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| Aristotle And His Pupil, Alexander |
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Lucky was besotted with ants. Since his
return from the hospital, he’d lived and breathed myrmecology – which,
according to the illustrated book his friends at the hospital had given him as
a parting gift – was the scientific name for the study of ants.
The book, titled, simply, "Ants," was by
William Morton Wheeler. On the inside leaf was scrawled: "From George And
The Gang." Lucky was nearly undone by the inscription, but Harry and the
others had so overwhelmed him with effusive farewells and an armful of gifts –
including Harry’s much prized copy of "Seven Pillars of Wisdom"– that
he had been too distracted to make a fool of himself by crying like a mere
child.
So here he was – two weeks out of the hospital –
hunched in a ditch, magnifying glass in one hand, the illustrated book in his
lap, while he contentedly studied the nest of a red ant colony.
Lucky was at ease with the world. The feared
homecoming had not so terrible after all. There was relative peace at home –
Cold War emergencies mostly kept his father confined to the CIA base and when
he was home he was on 24-hour call and wasn’t allowed to drink. The issue of
school had not been raised, although it was always on the edge of his mind. The
boy still tired easily, so he couldn’t wander far to see his friends, much less
play soccer, or join in other games. Athena was occupied with classes and Larry
and his brother weren’t allowed to stray more than a block or two from home.
So he contented himself with the study of ants. The
nest he was examining was populated with insects that were rather large, with
outsized heads and enormous mandibles - all marching in a double column that
wound along to a glob of cactus pear bait and back again to the pyramid of
chopped off black ant heads that marked the main entrance to their nest. He’d
dubbed the red ants "headhunter ants," for their practice of
decapitating their enemies with those huge pincers and carefully displaying
their heads in a pyramid-style totem.
The book made reference to some of the most exotic ants of the world – such as the army ants in South America who were so fierce that large animals fled when they were on the march; or the weaver ants, who made living nests by weaving leaves together of certain plants whose properties warded off enemies; or deep-cave ants, who kept luminous worms to light their way to carved out caverns where they kept beetles – like cattle – that they fed until it was time to slaughter them for the nest.
The book made reference to some of the most exotic ants of the world – such as the army ants in South America who were so fierce that large animals fled when they were on the march; or the weaver ants, who made living nests by weaving leaves together of certain plants whose properties warded off enemies; or deep-cave ants, who kept luminous worms to light their way to carved out caverns where they kept beetles – like cattle – that they fed until it was time to slaughter them for the nest.
Although there were no army ants, or luminous
beetle-herding ants in Cyprus, Lucky was surprised to find countless
fascinating varieties in the village of Pallouriotissa. First he scoured his
garden, then, as he grew stronger, he ventured into the adjacent field and
drainage ditch. Book and magnifying glass in hand, he’d identified dairy ants –
ants who raised aphids as cows and milked them of the honey suckled from roses
and orange trees. There were underwater ants – ants who burrowed to a stream,
let in just so much water to nourish a tasty mold, which they harvested… backing
out as they ate and the water level rose. And many, many more.
At the moment, however, Lucky was intent on
headhunter ants. It was late morning and the sun warmed the back of his neck as
he leaned into his studies. Way down the gravel road where the taverna sat, the
first cicadas were awakening, buzzing half-heartedly in the big fig tree that
shaded the open-air café. The village was a place where few of the noises of
the modern world intruded. The only vehicles with gas driven engines were the
village taxi, the occasional lorry full of gravel for one of Yorgo’s
construction enterprises, and Yorgo’s motorbike, coughing up the phlegm of
civilization as he returned from the city. Frequently, whole days would go by
without the sound or sight of a single combustion engine.
The normal sounds of the village were the bray of a
donkey, the lowing of an oxen, the pitiful pleas of the sheep and goats wanting
to be milked. Or dogs barking… not the dogs Lucky was used to in the U.S. where
they were sounding the alarm that the postman was approaching… but real working
dogs; dogs that herded animals, dogs that drove off predators; dogs who only
raised the alarm when the gypsies came to steal the clothes off the lines, or
the tools from their sheds. At times – in the mid-afternoon heat, or the moment
at night before the moon rose – every sound was so individualized you could
identify it with a person, or an animal you knew personally.
