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From Manguel & Guadalupi's 'Dictionary of Imaginary Places', pub Bloomsbury 1999:
'DREAM
ISLAND, in the Atlantic Ocean not far from the WICKED ARCHIPELAGO, difficult
to approach because it always seems to draw away in the distance. Travellers
are advised to arrive at dusk. The capital or City of Dreams is surrounded by
a jungle thick with gigantic mandrakes and poppies from which hang great numbers
of bats known as the "birds of the island." A large river, the Night-Traveller,
flows from two sources at the gates of the city. The sources bear the names
of Sleep Eternal and Darkest Night. The walls of the city are high and rainbow-coloured.
The gates are four: two look towards the Meadow of Indolence - these are made
of iron and bricks and through them escape dreams that are fearful, murderous,
and sinful; the other two open towards the sea, one made of horn and the other
of ivory. According to a distinguished Roman gentleman, who saw two such gates
in another country, the one made of horn allows the passage of true dreams,
and the one made of ivory, of false ones. Visitors from England will recognize
the guardian of the gate of horn, Mr. Sweeney.
Coming from the port, the traveller will find to the right the temple dedicated
to the Goddess of Night. Together with the Temple of the Cock, built at the
entrance to the port, the Temple of Night is the most popular on the island.
To the left is the Royal Palace and a square with a fountain, called the Drowsy
Waters, and next to it two smaller temples, those of Truth and Deceit. The inhabitants,
known as Dreams, are of diverse aspect; some are long, delicate, beautiful and
graceful; others are hard-looking, small and ugly. Some are winged or have an
astounding feature on their faces; some are dressed in full regalia, in the
robes of a king or a priest.
(Lucian of Samosata, True History, 2nd cen. AD); Virgil, The Aeneid, 1st
cen. BC)'
Dream
Island: Crossing to the East
shivering. wet. hands and knees pressed into gritty sand. gasping.
choking. spluttering water out. painful to stand. lungs burn. legs
tremble. but I must. I must. one foot in front of the other. slow. slow.
quick. QUICK! run now. get to the city. heaving breaths. halving words.
2 gates for dreams
2 gates below
one ivory
one horn
i-vory
horn
horn morn
morn
dusk
ivory tusk!
tusk false end of day
then dawn true
dawn true
and I pause. lean forward. hands on knees. pant.
Are the dreams before we wake the truest dreams, foretellers of the
future. Twilight dreams too infected with the day's desires and
deceptions.
Is that the key to the gates? The key to dreams? The key to survival?
The key to escape?
And I stumble across the grass. The Meadow of Indolence. Mustn't
falter, mustn't fail, mustn't breathe the poppies and sleep. run through
the green run to the emerald.
And I run. Run. Wet refugee from the Wicked Archipelago I arrived.
wretched on the shore. No welcoming torch.
and a bat swoops close by my shoulder. moths are dancing near. the
white of my tunic false light to them but true flight for the bats who
feed
bats...bats called birds...and arrive at dusk...what a crock that
tourbook was! dusk tusk ivory false...the whole place....
Past the Nox temple now past the Nux Dreams serene walking past
floating past oh scurrying some small angry dreadful
but none meet my eyes none meet my eyes
and I reach the Temple of the Cock....a true bird at last here...dawn
bird yes?
but only the round grey temple space....a tall pillar in the center....rain
gentle now through the oculus....trickling dark down the stone
shaft...dark dribbles down the Minoan Red of Evans.
by Everdeen Tree
Ahhh
this CITY OF DREAMS I know it well
a place of stops and starts lost I was
there on that stiff ley line for ten years one month.
Artists musicians and more babbling towers of books and old
steeples belfried bats , ghostly mariners and odd
confabulated machines....ahhh must go back one day....
Judith Wood
East of Eden
lies a Paradise for lovers
who let their souls experience
the unity of bliss.
For the God of details
suffers no fools
in this finite universe.
He watches and He waits
and sighs as souls collide
and move on,
oblivious to destiny.
Inept, fettered by the scars
upon their hearts
they miss the joy that
awaits...
afraid to take
the quantum leap required for belief---
they quantify, measure,
create new theorems
discuss other planets...
never sensing the irony
that as they move
from Mars to Venus
along the Great Chain of Being,
if only, if only
they could learn to see
with a new eye,
trust the universe
to reveal its secrets......
ah, but fierce angels guard the gates
to hearts, flaming swords cause lovers
to tremble at the entrance to that Paradise...
