Friday, February 28, 2014

The Church That Thought It Was A Mosque

*****
Half Church Half Mosque - Nicosea

As Easter neared, Lucky’s mood darkened. He had the date firmly fixed in his mind – April 5, which was Easter Sunday in the Year Of Our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Fifty Three. To Lucky, the date was George’s day. A day he’d stolen when he’d taken the egg. And in all the days that had passed, there was nothing he could think of to make amends.

Looking for solace, Lucky attended Mass for the first time in many months on Palm Sunday, March 26. It was at St. Andrews Church in Nicosia and he went alone. His parents never went to church, although they insisted on his attendance. His answer was to cheat – using the excuse of church to disappear for several hours on a Sunday and do what he liked to do, making sure, of course, that his adventures didn’t soil his dress-up clothes. But on this particular Sunday he felt he needed heavenly guidance, so he went directly to church, instead of stopping off at a bookshop, or a Sunday carnival at Metaxa Square.

St. Andrews was quite old, its stone edifice as gray and ancient as the city’s walls. The church had a Byzantine look, with complicated stonework and Levantine spires that were quite unlike the plainer edifices of Roman Catholic churches in America. The interior of the church was just as strange, with many more statues and icons of the apostles and the saints, and especially the Virgin Mary, than Lucky was accustomed to. They were all gilded and painted in fabulous colors, with wide rows of candles laid out in front of each statue and long sticks of incense arcing out from ornate holders.

When the boy went to say his confession – again, it had been many sinful months since his last – he was confronted with a priest who spoke no English, but only Greek and a little French. Lucky tried to make do in Greek, but when he encountered his lustful thoughts for Athena, he only knew gutter words to express them, so all his good intentions went out the confessional booth window. He fell back on the old Catholic schoolboy ploy of making up his sins, enumerating so many lies, so many acts of disobedience to his parents, etc., calculating the minutes of penance this would draw later. To his surprise, the priest’s ordered Act Of Contrition was not that different than the priests handed out at Our Lady Of Sorrows church in Maryland. This made the whole experience oddly comforting. It made him smile as he recalled conspiring with friends, figuring out how many and what sort of sins they’d admit to – always being careful not to duplicate.

After confession, Lucky attended Mass. Once again, everything was strange, but familiar. When the priest spoke to the congregation it was in Greek. The echoes in the church made it difficult for Lucky to understand everything he said, but it was easy to imagine that he was informing everyone about parish events – church socials, fund raising, that sort of thing. The Mass was in Latin and as a former altar boy Lucky knew exactly what was going on. Armed with his missal, which was in English, he also knew that Catholics the world over – from Cyprus to Rome to Philadelphia to the Philippines - were all saying the same things and reciting the same prayers.

On this particular Sunday, however, the comfort was short-lived. He kept thinking of the night George died. The curtained bed. The harsh whispers from the doctors and nurses. The frantic activity. The eerie glow of the portable lights casting the ghastly shadow show on the walls and ceiling. Lucky wanted to tell George he was sorry. Not about the egg so much. He was pretty much past that now. As the Latin Mass washed over him he thought - So what are you sorry for? That he had lived and George hadn’t? No. Dying wasn’t so bad. Perhaps he was jealous. Envious of George’s escape. Could that be? Maybe. But he wasn’t so envious now that he was caught up in the adventure of learning with Jim. Okay, so there was no reason to feel as he did. Harry and the guys had said so, hadn’t they? Yeah, but why did he cringe, why did he ache, every time he thought about George? Maybe there wasn’t an answer.

As he left the church the whole experience suddenly rose in his gorge. He got so sick he could barely make it down the stone stairs and then he had to duck behind an iron gate, where he fell to his knees. He hadn’t eaten – it was forbidden to eat before Communion - and to his horror, he saw the white wafer that was the Host lying in a mess of green bile. He heard a deep voice behind him and he turned, wiping his mouth and saw a bearded priest standing over him. He said something in Greek, but the boy was so sick and confused, he lost all ability to understand.

The priest reached out to him – to help or to chastise, Lucky couldn’t tell. Frightened, he jumped to his feet and fled, the priest calling after him.

He dodged down this street, then another, imagining he was being pursued. Finally, he came to a small cafĂ© with a few tables set under a broad fig tree. He was thirsty, but you didn’t dare drink water from the tap in Cyprus in those days, so he asked for a Coca Cola. It was served to him in the bottle, cold and smelling of the ice chest it was kept in. He drank it down, the raw cola cutting through the bitterness that coated his mouth and throat. He drank and drank and drank, swallowing the entire contents of the bottle.

"Are you sick, English boy?" the taverna owner asked in Greek. Lucky blinked. He could suddenly understand the language again. "I’m American, not English," he said, "and yes, I’m sick to my stomach." He patted his belly. "Do you have something that would help?"

The man pulled at his chin, clucking sympathetically. "A little ouzo, I think," he said, parting two fingers slightly to show just how little. "It’s better for you than Coca Cola."

He brought Lucky a glass of the milky liquor. The boy sipped it tentatively and nearly got sick again. "Don’t surrender, my young American friend," the man advised. "Drink a little more and you will soon feel well again."