Lucky thought about the sounds of things – or the
lack of same - as he crouched over the nest – a mass of vitally important
activity carried out in total silence. He was starting to get a little hot and
he sat back on his heels, closing his eyes and raising his head to enjoy a
fresh wind, scented with lemons and flowers and rosemary just giving up the
last of the dew to the early sun.
The sky was a deep, unclouded blue, empty of birds, save a hawk wheeling overhead, looking for opportunity, which explained the absence of other winged creatures. Most of the villagers were in the fields so the only sounds, other than those of nature, were the weep-weep-weep of the widow Anthi’s shuttle cock as it flew across her loom; and the steady ring of the village blacksmith’s hammer, slowly rising and falling against the anvil, in a boom – boom – boom - bump, bump, bump… with the last three beats the rhythmic rebound of the heavy hammer.
The sky was a deep, unclouded blue, empty of birds, save a hawk wheeling overhead, looking for opportunity, which explained the absence of other winged creatures. Most of the villagers were in the fields so the only sounds, other than those of nature, were the weep-weep-weep of the widow Anthi’s shuttle cock as it flew across her loom; and the steady ring of the village blacksmith’s hammer, slowly rising and falling against the anvil, in a boom – boom – boom - bump, bump, bump… with the last three beats the rhythmic rebound of the heavy hammer.
Lucky bent closer to his task, warm with contentment,
his mind actively, but pleasantly, ferreting out new facts. He found pleasure
in the care with which he now operated his powerful magnifying glass – also a
gift of his hospital friends. As Harry had warned, one had to be cautious with
such a tool, for while you concentrated your view, you also concentrated the
light – sometimes dangerously so to the little creatures you were studying.
He was reminded of Panos, the blacksmith, speaking of
a newly created blade. "Imagine the knife," Panos had said in Greek,
"contemplating its first slicing of the bread." And he’d smote his
forehead – Ah – such drama, acting it out… Such a lovely slice of bread as the
knife crossed the baker woman’s heavy breast just so – and Panos would
demonstrate. The knife slicing, the bread opening up, all those aromas and
flavors released. But never, ever, did the knife slice into woman’s breast. To
do so, would be a sin of catastrophic proportions in the holy world of edged
blades.
As Lucky swept the glass over the marching column he
thought about Panos and the baker’s knife and he kept his distance just so –
close enough to magnify the view, but not so close as to turn the ants’ nest
into a burning Dresden. He wasn’t completely the scientist, however. Perverse
boy humor made him stop at the pyramid of black ant skulls and tip it over with
a finger. He watched with amusement as first one, then another red ant
discovered what had happened to their grisly totem. Then scores of them started
racing around, trying to find the intruder who had committed such a dastardly
act, while others swarmed in the repair the totem.
A shadow fell over Lucky – it took him a moment to
realize it was a human shadow and not a cloud - and then a man’s voice said in
accented, but excellent English: "Ah, so that’s what you are up to. The
study of ants!"
Mildly startled – Lucky had been so absorbed he
hadn’t heard anyone approach – he looked up to see a tall, strongly-built young
Cypriot in his middle twenties. He wore a brown business suit, white shirt and
tie. A little stunned by the sun and his close work, Lucky found himself
staring at the man, taking in his features as if he were appearing in a dream.
The man’s face was wide at the cheekbones, with a crooked grin that flashed a
hint of Cypriot gold, to show that he was prosperous. His large dark eyes
gleamed with humor – and interest - as he contemplated the scene of Lucky and
the ants. And the whole thing was topped off by a broad, intelligent brow with
a thick shock of black hair so clean and shiny that it glowed in the early sun.
"I’ve been watching you for quite a time,"
the man a continued. "I couldn’t imagine what you found so interesting in
a common drainage ditch."
Lucky felt immediately at ease. He sensed shared
interests. He said, "There’s a lot of interesting things in ditches."
He looked around for an example, then he indicated a funnel shaped depression
near the red ants’ nest. "Do you see the ant lion?"
The man grinned, squinting his eyes as he stared at
the place Lucky pointed. "An ant lion? You meant an insect with a hairy
mane?"