Hurtling down the path of knowledge
altered perception
views souls as different,
separate
apart.
All is Maya,
illusion,
a diversion of reality, a veil
tossed over the world
to hide the verity,
the awesome, powerful truth
which causes us to station
fearsome angels at our heart's door
To keep us from the consuming truth
that we are all
one
infinite
unchanging.
Each of us is nested in the strand of life.
Each soul is part of the other.
All part of a larger
--Whole--
complete of itself.
We tremble at the door to love,
venturing in like babies at the beach--
squealing with delight at the waves,
then terror filled, as they retreat...
carrying us out to sea,
East of Eden.
by Evelyn Aker
Flight
My father told a story that I loved almost entirely.
Almost-all but the not quite perfect ending. A wicked
stepmother turned six brothers into swans. You must know it.
And the sister, left behind, searched and searched for a way to free
them.
She made a bargain with a witch. She would not speak until she wove
six shirts from nettles. Imagine that. Have you ever touched a nettle?
She would throw them over her brothers to free them from their plight.
Her silence lasted years, until the shirts were nearly done.
All but one sleeve of one shirt, the story goes.
Now this is the part that hindered my enjoyment.
I often wondered how they could give up flight so happily.
And whether even one of them might be sorry he would not ever soar
again.
What if the story was wrong. Even a little wrong. We all know how
details
get lost in retelling. Of course she would finish the shirts completely,
suffering raw flesh for years, poor thing. Laboring to weave
the stinging leaves into loving traps. Someone so determined and driven
could not have neglected to finish even one sleeve. And of course she
would
throw the shirts over her brothers at the appointed time.
Her duty done, her family restored. Almost.
Imagine now that one brother, perhaps the youngest, was loathe to
abandon
flight, to trade his warm down and spectacular cloak of feathers
for the creaking awkward trap of human flesh. He might have turned a
little.
Just as his saviour-sister's handiwork floated over his head, a
half-hearted
twist away, one wing held back.
Imagine, too, being caught between worlds.
Impossibly clothed in flesh and bone
I speak dry leaves and frost
my hair sweeps in nettles
I turn away to hide flight
stolen with a subtle shrug
Bright wind runs through me
I carry stones and rivers
Suns rise in me and moons split
and spill drifts of borrowed flame
All this I see backwards
in miniature and silence
A winged, small landscape.
by Kathleen Miles
The
mirror in the Temple of Truth is clear and deep, as clear as the
water that runs from the fountain in rivulets and flows through the
gates. The path along the river shimmers as the moon rises above the
jungle. Each time the moon shows itself perfectly round I set out for the
city to visit the small temple with the perfect mirror. That is the only
place I can read, in the glass, the word that glows through the skin
below my right eye. Claritas. Etched across my cheekbone in perfect
uncials, minute letters, blue like a vein too near the surface.
by Kathleen Miles
Go, set in a new land with new people, living with new ways,
a play space for utopia. Or maybe a land where nobody
outside it can understand. Language and traces of
communications
Tribal, cultural, formalities
practices
genderizing labour roles
If I had to create an imaginary country I would put in it a
Minky
with furry little toes, and a few beetles for it to nibble, when
he feels hungry
Minkies don't talk, they think, Minks that think. They just go
about all day trying to find somebody to scratch their fur. It
seems like a nice existence only don't mention the rain.
It rains all the time here. There is little so amusing than a
Minky with wet fur. It seems to stand on edge spiky and
thick. When it gets wet, they look like giant unshapely
hedgehogs.
I know what you are thinking that the Minkies must live in
trees. For surely this land has some. It is not just rocks and
streams. But the vegetation here is as wild as a patch of
rhubarb and just as edible. Thick foliage flows over the
ground. The leaves of the Gawpee stem can house a good
few Minkies from the rain. Where they huddle under stems
two feet thick, under leaves five times as wide.
Minkies are good at jumping too. They have to get about
this way, from large purple Gawpee leaf to large purple
Gawpee leaf. They leap in large groups of twenty or more.
The land is full of streams and swamps that hide other
unfriendly creatures such as the Panpan and the Gobi.
