ΜΟΛΙΣ ἀράξαμε στὴ Στένη ὁ καπετὰν Ξυρίχης πῆρε τὴ βάρκα κι’ ἔτρεξε στὸ τηλεγραφεῖο. Δυὸ ἡμέρες τόρα δὲν ἥβρεσκε ἡσυχία. Τριάντα μίλια ἔξω ἀπὸ τὸ Μπουγάζι ἀντάμωσε τὸν «Ἀρχάγγελο», τὸ μπάρκο του, ποῦ ἦταν μέσα κυβερνήτης καὶ γραμματικὸς τὰ δυό του ἀδέρφια. Δὲν πρόφτασαν νὰ καλοχαιρετηθοῦν, νὰ εἰποῦν γιὰ τὸ φορτίο καὶ τὸ ναῦλο τους καὶ τοὺς χώρισε ὁ χιονιᾶς. Κατόρθωσε τέλος νὰ ὁρθοπλωρίσῃ τὸ δικό μας καὶ ὁλάκερο ἡμερονύχτι θαλασσοδαρθήκαμε στ’ ἀνοιχτά. Μὰ ὅταν μπῆκε στὸ Βόσπορο, ρώτησε ὅλους τοὺς βαρκάρηδες, τοὺς πιλότους, ἀκόμη τοὺς κουμπάρους καὶ τὶς κουμπάρες· ἀλλὰ τίποτα δὲν ἔμαθε γιὰ τὸν «Ἀρχάγγελο». Τί νὰ ἔγινε; Φυλάχτηκε πουθενά; Πρόφτασε νὰ ὀρθοπλωρίσῃ καὶ κεῖνος ἢ ἔπεσε ἀπάνω στοὺς βράχους; Κι’ ἂν τσακίστηκε τὸ μπάρκο, σώθηκαν τοὐλάχιστον τ’ ἀδέρφια του; Ὅλο τέτοια συλλογίζεται κι’ ἔχει συγνεφωμένο τὸ μέτωπο, τρέμουλο ἔχει στὴν καρδιά. Ὅταν ἔφτασε στὸ τηλεγραφεῖο, ξέχασε μιὰ στιγμὴ τὸν πόνο του ἐμπρὸς στὸν πόνο τῶν ἀλλονῶν. Κάτω στὴν αὐλή, ἀπάνω στὶς σαρακωμένες σκάλες καὶ παραπάνω στ’ ἀσάρωτα πατώματα κόσμος σὰν αὐτὸν ἀνήσυχος· γυναῖκες ἄντρες, παιδιὰ πρόσμεναν νὰ μάθουν ἀπὸ τὸ σύρμα τὴν τύχη τῶν δικῶν τους. Καὶ κεῖνο σώριαζε μὲ τὴν ταρναριστὴ φωνή του ἀκατάπαυστα θλίψη. Ὠνόμαζε πνιγμούς, μετροῦσε θανάτους, ἔλεγε ναυάγια, περιουσίας χαμούς, συνέπαιρνε χαρὲς κι’ ἐλπίδες σὰν δρόλαπας. Καὶ κάθε λίγο ἀπάνω στὰ πατώματα, στὶς σκάλες κάτω καὶ παρακάτω στὴν αὐλὴ θρῆνοι ἀκούονταν, κορμιὰ ἔπεφταν λιπόθυμα, φωτιὰ κυλοῦσε τὸ δάκρυ. Ὁ καπετὰν Ξυρίχης δὲν μποροῦσε νὰ ὑποφέρῃ περισσότερο τὸ βάσανο. Βιαζότανε νὰ μάθῃ καὶ τὴ δική του μοῖρα. Ἔσπρωξε τὸν κόσμο ζερβόδεξα, ἀνέβηκε δυὸ-δυὸ τὰ σκαλιά, ἔφτασε μὲ κόπο στῆ θυρίδα καὶ ρώτησε μὲ ὁλότρεμη φωνή: — Γιὰ τὸν Ἀρχάγγελο… τὸ μπάρκο… μὴν ἀκούσατε τίποτα; — Τίποτα· τοῦ ἀπαντᾷ ξερὰ ὁ τηλεγραφητής. Τίποτα! πῶς εἶνε δυνατό; Ξαναρωτάει: — Ἀρχάγγελο τὸ λέν· ἔχει φιγούρα δέλφινα... ἔχει στὸ μεσανὸ κατάρτι κόφα. Σπετσιώτικο χτίσιμο. Καὶ κολλάει περίεργα τὰ μάτια στοῦ ὑπάλληλου τὸ πρόσωπο, ἀφτιάζεται τοὺς κρότους ποῦ βγάζει ξερούς, συγκρατητοὺς σὰν δοντοχτύπημα κρυομένου ἡ μηχανή. Τὰ σωθικά του λαχταροῦν, φεύγουν τὰ σανίδια ἀπὸ τὰ πόδια του· ἕτοιμος νὰ λιποθυμήσῃ. Μὰ δὲν τὴν παραιτᾷ τὴ θέση του. Τέλος σηκώνει ἐκεῖνος τὰ μάτια, τὸν καλοκοιτάζει μιὰ στιγμὴ καὶ λέει μὲ φωνὴ ἀδιάφορη: — Ναί… Ἀρχάγγελος. Χάθηκε στὸ τάδε μέρος τῆς Ρούμελης· κόπηκε στὰ δυό· ἡ πρύμη του