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Thus was Dodoni Glorified Thus was Dodoni glorified cup on the lips of man on the stretched arm of the god condescension when the night waters rushed down from heights into the lake of silence. How the brave sap rose from the roots of the oak how our game matured and rustled among the leaves! We saw the thunderbolts of the sun to turn into matter mountains that walked alone like centuries loaded with knapsacks, arms and wrinkles. At another time our struggle unfolded on mountaintops and at other times it became the ascension of earth and if our keen hearing was alike the uniform of discipline it was but the gesture of the priest from Sellos. Thus was Dodoni glorified forty years a pilgrim and I gazed it from afar like Moses gazed at his land.
Tom was having a rough time with the King’s Royal Rifle Corps in Greece, a frightened infantryman who wrote the most hilariously funny letters. Joe envied and admired his brother Tom, blessed with the bravery of fatalism and the stoic resignation of one who knew there was no God and who cursed God for not existing. Tom, if he made it home on time, would carry his father to the church but shun the funeral Mass and the graveside prayers. It would be good to see Tom again. And Nora. ҂ ‘Come in, Joe,’ said Michael Carrick. ‘Boy, it’s great to see you. You’re looking well.’ Michael shook his hand with that powerful grip of his and ushered him inside. Caitlin sat by the fire knitting. Joe crossed the floor and kissed her cheek. ‘It’s good to see you again too, Mrs Carrick.’ She looked older and heavier than the last time Joe had seen her. Her black hair was turning as grey as pewter, and she wore it rolled into a tight bun on the back of her head. ‘Well you’re a welcome sight yourself, young Joe,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry it has to be under such sad circumstances.’ ‘Sit down, son, sit down,’ Michael said. ‘I don’t have to tell you how sorry we are about your father.’ ‘I know, Michael; and thank you.’ ‘Your mother’s bearing up right and well, Joe.’ Caitlin mechanically turned her knitting to begin another row. Her hands darted, her fingers flicked, the needles clicked, and all so fast that Joe could see only a blur of speed. ‘I think the doctor had her well prepared,’ Joe said. ‘I saw Tom and Stephen last night,’ said Michael. ‘Tom’s as wild as ever, and Stephen’s still quiet and sober. But he’s putting on weight.’ ‘It’s getting married that did that to Stephen,’ said Caitlin. ‘What Tom needs is a strong woman to bring him to heel.’ ‘Ach, Tom’s all right,’ Michael said. ‘Oh I didn’t say he wasn’t,’ Caitlin responded. ‘I’ve long had a soft spot for Tom Carney.’ ‘He reminds me of your father,’ Michael said. ‘In his ways I suppose he does,’ Caitlin agreed. Michael turned to Joe. ‘What do you think of Stephen getting married, Joe?’
Don Hymie was an excellent teacher in that he would explain the events of history by telling me what the subject of his story was doing when he was my age. It made things very understandable. For example, I remember him telling me of a fellow from Macedonia who came from an influential family. He told me, “He was known as Alexander. When he was seventeen, he became the head of an army; when he was nineteen, he had conquered most of the known world of the time, and by the age of twenty-one, he had conquered it all. I wanted to give you that piece of information— make sure you are not a slow learner!” ~~ One of the most vital pieces of information that James Chesney imparted to his grandson was the story of Rurik of the Rus. The family story was accompanied in due course with the daunting responsibility for one of the earliest known compilations of a family history in book form, which Ken still holds in safekeeping. The earliest pages of this volume are made of split leather and the earliest entries circa 746 AD. Later entries were recorded on parchment, followed by modern materials. Much of the early text is written in Old Norse, similar to present day Icelandic, but unfortunately no longer readily understood. Leafing through this treasure, you can trace the evolution of language through the ages, as well as the family lineage, from Rurik of the Rus, through the Chesney family, to Kirkby. It dates back to the pre-Sagas. The Nordic peoples were great recorders and English history begins with the Sagas. The leather pages are carved, or inscribed with the profile of every person noted. The book contains details of the family tree ending with Ken’s only son, Michael, who is also the great-grandson of Don Hymie. My grandfather told me the story of my warrior ancestor for the first time when I was about eight years old. We were sitting on our favourite cliff above Francisco’s beach. “This is an important story,” he said. “The other stories I tell you are interesting—but this is important.”
Velvet Words played in our eyes yet we kept our lips tightly shut like the stanza of the poem written during the night we felt scared; the pines brought messages from the south wind, aroma of freshly baked bread we stole when young, that we never feel hungry again. Notes underscored the defeat of our argument and fear lurked on the edge of our lips: another myth was lost amid the words that narrated it. Our desires paraded in the plaza, garment made of black velvet flowed over our skin as we went to the little chapel to scandalize the icons of our saints. Then we closed our eyes and run to the closest hotel, not a single word spoken. I like those with a deep wound in their souls, who can be easily destroyed. Those willingly pass over the bridge.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 