nazar 2013 07 online

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER Mausoleum of poet Ferdowsi(940 - 1020) in Tus, Mashaad, Iran Photo: Nimavojdani

Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication.The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website.For submission guidelines and further information, please stop bywww.nazar-look.com

CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Aziz AhmetJames S. DorrSuzana HuseynYen NguyenNimavojdaniHal O'LearyQHA

2rudyard kipling

If… - Eger…5book launch

Looking Back - Short Stories of Our Time

6mikayil múşfik

Úyrendím8miftahettin akmulla

Başkurtlarîm, okîmak kerek!

10taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XIX)

12james s. dorrindiana, usa

Moons of Saturn24ferdowsi

Alas for Youth28tu fu

The Winding River30yen nguyenfrance

Too True to Be Good34hal o’learywest virginia, usa

From WhenceThere’s Something ElseThe Struggle

38edmund spencer

Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIII)

40aziz ahmetcrimea

Photoshop: Crimea, Chameleon Cape That Changes Its Color During the Day

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars

Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî

ISSN: [email protected], Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEFBAŞ-NAŞIR

Taner Murat EDITORSNAŞIRLER

Emine ÓmerUyar PolatJason Stocks

COMPUTER GRAPHICSSAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ

Elif AbdulHakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)

CREATIVE CONSULTANTSESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ

M. Islamov

Nazar Look 1www.nazar-look.com

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

rudyard kipling(1865 - 1936)


(1865 - 1936)

If... If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!


(1865 - 1936)

Eger… Herkez ğoldan sabîp taksiratlî sení tutkandaSen akîlîbaşînda eger kala-alsañ;Saga bírewníñ îşanuwî kalmagandaSen olarîñ şúphesín de hesapka koşîp ózíñe eger gúwene-alsañ;Beklep turup sen beklemekten yorîlmay eger kalsañ,Ya da seníñ hakkîñda yalan aytîlganda yalan eger kullanmasañ,Ya da sení bírew şeg-almaganda sen ğúrekke eger ğatsañ,Allegím bolmasañ, şalîm eger satmasañ; Túş kulî bolmadan túş eger kóre-alsañ,Túşúnğeleríñní maksat etmeden túşúnúp eger kala-alsañKelíp Zafer men Felaket ekí yalanğînîñ karşîsînaNe kazandîm dep kuwansañ, ne de kaybettím dep ğîlansañ;Ğetímsízlerní aldatmaga deñíştírílgen aytkanlarîñnîEşítmegen kíşí eger bola-alsañ, Ya da ómírğe kurgan şiyleríñ mîraganîn kórgendeÍşíñní baştan alîp olarnî eskí alatlarîñ man bírtaa eger yarata-alsañ,Kaybetíp te herşiyní baştan alîpKayîplarîñnî heşbírwakît sóz eger etmeseñ; Meğalsîz kalganda ğúregíñní, asabîñnî, akîlîñnîZorlap eger kullana-alsañ,“Dayan” degen kararîñ tîşînda íşíñde bírşiy kalmagandaTíreníp kókírep eger bere-alsañ.El-álemge koşîlîp namuslî eger kala-alsañ Ya da kîrallar man gezíp insanlîknî eger unutmasañ,Ne dúşmanga, ne dostîña darîlsañ,Ne bírewní alşak túşúrúp, ne bírewní kóklerge şîgarsañ ; Ağîmasîz her dakkagaAltmîş emgek saniyesí eger koşsañDemekk ke bo dúnya señkíBondan da ayîrî, ulum, Insan boldîñ demektír.

(Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)

BO

OK

Looking BackAnthology of Short Stories

htt

p:/

/ww

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azar

-look.

com

/anth

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s/lo

oki

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ack

Featuring:

Tantra BenskoCarly BergUte CarsonRudy Ch. GarciaMargaret KarmazinJames D. Reed

W. Jack SavageTom SheehanBhadauria Manish SinghHollis WhitlockSamuel K. WilkesAbigail Wyatt


mikayil múşfik(1908–1939)


Úyrendím Hayat nedír, suwal berdím ózíme, Manasîn şeşeklerden úyrendím. Yaşap-yaşap kagîşmaknî, súymekní Kaálbímdekí tíleklerden úyrendím. Bír ğay aldîm şîkmak úşún şikáarga, Rastkeldím bír gúzel kózlí nikáarga. Níşan alîp ok atmaknî, ne şáre, Taş ğúreklí meleklerden úyrendím. Suwlar gibí kópíkleníp taşmaknî, Eller gibí yúksek daklar aşmaknî, Biñ bír emel arkasîndan kuwmaknî Túrlí-túrlí ğúreklerden úyrendím. Kaber bolsîn her tazege, her ğaşka Insan bala, hayat oga eglenğe... Men gúdúrtí koparmaktan eñ başta Alew kózlí ğalkînlardan úyrendím. Hayat nedír, ólím nedír, boş suwal, Sewda nedír, hiğran nedír, bír hayal, Men bolarnîñ esasîn, mína, al, Hep şekken emgegímden úyrendím.

(Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)


miftahettin akmulla(1831 - 1895)


(1831 - 1895)

Başkurtlarîm, okîmak kerek! Başkurtlarîm, okîmak kerek, okîmak kerek!Aramîzda ğahiller kóp, okîgan siyrek.Ural’dakî ókírgen ayuwdan korkanşîk,Ey, tuwganlar, ğehaletten korkmak kerek! Iltifat et: okîmaktandîr şerefler,Ğahillíkten kelíp turar zor afetler,Okîganlar kókte uşar, suwda yúzer,Yoktîr onda evliyadakî kerametler. Okîganlar bo dúnyada ğelal bolîrHaram degen kóp şiyler helal bolîrYîkpal, dewlet kutugun aşayîm deseñ,Ílím, húner bírden-bírge temel bolîr. Altîga bírní koşîp, sayî on bolmay.Sáátní aldga beríp, tún kún bolmay.Bílím arslandan kúşlí batîr,Şoga atlanmay seníñ túşúñ heş oñ bolmay.

(Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)


scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XIX)

Kesím 33Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî Batîr

Ázír awulga, ázír tóşelgen mañlay

şadîrnîñ bosagasîn íş betíne, yarîsînda bír toy man, nikáalî ğaş kelínníñ atî zamannîñ íşínde íríp kettí, onîñ atîn akîlana akelgen, yaşagan kíşí kalmadî. Şo atî unutulup kalgan kelín, mañlay yeríne kelíp kongan senesí tolayatîrganda, Bodonğarga bír ul taptî.

O balanîñ ğutuk ekení taa kíşkenelígínden bellí bolgan. Anasî emízdíreğekte ekí kolî man anasîn kókíregíne ğabîşawuya eken. Kurutsa da, kolîndan ğíbermiy. Óskende de şo, taa.

- "Nedret kap, kóp şayna" derler, balam! - diytan eken anasî man babasî oga, sîpîraga otîrganda.

- Bíraz yawaş aşa, obîr bolma! - diytan ekenler.

O gene seslemiy, onday tuwgan ke. Awuzuna kabîp, şaynamay ğutawuya. O man bír sîpîraga otîrganlar sîpîradan toymay tura ekenler.

- Bo ğutuk bízge aş kaldîra mî? Şaynamay ğutawuya da. Ka-típ toyayîk? - diy ekenler.

- Sîpîraga salîngan aşlarnî bír ğelmawuz gibí kabawuya da, başka kíşíge toymak sîrasî kele mí? - diy ekenler.

Ána, bonday etíp, onîñ aşaganîna hergez taağúplene- taağúplene, oga Kabuwğî namî kalgan.

Ğúrmege başlaganda da Kabuwğunuñ bír ayagî óteberí kesík bolganî da bellí boldî. Bír yakka bíraz sallanîp, topallaganday ğúrgeníne, "Kesík Bağaklî" diy edíler oga. Şo man atî Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî boldî.

Lákin ğígítlík, bağaknîñ uzunluguna-kesíklîgîna karamay eken. Ğígít bolganî, ğígíttír. Batîr bolganî, batîrdîr. Soñra, atka míngen soñ, bír ayagîñ bír parşakay kesík

ekení bellí kala mî? Kaydan? Onîñ ğúregí, korkîsîzlîgî, ğaşlîgînda síptí katîlîp bargan sogîşmalarîndan suw ústúne may şîkkanday bellí bolîp miydanga şîgawuydî.

Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî Batîr dedíler oga.

Kesím 34Zewúriyt îrgî

Atî unutulup kalgan Barim Şîgîratuw

Kabuwğî Batîrnîñ nenesí, ğaş kelín bolîp úynúñ mañlay yeríne konayatîrganda, nikáasî kîyîlîp, şo yarîsînda bolsa da gene yasalgan toyî sîrasînda, Bodonğar man Adañkan Úriyañgağin ázírlep salgan bakşîşlarîn da kabul etken edí. Hep şo wakît, ádetlerníñ taptalmasîna yer kaldîrmay, kelínní alîp kelgen kíşílerge kaysî bírsí kímge salînganîn añlata-añlata, kayînana-kayînata alarî úşún ázírlengen bakşîşlar da beríldí. Şo kíşílerní de kuwandîrmaga unutmadîlar. Onlar da bakşîşlarîn kabul etken soñ, barlî bír îrktan bolmasalar da, ádetke uyup, kayînana-kayînata alarîndan kíyewúne ğíberílgen bakşîşnî alîp kelgenlerín ayttîlar. Şo kíşílerníñ mañlaylarînda kelgen, kelínníñ akasî konîştî:

- Bodonğar, babam-nenem alar bek begeníp kaldîlar, kíyewún. Bíz de, kelínníñ akalarî, tatalarî bolîp, sení bek súydúk. Kelíp azbarîmîzdan, úyúmúzden kelín saylap alganîña, aytkanîmday, bílgeníñdiy, bek barlî bolmasak ta, saga karşî saygîmîznî kóstereğek bolamîz. Bízím de saga akelgen bakşîşîmîz bar. - dedí o.

Soñra, katînda bolgan ekí ğaşka aylanîp karap:

- Babam alarnîñ Bodonğarga ğíbergen bakşîşnî akelíñíz! - dedí.

Ğaşlar, kelínní alîp kelgen mógedekke ğuwurawuyup, bakşîşnî túşúrúp, kolîndan tutup akeldíler. Ğap-ğaş bír kîz, kelín men akran, kelínníñ tatasîn kîzî, kelín men barabar ósken ekenler. Bírsí úyleníp keteğekke, ekewnúñ kózlerí bozlanîp kalgan eken. Herkezní kuwantağak bír şáre tabîlgan. Hem onday boldî. Bodonğar man Adañkan Úriyañgağin ziyade kuwandîlar. Bodonğar onî kabul etíp, oga şoyerde Adañkan Úriyañgağin


şadîrnîñ katîna bír şadîr taa kurdurtawuyup, ğaydîrtawuyup-tóşettírewuydî.

Bo kîznîñ atî da zamannîñ íşíne batîp kettí. Lákin ízí ketmedí. Onîñ ízíne, tuwganda, kelínníñ tatasîn kîzîndan bolganîna, Zewreday dedíler.

Zewreday, Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî Batîrdan soñra tuwdî, ondan kíşkene, Zewredaynîñ bírkaş tatasî ekí ulnuñ arasîn baya keñiytkenler.

Dórt ulun bírdiy etíp súye edí Bodonğar. Íster Adañkan Úriyañgağinden ekí ulî Zadarday man Bagariyday bolsîn, íster Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî bolsîn, íster Zewreday bolsîn, ayîrmaytan, bírdiy súyer edí.

- Alayñîz mením ulumsuñuz. Men ketken soñ, paylarîñîznî bírdiy etíp bólíşírsíñíz, añladîñîz mî? - dep, ólímínden soñra ne bolağagîn da aytîp taşladî.

Zewreday kíşkene ekende, eñ kíşkene bala tuwul mî? Ózeginní herkez başka túrlí súyer. Zadarday man Bagariyday delíkanlî bolîp başka şiyler men ogîraşîp turganda Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ ekí kózí babasînda, "Way, way, babam Zewredaynî taa kóp súye!" dep. Zamanînda ózí de tîpkî şonday súyúlgenín unutkan.

Óseğek, batîr bolağak, ğiwan Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ, Zewreday ínísí men, arasî bonday edí, yîldîzlarî uzak kalîp tabîşmaytan, kíşkenekíy Zewredaynîñ anasî, bír tuwumda, bír namurnuñ soñ kúnlerínde, ğok bolîp ketkenínde.

Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ nenesí men, kartayîp túşken Adañkan Úriyañgağin, Zewredaynîñ anasîn artîndan tókken kózyaşlarî kurur-kurumaz, helwasîn kawurup kokîsîn şîgarîr-şîgarmaz, Bodonğar bír kúnlúk yergeşík şakîrîldî. Kîş, taygalak mî, taygalak. Ne men karşîlağagîn bílmeden, tolîyday buznuñ ústúnden kettí. Ketúwí, şo! Ólím şakîrgan eken! Ğolda, ayagî ayna gibí buznuñ ústúnde tayîp, ayagîn sîndîrîp atî túşken. Ondan tutup, şuwurga kakkan, ekí boylîk kar baskan. Balta man kazîp ayîrdîlar Bodonğarnî buzlarnîñ arasîndan. Baárge karşî... Her yaşam başka bír ğoldan keter amma soñî gene aşşî-aşşî. Of, of!

Bodonğar ğok bolgan soñ, kíşkenekíy

scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Zewredaynî Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ anasî alîp karadî. Kayet kesík bír ara úşún, kîrlî ketmedí. Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî hergún kawga şîgarîp, anasîna bakîra başladî:

- Saga ne, neniy? Lázîm bolmagan zahmetke ózíñní atkanîñ ne? - dep.

- Kerek-kerekmiy, bo bala da babañnîñ ulî. Sení óstírgen soñ, kuyruguñdakî bír súrúw kîz kardaşlarîñnî óstíriyatîrganda, endí, koğamnîñ uluna kelgende zahmetíne karayğakman mî? Kírewuysun şo da kîz kardaşlarîñ arasîna. Bírşiy bolmaz.

- Adañkan Úriyañgağin karawuysun. Ne karamay? Bútún kún úyde de. Başka ne íşí bar?

- Ay, Adañkanga atkanîmîz ne? O kart ta, balam. Kartaydî, endí yapp-almaz. Ekí dúniya bír kelse de yapp-almaz. Onda bala hewesí kaldî mî?

- Yapp-almaz, yapp-almaz! Yapmaytan mî, endí? Yapar, yapar! Ne? Seníñ hewesíñ bar mî? Sende başkalarnîñ balasîn karaganday hewes bar mî?

- Şonday etíp konîşma, ulum! Ayîp tuwul mî? Íníñdír, bíz kararmîz, taa.

Ínlíkní-mínlíkní ğebíne tîgîp ózí men alîp ketken eken, Bodonğar, soñgî ğolîna şîkkanînda. Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ awuzuna túşken balaşîk, kutulmadî. Şo-bo degenşík, Kabuwğî kaptî ğíberdí. Zewreday Adañkan Úriyañgağinge beríldí, başka şáre yok. Kóp ketmeden, oba hakklarîndan da şîgarîldî. Bodonğardan kalganlar, arasînda bólíştí, úş akasî. Zewredayga bírşiy yok, sañkem yabanğî.

Zewreday, ósíp bólígínden ayîrîlmak kararîna bardî. Bólígínden boş kolî man ayîrîlsa da, yawaş-yawaş óz şáresíne ózí karap, úyleníp balasî, torînî boldî. Onîñ ballarîndan, torînlarîndan, Zewrit alar keñiydí.Mína, Zewrit îrknîñ atasî şo baladîr, şo Zewreday. Anasîndan-atasîndan óksíz kalgan, şo bala.

(dewamî keleğekke)


james s. dorrindiana, usa http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com


http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com

Moons of Saturn

Phoebe, with her retrograde motion...

We laughed about that when the Voyager

photographs were on TV. Her real name was

Phoebe, named for the mother of the Sun. Or

that's what she said.

"You must be Enceladus," she said on a

different night, when the news showed the

space probe closer to Saturn. Never mind my

real name or background. "Enceladus was the

most powerful of the storm giants. Savage, yet

noble. And, according to the Greek legends, he

was born not in the usual way, but from the

spilling of his father's blood."

"Shouldn't I be Iapetus instead?" I asked.

"The creator of man? Or, more to the point, the

moon whose orbit is closest to Phoebe's?"

"No," she said. "Between us, we

encompass all the moons" – that was before

Mimas' pictures were broadcast – "you next to

the brooding bulk of Saturn, the god-devourer of

his children, and me the outermost moon of

them all."

"And you with your retrograde motion," I

said. "Withershins to the others' orbits."

Discovered in 1898, the TV continued,

flashing back to the Voyager pictures. Phoebe

circles more than eight million miles from

Saturn, one of only two of the moons with its

orbital plane tilted at an angle to that of the

rings...

"Another difference. Another out-of-

stepness," I said.

We laughed again, Phoebe and I.

Phoebe, with her passion for ancient legends

and myths; her fascination not so much with

science, as with the fantasies that could be spun

from it.

As for me, as I say, never mind my name

or my background. You may have known me.

James S. Dorr is a short story writer and poet working primarily in the dark fantasy and horror genres with occasional diversions into mystery and science fiction, with nearly four hundred

appearances from Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine to The Yellow Bat Review.

Dorr's collections include Strange Mistresses: Tales of Wonder and Romance and Darker Loves: Tales of Mystery and Regret from Dark Regions Press and the all-poetry Vamps (A Retrospective)

from Sam's Dot Publishing.



Suffice it to say I had money enough, willed to

me by an aunt, that I needn't work unless it held

my interest. That I had had a good education.

That Phoebe and I loved each other

deeply.

* * *

Discovered in 1789...the TV news said.

This was for Mimas.

"The Year of the Guillotine," Phoebe

broke in, as if the announcer were talking to her.

"Of revolution and blood in France."

"Shhhh," I said as the voice went

on...discovered the same year as Enceladus –

there was a shift as a picture of my moon

formed on the TV so they could be compared –

Mimas orbits less than 120,000 miles from its

parent, while Enceladus, the next moon out...

"No," Phoebe said. "Saturn was never

our father. You, Mimas, the storm giants, I, were

all born of Gaea and Uranus. Saturn, too, was a

son of Uranus."

"I know, Phoebe," I whispered. I kissed

her.

"Wait," she said. "Before, I'd forgotten

Mimas, the innermost moon. The one of our

siblings who freed Earth's volcanoes. And now

they say there are other, tiny moons even closer

to Saturn than he is. But last night I had a

dream about Mimas. And you and me. The two

of you are bound together – discovered the

same year – and thus, somehow, Mimas is

bound to me also."

"I heard you scream last night," I said.

"While you were sleeping. It was only once, so I

didn't wake you."

"I haven't been feeling well," she said.

"It's probably nothing."

I kissed her again, harder this time, and

she kissed me back. That night we made love in

front of the TV while Voyager's arc swung it

closer to Saturn. We watched, in each other's

arms, as the pictures formed on the screen.

Saturn. In some cultures, called the

"Death Planet." Phoebe started, then kissed me

quickly. To astrologers, said to be the ruler of

Capricorn, lord of winter. Saturn was known

from ancient times...

We watched. An orange globe appeared,

strikingly oblate.

...with a diameter 9.4 times that of the

Earth, and yet a day on Saturn's surface lasts

less than eleven hours here on Earth...



"That explains the flattened poles," I said.

"That fast a rotation. Centrifugal forces would..."

"Maybe," she said. "But look at those

swollen stripes and patterns. It moves too fast.

And see – Enceladus, think of what it would

look like from your orbit. From my moon, it

seems like just a jewel in the sky, but from

where you are, it must be enormous."

I tried to imagine it filling my vision.

Rising over a rock strewn plain, over so huge an

arc it looked as though it must crush, of

necessity, any object that dared stand beneath

it. But then, the TV picture pulled back...

...the rings...

Phoebe gasped. We hugged each other.

...believed by some scientists to have

once been an asteroid, sucked, vampire-like,

from its proper orbit when it came too close. In

time, gravitational forces destroyed it...

I stood again on Enceladus' surface,

seeing the rings now shoot from the huge disk

like two immense arrows. In my mind, I saw

them on edge, because only Phoebe and

Iapetus have orbits that deviate from the rings'

plane to any appreciable degree. Here, though,

the space probe approached from an angle,

slightly below, as it wove its complex path

around Saturn...

...what scientists call Cassini's Division,

forming a wide gap between what we now call

the A Ring and B Ring. But look. Now we can

see there are more. A C Ring, possibly D and E

Rings. And, outside the A Ring, a narrower

pattern is coming in focus. It isn't smooth-looking

like the rings we've seen, but looks almost as

though it were made from two long, separate

strands and braided...

I laughed out loud. Phoebe had braided

her hair that evening. I nuzzled the back of her

neck and kissed her. She didn't respond.

"Phoebe?" I whispered.

I saw she was sleeping.

* * *

I carried her up to bed that night, and the

following night too. Then, at her request, I made

her a new bed – a sort of a nest – on the living

room floor in front of the TV. I went out during

the day and left her watching the pictures, then

joined her afterward to watch the news and the

evening specials.

Sometimes the pictures we'd see would

be new ones, broadcast by Voyager as we sat,

arms around each other. More often they'd be



ones received already – that she'd seen

already – but half the time she couldn't

remember.

And sometimes she'd say she did

remember...a picture being sent for the first

time.

"Perhaps it was in a dream," she would

say. "Or something I read – I just thought I saw

it."

I worried about her.

On the third day I called a doctor to

come and see her. She protested – "I just feel

faint sometimes" – but I insisted. He gave her a

thorough examination, but found nothing wrong.

He gave her a tonic.

He thought that she might use a bit more

fresh air.

She laughed when he'd left us. "You

know I prefer the indoors," she said. "I just – I

don't know. Since I was a girl, I've always

enjoyed the feeling of waking while still in a

dream. I just feel more tired now."

She took her tonic. I tried it too at her

insistence, at night when we watched the

Voyager probe start its long ascent back

through the moons of Saturn. Mimas, a ball of

ice from what the scientists said on TV.

Enceladus, my moon, mostly ice too, scarcely

more than 30,000 miles farther out than the

orbit of Mimas.

"I dreamed of you and Mimas again last

night," she said. "How you – and I, too – are

bound together. I dreamed of Rhea, its mineral

surface sparkling with jewels."

Rhea was still just a dot in the distance

on the TV. Yet Phoebe went on.

"I dreamed of the mining colony there.

Oh, maybe not right now, but in the future they'll

go there for gem stones. You'll see, Enceladus."

I almost could see it when I closed my

eyes. The pressure domes. The space-suited

men digging into the rock. But then, when I

opened my eyes again and gazed at Phoebe, I

saw she was paler.

I called a new doctor. We lived on a back

road, outside the city, and soon there was a

succession of doctors plying their way across

the countryside to our home. They gave her

tests of various sorts, but none could find

anything wrong with Phoebe, at least not

physically. Some prescribed pills.

On my way back from work – oh yes, I

still worked then. Never mind what I did. But



one afternoon, on my way home, I drove

through a different part of the city than I usually

went through. On an impulse, I stopped and got

out of my car.

I'd already stopped once before at a

drugstore for Phoebe's pills, although I was

convinced they were doing her no good. But

now, as I looked at the stores around me, I had

an odd feeling of having once stood in this very

same part of the city before. It couldn't be true,

unless years ago – it was near the city

university, in what once had been a student

residential section but since had degraded to

one of those over-the-hill hippy neighborhoods,

rife with herbalists and Tarot readers, "New Age"

gear and shops advertising magic stones and

"Pyramid Power." And yet, I knew when I turned

the corner, I'd find still another doctor for

Phoebe.

His sign was a three-by-five index card

pasted onto a doorframe. I knew where to find it.

I knew I would find it.

It said Dr. Mimas.

I raced up the stairs to a dingy hallway

and, without looking, I knew to open the door to

my left. Inside was an elderly, tired-looking man,

his beard – somehow I knew it once had been

fire red – the color of old, much-trampled snow.

I explained my problem. About Phoebe's

sickness. He asked to know more and I told him

about how we watched together as Voyager's

pictures formed on the TV. He held up his hand

then.

"You are Enceladus?" he asked.

I nodded, startled. "I haven't told you my

name yet," I blurted.

"Perhaps I guessed it," he said. "Or

perhaps I had reason to expect you. We are like

brothers, you and I, although maybe not in the

usual blood way." He handed me a dust-covered

bottle, about the size of a whisky bottle, and

then he smiled up at me. "I once knew Phoebe."

"What is this?" I asked.

"Another tonic for Phoebe," he said, his

face again serious. "It's artemisia – oil of

wormwood. As a tincture, sometimes called

absinthe. In its true form it's not exactly legal

these days, but it won't do her harm and, if you

try it with her, it may help you to relax as well."

I looked at it dubiously. "How much?" I

asked. He named a price that seemed

surprisingly low to me and told me to come back

if Phoebe got worse. I paid him and left and,

when I got home, Phoebe and I tried a spoonful

together.



It seemed to perk her up a little, at least

for a while. I turned on the TV and we watched

together as pictures of Tethys, then Dione

appeared.

...both discovered by Cassini in 1684,

nine years after his observation that Saturn's

rings were divided in two. And now we have

proof there's a second moon in Dione's orbit, a

"Dione B," that circles the planet sixty degrees

ahead of its namesake. Cassini had already

discovered the moons Iapetus and Rhea...

"I had a dream while you were away,"

Phoebe said when the announcer had finished.

"It was about the stone of Rhea. Once, when

the universe was young, some fell to Earth. It

fell on the hillside, in the forest behind where we

live now..."

"Yes?" I prompted when she became

silent.

"A moment," she said. She closed her

eyes.

"I dreamed of a cabin, built in the

woods." Her voice was chantlike. "A steepled

roof, with openings to let light in..."

She fell silent again and I saw she was

sleeping. Quietly, I put on my shoes and crept

out of the house and into the forest. I climbed

the hillside. The sun had set, but in the

moonlight I saw, near the top, a jumble of stone

that cropped out through the underbrush. Some

of it sparkled – gneiss, most likely – yet, in the

pale light, it flashed, multi-colored, as if it were

studded with precious jewels.

That night, I dreamed of Phoebe's cabin

too.

* * *

In spite of the absinthe, Phoebe's

condition worsened nightly. I called more

doctors, many whose theories lay in less than

traditional medicines, yet, like the others, all

were baffled. I sought out Dr. Mimas again and

told him, were she to die, I wished to die too.

But all he would tell me was "Share everything

with your love, Enceladus. Share in her dreams

that you may both be free."

I thought, then, of the cabin we dreamed

of. I quit my work and had plans drawn up. I

hired men to build it.

During the days I supervised the cabin's

construction to make sure all details were done

right. I had the men work fast – within a day,

the first of the massive rock walls was standing

and, by the week's end, the jeweled peak of its

pyramid-shaped roof was set in its place.

Although I was unused to physical labor, I did



this last with my very own hands. I had not

exaggerated when I told Dr. Mimas that, if it

must be that Phoebe would die, I wished to die

with her.

And throughout all this frantic activity,

Voyager continued its measured path out

through the moons.

Tethys, the Diones, all fell behind in the

wake of the space probe. Phoebe – my Phoebe

– slept most of the day now, waking only for the

nightly reports on its progress. A sparkling jewel

appeared on the TV – another ice moon, the

announcer said.

But this was Rhea.

Phoebe started, visibly shaken.

"Hush," I told her. "I've built your cabin,

just as we dreamed it." I gave her her tonic, and

took some with her, a half cup for each of us.

"I've had it built in the woods, like we saw it

within our minds. The tall, pointed arches, the

peak of the roof, the cut stone of the floor. I've

put in a couch for you so, if you wish to, you can

lie out there..."

She half rose to kiss me, to show her

thanks, and I sat by her side as the pictures

continued.

Next on Voyager's journey, the TV said,

we'll come to Titan, discovered in 1655 by the

Dutch astronomer Huygens...

"Titan," she whispered, "the namesake of

all of us. The first discovered."

"Yes," I whispered back. "But this is

Rhea. See. On the screen now. The cratered

surface..."

So the nights went on. Titan now filled

Voyager's sky while Phoebe dozed fitfully in my

arms. I half-dreamed with her, seeing not just

the globe on the screen, but its surface as well

– its methane fountains vaporizing in orange

haze, filling the air, its sparkling liquid nitrogen

pools, its view of Saturn, peeking through

clouds, like the moon of our own Earth seen

after a storm.

And still she worsened. She didn't even

wake when Hyperion filled the screen. Two-

faced Iapetus, black rock on one side and ice on

the other, passed silently too, with Phoebe only

stirring slightly. Then Phoebe, the moon – my

Phoebe's namesake – appeared, a glowing red

point on the screen.

My Phoebe half-opened one of her eyes.

I gazed at her lips as she tried to part them.

"See," I whispered – I shouldn't have



said it, but seeing her paleness next to the

image drove the words from my lips.

"See," I told her. "Even your moon has

more color than you do."

"No!" she screamed. "All I see is blood

color."

She sat bolt upright.

I tried to calm her. Held her close to me.

Shared her medicine – a half cup for each of us

– just as before when she'd started at the

passing of Rhea.

"It's all right," I told her. I kissed her

cheek, startled myself at its coldness.

"No," she said again. "Look at the blood."

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine, but

saw only darkness.

"Again, Enceladus. Let your mind reach

out. Turn where you're standing and look behind

you."

I did so. I felt her standing beside me. I

turned as she did and suddenly saw the sky fill

with redness.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"Disaster," she said. "The miners of

Rhea. A meteorite has struck their colony,

breaking its dome. The air is rushing in..."

"Out," I corrected. "Rhea is airless. They

said on the TV..."

"They lied, Enceladus. Don't you see?

The miners are there now, not just in the future.

But the air of Rhea is poison."

"What can we do then?" I felt her push

from me. Felt more than saw her fade into the

distance.

"I am bound with Rhea. We both are. Not

just with Rhea, but all of the moons, and all who

live on them. But I cannot help them – I'm too

weak already. You must go to Titan..."

I strained to listen as her voice faded,

then came back again, like a radio signal in the

far distance.

"...must journey to the surface of Titan

without me, Enceladus. There is a Wizard who

has a serum. A brilliant alchemist. Only with that

can you save the miners. Only with that can you

save my life with theirs..."

I no longer heard her. Instead I heard a

ringing of chimes and a rushing of winds. I

opened my eyes and saw I was hurtling through

orange clouds, my ship's rockets blazing.



Below me was rock. Rock, and nitrogen

pools, and fountains.

I knew, somehow, where the ship's

controls were, and I steered to a landing.

I disembarked. I felt the wind whistling

around my spacesuit, wondering how I could

hear through its plastic coated metal. I strode

through jagged, red colored mountains, across

yellow plains. I swam frozen, brilliant blue rivers

– I don't know how, in my heavy clothing. Suffice

that I did it.

I saw the animals. Dinosaur-like, green

scaled creatures that munched on crystal.

I came to a cave.

I threaded my way between two huge

boulders and descended a twisting passage, my

way lit by a red-orange glow. I came to a vast,

level-floored hollow, domed over with purple and

brown and gray rock. And I saw, his back to me,

a giant clothed in robes as black as the empty

space Saturn and its moons whirled through.

I wondered what to say. Then words

came to me and, even though my faceplate was

closed, I heard my voice echo as if in challenge.

"I am Enceladus, he who was born of his

father's lost blood. I seek the Wizard" – I knew

his name now! – "the Wizard Iapetus, maker of

humankind."

"Then you seek your own brother," the

figure said, turning slowly. I realized as he said

the words that I was a giant too. "You come to

save Phoebe, our mutual sister, but you are too

late. The serum is used up."

"No!" I shouted. I stopped as Iapetus

pushed back his hood. I gazed at a face as

double-sided as the moon that bore his name,

one half the white of the purest snow and the

other dead black – the black of his clothing.

"No," I said again, now in a whisper. "I

come for the miners. The serum is for them.

Through them I'll save Phoebe."

Iapetus laughed. "Don't you see, my

brother, that in my power is both death and life.

I am the father of Prometheus, bringer of fire.

The father of Atlas, who holds up the sky. The

father of man, yes. But, just as I preside at

birth, the death of all mankind is also mine to

withhold or bestow."

"I understand only that I need the

serum." I lunged at Iapetus, striking with both

fists. I forced him backward.

Iapetus raised his own hands to defend

himself. "Wait my brother. You don't understand



yet. Don't you know that death is needed – for

in death is new life?"

I found myself armed now with sword

and shield, while my adversary counterattacked

with net and trident. The net of his words. I

found myself tangled, then, with a shout, I

shook them from me.

"If I must destroy you, so be it, Iapetus. I

will have the serum. Or, if I cannot and Phoebe

is doomed, then you must kill me too."

I rushed at Iapetus, striking blindly,

pushing him backward once again. Without his

net he was helpless before me. I lunged. I

twisted. I opened his chest, his shoulder, his

belly. I laughed in my triumph.

But still he struck back at me – one final

blow.

"You don't understand yet. She's dead

already."

I felt the trident's points tear the inner

part of my thigh.

I felt myself falling.

I heard my brother's voice, far away. "It is

not for you to attack me, Enceladus. For that I

curse you: That you will recover. That you, the

strongest of all my brothers, are doomed to live

on..."

* * *

...I woke to the memory of clashing

chimes. To a rushing of air. I woke at Phoebe's

side, clutching her coldness within my arms. I,

the youngest of the sons of Uranus and Gaea,

formed when my father's life splashed onto the

ground of my mother.

I knew what I must do.

Slowly, painfully, feeling my wound stiffen

with each step, I carried her body out into the

woods, to the cabin I'd had built. I laid her gently

on the couch I had furnished it with when I'd still

hoped she might use it in her recovery.

I loosened her clothing, then kissed her

softly.

The following morning I went to the city.

I sought Dr. Mimas, but, when I arrived at

the building where his office should be, I found it

boarded up. It didn't matter. I knew, if I looked, I

could find a new source of absinthe elsewhere.

More important, I searched out a

slaughterhouse that would sell me cows' blood

and ask no questions. That became my new

tonic. I found a medical supplier who sold me



catheters and needles, tube arms, pressure

bulbs and bottles. I bought a second recovery

couch to set next to Phoebe's.

I knew our blood types matched. We had

been tested some years in the past. And I had

had a good education, including a smattering of

medical knowledge.

Enough to do what I knew I had to.

That evening I began the first of

Phoebe's transfusions. Her pulse, when I felt it,

was still nonexistent, but now, at least, when I

looked at her cheeks I saw traces of color.

When the transfusion was done, we made love,

my stroking as gentle as it had been the first

time we'd done so.

Of course she didn't respond that night,

or the next, or the next. But still, every evening, I

gave her my blood, mixed with a tablespoon of

absinthe bled into the catheter, then, every

morning, renewed my own strength with the

blood from the slaughterhouse. Blood and

absinthe – Dr. Mimas' tonic. Semen. Life fluid.

Just as my father had granted to me. At least

her disease was now in remission.

And every evening, winter or summer, I

opened the louvers in the roof of our pyramid

cabin to show her the stars. I took to reading

ephemerides so I could point out the position of

Saturn.

In the fourth year, I built a telescope with

a mirror so we could watch the moons together

during our lovemaking. Happy enough her

condition was stable.

Oh, you wouldn't know me if you were to

see me on the street now, even though we might

once have been the best of friends. The nights,

the transfusions, the love take their toll.

I've paled and I've lost weight. My skin

peels in sunlight. The blood from the

slaughterhouse – I need more and more now –

I scarcely eat otherwise – brings me less

strength now than when I first started.

My wound, after all this time, has not yet

healed.

But Phoebe, ah, Phoebe...

* * *

Phoebe, of late, has shown signs of

improvement.

(First published in the July 1993 issue of Tomorrow)

`


ferdowsi(940 - 1020)


(940 - 1020)

Mausoleum of poet Ferdowsi in Tus, Mashaad, Iran.

Photo: Nimavojdani


(940 - 1020)

Alas for Youth Much have I labored, much read o'er Of Arabic and Persian lore, Collecting tales unknown and known; Now two and sixty years are flown. Regret, and deeper woe of sin, 'Tis all that youth has ended in, And I with mournful thoughts rehearse Bu Táhir Khusrawáni's verse: "I mind me of my youth and sigh, Alas for youth, for youth gone by!"

(translated by R. A. Nicholson)


tu fu(712 - 770)


(712 - 770)

The Winding River Returning every day from court, I pawnspring clothes. The river sees my drunken mien;my boozing debts mount up all over town.Men do not often live three score and ten.The butterflies go deep into the flowers,the dragonflies on wing among the drops.The passing time is always rushing hours;no time to know you: separation stops.

(Translated from Chinese by Simon M. Hunter)


yen nguyenfrance


france

Too True to Be Good Translated from French by Andy Pham The ringing of his cell phone resounded like a response to his black thoughts. He hesitated, then with a resigned sigh, fumbled in his pocket. As feared, the call was from Jaclyn, the editor-in-chief of the weekly news The Challenge.“Anthony,” she roared into the unit, “you're supposed to send me your... ”“You'll have it by this evening”, he hastened to answer. “I just need to make some corrections.”“Six pm at the latest. I won't tolerate any more delays.” Anthony understood what she meant. He could not blame her. In recent weeks, he felt more and more difficult to submit his weekly page. Yet this section, he had obtained it indefatigably three years ago. He remembered how everything was easy then. He laid short story after short story, without any incident, private or professional, that could dry up the flow of his writing. Jaclyn had nicknamed him her golden eggs' goose. He began to be known for his style, direct and abrupt, and his way to get to the heart of the subject and the psychology of hi]\s characters. His name, slowly but surely made its

way into the narrow circle of established short story writers. Then suddenly, his brain was as if wrapped in fog even more compact than butter. His last piece was only a tasteless copy of one of his former stories. Mechanically, he thrust the phone into his pocket and headed uptown, insensitive to the hatching of spring around him. Pedestrians were numerous on this luminous day. Smiling and focused, middle-aged tourists with I love New York t-shirts photographed The Empire State Building while listening to the tour guide describing the legendary skyscraper. A group of youths walked before Anthony, and their carefree and enthusiastic look reminded him of his lost zest. A few snatches of conversation reached him. "I don't like him", a high-pitched voice said. Then someone else added: "He has a face of a murderer." Is it possible to have a face of a murderer? He had rather heard more about a particular skull. He rummaged his hand in the mass of his tousled hair and palpated his head. What did his skull look like? An empty shell or a shell loaded with darkness. A black screen recently overshadowed his memories and thoughts. He would be incapable of saying where he had been, what he

Yen Nguyen writes mostly short stories. Her work has been published at The Miskatonic Herald, Fiction 365, and The Stone Hobo.

Yen Nguyen currently lives in France and regularly travels to Southern California in the summer.


france had done lately, besides being harassed by Jaclyn who absolutely wanted his text within the deadline. Uh! for example, on Sunday, March 8, his mother had attempted to contact him all day. Where was he? What was he doing? But did it matter? Wouldn’t it be better trying to fill this page right here and now? He doubted he could make it. Some stress was necessary for his imagination to start. But he only felt a kind of lethargy, like the one that followed an intense activity or violent feeling. Street performers drew crowds in front of the library on Forty-Second Street. Without paying real attention, Anthony continued to listen to the youths who marched in ranks in front of him. They crossed the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park where a fountain threw its water jets, which when falling back, broke into bubbles and foam in the pond. A woman in a red dress was leaning on a boy whose shirt dripped water. She shook him and shouted, "I'll kill you." "I'll kill you" repeated Anthony and the phrase trotted in his head as he turned the corner of East Drive and Seventy-Ninth Street and lost sight of the group of youths. It is true that everyone experiences at some point in his life the desire to kill. It can overwhelm you for a multitude of reasons. Look, this morning, he had also a fierce desire to rush to the newspaper office, throw himself on Jaclyn and beat her black and blue to death.

No, it was not true. In his current state, he had no desire except to be left alone. He shrugged, dismissed from his mind the bloodied image of a Jaclyn succumbing to his blows. Come on, he thought, I could write about a man who killed a woman because she deceived him. Commonplace but still appealing topic. Anthony closed his eyes and let his imagination work: the woman was blossomed and ripe and appetizing, all in flesh, flexible, undulated, insatiable and the man madly in love with her. But she saw other people behind his back. The man unmasked her one day. She insulted him and called him a loser. He rushed at her, grabbed her by the hair - she had it long, smooth and shimmering - he pulled her towards him, approached his face close to hers and whispered "I'll kill you" before making her fall and striking her skull with the baseball bat which, by chance, was there. Then, to be sure that his work was well finished, he dragged her up the stairs and gave her a kick. She rolled down the steps. Her body twitched like a dislocated doll before coming to rest on the landing. She was lying at the end of her fall on her back, her right leg folded under the body. The blood had spurted from the head; one of her low-fronted shoes had flown to the middle of the living room... The image he had created in his mind was so vivid that Anthony had to open his eyes. He had stopped without realizing in front of a kiosk where a newspaper front page headline displayed Police Actively Searching for Joanna’s Assassin followed by an article about a young woman murdered in


france

her home. The culprit is still on the loose, the journalist concluded, adding that several motives, including crime of passion, were considered by the police. Anthony laughed: "What was I saying? I just need to add some details. For example, a blue shark tattoo on the woman’s right thigh, a souvenir of her love with a sailor. A gold necklace without pendant, half torn during the collapse. A house in rather modern style. Yes, that should work.” He opened his laptop. As the words appeared on the screen, his ideas clarified. He found the setting evoked by the woman. He took particular care to describe the bedroom. Occupying half of the room, the bed was covered with a swelling quilt, dark red in the middle of which laid a large fringe of white lace that went tapering to the foot of the bed. A thick carpet, soft where we wallowed well. On the dresser, a statue of a nude couple in a scabrous position; on the walls, portraits of women with lascivious curves, and in the closet … in the closet ... tramp! Oh but what a tramp! No wonder that her man was about to burst out in anger! Ultimately, she had it coming! His fingers taped away incessantly. Sentences followed each other smoothly and effortlessly. He seemed to live himself the time of the crime. Jaclyn’s eyelashes fluttered when Anthony jumped to her office and gave her his work. Jaclyn’s eyelashes always fluttered when she was happy. They fluttered even harder when she went through the entire text. “Hey, I didn't know you were so well versed in the dark side," she said as an excuse for her bad mood this morning. Anthony had forgiven

her long ago. He felt light, as if the fact of pouring his aggressiveness on paper had erased the numbness of his brain. They smiled at each other. Her, thinking what a strange boy he was; him, thinking to himself, she was perhaps his Muse. When the article appeared, the police captain Clarkson in his office in the sixth precinct frowned, thinking he held his killer in a very singular way. Descriptions and details of the crime, unknown to the press, were reported with astounding accuracy. Who, apart from the police, could be aware of the blue shark, baseball bat, closet or shoe flown to the center of the living room? No doubt remained when the fingerprints found on the crime scene proved to be those of Anthony. The police retrieved clothes that belonged to him, curled up in his basement, dirty, stained with the victim’s blood. For Anthony, everything became clear. Rejected lover, he had acted in anger on this Sunday, March 8th, precisely when his mother had tried to reach him. A veil had descended over his brain, creating this transient partial amnesia that would later allow his lawyer to argue temporary insanity. “Is my skull the one of an assassin?” he wondered, and this concern enabled him to turn away from his overwhelming memory.

* * *


hal o’learywest virginia, usa


west virginia, usa

From Whence We have a universe… from whence and where?Must we conclude beginning without end,Defying reason, turning to a prayer?We’re left a puzzle we cannot transcend. Must we conclude beginning without end?It’s not a thought that we can tolerate.We’re left a puzzle we cannot transcend.But yet the need to know will not abate. It’s not a thought that we can tolerate.The tendency is, just to let it lie.But yet the need to know will not abate.Our better nature will insist we try. The tendency is just to let it lie.The quest for answer will not go away.Our better nature will insist we try.That’s what we’re left with much to our dismay. The quest for answer will not go away,Defying reason, turning to a prayer.That’s what we’re left with, much to our dismay,We have a universe. From whence and where?


west virginia, usa

There’s Something Else With both an open mouth and open mind,There being naught of which I could conceive, I came into this crazy place to find,The answer to life’s riddle is BELIEVE There being naught of which I could conceive,The only choice was just accepting this.The answer to life’s riddle is BELIEVECould there not be a choice we should not miss? The only choice was just accepting this?Dismiss the word BELIEVE. It is untrue.Could there not be a choice we should not miss?There is a choice, there’s reason. Think anew. Dismiss the word BELIEVE. It is untrue,A fault an honest man cannot ignore.There is a choice, there’s reason. Think anew.Belief’s a superstition .to abhor, A fault an honest man cannot ignore.I came into this crazy place to findBelief’s a superstition to abhor,With both an open mouth and open mind.


west virginia, usa

The Struggle Let’s halt man’s inhumanity to man.Our history will make it understood,Though we’ve had evils since it all began,They stand in sharpest contrast to the good. Our history will make it understood,While evil deeds can never be denied,They stand in sharpest contrast to the good.The evidence that’s there, we cannot hide. While evil deeds can never be denied,We’ve empathy asleep within the heart.The evidence that’s there we cannot hide.While evil boldly amplifies it’s part. We’ve empathy asleep within the heart,The empathy lies struggling with the greedWhile evil boldly amplifies it’s part.A victory to them, we can’t concede. The empathy lies struggling with the greed. Though we’ve had evils since it all began.A victory to them, we can’t concede.Let’s halt man’s inhumanity to man.


Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIII)

A short distance below Palanka, the

Hungarian mountains in the upper Banate,

approached nearly in conjunction with those

of Servia on the opposite bank, and gradually

contracting the bed of the river, from about

two English miles in breadth to little more

than a hundred paces, converted the majestic

stream into a tempestuous torrent. The

impetuosity of the river continued to increase

in violence till we came to the famous rock

called Babakaly, rising out of the centre of the

river. Here the roaring of the waters as they

lashed its flinty sides, the ' romantic ruins

perched on the summits of the rocks, the

multitude of eagles hovering around, and the

wild character of the country, combined to

form a scene of singular beauty and grandeur

far superior to any, even the most sublime, of

the upper Danube.

During the wars between the Austrians

and Turks, this was the most formidable pass

of the river: here the latter erected the

fortified castle of Golubacs, perched on the

summit of a stupendous rock; now only

remarkable as a picturesque ruin, and for the

singularity of its architecture, with its nine

towers, some square, others round and

triangular.

Near this place we found a range of

caverns, famous for producing the poisonous

fly, too well known in Servia and Hungary

under the name of the Golubacser fly. These

singular and venomous insects, somewhat

resembling musquitoes, generally make their

appearance, during the first great heat of

summer, in such numbers as to seem like vast

volumes of smoke; their attacks are always

directed against every description of

quadruped, and so potent is the poison they

communicate, that even an ox is unable to

withstand its influence, for he always expires

in less than two hours. This results, not so

much from the virulence of the poison, as that

every vulnerable part is simultaneously

covered with these most destructive insects;

when the wretched animals, frenzied with

pain, rush wild through the fields till death

puts a period to their sufferings, or they

accelerate dissolution by plunging headlong

into the rivers.


The shepherds of these countries,

taught by experience the time of their

approach, anoint every part of their flocks and

herds, unprotected by nature, with a strong

decoction of wormwood; to which, it appears,

these flies have a great antipathy. In addition

to this, the shepherds keep immense fires

constantly blazing; around which the poor

animals, aware of their danger, tremblingly

and patiently congregate. Kind nature has,

however, mercifully ordained that their

existence shall be most ephemeral; for the

slightest variation in the weather is sufficient

to destroy the whole swarm; hence they

seldom live beyond a few days. Indeed their

very production seems to depend upon the

state of the weather: for in those summers

when the thermometer continues low, they

never make their appearance, except in

diminished numbers; whereas, when great

heat and drought prevail during the whole of

that season, they have been known to swarm

two, or even three times, although even then

their existence is always extremely brief.

Their ravages are principally confined

to the surrounding countries of Servia and the

Hungarian Banate: but Count Esterhazy

informed me, that on some occasions they (or

at least a similar species of fly) have extended

their flight as far as his estates in the

neighbourhood of Presburg, when their attacks

were fatal to numbers of his cattle. The

peasants for this, as for every other

phenomenon, have resorted to a miracle for

explanation; and tell us that in these caverns

the renowned champion, St. George, killed the

dragon, whose decomposed remains have

continued to generate these insects down to

the present day. The probable supposition

however is, that when the Danube rises, which

it always does in the early part of summer, the

caverns are flooded, and the water remaining

in them becomes putrid, and produces, during

the heat of summer, this most noxious fly. The

inhabitants of the country, many years since,

closed up the mouths of* the caverns with

stone walls, for the purpose of preventing their

egress; but the expedient availed nothing, and

the rushing of the waters against the sides of

the rocks, in process of time, destroyed the

useless defence: so that it must be evident,

either that the insects are not generated here,

or that the caverns have subterraneous

communications with some other outlets at

present unknown.

(to be continued)

nazar 2013 07 online

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