Minkies are very tasty. I know they wouldn't like me to
mention that , they are already a protected species. That
their meat is good, is something that is kept well hidden by
their rather unpleasant smell which they get from drinking
rainwater straight off of the Gawpee leaves.
by Deborah Eustace
In the land that rides upon my palm
the roadways of my open hand
wave farewell to the setting sun
there I walk the paths of possibilities
howl at the gates of images
on the back of gluttony's elephant
slip down the drain of rain
that shoves the trees to summer's side
and opens roses' blossoms wide
fly through the amber sky
with wings that angels craved
deep into Dante's godless nights
to stand at gates a thumb's-breadth wide
where dreams walk cobbled streets
and ancient nightmares reside
which finger gently the many jewels
that drip upon the hanging hides
of wise men painted up as fools.
by Helm F
I work and I do not Dream on the Island
` Monday mornings the messenger comes. He pulls three
times on the frayed rope by the gate of the villa. When I
hear the bell, I do not hurry down to open the gate. No
matter how quickly I descend the curved stairs, walk the
length of the cool corridor on the ground floor, open the
carved mahogany door and cross the brick flooring of the
courtyard, he will be gone.
` His arrival is the message.
` When I hear the bell, I do not hurry down to open the
gate. Instead, I close the book of accounts in which I have
been writing. I call to Miguel who will accompany me. He
meets me in front of the drying yards where the wagon
stands ready and loaded with bricks. Together we harness
the mules and we drive north to the city.
` It is the same each week.
` I call to Miguel who will accompany me. We go to the City
of Dreams, but not to walk its streets. We do not worship in
its Temples. We go to work. We approach the city. Before
we get too near the Meadow of Indolence, we tie bandanas
over our noses and mouths. It will not do to breathe the
scent of the flowers blooming there.
` We must repair the gates of the City.
` We do not worship in its Temples. Miguel jumps down on
the left and I jump down on the right. We pat each mule on
its nose before we reach for the buckles on the harness.
Then we begin to unload the bricks. It takes many trips
before the bricks are all stacked next to the broken gates.
The sun is almost directly overhead before we begin to mix
the mortar. We do not pause to eat. We butter each brick
with mortar and place it carefully on the one below. Soon
the new gate rises, just outside the crumbled remains of the
old. Tomorrow we will return, Miguel and I, to break the
remaining ridge of brick and carry the debris away.
` The sun is low in the sky when we finish.
` We pat each mule on its nose before we reach for the
buckles on the harness. We drive south to the villa at a
deliberate pace. There is no need to hurry. When we reach
the stables, Miguel and I, together we release the mules and
feed them grain. Before the night comes, Miguel will be in his
room in the stables and I will be in my study in the house.
` Each country needs its labourers.
` There is no need to hurry. We do not worship in its
Temples. I call to Miguel who will accompany me. When I
hear the bell, I do not hurry down to open the gate.
` Each country needs its labourers.
` And I sleep very well at night.
by Jora Applegate
Anonymous,
3000 AD
FlabbergaSonnet to Rus
We pale as stars, as pale we, ghostly men.
Millennium dawn'd, millennium was our dread.
Our blue-green globe green-blue our world was then,
Since plunder'd bare, plunder'd since then, now dead.
Would that we could, we that would be on lands
of Earth! Such joy, such Earth of heartache's scar.
As many blink, many as stars are sands.
Each sandgrain on sandgrain each counts a star.
Such sands of time, of sands such as we ken,
White beaches ours, beaches white as snow.
We now in space, in Now we long for Then,
in orbit yearn, orbit in dreams we know.
Who finds this sonnet, know that Earth was fair:
Both sands and stars were better, seen from there.
(Anonymous, 3000 AD)
Editorial note: The FlabbergaS Form depends on a mirror image of
words in each line. In the FlabbergaSonnet, the mirror image rule is
departed from in the couplet. In the quatrains, the end three syllables
are freed from the mirror to ease rhymes.
Shisa, who found this.
Flabbergastina:
Atlantis
(tentative
date 1700 B.C.)
fishing is
life
is fishing
sea loving
men
loving sea
silver food is
mine
is food silver
perch bream bass
enough
bass bream perch
poem lives
forever
lives poem
no fear of
volcanoes
of fear, no
if ashes choke
poems
choke ashes if
fish-poem saved
swims
saved poem-fish
bottled message
keeps
message bottled
enjoy poem and
fish
and poem: enjoy
----------
Anonymous
Atlantean poet, 1700 B.C.
Found by Shisa
Fresco
of a Fisherman, Akrotiri, Thera, The National Museum, Athens. Click
here for more information about akrotiri.