Lucky drank more and this time it went down smoothly, spreading gentle warmth through his stomach. It tasted quite nice – a little like licorice.

The man motioned, putting fingers to lips and tipping his head back. "Finish it," he said. "And then I will bring you some bread and cheese and a little olive oil. You’ll feel strong as a bull." He threw out his burly chest and flexed his arms to demonstrate.

Lucky did as he was told, polishing off the ouzo. The man patted his shoulder, as if congratulating him. Then he brought a plate with a hunk of black bread, some pure white goat’s cheese and a bowl of olive oil. He took the ouzo glass away. "No more of that," he said. "Or else you will become sick all over again." Instead, he brought Lucky a small glass of retsina – resin wine – to wash down his meal. It was an acquired taste – having a turpentine bite – but Lucky had been introduced to the wine by Andreas and Sandros and had grown to like it.

While he ate, feeling better with each bite and sip of wine, he glanced about the taverna and noted that the only other people there were a group of elderly men, sitting around a table sharing a water pipe and playing tavali - a board game similar to backgammon. The men were intent, taking a long time over each roll of the dice. He saw stacks of copper piastras on the table and knew they were gambling.

Church bells started to play, very deep and melodious and so loud that they drowned out the sounds of the traffic. Obviously the bells were quite large. He looked up and saw a fabulous Greek Orthodox cathedral at the end of the street. It was incredible that he hadn’t noticed it before – he must have been really sick. There was something odd about the church and for a moment he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then noticed that on one side of the church there were traditional Orthodox spires. But on the other side, where spires should have been, were the minarets of a mosque. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be seeing things. But when he looked again the odd architecture of the church or mosque or whatever it might be, was quite evident.

To the left, he could make out the big bells rising and falling in the church belfry and he could imagine a sturdy monk, the sleeves of his robe rolled above his elbows, gripping the ropes and hauling down with all his strength. If he didn’t let go, he’d surely be lifted off his feet, so large were those bells. And the sound of them was fantastic – Bong! Bong! Bong! Rolling along the street and resounding over the taverna like waves splashing against a ship in the open sea.

A speaker crackled into life, startling Lucky. It came from the right – from the minarets. And then he heard the amplified voice of a muezzin wail: "Allah illahah illah 'lla…, la illahah illah ‘lla…" Followed by a second cry: "Wah Mohammadan rasulu 'llah… Wah Mohammadan rasulu 'llah."

It was wild, haunting refrain that Lucky knew was a prayer that was chanted five times a day in Moslem towns and villages and neighborhoods all over the world. He’d been told that the prayer was called the Shahada, consisting of the first words of The Koran, the Moslem bible. In English, the words were: "There is no God but Allah. And Mohammed is his Prophet"

Lucky cocked his head to listen to the next cry, but as the muzzein audibly drew in his breath to continue his prayer – the speakers crackling weirdly - the bells rang out even louder than before and at a faster pace: Bong! Bong! Bong! And Lucky could imagine the monk working harder, pulling on those ropes with even greater strength to make the bells sound out.

Then the muezzin’s voice was back, higher and louder, the words drawn out in a long wail: "la illahah illah ‘lla." Followed by a second cry: "Wah Mohammadan rasulu 'llah… Wah Mohammadan rasulu 'llah."

Here came the bells again, even louder and faster than before. Lucky could see them swinging so hard one of them nearly flipped end over end. Plainly, other monks were aiding the first. At the same time, the volume of the mosque speaker was cranked up as high as it could go, sound waves straining the speaker fabric to the breaking point.

The whole square was filled to the overflowing with a crazy cacophony of sounds all mixed together: Bong!… La illahah Bong!… illah 'lla… Bong!… Wah Mohammadan… Bong!… rasulu 'llah… Bong!

It was so loud Lucky had to cover his ears. He laughed and looked around to see the old men with their ears covered as well and this made him laugh even more. Suddenly both the bells and wailing stopped and the silence was so great that it was if it were a sound itself, just as loud as what had gone on before. Lucky called for the taverna owner. As he paid for the meal, adding a generous tip, he asked the man about what had just happened.

The man started to speak, then shook his head. "Englishmen no like," he said. Then he made a motion with his hand, as if cutting the air. "Englishmen no like," he said again. Then he shrugged. "It isn’t good to speak of," he said. Then he turned and went to the old men and refilled their glasses from a bottle of yellow liquor.

The mystery of the odd church/mosque plus the food lifted Lucky’s spirits and as he exited the taverna it was if he was leaving his troubles behind. He was about to hail a taxi to take him home, but then heard someone shout his name. He looked up and saw Andreas leaning out the window of a bus, waving.

"Where are you going, Lucky?" he called.

"Home."

"Come. We’ll go together."

Glad for the company, Lucky sprinted for the bus, which was just about to drive away. Andreas shouted for the driver to wait, which the man did, grumbling with much bad humor as Lucky climbed aboard and paid up. The boy looked about curiously – he’d never been on a Cypriot bus before. It was only half full and most of the passengers were in their Sunday best, so it didn’t have the same raucous air of other buses Lucky had seen during the work week. There were no chickens or other animals and everyone seemed to be carrying string bags of food – off to visit relations, no doubt, for after-church meals. The bus seats were wooden benches and the floor was made of ill-fitted narrow planks that let in light, dust and diesel fumes.

