We were stretching our arms to gather star flowers to gather the stars of our pulse replying to the sea voices to hold onto Beauty’s dress traveling toward infinity through the path designed on the pelagos by the immense summer moon
At noon we wrestled naked on the sand with the wet bodies of twelve-year-olds more for embracing than for the win
more for the wresting than the win only for the victory Salty hair sunburned thighs waves splashing on a kiss the sea just further than a spasm The high noon descended buzzing in swirls of fire to engulf houses of fishermen with white flames to burn the hearts that don’t resist Outside the windows tranquil guitar playing of sea breeze the sunlit face of blue sky in white summer memory with a purple band of shadow slant on the velvety cheek Golden breath of endless water nets sunbathing on the rocks boats filled with fruits and flowers our homes written in the sea here they are our homes
or force you into saying something if don’t feel as I do, I need to be truthful to myself.” Eteo lightly kissed her beautiful lips and replied, “I’m falling in love with you too, sweet Ariana. And you are not forcing me into anything at all. I love everything we do, all the time we spend together and that is a sure sign, isn’t it? I want to be with you more and more, longer and longer, every time.” With that, they stopped talking and left their eyes and bodies do the rest. Upstairs they basked in another session of lovemaking, with Ariana taking the leading role this time, a development Eteo didn’t mind at all, especially when she cuddled with her back to him. The next afternoon they drove reluctantly back to Vancouver. Monday was soon to come. Eteo got up even earlier than usual that Monday, since he wanted to catch up with a few things. At around ten Rebecca called to ask what name to reserve with the department of companies in Victoria. Eteo suggested Alexa Ventures Ltd as first choice and Rebecca called soon after to confirm that the name had been reserved. “George Beaton will come to see you soon with a new property agreement for Alexa Ventures,” Eteo told her. “You only have to add the company name and prepare the official documents for the directors to sign.” “Who would you like to use this time, Eteo?” Rebecca asked. After a moment of thought Eteo said, “Let me groom Mitch for this. I’ll talk to him first, but Peter will certainly not mind joining, and George will be happy to serve as mining advisor to the company. Can you ask him when he comes with the property agreement?” “Very good. I’ll work on the papers right away in case you’re in a rush for this filing.” “Yes, actually.” Eteo replied. “I would like it done sooner rather than later, which reminds me I have to talk to the shareholders I have in mind and collect the funds as soon as you have the subscription forms ready.” “I’ll stay a little longer tonight if that’s the case. I should be able to get everything sorted out in a couple of hours,” Rebecca promised. “I could pass by and keep you company for a while after I finish …
into my eyes, and pressed the point directly over my heart, holding it there, his nostrils flaring at the smell of me. I flinched and tried to step back, but the sharp ends of several arrows held me in place. Behind him I saw a man holding Apacuana by the arm in an iron grip. This could be Baruta. He had a scowl like Guacaipuro. I heard Apacuana whimper but I did not dare take my eyes off Guacaipuro’s face. He was challenging me; the worst I could do was shrink back. Saint Francis, please help me, I prayed. I kept my breathing as shallow as possible. Their language was rich in guttural sounds that were hard compared to the melodious Cumanagoto Tamanoa spoke. “Tamanoa,” I said. “Can you understand them?” “Enough,” he said. “Yim, ëjkai’ e’ñe kë’ më?” It was the man holding Apacuana. He was saying, “Father, what will be done about him?” Much of what was happening was bewildering to me, but I would later learn the details from Tamanoa and Apacuana. The father did not answer his son. Instead he turned and examined Tamanoa. I was as fearful of Baruta, Apacuana’s future husband, as I was of Guacaipuro. Whereas the son was merely contemptuous, the father was curious. Evidently Apacuana must have asked them not to kill us immediately. After Guacaipuro had sneeringly walked completely around Tamanoa, unimpressed by his Mestizo make-up, Apacuana took the opportunity to step forward. “Uncle, he is a witchdoctor,” she said. “He can talk to their god. I beg you.” Guacaipuro’s eyebrows relaxed somewhat but furrowed again. “Half-breed, you do not deserve to live,” he pronounced, for all to hear. “Wait!” I shouted and started toward. “Akeñ!” Tamanoa repeated, duplicating my tone of voice. In this way we alerted Guacaipuro to Tamanoa’s ability to speak both languages.
