(Page 1 of 8) A Catch For Marizza by Vasilis Afxentiou
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SUMMARY: I had plunged into the cold sea, into the realm of myth and legend, into the ballads and fables underlying the order of the everyday and the commonplace.
A Catch For Marizza
by
Vasilis Afxentiou
An aged fisherman had been the first to see the treasure trove.
Fishermen had been the first to explore the island's ragged coast thoroughly. The seasoned anglers, with a week's supply of edibles consisting of olives, goat's cheese, dried figs, crusty bread and fresh water, could sail between alcoves while still daylight. Long ago the island's mayor had sent a fleet of them to search out the rumored treasure.
It was a bad day to set sail. Andreas was risking it anyway, for Marizza. "It's the only way," he said rubbing his hands to warm them. "It's my duty to help."
He looked out to the sea. He extended an arm and brushed gently the hull of his vessel, almost as one would caress an old devoted dog. He did not answer the many questions in his head. Instead he squeezed his lips together, and tried to remain cool. What he saw was highly dangerous. Behind the guise of calm, Andreas Karras was uneasy. For the first time, the thought echoed in his brain, he had planned in fact to raid the sacred trove.
Daylight was in the asking, though it was well after dawn. Sea and sky glared at each other with dark, wet and windy bursts. Clouds grazed black, restless waters, then convoluted into ominous resolutions of the Apocalypse. Andreas prodded his eyes away. He took a last look around him. Only a fool would plunge into that, he thought. Abandoned, secured but empty boats, pulled far away from the swelling white froth, lay on the gray gust-swept beach.
Ares was among them. A little more than a skiff. Boasted an extra yard and a half over the rest, and a deeper wedge-shaped belly. The bottom of its floor had been covered across with thick planks from walnut wood to make for sound footing. He felt proud of the old sloop. No fewer than thirty years had passed since his father--a stern turbulent man--crafted the little ship with his own two hands, before even Andreas had taken his first breath of life.
Those days, even though the devil bar his way, his father would row out, net or angle his catch, and row back to sell the fruit of the sea.
"I don't approve of cowards," he had said then. "To be prudent, yes. The ancients teach moderation, it applies to virtue as well. Steal but don't get caught. " Andreas, troubled, tugged at his chin searching for propriety in this answer. Today, the little ship of his had a modern engine. It was called a motor-boat, no longer a row-boat. Two years at trade school in Saloniki taught Andreas enough to adeptly remove the engine from an abandoned and rusting Opel, refurbish it, and provide his formerly lumbering boat with new spirit and surety. It took him out and brought him back soundly and swiftly as the tide.
Here, he was in his element. His boat was practically an extension of himself. Sitting at the prow, Andreas felt the power at his back. At several instances he wanted to accuse his father; condemn him savagely for all he was about to do. The old man had left them only with the bills from the taverna.
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