Andreas, pale as ever and dressed in a shabby brown suit, sat near the front. He made room for Lucky to sit. The young Cypriot guessed correctly that Lucky had come from Mass and said he had spent the morning visiting a cousin who was having difficulties at school.

"I tutor him - like Demetrakis tutors you," he said with a grin.

Lucky told him about the strange happening in the square, with bells ringing and the muezzin shouting all at the same time, as if they were competing. "I asked the man at the taverna, but all he said was that it was because of the English. And he went like this…" Lucky made a chopping motion through the air.

Andreas laughed and clapped his hands together. "Oh, he was afraid for nothing," he told Lucky. "It’s a famous story and everybody knows it."

"Tell me," Lucky urged.

"Well, that um… ekleeseea … um…"

Lucky helped him find the word. "Church," he suggested. "But it’s so big, maybe it’s a cathedral – an ekleeseea, like you said."

Andreas made motions that it didn’t matter. "Church is easier for me to repeat, so we will call it a church. And it is a very old church as you could probably see," he said. "But when the Turks grabbed us…." He made grasping motions, clutching the air then squeezing his fist, then tossing an imaginary object away… "they threw all the Cypriots out of the church and made it into a… Tzamee… what’s the English… Oh, yes… a mosque. It remained a Tzamee… a mosque… for many years.

"Only Turks could go there. And people were angry because Turks were doing things – Moslem things - where the Christ above should have had his place. Then the English came, and the Cypriot bishop complained. He wanted the ekleeseea – the church - returned to the Christian people. But the Turks didn’t like this idea and they refused. Soon there were fights in the street…"

He searched for words. "Riots," Lucky suggested.

"Yes… riots," Andreas said, nodding. "Rock riots and stick riots. Many heads broken riots. So the English made the decision. Like old King Solomon they cut the church in half. One side for Greek Christians, the other for the damned Turks. But nobody liked this decision very much. The priests and mullahs hated it more than anyone else. But there is nothing they can do, because the English army will come with guns if they have the riots again. Now sometimes they have the…" Andreas laughed as the phrasing occurred to him… "They have the bells ringing riots… and the…" he cupped his hands to his mouth like a megaphone… "the big speaker riots instead of rocks and sticks."

Another thought came to him and he made a gesture. "So maybe the English decision wasn’t such a bad thing in the end," he allowed. "Ringing bells and shouts are better than broken heads, yes?"

Lucky agreed that it was, although he giggled as he thought of what he had witnessed – the bells tolling versus the "la illahah illah ‘lla" wailing. His teenage giggle was catching and the two boys joked for awhile, laughing so hard that some of the other passengers hissed at them to behave.

Chastened, they settled down and caught up on each other’s news. The most interesting item of gossip was that Sandros had gone into hiding.

"What did he do, try to blow up the police station or something?" Lucky asked, only half in jest.

NEXT: Jim's Boyhood And Lucky Encounters A Leper
*****

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan


After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.



BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
*****



Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India

TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. 
***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!

Friday, February 21, 2014

Viva! Mesa! Gramaphona!


"They’re Turks," he advised Lucky, "and like all Turks they squeeze every shilling to death. But I do a good business with them so I must suffer their ways." He shrugged. "Of course, everybody in Famagusta is a Turk – even the Greeks have become Turks for living so long among them."

On the way they skirted the edges of the British Dhekelia military base and just before they came into view of the city they were stopped by soldiers manning a roadblock.

A young corporal peered at Jim and Kyriakos suspiciously. "Papers," he said brusquely and when they were handed over he examined them back to front. "Where are you going?"

Jim explained they were on an outing to Famagusta. The soldier looked at Lucky through narrowed eyes. "You’re English, aren’t you?"

Lucky shook his head. "American," he said. He pointed at Jim. "He’s my teacher and he’s going to show me Othello’s tower."

The soldier was surprised at this reply. "A teacher?" he said, incredulous. "Say, do your mum and dad know what you’re up to?"

Lucky assured him that they did. "You can call my father at the embassy and see," the boy said, bluffing.

Neither his father or mother were reachable at any place except the CIA base and there was no way Lucky was going to give the soldier that number. To strengthen his bluff he presented his ID card – which had a picture of him, plus query numbers at the embassy. It had a very imposing seal on it and identified him as a diplomatic dependent.

He pointed at the numbers. "Go ahead and call," he urged.

"You can pass," the soldier barked and stepped back, waving for the other soldiers to lift the barricade.

"You sure you don’t want to call?" Lucky prodded.

"I said you could pass," the soldier said and marched stiffly away, the back of his neck beet red.

Kyriakos put the car into gear and they drove away. There was a long silence. Then Lucky said, "Doesn’t that make you mad… I mean this is your country. How come they can tell you where and when you can go someplace?"