XI Come, bring a spoonful of vanilla in a glass of water from the pitcher truly the times change and these days with a movement of the mouse one evaluates and allots rewards with black and white spots that we don’t know whether they exist come, my sweet, sit next to me I want to talk to you about our wine that we tasted each evening when the sky’s embrace opened wide to pass us to transcendence come, please don’t delay time passes fast I don’t know whether we shall again have the chance to recall all these tender thoughts and sacred images, time runs indifferently and leaves us behind to the mercy of the hungry Hades who to take and who to leave for another day come and with your touch, tell me about our purpose in this lifetime and I shall relate to you how I’ve spent all my life, here with you, this evening, and in the tenderness of all our moments.
Paul switched off the cabin light, tucked his bag neatly into the corner and turned to her. “I know that,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’ve decided to stay here.” ★ David skipped his shower in favour of following up on the sunrise swimmer. He pounded quickly down the stairs and was in time to see Jennifer disappearing into Paul’s cabin. Paul? A spy? For sure, the trail of puddles up the corridor ended at Paul’s door. Unabashedly, David leaned toward the door and listened. He could hear the murmur of voices—once or twice growing louder. “I have to try and talk you out of this,” Jennifer was saying. Note to self, David thought. No need for bugs hidden in the intercom. The commies can hear us through the cabin doors. Finally he decided that eavesdropping was stupid, knocked on the door and walked in. As he entered, Jennifer appeared dumbstruck. Paul looked as if he had just made an embarrassing noise. Slowly she turned to David. “What are you doing here?” “Well, I saw…a man swimming to the boat.” David glanced at the wet garments hanging over Paul’s sink. “David, Lona, me—is there anyone who doesn’t know about this?” asked Jennifer. “Well, you can bet Chopyk won’t notice a thing,” Paul answered. They all laughed, even David, though he wasn’t sure why. “Please tell me I can talk you out of this,” Jennifer went on. “It’s a hasty decision.” “But the right one.” Paul appeared to be listening but continued to pack a knapsack. “No. It’s hasty. You don’t know what she’s like really….” “She’s a dream!” “And what will you live on?” “She’ll get transferred back to her father’s farm—to help him. It shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. We’ll live there.” Paul rolled a sweater into his pack and glanced up at Jennifer with a shy smile. David fidgeted from one foot to the other. They seemed to have forgotten his presence. Jennifer groaned. “Are you crazy?”
monks in his Novitiate year, of St. Brennain, the Irish monk who had sailed with his companions to the “Land of Promise of the Saints.” He then called all the Brothers, Keallach and Ailan, Lorcan and Rordan, and the two elderly hermits, Berach and Brógán, to gather and share stories. “My dear Brothers, have we not just seen what our blessed Brother, Saint Brennain, saw and wrote about? It was four hundred years before our time when he and his companions sailed as we have sailed, across this bottomless ocean to the edge of the world.” Brother Rordan nodded. “Yes. We visited the island of sheep, though ours were not as big as those Saint Brennain saw.” “We saw the island floating in the sky and came close to the land with the smell of rotten eggs, where giants threw red hot boulders at us and set the sail aflame,” Brother Ailan piped in. Brother Keallach was as excited as Father Finten who was not accustomed to losing control of the conversation. “I remember the stories well. We also sailed through crystal columns that tried to take us captive. Before our own animals jumped into the sea, we saw those two marvellous woolly ewes as big as cattle, standing atop the ice palace in the frigid sea.” “And do not forget the sea monsters that spewed great streams of water into Brennain’s boat; we have seen them, too.” “Yes we have, Brother Rordan. We have indeed.” Though Finten hated to be interrupted, he was happy to see his own enthusiasm spreading. “And now, dear Brothers, we are about to see the most wonderful sight of all. Here before us, is the Land of Promise of the Saints. Now we will see the fields of flowers and every tree laden with fruit.” “And precious stones beneath our feet.” Finten nodded. “Precious stones, ah, yes.” At nightfall, beneath a full moon, the monks sang their evening prayer in peace. The Norsemen sat in wonder listening to the melodic tones of the seven as they sang Mary’s prayer of joy, the Magnificat. “My soul doth magnify the Lord.” “And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.” Shortly before dawn, Finten and the Brothers were awakened to the shouts of men and shrieking gulls. The knarr had drifted close to a high cliff. Waves dashed violently against rocks below. The night watch must have fallen asleep. “Get up. Get up. We are going aground.” Captain Hjálmar grabbed a long pole to guide the ship away from the rocks toward a strip of sandy beach beyond the rocks. “Come on men. Grab the oars. Push men, push.” The roar of wood against rock echoed from the hull as the dying ship slowly groaned sideways, tossing men and sheep into the foaming water.