ρίχτηκε στοὺς βράχους μὲ δυὸ παιδιὰ μέσα… Τὰ παιδιὰ εἶνε ζωντανά. Ζωντανά! Ἀναστηλώνεται ὁ καπετάνιος στὰ πόδια του. — Τὰ ὀνόματα; λέει μὲ φωνὴ σὰν χάδι· δὲν μποροῦμε τάχα νὰ μάθουμε τὰ ὀνόματα; — Πέτρος καὶ Γιάννης. Δόξα σοι ὁ Θεός! Πέτρος καὶ Γιάννης εἶνε τ’ ἀδέρφια του. Ζωντανὰ λοιπὸν καὶ τὰ δυό. Ζωντανὰ ἐκεῖνα, θρίμματα τὸ ὁλοκαίνουργο σκαφίδι! Πάλι δόξα σοι ὁ Θεός! Φτιάνουν ἄλλο μεγαλείτερο κι’ ὀμορφώτερο. Φιλεύει ἀνοιχτόκαρδος πέντε ποῦρα τὸν ὑπάλληλο· δίνει ἕνα μετζίτι κέρασμα στὸν ὑπηρέτη· παρηγορεῖ γλυκομίλητος τὰ θλιμμένα πρόσωπα:—Δὲν εἶνε τίποτα· ὅλοι καλὰ εἶνε· ὅλα καλά! — Ποιᾶς ἡλικίας τάχα νὰ εἶνε τὰ παιδιά; ρωτάει πάλι. Ὁ ὑπάλληλος σκουντουφλιάζει: Μὰ τὸν παρασκότισε! Γύρω ἀκούονται φωνὲς ἀνυπόμονες· σπρώχνει ὁ ἕνας τὸν ἄλλον· θέλουν νὰ τὸν βγάλουν ἀπὸ τὴ θυρίδα. Ἔμαθε πῶς ζοῦν τ’ ἀδέρφια του· δὲν τὸν φτάνει; Εἶνε κι’ ἄλλοι ποῦ λαχταροῦν γιὰ τοὺς δικοὺς των. Ἂς μάθουν καὶ κεῖνοι κάτι τί! Μὰ ἐκεῖνος δὲν ἀφήνει τὴ θέση του. — Ποιᾶς ἡλικίας τάχα; ξαναρωτᾷ. — Δέκα-δώδεκα χρονῶν. Πάλι ἀπελπισία. Τ’ ἀδέρφια του δὲν εἶνε τόσο μικρά. Εἶνε ἀπὸ εἰκοσιπέντε κι’ ἀπάνω. Σκουντούφλης, κατεβαίνει τὶς σκάλες, βγαίνει ἀπὸ τὴν αὐλή, παίρνει τὸ βαποράκι καὶ φτάνει στὰ Θεραπειά. Ἀποκεῖ μ’ ἕν’ ἄλογο φτάνει στὸν Ἅϊ Γιώργη, παίρνει τὴν ἀκρογιαλιά. Τὰ μάτια του ὀμπρίζουν. Ὁ ἥλιος παιγνιδίζει ἀκόμη σὲ ζαφειρένιο οὐρανό. Ἡ θάλασσα λίμνη ἁπλώνεται ὡς τὰ οὐρανοθέμελα. Ἡ γῆ ἀνθοσπαρμένη μοσχοβολᾷ. Μὰ ἡ ἀκρογιαλιὰ μοιάζει μὲ νεκροταφεῖο. Κάθε βράχος καὶ νεκροκρέβατο. Καράβια κομματιασμένα, βαρκοῦλες μισοσπασμένες, σχοινιά, κατάρτια, φιγοῦρες, πανιά, εἰκονίσματα, παδέλες, πιάτα, λιβανιστήρια, πιξίδες, χρυσόξυλα. Καὶ μαζὶ χέρια, πόδια, κορμιὰ δίχως κεφάλια, κεφάλια δίχως κορμιά, ἄδεια καύκαλα, τρίχες χωμένες στὶς σκισμάδες, μυαλὰ στουπιασμένα στὴν πέτρα. Ἕνα τρεχαντηράκι ὀμορφοφκιασμένο, ἄγγελος πρόβαινε μὲ πανιὰ καὶ ξάρτια, λὲς κι’ ἀρμένιζε ἀνάερα. Καὶ ὅμως ἦταν καρφωμένο στὸ βράχο, σφιλιασμένο τόσο καλά στὴν πέτρα, ποὺ οὐδὲ νερό, οὐδ’ ἄνεμος μποροῦσε νὰ περάσῃ. Κι’ ἕνα σκυλὶ στὴν πρύμη δεμένο, γύριζε μάτια φωτιές, δάγκωνε τὴν ἁλυσίδα του καὶ τὸ νερὸ κοιτάζοντας ἀλύχταγε κι’ ἀλύχταγε, σὰν νὰ τὸ ἔβριζε ποῦ χάλασε τ’ ὀμορφοκάραβο. Ἔκαμε ἀκόμη μερικὰ βήματα ὁ καπετὰν Ξυρίχης καὶ ἄξαφνα βρέθηκε μπρὸς στὸ μπάρκο του. Ἔπρεπε νὰ εἶνε δικό του ξύλο, γιὰ νὰ τὸ γνωρίσῃ. Οὔτε κατάρτια οὔτε πανιά, οὔτε σκαφίδι ἀπόμενε