Jim sighed. "It’s been that way for hundreds of years," he said. "Before the English it was the Turks. Before the Turks the Italians. Before the Italians the Crusaders. And so on all the way back as long as our history has been written."

"It’s not right," Lucky said.

Kyriakos asked Jim what Lucky was saying. Jim translated.

Kyriakos patted Lucky on the knee. "Good boy," he said in English. "Good American boy."

Lucky was surprised to see that Kyriakos’ eyes were moist with emotion.

They continued on and finally they reached the sea, which was shimmering and sparkling in the sun. The gray, imposing walls of Famagusta were a few miles ahead. But instead of going directly there, Kyriakos turned down a rutted road that wound through fragrant cedar until they came to a small adobe cottage with blue painted shutters and doors. Two immense trees towered over it, spreading the cooling shade nearly to the pebbled beach where a fishing boat was tipped over on its side.

Jim said, "We have been asked to lunch with Kyriakos’ sister, Pavlina," he said. He indicated the boat. "Her husband is a fisherman." Then he grinned, saying, "Actually, the invitation was for ‘mese,’ which is rather more than lunch, as you will see."

Kyriakos tooted his horn and a merry crowd ran out of the house – five children of various ages, along with a cheery woman Lucky assumed was Pavlina and a small, wiry man with a weathered face and a broad smile. The fisherman husband, no doubt.

Lucky was introduced all around – the fisherman’s name was Christos, but he soon forgot the names of the children. Everyone made a fuss over him, but they were especially attentive to Jim, who was an old friend of the family. They gave Jim the place of honor at a broad table made of rough boards that was set up under the trees. Lucky was put on one side, Kyriakos the other.

A flow of dishes and pottery poured across the table. Some came from inside the house, some from the big roasting grill set near the stone well, and the rest were from the large clay oven behind the house. Like most Cypriot ovens it was large enough for an average-sized man to stand up in, and half-again his length if he dared lay down on one of the wooden roasting racks.

So this was a mese, Lucky thought as he surveyed the table. It was exquisite – painted pottery of every kind and variety was strewn across the slate-gray boards. And the plates and bowls were heaped with an incredible variety of food of all colors, all textures and – as Lucky would soon learn - of every flavor sensation.

There were mounds of vegetables, both roasted and raw straight from the kitchen garden, all red and green and yellow. There were dark brown and pale brown mounds of baked goodies – not just bread, but little pancakes with surprises inside, such as a dollop of garlic olive oil, or a bit of melted goat cheese and green onions that oozed out into your mouth when you bit in. There were spinach pies and tasties of meat and raisins and rice rolled into grape leaves. There were meats – goat kabobs, slices of mutton, pork and something somebody said was camel, but Lucky didn’t want to think about it. There was fowl: tiny roasted birds you could chew up bones and all, as well as chicken and little black beads Lucky was told were the male parts of a rooster spread on garlic toast; and sea food of all kinds- squid, octopus, sea perch, tiny sardines roasted whole and a big red grouper spread out on a plate of pilaf. Of course there were olives, tomatoes, onions, eggs, some pickled some plain.

But as Lucky surveyed the table, he wondered if this wasn’t out of the ordinary. How could such an obviously poor fisher family afford such a spread on so common a day as a visit by their cousin.

Then he heard sharp whistles – the kind herders shrill when calling their flock or their dogs – and loud shouts and he saw people coming through the trees. Some were on foot, others on bicycles, and all of them were carrying baskets of food and jugs of drink.

Someone shouted, "Viva! Mesa! Gramaphona! Which Lucky later learned meant, "Life, feast and music."

Others took up the shout and to Lucky’s surprise, someone went to Kyriakos’ car and got out Jim’s wind up Victrola from the trunk. They stacked up some fish traps for a music stand and within a few minutes wild Greek music was playing and everybody was dancing around the table, clapping their hands and singing to a blushing Jim.

Lucky was astounded, thinking he must have missed something. "Is this your birthday, or something?" he asked, hoping it wasn’t, because he didn’t have a present.

"It’s sort of a birthday," Jim replied, still laughing and sipping at a glass of ouzo. "When I went away to school to Athens I didn’t have enough money for the boat passage." He indicated Kyriakos, "So my friend and his sister conspired with Christos the fisherman to sneak me out of the country."

Kyriakos was already drunk and he slapped Jim on the shoulder and roared in Greek - "Tell him! Tell the good American boy how we slipped past the British ships in the dead of night!"

And so Jim told him how they rowed half the night – there was no wind and the seas were befogged – until they found the friendly freighter that was waiting for him. Jim laid out palm to present all the frolicking people. "It is to people like them, that I owe my education, my brain, my life," he said.

Lucky didn’t know what to say, so he said something stupid, something he had heard adults say when they were being polite. "Your mother and father must be very proud."

To Lucky’s dismay his teacher’s face became sad, but then a pretty girl danced over, offering Jim the other end of a kerchief. Jim grabbed it and leaped up and whirled away in a dance to end all dances. Swooping and swirling about the girl, drinking ouzo and then doing the Cossack dance - which Jim later claimed originated with the Greeks - dropping to his haunches and kicking out of his feet at a furious pace.

