Sleep and Dawn in this Land
I
oh Greece
the full moon pushes you
toward dawn
the tree tops move their shadows
the soft palm of the wind
maintains serenity over the sea.
oh Greece
after the oil lamb is put out
you’re measured
by the flowers of the dusk
by the stones
although some say that
as they’re motionless
they symbolize death.
This was dangerous teasing on Finten’s part. Norsemen are easily embarrassed by
even the slightest suggestion of homosexual behaviour. Such an insinuation could
lead to death, especially when uttered by a slave. Bjorn’s face flushed scarlet. He
raised his mighty fist to strike. In a flash, Brother Lorcan was on his feet, flying at
him like a cocker spaniel, barking in the strange Celtic tongue “I’ll kill you and accept
the consequence. This is a man of God. You will not harm one hair…”
Bjorn, amazed, grabbed the monk and held him high and swinging. He glanced
toward his captain who was laughing heartily. Bjorn understood the joke, chuckled,
put the Brother gently down and held his arms out to Finten who, first handed him
the ball, then clasped the burly Norseman in friendship. The crew roared their approval.
Hjálmar handed the priest a cup of mead and toasted Finten. “May you also
be with us in Valhöll. You are a good man.”
The captain poured another cup and handed it to the feisty Brother Lorcan. “We
will drink to your health and henceforth call you Cillian, Little Warrior.”
A second roar of approval went up from everyone. The three other Brothers,
awakened by the ruckus, each took a cup of mead and joined in the final song that
proclaimed “good night.”
Did the Norsemen know they were singing the song of Cormac, third century
poet and king of Éirinn, thought Finten? He remembered how his father had sung
this very song before going off to battle, after which, all their world of love and peace
was to change forever.
Dread not a death from the foemen,
Though we dash at them, buckler to buckler,
While our prince in the power of his warriors
Is proud of me foremost in battle.
But the glimpse of a glory comes o’er me
Like the gleam of the moon on the skerry,
And I faint and I fail for my longing,
For the fair one at home in the North.
Next morning, after boarding ship, the monks met two new additions to their
band. The night before, two elderly anchorites, Brothers Berach and Brógán, had
been surprised, captured, dragged on board, and tied below deck against escape.
Neither Finten nor his Brothers had been aware of religious hermits living on these
islands let alone of two ancient monks being captured and tied up on board the ship.
Finten grieved the newcomers’ impending fate, but chose not to describe his own
humiliation suffered at the hands of the barbarians.
“Berach and I have lived here for more than forty years,” said Brógán. “At first we
lived on opposite sides of the island. Then my good Brother Berach broke his leg
climbing among the crags for birds’ eggs. Only by chance did I come to him when
sheep-gathering Norsemen discovered my sod hut, and I ran for refuge to the far
side of the island.”
“God works in mysterious ways,” said Berach. “Good Brógán pulled me from the
hands of death and nursed me back to health. Now I can run as fast as he.”
“Ah, yes, but not fast enough to outrun this gang of thieves. And now I pray that
we be not counted as sheep for the slaughter.”
Chickadee
The pitch chirp of the chickadee recites the verse I wrote for you last night, and your smile opened my heart, hourly unction of silence when the heartless Hades caressed your cheek, and another ulcer formed in my stomach
—Do you want me to wear this green dress, or should I wear the black one?
My breath turns sulfuric, a potion the angels refuse to take away from my mouth, a taste I must indulge in for the rest of my life without you, my love
—Come and help me with the zipper; this dress is so tight.
Dove tethered onto my heart paints the room white as if a melodious song has gone flat. Your revered image still keeps me company when the night clock counts my heartbeats, and my spoiled dream rekindles my hidden yearning
—Don’t pull on the zipper so hard, you’ll break it. Come now, you’ve done this many times.
The gaping mouth of the abyss shuts, and your honeyed mound stands opposite the murky swamp where I struggle not to leave my worthiness attached.
—Now, isn’t it easy? Let’s go to the theatre tonight, don’t worry about the dog
Hellenic Canadian Literature 