πλιά. Μονάχα ἡ πρύμη του καὶ κείνη ξεσκλισμένη, κρατιότανε σὲ δυὸ χάλαρα. Καὶ γύρωθέ της πικρὴ νεκροπομπὴ ἄλλα ξύλα σκορπισμένα, κουπιὰ καὶ ἄρμενα· ἄλλες καρίνες φαγωμένες· ἄλλα ποδόσταμα καὶ σωτρόπια καὶ σταύρωσες. Κι’ ἀκόμη γύρωθέ της ἄλλη πικρότερη συνοδειά! Βλέπει τὸν ναύκληρο νεκρὸ στὸ πλάγι· βλέπει τοὺς ναῦτες πέρα δῶθε σκορπισμένους, ἄλλους κολλιτσίδα ἀπάνω στὰ κοτρώνια, ἄλλους μισοσκεπασμένους μὲ τὸν ἄμμο, ἄλλους παιγνίδι τοῦ νεροῦ, δαρμὸς καὶ φτύμα του. Κι’ ἀπάνω στὰ τουμπανιασμένα κουφάρια, στὰ πρόσωπα τὰ χασκογέλαστα τὰ ὄρνια καλοκαθισμένα βύθιζαν τὸ ράμφος στὴ νεκρὴ σάρκα καὶ στὸν κρότο του πέταξαν κράζοντας, σὰν νὰ διαμαρτύρονταν ποῦ τὰ ἐνόχλησε στὸ πλούσιο φαγοπότι. Ἀρχίζει τόρα φριχτότερο τοῦ καπετάνιου τὸ βάσανο. Ἐκεῖνα τὰ κουφάρια δείχνουν πῶς κοντὰ βρίσκονται καὶ τὰ δικά του. Θέλει νὰ δράμῃ, νὰ ψάξῃ ὁλοῦθε, μὰ δὲν τολμᾷ. Κάτι μέσα τὸν κρατεῖ τὰ πόδια του καρφώνει στ’ ἀχνάρια τους. Τέλος πάει καὶ ψαχουλεύει, βρίσκει ἀσούσουμα καὶ τ’ ἀδέρφια του. Τὸ ἕνα κοίτεται μὲ τὸ κεφάλι συψαλιασμένο, τὸ ἄλλο ἔχει καὶ τὰ δυὸ πόδια κομμένα στὸ γόνατα. Ἂν δὲν τοῦ τό λεγε ἡ ψυχή, βέβαια δὲ θὰ τὰ γνώριζαν τὰ μάτια του, ὅπως καὶ τὸ μπάρκο. Ἀλλὰ τοῦ τὸ εἶπε καὶ τὰ καλογνώρισε. Καὶ τότε τὰ μάτια του στέρεψαν· οὔτε δάκρυα βγάζουν, οὔτε σπαρταροῦν. Τὴ θάλασσα μόνον κοιτάζουν πεισμωμένα. Ἄξαφνα ὁ γρόθος σηκώνεται καὶ πέφτει μὲ ὁρμή, ποῦ λὲς τρόμαξε καὶ πισωπάτησε κείνη φοβισμένη. Ἔπειτα σκύφτει καὶ γλυκοφιλεῖ τ’ ἀδέρφια του. Χαϊδεύει τους τὰ χτυπημένα κορμιὰ ἀνάλαφρα, σὰν νὰ φοβᾶται μὴν τὰ ξυπνήσῃ· κάτι τοὺς ψιθυρίζει μυστικὰ στ’ ἀφτί, θὲς παρηγοριά, θὲς μακρινὴν ὑπόσχεση. Ἔπειτα μὲ τὸ λάζο ἀρχίζει καὶ σκάφτει τὸν τάφο τους. Παιδεύτηκε κάπου μιὰ ὥρα στὸν ἄμμο. Τὸν ἄνοιξε καλά· ἀπίθωσε πρῶτα τ’ ἀδέρφια, ἔπειτα τὸ ναύκληρο, κατόπιν τοὺς ναῦτες, κύλισε ἀπάνω πέτρες καὶ χάλαρα. Ἔπειτα ἔπιασε πάλι τὴ στράτα του κι’ ἔφτασε στὰ Θεραπειά. Βρίσκει τὸ βαπόρι, ἔφτασε πάλι στὸ μπάρκο του. — Ἕτοιμα; ρωτᾶ τὸ γραμματικό. — Ἕτοιμα. — Βίρα ἄγκουρα! Ὁ καπετὰν Ξυρίχης ἀμίλητος, ἔπιασε, τὴ θέση του στὸ κάσαρο κι’ ἐξακολουθήσαμε τὸ ταξίδι. Του ίδιου: ΘΕΙΑ ΤΙΜΩΡΙΑ - DIVINE VENGEANCE Η ΚΑΚΙΑ ΜΗΤΡΙΑ - THE WICKED STEPMOTHER ΓΕΓΟΝΟΤΑ ΑΠΟ ΤΗΝ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΗ ΕΠΑΝΑΣΤΑΣΗ ΠΑΣΧΑ ΣΤΑ ΠΕΛΑΓΑ - EASTER ON THE HIGH SEAS MORE WORDS OF THE PROW - KARKAVITSASΑΠΟ 'ΤΑ ΛΟΓΙΑ ΤΗΣ ΠΛΩΡΗΣ' - THE YOUSSOURI Η ΔΙΚΑΙΟΣΥΝΗ ΤΗΣ ΘΑΛΑΣΣΑΣ - THE JUSTICE OF THE SEA... Η ΔΙΚΑΙΟΣΥΝΗ ΤΗΣ ΘΑΛΑΣΣΑΣ - THE JUSTICE OF THE SEA..
