I see no posts since “long last” Not out of laziness. I have rewritten my books.
and more to follow
Just finished ‘Xanos’ and as I was reading the last few pages, when Rodino leaves Helen and heads out on his own once again, my husband Phil was singing a song I have always loved and it seemed somehow fitting to share it with you. It’s called:
“You want me to find what I’ve already had.” I search for love and somewhere along the way admit that all of love is the same. Perfect. It may come in different wrapping; some with the string attached; other with the box split open, but it is all perfect. It is warm and comforting; it is exciting and risky; it is you and it is me.
He is “wind energy” and home is “earth energy”. Wind is like the butterfly, always flitting to another bright stigma. Earth is like the beaver, afloat or on land always home; the tortoise carries his home, and the leopard patrols the risen earth and lives between the shadow of the rocks.
Home is clean; loving; open to creative expression; non judgmental; home is comfortable and secure; and above all else home is a partnership between you and me, never alone.
Rodino finds himself pushed from one experience to the next, always moved on, reflecting on those who invited him in, but could not share their space with him; and those who turned him away, taking what he had to give, sometimes sucking him dry.
Love too moves on. It is not lost. It is not meaningless. It too seeks a new home. In the story of Rodino “Son of Xanos” moves, despite himself, to a place where he belongs. He may not like it and he may not have chosen it, but his all-consuming purpose will come from this new place. If left to his own selfish desires he will never reach that place. Such would be the stagnation of a lost soul in which there is no space for love.
Listen to your guides and go to that place….we follow a few steps behind.
Pitre was one of the few who followed the King into the mountains of Albania. Now his home village of Sphakia brands him a traitor.
“Death!” They shout. “You returned but your friends did not.”
The winter months of February and March on the isle of Crete are extremely cold. The snow lies thick on the ground and the city folk return to their ‘horio’ to tend to the olive harvest. Oniro Mellos of Larissa was one of those, albeit on the mainland near Thessaloniki where her olives were not a mere patch, but a giant orchard. Throughout Greece the olive tree is the symbol of ancient ways binding the people in a common courage to withstand the forces of separation and difference.
The Crete of Rodino’s birth and the very place where sky touches earth and life erupts. Along this forsaken coast the Son of Xanos burns insane in the twisted wreckage of his dreams.
The lies fabricated against Pitre cannot be challenged and the crowd bay for his execution. He topples forward his face on the cold stones of the courtyard.
Rodnio hears the tinkling of the donkey bell coming closer and closer and watches from the goat enclosure. Felice appears in the kitchen doorway and collapses shivering uncontrollably. She gathers herself and indicates for the old man to wait hurrying back into the kitchen returning to hand him a coin.
“Thank you,” she manages to whisper.
Inside the house Pitre’s body lies on the kitchen table. Felice and Apolonia sponge him down from a pot of hot water. Maria leans over Pitre’s head stroking his hair. Rodino enters and stares at the hole where the bullet had struck his father’s chest. No one cries and no one talks, they do what they have to do in dignity and silence.
Felice brings Pitre’s army uniform and they dress him. Maria tries to stick the feather from his hat between his fingers, but it falls to the floor and she leaves it there. They carry him into the open fields beyond the vegetable garden and the outer wall where Rodino digs a shallow grave and they lay him to rest and pile stones over his body until they cannot see him anymore. Maria sits flat-legged on the ground throwing her little stones one by one onto the pile.
Rodino remembers the time Pitre had made a fist and Rodino had copied him and made two fists holding them above his head. So their goodbye that day was done and so it is today.
On the second night Felice forgets to make the scratch on the wall marking the days of Pitre’s absence, but unbeknown to her Apolonia keeps count, making the scratches that she knows will bring her father home and in so doing entering into the passage of time and the holding of hope.
A man wearing an embroidered jacket and top hat plays a guitar and the sound of the music thrills Rodino to the core. He has never heard such joy and it reminds him of that night he spied on his mother and how the sound of her singing had filled his heart.
On the day I ordered the burning of the houses, the war was turning against us. It was my decision to undermine the morale of the enemy, so I ordered the burning.
Rodino finds the leftover foods wrapped in her satchel on the kitchen table where she had dropped it on arriving home and he is suspicious about the exotic bits and pieces he finds inside. His curiosity cannot be swallowed by a tasty chunk of feta and he schemes and plans and prepares himself until one evening he knows the time to act is now.
Pitre opens the front door and picks Rodino up and places him on the stool at the head of the table.
Eat son, he says, and eat well. The more food he pushes onto Rodino’s plate the more Rodino eats. It’s a miracle where all that food goes. Good, Pitre says, time to go, and he washes his hands in the sink and kisses Felice goodbye.
Felice hands Rodino a small parcel… Continue reading