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Quietly the young man left to fetch the drinks."I count them now as I did as a boy. I see all that happens on the Bosphorous,every day . . ." His eyes caught the glow of the fire and he watchedthe flames as they leaped higher against the glass. The water rattled on the^oof. „"You were bound to come today of course—one would need shelter. Theyoung man set the drinks down carefully."I went for a walk. I should have brought a hat." The old man sipped atthe scalding coffee. He sighed gently. "It would have been much too hot athome though.""Too hot! In winter?" The young man laughed."Winter?" Alexis was perplexed. "But there is no snow, the days are warm.It cannot be winter! I would know.""It must have crept up on you, old man." The boy—he was a gracefulboy—knelt to tvidst at the knobs on the fire. His voice seemed disconnected."The dark comes quickly now, haven't you seen?"Alexis said dully. "The darkness? Yes, I suppose so. My eyes are not," hehesitated, "not quite what they used to be." He reached for the binocularcase, fondHng it with cold horny hands.The young man went away and Alexis sipped at his drinks. The fire wasvery much higher but he could not feel its heat. He laughed softly to himself,remembering the young man's words.'It must have crept up on you . . .'He left a note upon the table, next to the empty glasses. Standing in theopen door with one foot just outside, he called out: "I could walk cleanround to the Black Sea when I was young—clean round to Kilyos!"The cold wind whispered through the open doorway, playing round theempty room and tugging at his clothes. There was no reply from the kitchenfor the young man had not heard.The water was raging green again when he set out and his stride was alittle longer, but he tired quickly and he left his glasses-case at Yenikoy andrested quite a while at Tarabya. A little longer than he had meant, for whenhe stumbled on to Bulyuk Dere his back was frozen straight and his chestwas iced and tight.After Byuk Liman—on the last of the stretch to Kilyos, he rested again onthe path, and his head curled down like part of the stone on which he sat.The water was at its widest here, sparkling green near the shore. The spraythat leaped above his head was fine and white, settling lightly on his silverhair.Out from the land, quite far out, a small wave jumped soundlessly, anddid not fall back. And it jumped again and grew.20 WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967