Lucky felt embarrassed at first – obviously he’d said something wrong. Then a few girls came over and coaxed him to his feet. He was a fairly good dancer anyway, thanks to childhood lessons from his Aunt Rita. Also, Athena had taught him some of the Greek dances, so he bounded out with confidence. And soon he was dancing along with the best of them, the Victrola playing its crazy music, which would start out perfectly fine, then get slower and slower as the spring wound down, until somebody jumped in to wind the crank again.

Dusk came, then darkness and candles and torches and oil lamps were hung from the trees and the dancing and feasting went on.

During a quiet moment, Jim slipped up to Lucky, who was drinking thirstily from a dipper of cool well water. "I don’t think we’re going to see Othello’s Tower just yet, Lucky," he said. "I hope you’re not disappointed."

Lucky said, "I think this is a better story, Jim."

NEXT: THE CHURCH THAT THOUGHT IT WAS A MOSQUE

*****

LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan


After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.



BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
*****



Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India

TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. 
***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!

Friday, February 14, 2014

A VISIT WITH THE BARD OF AVON

*****
The Tempest
That Saturday Lucky set out to meet Jim at his apartment – a place he’d never been before. Jim’s rooms were in a neighborhood of extremely narrow streets so crowded with traffic that Lucky’s cab ended up being stalled between an water cart and a towering freight wagon drawn by a team of panicked oxen who were jerking this way and that – while their equally hysterical owner lashed them with a whip.

Giving up, Nikos pointed the way – "Just down there, Mr. Lucky," he said, "and to the right. Two, maybe three places past the corner."

Lucky nodded, paid him and climbed out. Nikos leaned through the window. "Don’t mind the girls," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "If they shout to you, just walk fast and pay them no attention."

The boy puzzled. "What girls?" he asked.

Nikos grinned and smoothed his mustache. "Only the best girls in the world, Mr. Lucky," he said. "The ones who tried to get Odysseus to abandon his ship."

With that, he pulled hard on his wheel, bumped over a mound of rubble, and shouting and beeping his horn for people to get out of the way, he reversed course.

With some trepidation, and a great deal of curiosity, Lucky walked down the cobble-stone street. There were no sidewalks – just houses whose doors let out directly into the traffic. He edged past carts and wagons, stepping over piles of steaming animal dung, turning sideways at times to push through the crowd. The buildings on either side were old and drab, except for the doors and window frames, which were painted in bright primary colors – red and blue and green. The buildings seemed to be about three stories high – possibly four in some places, but when Lucky looked up to check he felt a disoriented, because instead of being straight, the buildings all leaned into the street.

It was his impression that most of the buildings contained apartments for families, because he could see washing stretched on lines across the street and he could hear children shouting and mothers admonishing them. Mixed in, however, were shops – a tiny bakery, a green grocer, a cobbler, a carpenter and even a miniscule garage where a truck was crammed into an impossibly small area and men were underneath working on it, while the ailing engine coughed up foul black smoke.

As Lucky walked along he could see down even narrower alleyways that ran between the buildings. Networks of electrical lines crawled up the sides to provide power - but not water - to the buildings. The lines were bolted into the brickwork, making it plain, in Lucky’s view, that the building outdated the accommodations by many, many years. The distinctive odor of outhouses made it doubly clear plumbing was minimal. He saw women with jerry cans of water balanced on their hips, entering the buildings to carry their burdens up the stairs.

Some the of the alleys offered a view of vertical gardens – flowering vines and greenery that climbed the cables. Higher up, where the sun could reach, he saw tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables growing. At one point, he saw a boy perched on a ledge, peeling a cucumber and from the peek Lucky got of greenery beyond, he realized that the boy was enjoying the bounty of a rooftop garden. Then the street widened slightly, offering a cobbled walkway on one side. He stepped onto it with some relief. He was wearing his good clothes and shoes and at the far end of the block water was pouring out of a main, carrying a river of filth down the street.

At that moment, a small boy popped up. He was wearing an overlarge dirty white shirt, ragged khaki shorts and his legs and feet were bare. He held up a beseeching hand to Lucky, who thought he was a beggar.

"Mister, Mister," the boy cried. "Boutos! Boutos vas tah!"

Lucky jumped back. What the heck was the boy saying? Why was he cursing at him? Boutos was the very rude word for female privates. And the vas tah – well, like the peanut carts on the street, the boy was saying they were "salty and hot."

The boy crowded closer, pointing upward. Lucky’s eyes followed and he found himself looking at a Greek girl leaning over a balcony, large breasts barely contained in a black brassiere, hanging down like ripe melons ready to be picked. And the boy shouted, "Mister, Mister. Boutos! Boutos vas tah!" Lucky thought the boy and the young woman were making fun of him and angrily pushed on.

Suddenly, windows were opening and other scantily-clad women were leaning out and calling to him. Some of the voices were sweet, others harsh: "Velos, suckee, suckee, English boy." And, "Zestoh buthos, English. Just for you!" Also, "Boutos – Boutos vastah!"

