας ολοκότσιηνος στην ανατολήν να μοιράζει την νύχταν στα θκυό. Εφτάσαν στο περβολούιν του Καννή τζιαι εκάτσαν χαμαί, με τη ράσιην τους να πνάζει πας τον κορμόν μιας τερατσιάς. Εν είχαν τίποτε να κάμουν εχτός που να περιμένουν. Εγείραν πας τον κορμόν τζιαι εκαμμίσαν αλλά η κρυάδα εξύπνησεν τους. Τα πρώτα πουλλούθκια αρκέψαν κελάηδημαν, τζιαι η πρωινή χορωδία άρκεψεν πρόβες.

(συνεχίζεται)