Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 14 The Island

by Stanislav Dema
01/22/26
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Mood: Mustafa Avsaroglu - Let the World fly

In the Black Sea, Snake Island is a rare geographical phenomenon: neither a sandy spit nor a cape, but a true island—stony, stubborn, with a firm character. A slab of light-yellow limestone rising from the depths of the sea. Its dimensions are mere: about half a kilometer in width and slightly more in length, but the austere beauty of Zmeiny has made the seafarer's heart beat faster since ancient times. There is no forest here, no river—only grass, stone, the sea, and the salty wind.

Travelers called the island by various names: Leuke, Fidonisi, Achilleion—and each time they imbued the name with something of their own: now "white stone," now the memory of a hero, now the rustle of snake trails in the dry grass.

Antiquity left traces on the island that neither rains, nor winds, nor centuries have erased: fragments of marble, pieces of columns, the rectangle of a foundation. They say a temple stood here, where seafarers brought gifts to Achilles—so that the voyage would be successful and the wind favorable.

At night, when the moon pours ghostly light onto the marble cornice, the stone seems to glow from within, and it feels as if in just a moment you will hear the footsteps of the ancient hero or the creak of the Argonauts' oars.

In our days, Zmeiny is an outpost of civilization in the midst of water. On the highest point stands the lighthouse: a white tower with a glassed-in lantern room. Nearby, on a small plateau, stands the keeper's house—handsome, made of stone, with blue shutters and a veranda that smells of grapes, coffee, and oil paints.

In the northeastern part of the island lies a small military unit: a neat barracks, a radio station, a warehouse, a steam turbine power plant in a semicircular hangar, a landing pad for ornithopters, and an observation tower with a rangefinder and an acoustic station for tracking air traffic.

On the southern edge of the land, a small harbor has been equipped, protected by two concrete moles. A patrol boat is based in the harbor, and there is a pier with a crane for unloading shalandas.

There are no roads on the island as such. Various facilities are connected by narrow paths of local stone, scorched by the sun. One leads to the Coast Guard outpost, another to the lighthouse, a third descends to the pier, where waves endlessly hone the stone blocks. Somewhere in the center of the island, among the ancient ruins, they intersect, marking the very heart of this amazing place.

The shalanda "Poseidon" entered Zmeiny's harbor already at night.

The sea breathed calmly, as if tired after a long day, and the silence was broken only by the sound of the steam engine releasing a small cloud of white steam into the cool air.

In the distance, the lighthouse flickered—a powerful, confident beam cut through the night haze. Coast Guard searchlights illuminated the water area.

Kostya confidently guided the shalanda to the pier. Petro threw the mooring lines, David shut down the engine—and silence fell, so deep that one could hear the waves whispering against the hull.

Due to the delay caused by the incident with the submarine, we arrived late, and Kostya made a decision: loading and unloading operations would be postponed until morning.

— The summer night is short, — he said, yawning. — And in the morning, we'll get everything done quickly.

The commander of the Coast Guard detachment allowed the "Poseidon" crew to stay overnight. Three free bunks were found for the sailors in the barracks—a clean, Spartan-modest room.

Kostya, Petro, and David took their things and, thanking the duty officer, went to sleep.

At the gangway, a tall, gray-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard and a firm gaze was waiting for me. This was Vasilis Khazaridi—the lighthouse keeper. We exchanged a firm handshake. Vasilis introduced himself and, without wasting words, invited me to his home.

We walked along a narrow stone path that wound between bushes and rocks. Khazaridi's house stood not far from the tower. As we approached, I saw the figure of a woman in the lantern light—it was Ester, waiting for us. Vasilis introduced his wife to me, and we entered the house.

— We have a guest room, — said Vasilis. — Modest, but you will sleep as if at home.

Ester showed me the room where I left my backpack, and we returned to the veranda. She served dinner—simple but delicious food: an omelet with tomatoes, bread, goat cheese, and a cup of fragrant herbal tea.

After dinner, I thanked the hosts and went to rest. The room was cozy: a wooden bed with clean sheets, a bookshelf, a small window from which the lighthouse was visible.

The lantern beam, slowly rotating, glided across the walls once every half minute—like a disembodied sentry guarding the night.

I lay down, and my body seemed to immediately fall into the soft void of sleep.

The night was warm, quiet, and the sound of the surf lulled me like a lullaby.

I had a dream.

Not through my own eyes—but as if through the eyes of a bird soaring low above the ground.

A warm sunny day. The seashore.

A man and a woman are walking along the sand—young, happy. The husband holds a wicker picnic basket in his hands; the woman, in a light summer dress, carries a lace parasol, shielding herself from the sun.

They laugh, say something to each other, and the whole world around seems created just for them.

Ahead along the beach runs a little girl—tiny, in a white and blue lace dress. Her hair shines in the sun like gold. She suddenly stops and begins to collect seashells. The man approaches, crouches beside her, takes her hand, and shows her which ones are the most beautiful.

The woman stands slightly apart, looking at the sea, and a light wind stirs the hem of her dress.

On her face is serenity, happiness, and that quiet confidence possessed by those who know: everything is good, everything is right.

The man picks up a flat stone from the sand, swings—and the stone skips across the surface of the water, touching it several times. The girl claps her hands in delight, the woman laughs. Then they sit on a blanket, open the basket, and have a picnic, enjoying the sun, the surf, and the cry of seagulls.

As memory painted this picture, my heart clenched with pain and nostalgia.

It was an idyll—fragile as the breath of life itself.

But it did not last long.

Gloomy clouds flew in, and in an instant, everything changed.

Before me opened the sky over Marseille.

In the roadstead stood German floating fortresses—terrifying, fire-spewing steel monsters. Their guns roared, spitting death. With every shot, houses collapsed, streets turned to dust, the earth shuddered from explosions.

In a bright flash of fire, I suddenly saw two light figures—they rose into the sky like two white birds: one slightly larger, the other smaller.

They flew higher and higher until they dissolved into the endless blue.

My heart shrank with inexpressible grief.

I woke up in tears, with a lump in my throat. Sobs shook me so hard that for a long time I could not recover.

I lay with open eyes, looking at the slowly blinking light of the lighthouse, and prayed—for my wounded soul, for those I loved, and for forgiveness.

I cried until the tears ran dry and a quiet, healing sleep came.

This time—without dreams.

By old habit, I woke up shortly before dawn.

I always liked watching the sky gradually lighten in the east, the last stars fading in a pink-blue gradient, and the night, like a tired watchman, handing over its post to the new day. There is something primordial in this moment, pure as the breath of the cosmos. Every sunrise is a small miracle, a confirmation that life continues.

I went outside. The air was crystal clear, cool, filled with the scent of the sea, dew-damp earth, and wild herbs. Everything around was still slumbering: the harbor was silent, no sound came from the barracks where the "Poseidon" crew slept—only the rare cry of a seagull cut the silence.

I was drawn to the sea.

I quickly dressed, went down the path to the shore, and stopped at the water's edge. Dead calm. The surface of the sea was smooth as glass, reflecting the sky, which was already beginning to turn gold with the first rays of the sun. The water was transparent: I saw the rocky bottom beneath me and, as if through a haze, the dark shadows of algae.

Without hesitating, I took off my shirt and shorts, took a run-up, and jumped into the water.

It burned with coolness, but a second later it felt light and free. I swam, feeling my body wake up with every stroke. Below me, silver fish flashed, scattering from my movements. I dove, glided underwater—as far as my breath would hold—and, surfacing, took a deep breath. The sea air filled my chest, and with it went the fatigue of yesterday, the anxieties, and the heaviness of the last weeks.

I swam a little more, then returned, climbed out onto the rocks, and sat down.

My body quickly warmed up under the sun's rays, my skin smelled of salt, and the light breeze dried the drops on my shoulders. Before me stretched the sea—serene, boundless, as if infinity itself was looking at me from its surface.

I smiled.

At that moment, it seemed that I was a boy again, that life was just beginning, and everything lay ahead.

The sea seemed to be studying me.

Not with eyes—but with waves. Not with ears—but with wind.

I felt it taking away all my anxieties, doubts, and pain—like an old friend to whom nothing needs to be explained. It understood without words.

I dipped my hand into the cool, living water—and it seemed to me that the sea wanted to tell me something.

Somewhere overhead, a seagull cried out—drawn-out, almost human.

It was not just a sound—it was an answer to my unspoken questions.

As if the sea itself spoke to me with the voice of its messenger:

"Come now, friend... do not be afraid. Everything will work out. I am near. You can rely on me."

I smiled.

Yes, I was truly afraid—of that unknown evil will I was to meet face to face.

The sea knew everything about me—my fears, my weaknesses, my fatigue.

And yet it accepted me as I am, demanding nothing in return.

It was like a friend who embraces you with the wind and does not let go until you understand that you truly can do it.

I sat for a long time until the sun became quite bright.

And the seagull kept circling over the bay, as if watching to make sure I really believed its words.

Looking at the blue expanse, I thought: after all, this is not just water.

Not a soulless mass, not a random mixture of winds and waves, but something living—an organism, breathing, feeling, knowing more than we are capable of understanding.

God, when He created the sky and the sea, surely put the very idea of harmony into them—so that man, looking at them, would remember how the world is arranged: simply, wisely, and beautifully.

The sea lived—I felt it with every cell.

It knew how to listen and answer: now with the thunder of storms, now with the soft rustle of the surf, and today—with the quiet, gentle sigh of the breeze.

I believed: God did not just create this world—He left voices in it: wind, rain, surf, and birds—so that they would comfort us when human words are no longer enough.

I was still sitting on the rock and did not want to rush anywhere.

I closed my eyes and simply listened to the silence. It seemed the waves brought not only peace but also strength—that primordial energy from which the world was created.

I felt it pouring into me—slowly, calmly, like water into a vessel.

With every minute it became easier to breathe, thoughts fell into order, my heart beat more evenly.

As if something inside was coming together—my soul was regaining integrity.

Dark spots of anxiety and fatigue dissolved in the morning light, went away, washed by the salt water.

I sat like that, not knowing how much time had passed, until I heard the sounds of the awakening island.

In the distance, a turbine hummed, the blocks of the port crane creaked, crates and barrels rumbled dully.

The voices of my comrades were heard—jokes, laughter, short commands. Life resumed its usual rhythm.

I opened my eyes, inhaled the fresh air, and smiled.

It was time to go meet the masters of the lighthouse.