Now Lucky understood what Nikos had been talking about. Odysseus might have been on a ship when the Sirens called, but surely he was presented with a vision like this. A vision few men could resist. Why, even in Lucky’s hottest teenage fantasies, he had never been presented with so many half-naked women all begging him to do the most outrageous things, and promising to do outrageous things in return.

A girl stepped out in front of him. She was young, she was sweet, and she was wearing a very short nylon robe, open to reveal a black bra and black panties. Lucky was stunned when he realized she was only about Athena’s age and like Athena she had a lush young body – one which Lucky had been lately permitted to explore.

"Hello, English boy," the girl said.

"I’m not English," Lucky said lamely, "I’m American."

The moment he said it he kicked himself – how stupid! But the girl lit up at his announcement. "American!" she said. "American boy!" She turned her head up and shouted to the others: "American boy!"

All the women responded in kind, all crying out, "American boy! American boy!"

Suddenly Lucky was surrounded by half-dressed women trying to mother him. They were all talking in combination Greek and English and even Turkish…

"Oh, American boy… Are you lost, American boy? Did someone hurt you? Who hurt you? Where are you going, American boy? Stay with me, American boy, I will take you home to your mother so you won’t get sick."

And so on and so forth. Gasping and totally befuddled, Lucky pawed out the slip of paper with Jim’s address. Immediately, there was a babble of women saying they knew just where this place was.

A moment later, Lucky found himself being escorted down the street by a gaggle of shady ladies who looked like they were straight out of a set of French postcards. Except, this was better – because they were real and they were enamored with Lucky for no reason that he could fathom - and they all told him to come back anytime so they would teach their American boy about – ooh-la-la…. For not so much money, you know… And he would never get sick – they promised.

With their help, Lucky finally found Jim’s place. His apartment was in an ancient three-story building set among other buildings of similar age and design on a street barely wide enough for a cart or an automobile to pass. Shops were scattered among the apartments, mostly tailors, bootmakers, a bakery or two, a grocer and several tobacco stands. It was a better neighborhood than the one Lucky had just left, to say the least. Although there were no sidewalks – the cobbled street was in good repair and a cleaning crew was following a water wagon, hosing down the cobbles and sweeping the dirt into the shallow trough that ran down the center.

Most of the second and third story apartments had small balconies, with wrought iron rails. Flowers and vegetables sat on most of the balconies and wash dried on lines that ran across the street in endless loops to apartments on the other side. More importantly, there were water pipes, mixed with the electrical lines, climbing up the sides of the buildings. These apartments boasted both power and water.

Lucky was greeted by two old women dressed in widows’ black. Jim had informed him that one of the women owned the building – her late husband had been a man of importance – and the other was her former servant. He used the word former, because they had been together so long that such differences were forgotten and they both did the work equally, doting on one another like aged sisters.

The ladies welcomed him with great formality, introducing themselves as Aethra and Zephyr – Lucky recalled Jim saying Aethra was his landlady. They escorted into the courtyard, where Jim was sitting under an enormous fig tree eating a late breakfast and working on what appeared to be a business letter.

"Lucky!" he cried. "Come have a little coffee and a sweet, it’s almost time to go." He indicated the letter. "I must finish this. It will only be a moment."

The boy took a seat, let himself be fussed over by Aethra and Zephyr, then leaned back to drink coffee and nibble on a honey cake. He looked around, taking in the courtyard. It was quite large, although so overgrown that it was hard to tell its size. An aged fountain with broken filigree commanded the center. Lucky could see a few fish swimming in the algae-green waters. Although very old, it was a working fountain and that same green water spurted out of a broken statue that consisted only of human legs – Lucky thought they might be a woman’s because they were so shapely, but they could have been the legs of a boy. Nevertheless, the falling water provided a peaceful, musical sound that gave the garden a magical feeling.

The fig tree, Lucky learned, was quite ancient. Aethra said her late husband had told her that the fig was old in his grandmother’s time, so no one could say when it had first grown out of its stone. Besides the fig, dwarf lemon, lime and orange trees were crowded in one corner – a thick grape vine, heavy with clusters of fruit ran along a wall and there scores of little dug-up plots filled with a wide variety of vegetables. Chickens scratched around the yard, guarded by a watchful rooster, and several rabbits nibbled on broken heads of lettuce the women had put out. It was a refreshingly cool garden and the sound of the traffic that ran along the narrow street just past the walls seemed so distant that Lucky felt as if he had entered another world. He could smell oranges and rose blossoms and he lazily shooed away a wasp that was trying to get at his honeycake.

Jim finished his letter, stuffed it into an envelope and rose. "Are you good at keeping secrets, Lucky?" he asked.

The question startled the boy so much that he nearly blurted a foolish – and overly revealing – reply. Instead, he said rather lamely, "I don’t tell on people, if that’s what you mean."

Jim smiled. "How foolish of me to ask," he said. "Of course, you can keep a secret. You are a diplomat’s son, after all."

 He put the letter in his pocket, patted the place it occupied. "This is a letter to the mayor."

Lucky’s eyebrows rose. "Of Nicosia?"