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OF SHIPWRECKS
By Andreas KarkavitsasFrom the collection Words of the Prow (1924) Rendered by Vassilis C. Militsis
As soon as we dropped anchor off the Straits of Bosporus, Captain Xyrihis boarded the launch and headed straight to the Telegraph Office. He had not been able to find peace and quiet since two days before. Thirty miles off Boğaz he hailed The Archangel, his bark, the captain of which and purser were his two brothers. No sooner had they had the time to greet each other and talk about the fare and cargo than heavy snowfall separated them. Our own ship had managed to luff and an entire day and night we had been stormed-tossed in open seas. But when she entered Bosporus, our captain asked every boatman, pilot, even plain sailors and deck boys, without obtaining any news of The Archangel. What might have happened to her? Might she have secured some place? Could she still be sailing before the wind or was she wrecked onto the reefs? And perchance the bark smashed on the cliffs; may the two brothers have rescued themselves? As the captain had been entertaining such thoughts, his brow was clouded and his heart quivered. Upon arriving at the Telegraph Office, he forgot for a moment his own concerns seeing the distress of other people. There were a host of people in the courtyard, on the worm-eaten staircase and on the unswept floors waiting anxiously like him; men, women and children were expecting from the wire to learn about the fate of their dear ones. And the wire with its shaky sound was unceasingly heaping grief. It announced drownings, counted deaths, reported shipwrecks, property losses and swept away joys and hopes like a windstorm. And every so often, on the floors, on the stairs and down in the courtyard people fell down in a swoon and burning tears welled up in their eyes.
Captain Xyrihis could no longer stand this torment. He was anxious to find out what lay in store for him. He made his way pushing people right and left; he climbed a couple of stairs, and with much effort got to the counter.
“It’s about The Archangel, my bark,” he asked in a tremulous voice; “Have you heard anything?” “Nothing;” came the telegrapher’s dry answer.