The
Islanders
Dilk paused in his labours. The Woman was standing and watching him. Today she
was wearing a T-shirt over her bikini but it barely skimmed her hips. Dilk averted
his eyes from her crotch and thought of his wife, now dead, who considered leaving
the house in a skirt showing her knees an act of immodesty. The Woman was wife
to a writer staying for the summer. At first the villagers were proud of their
guest for they thought they had a poet in their midst, but there were no poems,
only stories in which men killed women. The writer drank much in the tavern
until he was barred for insulting Efi the bus conductor and shunned by the men,
so The Woman haunted the village and fields on her own.
The Woman patted his dog and greeted him in his own language with 'Good Morning'
but Dilk heard 'Good Sailing'. He gave her the briefest acknowledgement that
courtesy required, picked up a hammer and vigorously battered the pump housing.
The noise reverberated around the hills. The Woman walked away. Dilk dropped
the hammer and returned to his task of replacing a worn bearing. He needed to
work quickly for the wind was already freshening. The bearing replaced, he methodically
greased the crank shaft, replaced the pump housing, then released the governor
for the sails. The windmill began to turn and Dilk watched until satisfied the
new bearing was operating. He opened the sluices to the cistern and waited until
the water was flowing through the alkathene pipes laid between the rows of crops.
He cursed the day that brought The Woman and her kind to his island. It was
the day that Falkas' father died. Falkas returned from the mainland, and, standing
on his father's land, vowed he would build himself a fine house. The villagers
had taken this as a sign that Falkas would return to their community and were
delighted when Smim and his brothers were hired to do the building work. Dilk
remembered that night in the tavern when an angry Smim recounted his dealings
with Falkas.
"He says I want a fine house just here among the fruit trees, so I say how big
a house, how many rooms? and he gives me this piece of paper. What do I want
with paper? I start pacing out the plot just as my grandfather did and Falkas
says to me, 'Smim I gave you a ground plan, you must build the house according
to the plan. I will get a man from the city to show you.' I tell him I do not
need a city man telling me how to build houses but then he says 'You build the
house this way or you do not build it at all'. What can I do? Work is scarce,
my brothers have many children to feed."
The villagers were fascinated by the new house. It had so many rooms. What were
they all for? Some of them did not connect so there was speculation that Falkas
was going to keep goats. Surely Falkas would not go back to the old ways of
keeping goats? Smim was asked many times about the number of rooms yet Smim
just said "I'm only the builder, you must ask the city man." But the city man
spoke a different dialect to the villagers and they did not know how to approach
him.
One day a mechanical digger arrived and made a huge pit. Speculation intensified
when a tank was delivered and fitted into the pit by a sweating Smim and his
brothers. That night Smim told the villagers "It is a cistern." The villagers
marvelled. Such a cistern. It would take all the winter rains to fill, but the
water would last all summer. Dilk spat at the memory of the new cistern and
how they had all been fooled by Falkas.
The fine house was divided into six -- apartments the city man called them,
especially for foreigners. The first visitors arrived as soon as the building
work was finished. Four visitors in each apartment, playing radios all day long
and racing their cars up and down the hill track. The women were immodest and
lay in the sun nearly naked while their men drank beer. The village youths hid
in the bushes every day and peered at the women. Elva was hired to clean for
them and said they lived in a mess of dirty plates and beer cans. The visitors
only stayed a week or two and were replaced by an identical set. The villagers
lost interest until the water started disappearing from their wells. Elva provided
the answer. Twenty-four visitors having showers every day, twenty-four visitors
flushing toilets. The men hosed the dust off their cars. More freshwater was
used on the garden as the visitors liked the flowers. The pump in Falkas' well
worked all night to keep the big cistern full. The villagers were angry. In
the arid months of July and August even the smallest child knew to throw the
dish water on the garden.
One night shadowy figures wrenched opened the pump housing and attacked the
pump with a lump hammer. The incident was not spoken about, even when the insurance
assessor arrived from the mainland. He brought with him a policeman.
Falkas arrived and berated the men in the tavern. "These people are my guests
and look how you treat them. You ogle the women and damage my property."
The villagers were uneasy for Falkas spoke the truth.
"Now there must be an arrest or the insurance company will not pay for the damage.
Who is it to be?"
The villagers were silent.
"Who is the poorest amongst you? I will give him six goats if he goes to the
police and confesses." The villagers digested the implications of Falkas offer.
Dilk spoke. "Galg is the poorest amongst us and he will need ten goats for a
full confession." Dilk remembered this bargaining with Falkas and how he had
thought himself astute.
