Part one

( Making Paxos )

 

 

In the days of the happy back-packer, before the advent of the of packaged hoards, the

`Kamelia` tied up directly under the forbidding walls of the old fort at Corfu.

 

Built For the glory of Helen and Troy, Hephaestus had –down the millennia – at some

point metamorphosed her planks and mast into the steel and funnel of a sturdy ferry.

 

Re-born master Spiros had sailed on that immortal quest, while cowardly mate Tassos

had stayed at home, lusting after the wife and property of the brave Odysseus.        

 

                                                             ………………..

 

`No problem` said the tar, striking the gear from the gleaming shaft on the quay, and

the two packers - being yet but green and wonder-stuck in Greece - believed him.

 

One hurried to Corfu town, to light a pair of respectful tapers before the shrine of St

Spiridion…the other lingered to consume an unwise goat stew in a nearby taverna.

 

The `no problem` persisted. And it was eleven hours beyond departure time when

the inky blackness of a queasy sea digested them out of the dim lights of the port.

 

The unwise stew entered into the temple of the ever-sluicing foot-padded toilet to

commence her voyage long libation to Poseidon, as black-clad widows prayed…

 

Scorning the `WANT RUM SEE CAPTIN` notice in the saloon, the sound one retired

to the stern…to sit on their packs and watch the white wake foaming into the dark.

 

Three hours of loping progress through a side-swiping sea fetched their tiny glimmer

of illumination up under a coast. They turned in. The sound one made for the bow…

 

To overhear the low, English voice: `We`re late, the fools are going to try to take her

in the back way!`. The voice sounded very worried. The sound one grew tense…

 

`The book said the entry into Gaios was beautiful. but entry the front way- and in the

light…this is the back way!…and in the dark!`..The sound one grew yet more tense.

 

                                                       ………………….

 

A solidness at their flanks and diminution of wind signalled them in some sort of  a

of channel, eyes quizzed the bridge. The faces behind the glass were grim and taut.

 

Unheedingly they ploughed them forward through the thickening dark…on and on…

Then a clack! - an almighty clack!...and a light! –a sudden, flooding, blinding light!...

 

Too late! They were irrevocably committed to the creek! Fear-struck faces strained

to their front…utter horror! They were churning straight at a cliff–a high, yellow cliff!

 

Again frantic eyes implored the bridge, but the stony faces - as though determined on

certain suicide –remained grimly resolute…They ploughed on…closer…nearer!

 

The cliff loomed over them, higher and higher!, glints of quartz it`s face glittering like the

evil eyes of a huge, feline monster rearing…waiting to pounce…to pounce!

 

All was lost! hope despaired of! prayers prayed! curses cursed! lives instantaneously

flashed! undeclared loves bitterly regretted! it was calamity! sheer calamity!...then…

 

With a jarring shun from the very base of the cliff she veered violently left, shot the

elbow of the creek and, with a shrill screech of her siren…coasted into the harbour.

 

                                              …………………………….

 

Numbed, the tourists sat in long oblivion to the ghostly disembarkations around them

…Unfortunately, also to the sight of the few room owners disappointedly leaving…

 

They stepped off the darkened ship to find all the natives melted into the town, the

room-rich captain vanished…and the bleak, concrete quay completely deserted.

 

Dismal and alone, they wearily dragged their cases to the base of the one, tall solitary

lamp in the centre of the emptiness and squatted like mourners at the foot of the cross.

 

The sound one`s faith began to ebb, the unwise stew to regret she had not perished on

the journey…it was the utter nadir…when a hand out of the darkness grabbed a case.

 

Room? said a voice, and they turned, to look into the sleep-disturbed, eyes of a wild,

dishevelled woman. She took the cases…like sheep to the slaughter they followed

 

To what-in their warped imagination-seemed certain to be a circle of gypsy caravans, …

with knife-stropping men-folk-around fires-slyly eyeing their persons and goods…

 

Instead, they were led to a squat, yellow house, up a flight of scrubbed pine stairs, into

a neat, tidy room, and a clean brass-knobbed bed…nestled under a golden icon.

 

Left, the tourists sank down immediately into a profound and deep unconsciousness…

Outside, Gaios slept, the wind ceased, and the creek hushed into a courteous stillness.

 

The icon of St Spiridion stared – the way those Greek icons do – impassively ahead.

 

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Poetry accommodates all kinds of formats these days. This (for me) is an experiment

in narrative (`Poelogue`…`Traveloem`?) I might blog the next part sometime (but only if

I can finish the bloody thing !)