"Yes, Nicosia," Jim said. Then: "I’m telling you this – in confidence, you understand – because I think it is a good lesson in civics… You know all the trouble we’ve had since the death of Joseph Stalin?"

Lucky nodded. There hadn’t been rioting on any great scale, but a few remote police stations had been stoned and market days disrupted by agitators. But tension had been increasing, judging from what Sandros and Andreas had told him.

"As part of his efforts to pour oil on troubled waters," Jim said, "the mayor wants me to form a committee of young businessmen."

Lucky was impressed. This was quite an honor. "What would you do?" he asked,

"Oh, just talk to people," Jim said. "To our customers. To other businessmen and various clubs and organizations. The idea is to urge patience. The belief being that if we are patient, the British will eventually give us our independence."

Lucky studied Jim. "Do really think they will?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "Logic – and by that I mean business logic – says they will, or at least that they should. Under colonial rule there are many things we can’t manufacture, or services that we can’t perform. If we had our independence – and our hands were untied – we could attract many investors. And, of course, the first beneficiaries would be the British, because of our long, happy history with them."

Lucky thought he heard some sarcasm in the last sentence, but Jim did not reveal his true feelings with look, or body language.

"I don’t know," Lucky said. "I learned in school – in America, I mean – that the English did the same things to us. We couldn’t make anything of our own. We could grow cotton, but couldn’t make shirts, much less other clothing. We had to sell the raw material to the English factories so they could make the shirts, then we had to buy the shirts back from them for a great deal of money. And it wasn’t only cotton. That’s just a small example… Tea, for instance, which is the most famous thing."

He eyed Jim. "Isn’t that what they’re doing in Cyprus?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear what Jim had to say.

Jim grimaced, fingering his own poor white shirt, tucked into gray, businessman’s slacks. The slacks were well-tailored, fitting Jim’s muscular form. But the shirt was a little yellow from too much washing and the cuffs and collars were a bit worn. "I can’t get a decent shirt to wear for my business," he said. "Suits I can get made – there are some very good tailors who are friends of mine. But the making of shirts is forbidden. I must buy from English import clubs and unless you are a rich man, they are of very poor quality as you can see." He tugged at the stiff collar. "It’s as you say, Lucky. Come the Revolution, the cause will be traced to shirts!"

"But what about this committee the mayor wants you for," Lucky said. "Do you really think the British will listen? I don’t mean to sound insulting, but it seems to me that a lot of English people don’t think Cypriots are smart enough to take care of themselves."

Jim was suddenly somber. He studied Lucky a moment, as if surprised at his grasp of the situation. "All you say is true, Lucky," he finally admitted. "Many do have a low opinion of us. It’s always been so – since they first took over from the Turks."

Lucky said, "Do you hate them for it? I mean, I could understand if you did, because I used to hate the English myself. My whole family is Irish. Ireland is where my great grandparents and everybody came from and they hate the English something awful for things that were done to them."

Jim nodded, understanding what Lucky was getting at. "I know some Irish soldiers," he said, "And that certainly sums up their feelings."

This startled Lucky, because an Irish soldier could only mean members of the IRA. Unless Jim was making a linguistic mistake.

Jim saw his puzzlement and grimaced. "Another secret between us, Lucky," he said.

Lucky grinned. Sure it was. And his guess was also right on – Jim had met some IRA types. But what were they doing in Cyprus? He’d heard his father’s friends talk about a possible IRA linkup with Cypriot dissidents, but that had all been speculation.

"You were telling me about your feelings concerning the English," Jim prodded, anxious to get Lucky back on the original subject.

Lucky nodded. "I used to hate the English. And when I went to the British academy – well, some of them were just… just… bullies! Not only the kids, but the teachers, too. At the end I was the only American kid there and they all ganged up on me. Even my best friend turned on me."

Jim looked sad. "I guessed something like that had happened," he said. "I suppose it’s like those ants you love to study. Even a black ant or red ant from an identical species of ants will be killed if it wanders into a strange nest. Isn’t that what you told me?"

"I understand that now," Lucky said. "But I didn’t then. Although, understanding things wouldn’t have helped any. Just because you understand somebody, doesn’t mean they are going to stop hurting you… and… you know… hurting other people."

He was thinking of his father, although he figured he probably understood the British kids going after him a whole lot better than his father’s rages.

"Anyway, I don’t think that way about the English anymore," he said. "At least not all of them. I met some guys in the hospital – wounded officers. And they were… well…" He looked up defiantly at Jim. "My friends. Yeah, my friends! The best friends I’ve ever had. They showed me… well… everything!" He swept a hand out, as if to encompass the entire world.

"It’s good, Lucky," Jim said, "that you should make friends with men who are so fine and brave." He smiled, "Therefore you will understand why I count some Englishmen among my good friends as well." Once again he tapped the place where the letter resided. "Friends that I can trust to listen to the mayor’s views – and the views of other young businessmen like myself."

"First thing you should do," Lucky joked, "is ask them to get you some decent shirts."

Jim laughed at that, then said, "Come up to my room while I change and then we will be off on our small adventure."