“Nothing! How can that be?” he asked again. “It’s about The Archangel; there two dolphins carved in her prow and a crow’s nest on her main topgallant mast. She’s of Spetsian build.”
He glares at the clerk’s face, and listens to the dry staccato crack of the machine, that sounds like the gnashing of teeth of a man suffering from cold. His innards seem to melt and loses the floorboard under his feet; he is about to faint. But he does not yield. Finally the clerk raises his eyes, looks at him intensely for a moment and says indifferently:
“Yes…The Archangel. She was lost somewhere on the coast of Roumeli; she burst open across the waist; her prow crushed onto the rocks with two kids inside…the kids are alive.” Alive! The captain takes heart and stands steadily on his feet.
“Their names?” he is asking tenderly; “Can I perhaps have their names?”
“Petros and Yannis.”
Thank God! Petros and Yannis are his brothers. Both are alive. They are living but the brand new vessel has been blown to smithereens! But again thank God! They’ll have a bigger and prettier one built. He generously treats the clerk with five cigars; he tips the servant with a mecit; he gives a sweet word of comfort to the aggrieved ones – no problem; all is well!
“I wonder how old the kids are!” he asks anew.
The clerk frowns. Why, he is being a pain in the neck! Impatient pleadings are heard around him; they push each other; they strive to pull him out of the counter. “All right!” he thinks, “he learned his brothers are alive; isn’t that enough? There are others who are longing to hear of their dear ones. They have the right to know something, too.” But the captain is persistent: “How old are they?” he asks again.
“Ten to twelve years of age.”
Despair again. His brothers are not so young. They are over twenty-five. He climbs down the stairs sullenly, goes out to the courtyard, boards the ferry and arrives at Therapia. Thence on a hired horse he gets to St. George, and rides along the coast. His eyes are misty. The sun is still lingering playfully in a sky of sapphire. The still, serene waters of the sea are spreading as far as the horizon. The flower-grown earth gives off a gorgeous fragrance. But the seaside looks like a graveyard. Each rock is a deathbed. Wrecked ships, smashed boats, yards, masts, pictures and icons, sails, cooking vessels, plates, censers, compasses, gold curios. And along this chaos, he is hit by an appalling sight: human limbs – arms, legs, headless bodies, bare bones, and human hair embedded in clefts, and brains spread on stones. A speedster, skillfully built – an angelic image – appeared with rigs and sails as though she were sailing in the air. And yet it was so fast wedged in the cliff that she was impervious to water and wind. And a dog, chained on the prow, rolled its fiery eyes; bit the chain and staring at the water it barked away as if it blasphemed for the wrecking of the beautiful vessel.
Captain Xyrihis advanced a few steps and found himself before his bark. He recognized her at once as she had been built of his own wood. No masts, no sails, no keel were left; only her bows, split in two, was poised on two boulders. And around it he could see the bitter, funeral cortege: strewn with splintered wood, oars and rigging. He could also see more broken booms, cross beams and reef knots. And around him an even more bitter medley! He perceived the boatswain dead nearby; he saw the dead sailors dispersed here and there – some stuck like burdocks upon the boulders, others half buried in the sand and still others a plaything of the sea, beaten and spat by the waves. And on the bloated carcasses, on their grinning faces vultures sat in their comfort and hacked the dead flesh with their beaks. At the captain’s approach they flew off crowing vexed at the disturbance of their rich banquet.
And now begins the captain’s most horrible torture: those corpses mean that somewhere near must also be the ones of his dear ones. He wants to rush and search all over the place, but he dares not. Something inside him keeps his feet riveted in his tracks. Finally he moves and rakes around; he finally finds his brothers beyond recognition. The head of one of his brothers is smashed and the other brother lacks both legs from the knees downwards. If his soul did not scream, he would not believe his eyes when he saw his bark. But being stout of heart, he recognizes both his siblings. And then his eyes have gone dry; they neither well up nor blink. They only glare at the sea spitefully. Suddenly he raises his fist and strikes down so violently that you think it recoiled in fright.
Then he bows down and sweetly kisses his siblings. He gently caresses their beaten bodies as if he is afraid of waking them up; he whispers something secret in their ears – be it a word of comfort or a future promise. Then he begins to open a large grave with his dagger. He worked hard in the sand for about an hour; but he managed to open it wide. First he laid in his brothers, then the boatswain and afterwards the dead crew; he rolled stones and boulders on it. Having completed his gruesome task, he picked up his way to Therapia again. He caught the ferry and arrived at his bark. “All set?” he asks his purser.
“All set.”
“Heave the anchor!”
Captain Xyrihis, without a word, resumed his post at the poop deck and we followed our route.
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