The sounds of bleating disturbed his reverie. Galg was herding his goats along
the road. He now made an income posing for photographs and giving milking demonstrations.
Dilk had seen those demonstrations in which Galg put his arms around foreign
women and rubbed against their breasts under the pretence of guiding their hands
to the goat's teats.
Galg shouted "Have any cars passed this way?"
Dilk shook his head. He did not approve of Galg's tactics of stopping cars with
his herd so that tourists would take photographs. Galg sat on the wall and wiped
his brow. He was wearing an authentic island costume of his own devising, leather
knickerbockers and goat skin waistcoat.
Dilk whistled for his dog to keep Galg's goats from his crops. "I'm not giving
your mangy goats a free dinner."
Galg laughed. "They are overfed. The foreigners stuff them with food. If I didn't
make them walk the road they would sink into the ground."
Dilk permitted himself a smile. Galg passed him a bottle and he took a swig
of the local spirit.
"Did you make this?"
"No. I can afford to buy now."
Dilk wiped his mouth. "I thought it was too good for your making."
"Nothing is too good for me now, thanks to Falkas."
At the mention of his name Dilk scowled.
Galg stood up. "Got to go. Milking time soon."
Dilk watched Galg stroll down the road. His goats had brought other changes.
The fruit trees had been uprooted and a wall built around the guest house. Special
lights had been installed that lit up when approached. The new pump worked by
day as well as by night but the villagers could not sabotage it, instead they
had to dig deeper wells.
Dilk whistled for his dog. Where was he? He whistled again. There was a screech
of brakes and a howl that tore through Dilk's being. He ran down the road. A
bloody pelt lay panting in the dust. A tourist got out of the car. "I'm so sorry,
he just ran out in front of me. "
Oblivious to the tourist's words Dilk scooped the dog into his arms. His only
task now was to take the dog home and shoot him. He would bury him under the
olive trees. He turned homeward and came face-to-face with The Woman.
"The dog needs a doctor."
She pushed Dilk towards the car. The tourist opened the door. The Woman pushed
Dilk again.
"Get in."
She spoke to the tourist and ordered him to take them to the city. Dilk sat
in the back of the car in a daze while the tourist drove them to the animal
clinic.
Dilk was led into the surgery. He did not want to let go of his dog. A man in
an overall spoke to Dilk in his own language and persuaded him to lay the dog
on the operating table. An assistant led him out to the waiting room. Dilk sat
with his head in his hands, not speaking, not moving, until The Woman touched
his arm.
"The doctor wants to speak to you."
The animal doctor gave Dilk drugs and bandages. He also gave Dilk instructions
for the care of his dog on a piece of paper. He said The Woman had paid for
everything though Dilk did not see money change hands, only a small piece of
plastic card.
The Woman led him outside. A taxi stood waiting. Dilk laid the comatose animal
on the back seat and cradled the dog's head in his lap. He did not speak on
the journey home. He did not speak when he got out of the taxi. The words of
Thanks due to The Woman stuck in his throat. He owed her a debt now and he hated
her the more for it.
Word soon spread around the village about the dog, The Woman, and Dilk's debt
of honour. Many of the men said Dilk should not have accepted The Woman's help,
though not to his face. Others bided their time and waited with interest to
see how Dilk would discharge his debt. Perhaps he would offer his services to
The Woman's husband. Others laughed and said Dilk would never work for another
man let alone a foreigner who put profit in the pocket of Falkas.
The dog recovered but Dilk stopped visiting the tavern. He shunned the company
of the villagers and brooded alone in his house. The dog sensed the change in
his master and never let Dilk out of his sight.
Efi the bus conductor visited his old friend. Dilk was one of the few villagers
still using the weekly service and Efi missed his regular trips. The bus was
now full of foreigners and the locals visited the town on their two stroke bikes
and three wheeler vans. Efi was required to wear uniform for his duties as conductor,
but nowhere in the regulations did it say that his uniform had to be clean.
Efi enjoyed the foreigner's expressions of distaste at his reeking presence
and filthy hands as he collected fares and gave wrong change, or even no change
if the note was sufficiently large.
Out of courtesy to his friend, Efi removed his uniform jacket and trousers and
draped them on the garden wall. He took a pair of cotton pants out of his kit
bag and pulled them on before settling himself in the shade of Dilk's olive
trees. Dilk silently handed Efi a drink. The dog lay under his chair panting
in the heat. Dilk stroked the dog's ears.
"He has changed since the accident. He has become my shadow."