11th of November Night fell and I don’t have anything to say; when I can’t find the words I find quietness. I think of a turtle that contracts its legs and head; it must feel very secure in there. I stop thinking. Tonight we had a twilight from those we find between two seasons, when the children grow with no wings in their dreams and rabbits don’t chit-chat and they don’t know who loves them and who they love and the quietness of the turtle inside has no meaning yet. Then, we must go to sleep. Turn off the lamps.
Eighteenth Canto Having tried the logic and having given up on its use I direct His attention to a job half done and arguing for the benefit of the bedridden I ask the enlightening evening to fill the empty bed where a virgin sobs to the bored hour looking down on her manger of light defining one point at the tip of thesis and antithesis thread of life unending concept trail of blood trickles to a zenith still as if from subterranean nuance divine comedy of amateur playwright who in amusement abandons his productions hides a splendorous secret in a pulsing aura of the Kore before her breasts fall open to the eccentric touch of wind and women’s stockings form a stratagem on the clothesline similar to when you know deep inside the taste of a kiss that frees stars turning girls to crystals over festive gowns and funereal shades like two pleats of the same heart erect in the midst of a tempest sweeping a sickle I struggle to discern meaning in solemn icons and tormented bodies as I push my firmness deep in the cave and like a young plow wedge my sperm between soil and eternity just enough as though to give day or night its fertile deserved hour in futility’s agony when final moments scrawled on a sick man’s chart ask ‘what now?’ and the white-gowned doctor answers: I can do better
Chapter Eleven “I missed you.” Dr. Cam Tournquist stood in the doorway to the instrument room and watched Tyne assemble and wrap a laparotomy set for sterilization. “How long were you gone, anyway? Two months?” Tyne laughed. “You know it was only two weeks … twelve days to be exact. So you couldn’t have had time to miss me that much.” He looked more handsome than ever, even in his OR greens and cap, an ensemble not noted for enhancing one’s appearance. “And did you enjoy sleeping on the ground, and eating cold beans out of a can?” “We didn’t do either of those things. We slept on wonderfully comfortable air mattresses in cozy sleeping bags. We hiked for hours, and explored every stream and river and mountain crevasse we could find.” Cam grinned. “And you didn’t get et by a bear?” “No, silly, we didn’t get et by a bear. We didn’t even see one.” Tyne wrote on a piece of masking tape, placed the label on the wrapped instrument set, then carried the bundle to a cart filled with similar bundles. “And we ate like kings, I’ll have you know. Bacon and eggs cooked over an open fire … baked potatoes done to a turn in the coals, and slathered with butter … steaks smothered in onions and ….” Cam held up a hand. “Stop, please. Not only are you making me fear for your arteries, but you’re making me hungry as well. Which brings up my next question. Are you free for dinner tonight, Miss Milligan?” She gave him her most winsome smile. “As free as I’ll ever be, Doctor.”
WINIFRED STONE’S NETWORK included dirt farmers in the flatlands beyond the valley, legislators in Olympia and Washington, a potline stripper from the aluminum plant downriver, ministers, a priest, the town’s only rabbi, orchardists, pickers, packers, school teachers, all three of the town’s cab drivers, her bridge club, the pro at the golf course and Ralph Gritzinger, who in the course of a year talked with nearly everyone in the valley when they bought groceries at his market. Her contacts did not include Angie Karn. “My word, Mrs. Karn,” she said into the telephone, “I don’t believe that we have ever spoken.” “I guess you wouldn’t expect to hear from me, Mrs. Stone, seein’ that Ted and I ain’t exactly in a business you approve of.” Winifred heard the tremble in the woman’s voice and paused. “Restaurants are necessary, Mrs. Karn.” “You can call me Angie. Everybody does.” “Very well, Angie. You may call me Winifred.” “Oh, I don’t think I could do that.” “Please.” “Well, here’s why I’m callin’. It’s about Poodie. You know, Poodie James, the little man with the wagon? The deaf one? He pulls that wagon all the way down here sometimes and gets old papers and magazines. I give him a few empties now and then too, but I don’t tell Ted. We’re supposed to turn ’em back to the beer…
Hellenic Canadian Literature 
