Read Online Visions by James C. Glass - Free Book Online Page A

watchful presence, and then there was movement to his left. He turned his head slowly, eyes moving back and forth. The boy, not much more than a child, was crouched in bushes near the privy, eyes dark and wide like those of a doe, mouth closed tightly in a grim line. Savas picked up the other half of the bread loaf, beckoned to the boy with it, then broke off another piece, stuffed it into his mouth and chewed noisily with obvious pleasure. The boy swallowed hard, but remained where he was. Savas smiled at him, ate some cheese and beckoned again. This went on for half an hour before Savas leaned back in his chair, pointed to the food and said, “Why don’t you join me, before I get sick from eating all of this?”
    The boy seemed to understand. He stood up, short, but big-boned, heavy features and thick, black hair. No injun for sure, a kid who could pass for Greek. How old? Fourteen? Husky kid. His eyes never left Savas as he walked slowly forward, clothes hanging from him in tatters, feet bare. When he came close, Savas could see the clothing was animal skins and cloth remnants carelessly sewn together. The end of the gold boom has been tough on some folks, he thought.
    “You from around here?”
    No sound. The boy picked up a slab of cheese, tasted it, and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Pleasure showed in his eyes, but he didn’t smile.
    “Maybe you don’t understand my English. Greek still easier for me, but I get better at it. Don’t have much practice, though. You live in these hills?” He gestured at the surrounding mountains, and the boy’s eyes followed his hand silently.
    “I’m Savas,” he said, thumping his chest with two fingers, and pointed. “You?”
    The boy nodded, recognition in his eyes. He picked up another slab of cheese, then pointed to himself and said something unintelligible.
    “Well, have some bread, whatever your name be.” Savas pushed food across the makeshift table as the boy sat down beside him. Later, Savas couldn’t quite remember what he talked about that early evening, but was certain a bitter, desperate loneliness had crept up on him, and the boy was the first visitor he’d had, eating and listening quietly while the host babbled on and on in both English and Greek. But at sunset, the boy suddenly arose, nodded at him, and curled his lips into a vague hint of a smile before turning and walking into the deep shadows of the trees and brush without looking back.
    “Come back,” called Savas, “anytime you want to. I’m always here!”
    The beginning was that simple, the beginning of an association that would last nine years and alter the course of a culture older than history. Savas had no way of knowing that, of course. To him the boy was a relief from the loneliness and boredom of his chosen life, and after that first day the visits became regular, usually in late afternoon and rarely on weekends, for his trips to Quincy continued as usual until the day he died.
    At first they simply broke bread together, Savas talking in Greek, the boy listening, eyes alert. It was soon obvious the boy didn’t understand English or Greek, and would not respond to questions about himself. Savas became his teacher, pointing to things, naming them, using simple phrases for each of his actions. The boy made no attempt to repeat anything at first, but there was intelligence in those dark eyes, and occasionally a faint smile, like when Savas dropped an egg splat on the floor and cursed. Mostly, the boy was somber, as if life had been hard and he would not entrust a show of emotion to anyone outside himself. He learned with extraordinary speed, at first helping with the making of bread, then doing it without aid, measuring flour, milk and salt with precision. Then, one memorable day, he walked over to the newly arrived gramophone now playing a forlorn song, pointed to it, and said in perfect Greek pronunciation, “Where music come?”
    Savas laughed. “New York, I think. Doubt if