"There is much gossip about your debt to the foreign woman."
Dilk frowned. "I need no reminder of my debt."
"I do not seek to remind you, only to say that this woman does not know our
customs. The benefit is all hers for helping a humble peasant."
Dilk smiled. "And I gave her a peasant's thanks. I sent Elva with a gift of
cheese and olives in a basket. The woman liked the basket more than the cheese."
Efi laughed. "The ways of foreign women are strange. I saw this Woman sunning
herself by the roadside. I thought these foreigners liked to lie on the sand,
not on stones."
Dilk shrugged. "She can lie on a dung heap and rot till the crows peck her clean."
"And why do you hate this woman so?"
"She doesn't stay with her man like the others but roams around and interferes
in our lives."
"Like so?"
"When Amrikia got pregnant by Fiko The Woman said Amrikia did not have to marry
him. And this after her father and brothers travelled all the way to the mainland
to bring Fiko back."
"Did she marry Fiko ?"
"No. Amrikia went to a clinic and had the baby killed."
"Because of this Woman?"
Dilk shrugged. "The Woman planted the seed of disrespect in Amrikia."
Efi laughed. "Since when are the doings of women and babies the concerns of
men? You should go to the tavern to hear some real talk instead of Elva's gossip.
The government is putting a tax on goats and reducing the fishing quota. What
do you think of that? Eh?"
"I neither keep goats nor do I fish."
"But you eat both."
"Ah."
"There is a meeting in the Square to organise a delegation to the mainland."
"When?"
"Saturday night."
"I might go to observe the proceedings."
"Good. I will meet you there. I must go now. The Inspector insists we keep to
the timetable."
Efi found his job monotonous and welcomed any distraction. As the ancient diesel
engine laboured up the hill, he saw The Woman Dilk hated so much still sunning
herself by the roadside. He idly calculated the number of hours she had lain
there and frowned. He conferred with the driver who confirmed his calculations.
Efi decided The Woman must be admonished for her own good and for his standing
as a uniformed official of the civic authorities. The driver was happy to collude
with Efi's public show of power and stopped the bus. Efi swaggered over to The
Woman and under the gaze of a startled audience of foreign passengers berated
her for endangering her health. The Woman did not respond to Efi's insults so
he stooped over her. One side of her face was a livid purple and blood oozed
through her T-shirt. Efi smiled. He did not have many opportunities to use his
two-way radio and here was a real emergency guaranteed to make the newspapers.
The Police were not pleased. The Islands were virtually crime free and tourist
assault was detrimental to the economy. An arrest had to be made, and a genuine
one. The husband was interviewed but he was too drunk to remember anything.
The villagers confirmed this was not an unusual condition for the man, even
early in the day. The village women claimed The Woman had many friends locally,
but the interviewing officer noticed their menfolk scowled at their talk. However,
dislike was not sufficient motive for life-threatening assault. The hospital
confirmed her injuries were consistent with being thrown from a moving vehicle.
The Police decided to wait and interview The Woman when she recovered consciousness.
An interpreter was hired. The Woman refused to discuss the matter. The Doctor
was convinced The Woman knew the identity of her attacker and colluded with
the Police to keep her in hospital whilst they investigated.
Efi made a suggestion for the Police Department whilst reporting to the Company
Inspector. A special bus was laid on to take the village women to visit The
Woman in the hospital, including Amrikia. The trip was a success. Amrikia returned
on her own for a second and third visit. She learnt the identity of the attacker
and confided in her father. The Police gave him a reward which he decided to
hold as a dowry for the time Amrikia agreed to marry Fiko. The Police decided
not to prosecute, but did not close the case as they expected further developments.
Efi had a smug grin as he settled himself in the shade of Dilk's olive trees.
"Well my friend, we know who did it."
"Did what?"
"If you got yourself down to the tavern more often, you would know 'what'."
"If you mean The Woman, why should I care?"
"You owe her a debt."
"Pah! I would not raise a single finger against my fellow countrymen."
"You mistake my meaning."
"Ha! I know -- it was one of Galg's goats."
"No. It was the husband."
"So?"
"He threw her out of the car. She lost the baby."
"Ah." Dilk drained his glass. "Baby murder is another matter. What is the repayment?"
"Six broken ribs, one ruptured spleen, one broken arm, one broken jaw, one cracked
skull……"
Dilk picked up his hammer. "I'll see what I can do." He put the hammer down.
"I'll wait until it is dark."
Margot
Agnew