His apartment was approached by outside stairs leading up from the courtyard. As they ascended, Aethra said she’d be there soon with some things for "washing up," and then Jim flung open the door and invited Lucky in. From first glance, the place seemed to be a sparsely furnished, two room apartment - a main room and a small kitchen with a breakfast table. The lavatory, Lucky learned later, was outside in the courtyard. The walls of the room were freshly white-washed and the floors were of old red tile – polished to a sheen. The main room served as both bedroom and living area. In one corner was a small iron-framed bed neatly made up with a white-knit bedspread. An old, polished bedstand sat next to it – with several stacks of books resting next to an unlit oil lamp. Against one wall was a tall armoire made of hand-rubbed cedar with a plain, understated design. Lucky assumed it served as a closet for Jim’s clothes.

Resting against another wall was an old oak cabinet – about three-and-a-half feet high. A windup Victrola, with a highly polished brass sounding bell, sat atop the cabinet. The cabinet doors were open and Lucky could see records in their covers placed neatly inside. Next to the cabinet Jim had made a bookcase of varnished boards that rested on thick blocks of varnished wood - from Yorgo’s lumber yard, as it turned out. The case was filled with books of every variety – tattered hardbacks, rough paper-bound classics, and small, pocket-size volumes – as well as a stack of magazines in several languages.

The white-washed walls were decorated only with a few magazine cutouts of old masters, set in plain frames. They were clearly copies of paintings that were important to Jim – mostly impressionists, with one or two more modern artists like Picasso and Dali.

The balcony’s shutter doors were flung open, letting the sunlight splay across the pictures so they looked like originals, instead of photos cut from periodicals. Jim flipped a switch and the ceiling light glowed into life. It was a single bulb that hung from the ceiling from a bare wire. Lucky’s eyes traveled up the wire and saw that it came from a thick cable – also white washed – that was stapled to the ceiling. It ran across the room and exited through a neatly caulked hole.

When Lucky lowered his eyes, he noticed that Jim seemed a little embarrassed, going about the room and straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened. It occurred to him Jim might think that Lucky – who lived in a big house that was practically a mansion – might look poorly on Jim’s place. To the contrary, he thought it was wonderful.

"When I get to be a famous writer," he told Jim, "I want a room just like this. My Aunt Rita has a famous musician friend in New York who has a place kind of like this. It’s called a loft. All his friends are jealous."

Jim flushed with pleasure at the praise. Then Aethra and Zephyr entered with trays containing bowls of hot water and fresh washcloths and towels. They fussed over Jim like loving mothers, or aunts, making sure his razor was sharp and he had plenty of good soap for his beard that wouldn’t irritate his skin. While they chattered, they kept looking at Lucky and he soon realized that they were proud of Jim because he had an American student. Sure, he was a successful young businessman, but teaching Lucky – the son of an American diplomat - confirmed in their minds that Jim was a scholar. More importantly, he was a respected Cypriot scholar – a very rare thing in these times.

Eventually, Jim politely shooed them out. Then he turned back to Lucky. All signs of his previous discomfort had vanished. "While I get dressed," he said, "I want you to listen to something."

He went to the Victrola, fetched a record from the cupboard beneath and very carefully – fingers just touching the record’s edges – withdrew it from its sleeve. He placed it on the record platform, then gently and carefully wound up the Victrola’s spring with a crank slotted into the side of the machine. He drew the large stylus over, poised it above the record, then paused and put it back.

He smiled to himself as if he’d just had an idea and reached into a cupboard for a slender volume with a rough, pink paper cover. Lucky knew it to be one of the many cheaply published college texts that Jim used to supplement Lucky’s reading at school.

"I think this will be helpful," he said, handing the book to Lucky. It was a copy of Shakespeare’s "The Tempest."

Jim said, "People in Cyprus believe that the magical island in ‘The Tempest’ was Cyprus. Others say it was somewhere else – in the Atlantic, perhaps." He shrugged. "Who can say for certain? The master set ‘Othello’ here, so why not ‘The Tempest?’"

Lucky opened the book, but Jim raised a finger. "Wait until I start the recording," he said. "I want you to read along with the actors."

He returned to the Victrola, moved the stylus out until it was hovering over the first groove. Then he nodded to Lucky, who open the little book and began to read. At the same time - after a crackle and a hum - there was a crash of lightning and roll of thunder as the play began. Lucky was soon swept up by the story as the Master cried: "…Fall to it, yarely, or we run ourselves aground!"

As he listened and read Lucky was acutely aware of the sounds of the ancient city all around him – creaking wagon wheels, complaining animals, the wailing cry of a muzzein calling the faithful to prayer, while at the same time church bells sounded from afar. Out in the garden the chickens were quietly clucking in the morning heat and a faint breeze brought the scent of citrus trees in blossom.

And like that day when he’d discovered "The Rubaiyat,’ all the centuries between the creation of the work and the present vanished and he drifted away on the magical tide of the Bard’s fabulous words and images.

NEXT: VIVA! MESA! GRAMAPHONA!
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!



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Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan


After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.



BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
*****



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U.S. .............................................France
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TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. 
***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

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