"What of other blind men and their darkness! What good can that darkness do them?
"When my father was small he was scared of the dark. I never was. But this dark has become fear...words can't break it. Only sleep breaks it. When I'm lying in bed, on the verge of waking, I think, remembering the old light, I think, the sun's up. But where's the sun!"
Someone had dusted his shields and spears on the wall: I noticed the black point of an Egyptian lance, the cold grey pennons on a Persian hide: perhaps they had decorated the sand outside his tent.
This contrast troubled me and yet I longed to share my happiness: the child in me wanted to discountenance reason: the brown shoulders and rolling sea never left me as we talked and I tried to comfort, reminding him of days when it was fun to climb the hills and explore the beaches, fun all day: he admitted there had been time without pain and wondered why we were eventually cheated?
Fog leaned against the house and I described it and he asked me to walk with him. As we followed the shore, he talked of warriors he had know, "strategists,"
he called them; he boomed his words, excited by memories and the walk and the fog, which he could feel on his face and hands. His cane cracked against drift- wood and I restrained him, to find his hands trembling.
The blue of the Aegean is reflected
in the faces of the 50 rowers of the trireme
as they chant and pull;
the blue is reflected on the ship's hull
and the banks of oars.
P
haon and I were offshore in his rowboat, the small sail furled, the surf near by, doubling into smooth green, sunset brazing the horizon. We had been gay, drifting, oar dragging, taking chances with the surf. Upright at the stern, Phaon looked about idly: we had been talking about going for a swim. Suddenly, he faced me and shouted:
"Over there...see them...pirate boats!"
"What?"
"Over there, the other way...those three boats...see the red shields at the bow...Turkish pirates...they're attacking Mytilene. I'll row for the beach. Hang on."
His oar splashed and the boat pitched; pulling with all his strength, he drove us toward the shore, the surf rising, the bow high. I thought we would capsize but before I could make out the pirate ships he beached us and we scrambled ashore, drenched and shoeless. Together, we raced for the square, shouting at everyone we met. Together, we dashed for Alcaeus' house, and threw open his door.
Men in gold, red and blue uniforms stormed our dock and invaded the town.
I hung on, behind shutters, unable to tear myself away as the armed gang rushed past the house, forty or more, most of them yelling, one of them, in silver tur- ban, whistling through his fingers, brandishing a scimitar. My mother had de- scribed such an attack...I could hear her and see her pained face...a terrible story I had never quite believed.
Phaon yanked shields and spears off the wall and armed Thasos and another man I scarcely knew, a visitor. Women and children hollered and scuttled inside, making for the rear of the house. Something crashed against our street door and men bellowed wildly at us. I saw wood rip the door. Thasos moved in front of me, urging me to hide. Phaon, with shield and sword, his clothes still sopping, threw open the door and beat off a Turkish spear. Catching two men by surprise, he wounded one in the neck and both fled, the uninjured man, a youngster, helping the other one, his shoulder turning red, their short swords rapping their legs as they ran. The injured man lost his turban as they rounded a corner...
"What happened...What's going on?" bellowed Alcaeus, behind Thasos.
"Turks," Phaon shouted, checking the damage to the door, swinging it on its hinges, his hairy shield high on his arm.
Long after dusk, men scouted the streets, all the Turkish boats at sea: the town buzzed with shouts and whistles: a drum throbbed: the raiders had killed two and injured several and plundered a winery and mill, removing flour and filling goat skins with fresh water at several fountains. I piloted Alcaeus about for a while, until my girls discovered me and begged me home, dreading a repetition, though by now armed soldiers had set up guards.
Stars shone brilliantly.
The bay, mirror-smooth, seemed utterly innocent of piracy and death. It ac- cused us of our own folly.
Alone in my room, I reviewed the raid, our floundering ashore, our dash to Alcaeus' house, the brilliant uniforms, wild faces, wild cries, Phaon at the door, Thasos wanting me to hide, children whimpering.
The drummers were signaling each other, the surf sullen, the wind rising.
In a room near me, someone was sobbing. Peace would not return to my house or Mytilene for a while: how long, I wondered? Peace, how frail it is, how carefully it must be protected.
I realized I should comfort my girls and not sit and watch the ocean. It was hard to go to them, harder still to listen to their fears and accusations. When they questioned me I felt that what I described had never happened or happened to someone else. Atthis, holding a puppy in her arms, said she wanted someone to protect her and burst into tears, realizing how unprotected she had been.
Why hadn't I come with Phaon? What if the Turks had climbed the hill?
"You forgot all about us, you just left us here! Oh, Sappho!"
Next day, with my house quieted, I had time to write:
Accomplishments require sacrifice of mind and body; for some, accomplish- ment will be slow as the sea eating sand. I prefer the swift attainment-it is most inspiring. Death, because it is an incessant threat, retards progress, inhibiting our will to succeed, seeping under us at unexpected moments.
Surely, if we are to conspire against death, if we are to get the most of life, we must be clever, relying on intuition and knowledge, to reach any goal. Surely, the most important element in life is the humane, the kindly, the uncorrupted, tying together little things into something worth while, that will have significance now and later.