"No, not exactly," Lucky said. "Here,
watch." He picked up a red ant and dropped it in the hole. It tried to
scurry out, but the sand gave way under its feet and it kept sliding back. Then
there was a sudden motion, a quick flick of sand and the ant fell deeper into
the hole. Immediately, a creature with a huge mouth grabbed the ant by the back
of the neck and pulled it under the sand. Lucky showed the visitor his book,
leafing to an illustration of an ant lion – a ferocious-looking creature if
there ever was one.
"Yes, I see what you mean," the man said.
"We call it a murmêkoleôn. Which means the same thing. An ant that
has transformed into a lion." He grimaced. "It’s a good thing they
don’t grow as large as people. We’d all be done for."
"It’s not possible for insects to get too
big," Lucky said importantly. "They have tubes in their sides instead
of lungs." He mimed breathing through a hose. "You know, if you get
under water you can breathe through a hose. But if you get too deep you don’t
have the strength to suck in the air."
"When I was a boy, I tried something similar
with a reed," the man said, "so I believe what you say is true."
He crouched beside Lucky. "Did you know that the
great genius, Leonardo da Vinci encountered exactly the same problem when he
was trying to invent the submarine."
Lucky was astounded. "Da Vinci?" he said.
"The man who painted the Mona Lisa?"
His new friend nodded. "The very same," he
said. "He was not only a great artist, you know, but a fabulous inventor
as well. It’s a pity he wasn’t Greek… although there are those who say his
mother was Greek." The man gave an elegant Cypriot shrug. "Who can
say?"
Lucky had to laugh "I noticed that Greek people
say anybody who is a genius must be Greek," he said. "In my family,
everybody who is a genius has to be Irish."
The man gave Lucky a sly grin. "But, didn’t you
know, my friend," he said, "that the Greeks invented the Irish?"
As Lucky gaped, the man held out a hand. "I
should introduce myself," he said. "I’m Jim Demetrakis … a friend of
Yorgo’s."
Still enjoying the joke, Lucky shook the proffered
hand. He looked up the street. He saw his parents sitting on the veranda having
drinks – watching him. His mother waved and Lucky waved back. Something was up,
that was for sure.
"I don’t see Yorgo’s motorbike," he said.
"Maybe he’ll be by later." Then, realizing he was being rude, he
blushed and said, "I’m Lucky Cole. And those are my parents over
there."
"Oh, I know who you are, Lucky," Jim said.
"I was just visiting with your mother and father and saw you hard at work
in your… classroom."
He gestured at the ditch, pleasing the boy to no end
because he seemed to grasp what Lucky was up to. He’d been home from the
hospital for two weeks – and growing stronger day by day. But no one had
brought up the subject of returning to school. Lucky knew that eventually
something would have to be done, meanwhile he didn’t want to fall so far behind
that he’d be held back a grade.
"I’ve missed a lot of school recently," he
told Jim, "so I thought if maybe I did some special projects work – like
an essay on ants and maybe T.E. Lawrence – that I could earn some extra credits
when I got back to school." He sighed. "I’ve been sick, you
know."
Jim clucked sympathetically. "I heard about your
illness," he said. "You were quite a lucky young man." He
flashed that crooked smile. "But, of course, that’s your name, so it
should be no surprise." He studied Lucky a moment, then asked, "Do
you like school?"
Lucky hesitated. Until recently, he’d have answered
yes, but after the British boarding school, he wasn’t so positive any more.
"I like to learn," he said, temporizing. "And I like to read –
probably more than anything else. I want to be a writer when I grow up, you
know, and reading is a good way to learn how it’s done."
"Who is your favorite author?" Jim asked.
Lucky didn’t hesitate a second. "It changes all
the time," he said. "Edgar Allen Poe was my first favorite. My father
used to read him to me with I was little. And Mark Twain – whose real name was
Samuel Clemens. In the hospital I learned about H.G. Wells and Charles Dickens
and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – Sherlock Holmes is super! Right now I’m keen on
T.E. Lawrence – you know: ‘The Seven Pillars Of Wisdom.’ One of the guys in the
hospital gave me his book."
Jim nodded. "What about the classical English
writers?" Jim asked. "Like Shakespeare and Chaucer?"
Lucky shrugged. "I know about them," he
said. "But I haven’t read them yet."
