Michael Kokkinaris
The Therapist
(El Hakim)
A novel
Armos Publishing House
Contents
Birds of Passage
Eudokia Andegavini
Mehmet Ovrenoglou
Louise d’Anjou
The Exchange
Suleiman, seitan sin
Love in the Years of Occupation
Fatima
The First Attempt
Confrontation with Death
The Conspirators
Cuts of the Body and the Soul
In Exchange for Betrayal
Francesco Foscari
Born to Fall in Love
The Murder
Suspicions
The End of the Thread
The Beggar
The Siege of the Castle
Nothing can Change Fate
Message sent from Allah
Shadows from the Past
As Handsome as a Byzantine Saint
Quirk of Nature
The Testament
The Death of Anastasia
The End of the Traitor
The Trial
The Man who Lived on Borrowed Time
Birds of Passage
As I
watch them flying towards the south under the spell of the crimson-gold breath
of the sun, I stretch forth my arms in worship of the Power that pushes them on
instinctively in the never-ending cycle of life and death.
The birds of passage are leaving – and so
are the people migrating in directions defined by the wind and by the desire of
the mind and of the soul to fragment space and time so as to touch what they
would have truly been, had they not harbored inside themselves all that they
struggled in vain to overcome.
* * *
The sentry at the castle gate facing the
sea is in no hurry to surrender his post to the head guardsman on this
particular dawn. And he in turn will for
the first time not get a glimpse of the light of day from the ramparts of the
castle.
The horn sounds the signal of mourning.
The light chases away the shadows and the
only thing that can be heard is the neighing of the horses as they greet the
sun that shines down upon them.
All else is silent, motionless,
constricted like the lips of both the victorious and of the defeated.
In the ramparts silhouetted by the light
of the half moon the men’s gazes are vacant, their arms are as heavy as dead
weights from weariness, their flesh wounded and their clothes are soaked with
the blood of those who were rash enough to remain behind in the embrasures for
a final show-down.
These soldiers are looking neither left
nor right.
They are looking straight ahead awaiting
the rays of the sun. And as their
weapons catch the reflection of the first glow of light, a scream of terror is
heard:
“Allah ak bar!”[1]
A pang of anguish grips the souls that
have felt the power of Allah as the white standard with the crimson cross is
taken down and the gates of the sea are opened to allow the defeated to pass
through with their weapons.
Everything is carried out in order.
Everything just as it was agreed upon.
The ships fill up.
The birds of passage vanish over the
horizon.
Time resumes its never-ending cycle.
Mercy has run dry.
The countless bodies which are strewn
around unburied in the ditches are asking for revenge.
As soon as the painter of the last galley
is untied the victors will enjoy their loot.
Everyone and everything is in their hands.
Men, women, children, maidens, copper
utensils, gold, ramparts, stones, honor, faith, dignity…
“Allah ak bar!”
The wind swells the sails and the looting
begins.
* * *
“The only thing is that this time I’m
determined to make Time work for me as well, for a change.
That’s the reason why I stayed behind – to
challenge him to bring it all to an end.
Enough is enough.
That’s enough of this strange game whose
beginning was kept a secret from the lord of corruption, Time, and which even
today shows no sign of abating.”
I grip the handle of the sword which lies
quietly in its sheath waiting in vain for the thrill of death.
At the edge of the ramparts wild dogs have
already appeared looking for blood to satisfy their hunger.
I cast a glance to the south and rest my
eyes for a moment on the vessels that have become one with the horizon.
“There they go.”
Neither their rigging nor their sails can
I make out, only tiny shadows on the infinite blue of the sea.
Then I balance myself on the rocks that
serve as marine guards to the castle.
If I take one step, I will be freed
forever.
If I stand still on the ramparts, they
will set the dogs on me to catch me alive and they’ll sell me for a few measly
coppers.
But then if I draw my sword again, the
groan of death will issue from the men who yearn for my death in vain.
And when the slaughter ends I will be
unable to stand and contemplate who is to blame for the fact that I too cannot
‘leave’, free from the shackles of memory which are far heavier than what my
shoulders can bear.
Then a cry of delight brings me out of my
stupor:
“That’s the therapist – catch him alive
and I will give you a thousand coppers.
Make sure you don’t touch a hair on his head, though, or else I’ll
impale you.”
“El Hakim!”[2]
“Allah ak bar!”
The dogs retreated and growled as they
felt the end coming and then they made way for their master to appear who now
once more commanded them to catch me alive on pain of impalement.
And as they stood there, incapable of
carrying out his order, he sunk his nails into their flesh looking me straight
in the eye as if to challenge me.
And even if I had been as free as the birds
high above the rampart to fly away, I would first have to finish off this
beast, once, twice, as many times as the memories I had had since childhood.
And the first cut was really deep, as deep
as the cut of the sword that had carved the wolf’s hide to sink into its flesh
to hurt it, like Eudokia Andegavini as she was slaughtered by the lance of the
monster who finally felt his own end approaching.
And as sparks flew from the
swords seeking flesh to sink into, the memory of Andronicus set loose parental
fury asking for revenge on the beast that had taken him away.
*
* *
Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου