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Spyridonâ€™s Shoes

Spyridon’s Shoes Text copyright © 2019 Christine Rogers Cover and interior illustrations by Vladimir Ilievski All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Published by: Ancient Faith Publishing A division of Ancient Faith Ministries PO Box 748 Chesterton IN 46304 ISBN: 978-1-944967-46-8 store.ancientfaith.com

printed in the united states of americ a

Spyridonâ€™s Shoes Christine Rogers

an c ien t f aith pu blishing Chesterton, Indiana

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For my sistersâ€”CR

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ch a p t er 1 E a rly in t he mor ning when he woke, all Spyros could see was gray. The sun had not yet risen, and other than the last gleams of moonlight, there was little light to illuminate his path to the beach. Spyros carefully navigated the rocky trail, descending the bluff from his home to the small cove nearby. As the moon sank and the sun rose, the growing light illuminated the color all around him. Tall wild poppies brushed against his legs as he walked, lifting their blossoms toward the warmth of the morning sky, which burst with pink, orange, and red. The sand

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spyridon’s shoes

of the beach was golden against the sunlit water, but the sun climbed steadily higher, and Spyros knew it would soon blaze with heat, turning the world around him into shades of blue and white. The Greek island of Corfu, where Spyros lived, was surrounded by the bluest ocean that he could imagine. It stretched as far as he could see, meeting at the horizon with a cloudless sky. The only interruptions were the few wisps of clouds that floated past and the sand of the beach on which he stood. Spyros smiled to himself and sighed quietly in contentment. He began the difficult task of pulling in the long net Father had secured earlier that morning. Father could only stay to set the net before hurrying to open his shoemaking shop in the village. Spyros’s task was to keep watch, protecting the snared fish from birds and other animals looking

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for an easy lunch, until it was time to harvest the catch. Spyros stood in shallow water, pulling the net slowly, hand over hand, stopping frequently to untangle net fibers from around the gills of the snared fish and deposit them in the large basket at his feet. The gentle waves washed through the open weave of the slowly filling basket and splashed against his knees, keeping the fish fresh as he worked and giving quiet rhythm to his task. His work was interrupted by a large white seabream, as long as his arm, who did not want to stay in the basket. The fish flopped and slapped him in the face with its tail before Spyros wrestled it to shore and struck it on the head with a large rock. The stunned fish joined the rest of Spyros’s catch in the basket. “I’ll have you for dinner,” Spyros said to the fish as he returned

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to his net. When Spyros was done with his net, he washed it gently and looked it over closely. If fish tore holes in the fibers or a predator got tangled in them and chewed itself out, Spyros had to mend them. Today, he was pleased to see that there were no holes. Instead of a long afternoon mending, he would go octopus hunting. Spyros carefully hid his basket of fish behind a bushy yucca plant before carrying the net up the rocky path to his home. After hanging it to dry in the sun, he dashed back to retrieve the basket of fish for his mother and returned yet again to the beach. He took a deep breath as he ran and dove into the crashing waves. It took him only a few moments to swim away from the sandy beach toward the rocky outcropping where the octopuses lived.

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Swimming slowly around the rocks, Spyros peered into the nooks and crannies under the water for the telltale signs of his prey. Octopuses build semicircular dens at the base of large rocks and are strongly attracted to anything white. Spyros searched carefully before spotting an enclosure full of white rocks. Looking closer, he could see the eyes of his prey at the entrance of a tunnel just inside the den. He sprinkled a few pieces of mussel nearby and waited a brief second before seeing the reddish-orange arms emerge in search of a snack. Spyros pulled his trident from its place on his belt and waited until the head was visible. A quick stab between the eyes, and the octopus was his. He grabbed the octopus from behind to avoid being bitten by its sharp beak and slapped away the tentacles creeping up his arms as he kicked

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toward the surface. Spyros gratefully gulped in great breaths of air before using his knife to cut two quick slashes in the soft orange head so that he could pull out the innards. The octopus released its ink in a great black cloud, but Spyros swam quickly away and climbed up the rocks. He ran a piece of sturdy twine through the empty head of the octopus and secured it to an outcropping under the water to stay fresh. Spyros allowed himself a quick moment to rest and then dove back under the water, searching for another. It was a good afternoon, Spyros thought as he trudged wearily up the path to his home. The nets brought in a good catch, there were no holes to mend, and he had three octopuses to sell in the village marketplace. Before stopping for dry clothes, Spyros had to ready his octopuses for the market by beating

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them a hundred times or more against a boulder until tender. His mother heard him hard at work in the yard and came out with a cool drink. She raised her eyebrows at the long line of welts on her son’s arm, running from his elbow to his shoulder. “The big one was fast,” he said between swings. His mother shook her head and went back inside, returning with a salve she kept handy for octopus injuries. As soon as she had anointed his arm, Spyros headed to town to sell his catch. He stopped first at his friend Niko’s house, since Niko’s grandmother had promised him a good price if she got first pick. She was sitting on the front porch with a baby goat in her lap, her eyes closed in the late afternoon sunlight. At the sound of his footsteps, her eyes popped open, and she smiled widely. “Good boy,” she said approvingly, looking in

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the bucket he held out for her. “Those are very nice. Very nice indeed! I want that big fat one,” she said, giving an octopus a poke. “Take it to Niko’s mama, and she will give you some coins and a cookie.” Spyros grinned and headed inside the house to make the trade. With a crumbly koulorakia in his hand, he said goodbye to Niko’s grandmother and continued to town. On the way, he met Niko coming home from school. Niko looked in the bucket and whistled. “Did YiaYia buy one?” Spyros nodded and held up his cookie. “And gave me this!” “Oh, good, Mama baked today!” Niko said, reaching for the cookie. Spyros smacked his hand away. “Get your own!” he laughed. “There are dozens and dozens

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at your house.” Niko grinned. “I will. How was the fishing today?” “Good! I caught three. One for your YiaYia and two left for the market.” “How much more do you have to save?” Niko asked. Spyros thought. “I think I am close to having enough. Maybe twenty more, and then you watch out! Once I can pay to go to school with you, you won’t be at the top of your class anymore!” Niko laughed. “Next year then! We’ll walk together.” Spyros agreed and said goodbye to his friend. Spyros sold the last of his catch in the village and chased the sunset home, returning just before dark with an empty pail and a pocket full of coins. He washed carefully and handed the

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coins to his mother. She counted them twice and smiled gently in congratulations before placing them in the box that held the savings for Spyros’s schooling. As his mother dished up supper, Spyros sat next to his father on the long, padded bench, and they silently rested after a long day. The quiet was broken by a squawking from the cradle at his father’s feet. Father smiled and picked up the little bundle that was Spyros’s baby sister. “Oh, little Anna,” he said. Anna stopped fussing and soon fell back asleep. Spyros watched her breathe in and breathe out, and he told his father about his afternoon fishing. “That’s good, son.” His father nodded. “You are close?” “Very close,” Spyros said with satisfaction. “I think I’m close enough to be able to plan on

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school this fall.” “Good,” his father said again. He sighed. “I wish I could afford to send you myself, Spyros, but I am proud that you are able to work for it on your own.” “Don’t worry, Papa.” Spyros laid his head briefly on his father’s shoulder. After the family ate supper, Spyros sat at the table with the few books his father owned, reading quietly before his eyes began to drift closed. He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard his mother’s soft voice sending him to bed. He collapsed into nearly instant sleep, worn out from the long day, and dreamed about the ocean.

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Spyridon's Shoes