"What of the Greek tales by Homer?" Jim
wanted to know. "And all the famous old plays from Sophocles and Euripides
and Aeschylus?"
"Sure, I’ve read Homer," Lucky said.
"‘The Iliad’ and ‘The Odyssey.’ But only short versions, you know, for
kids, so I'll have to read them again in a more serious form. And I’ve heard of
Sophocles… but not the others." He scratched his head. "Since I’m
living here in Cyprus, I want to learn everything I can about the Greeks."
"I’m told you speak our language, Lucky,"
Jim said.
Lucky grinned and held two fingers slightly apart.
"Teepohtee," he said. "Just a little."
Jim was delighted. "Would you like to learn all those
things from me, Lucky?" he asked. "About Shakespeare and Homer and
Sophocles."
Lucky was puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I have a business in Nicosia," Jim said.
"It’s quite a new business, but I think it will be a big success. Tires
for cars and trucks and also an excellent line of bicycles – Raleigh’s, you
know." Lucky was impressed. Raleigh bikes were top of the line English
racers – three to ten speed gearing and light as a feather. "I’m also a
teacher," Jim continued. "A private tutor, I believe is the term
that’s used. My teaching degree is from Athens."
Lucky frowned. "How many kids in your
class?"
Jim held up one finger. "With you – it will be
one. One student only."
Lucky goggled. "You mean like Aristotle taught
Alexander The Great?"
Jim chuckled. "Well, I’m certainly not an
Aristotle," he said, "but who knows… you could be Lucky The
Great."
Lucky was definitely interested. But he had a sudden,
sobering thought. "I wouldn’t have to go back to that… you know… English
school?" Lucky hastened to add, "After the hospital, I’ve made scads
of English friends. It’s not that I don’t like the English… I just don’t like…
well.. that particular English school."
Jim shook his head. "I don’t think your parents
want that," he said. He gave a very Cypriot, Themperaze shrug. "You
can study with me, or someplace else." Then he lowered his voice. "It
is my opinion, Lucky," he said, quite confidentially, "that you will
never return to that school no matter what you do."
An entire planetary system of burdens fell from his
shoulders and he felt like he was flying in the highest orbit. Excited, he
asked, "Can we study ants?" he asked. "You know, biology?"
Jim nodded. "The Greeks – Aristotle again -
invented biology," he said, "including the English word that
describes it. Modern people say that Aristotle was mistaken in many of his
theories… but, I’m not so sure. However, come with me and we’ll investigate.
You can argue. Prove me – and Aristotle - wrong."
This astounded the boy. A teacher inviting a
challenge. But there was one more question he wanted to ask – the most
important one of all. "I told you I wanted to be a writer," he began.
"Yes, you did," Jim replied.
"I really meant it," Lucky said. "It’s
not a kid thing. Like this week I want to be a fireman and next week a doctor,
or a policeman."
Jim nodded. "Yes, you seem quite serious about
it," he said. "I have no doubts."
"I want to make people feel like Edgar Alan Poe
makes me feel when I read "The Raven.’" the boy said. "Or like T.E.
Lawrence makes me feel when he describes the Arabian desert… Can you teach me
how to do that?"
"If you want it badly enough, Lucky," Jim
said, "you can accomplish it with or without me."
Lucky laughed. What a great answer. "Okay,"
he said. "You can be my teacher…" He paused. What an arrogant way of
putting it. He lowered his eyes and added, "If you want to, that is."
Jim smiled. "Thank you, Lucky," he said.
"I very much want to." Then he rose, brushing off his trousers,
saying, "Let’s go tell your mother and father what we’ve decided." He
held out his hand and said: "But first you must escape that ditch before
the murmêkoleôn, the lion that the ants fear, thinks you are its
prey."
Laughing, Lucky grabbed at the strong hand and Jim
swung him up in a wide arc. "You shall be like the son of Icarus,
Lucky," Jim cried, laughing with him. "Except I won’t let you fly so
close to the sun."
"Don’t worry," Lucky shouted. "Don’t
you know I’m that Lucky Old Sun?"
NEXT: THE MAGICAL BICYCLE SHOP
****
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.
*****
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
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Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!
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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. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
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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!
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