Enchanted Forests (33 page)

were hers now as well. Glaring at the nearest player, a sweaty

German man puffing on a brass hom, she clutched her reticule

with its precious coins. The pittance she earned at the florist's

wasn't enough to support her. But her "aunt," Mrs. Zanos, still

regarded Daphne with a trace of old reverence and paid for her

lodgings at Kontos' Boarding House.

Eleni Zanos had been a young bride when Daphne came to the

village near Olympus, driven from her grove by a prophecy of

wars soon to come and a promise of a new grove in a new land.

When Eleni's family left for the New World, Daphne had fol-

lowed, searching for her promised grove. Now only Eleni knew

what Daphne was, and she was beginning to forget. If she forgot

entirely ...

**... much nicer, isn't it, Miss Dendrophilos?" For once, Mrs.

Pappadeas waited for an answer and Daphne realized she hadn't

been listening. So did Mrs. Pappadeas; after a moment she re-

peated herself. "I said, this is much nicer man the tenements,

isn't it? Manhattan may be an island, but it's not like home." She

looked wistful. The Pappadeases had been in the United States

for over a decade, but a tiny island in the Aegean was still home.

Her broad face tightened as she added, "I shouldn't complain.

It's not Greece, but we don't starve, and we don't have the

Turks." She made as if to spit, but refrained.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Pappadeas. It's very pleasant." As the

flood of words resumed. Daphne privately thought the excursion

boat not much better than steerage. It was as overcrowded, and

to her nose almost as smelly. And if anything, it was noisier: the

German band was still creating a racket that made her head ache,

and there were screaming children and scolding parents and rude

remarks in the half-comprehended English tongue and....

People. There were too many people. Mrs. Pappadeas was still

speaking, her voice lost in the din. Daphne nodded without

meaning. Mrs. Pappadeas was another one like me landlady, her

voice loud after years spent among red bricks and mortar. It

clacked endlessly, like me rattle of wheels and the clanging bell

of the horse-trolley and the shouts of the teamsters that kept

Daphne from sleep during the noisy nights.

Nikkolas stood beside his mother, smiling past her at Daphne.

When he caught her eye, the smile widened. She shivered and

turned back toward the sea, focusing on the open water at the ho-

rizon and trying to ignore the crowded bay. Despite the smells of

a busy harbor, there was the fresh smell of salt, of Poseidon's

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realm. She whispered its name, "Tkalassa." The sea. It eased the

home-hunger a little.

Demigods had become mortal, mortals had been transformed,

gods had died or vanished over the long years. Always Daphne

had remained atone in her grove, speaking to the laurel. Even

leaving her grove for the village of Florterini had not changed

her, other than teaching her a more modem tongue. Her

transformation had begun in the marble building she had mis-

taken for a temple, there on Ellis Island. Uniformed officials had

filled in forms naming her Daphne Dendrophilos, niece of Eleni

Zanos. At the time, she had thought little of taking a name in the

fashion of this land. It had amused her to choose the name

Dendrophilos, lover of trees. The officials had accepted it as a

human name, and written it on their forms.

She realized now that had been the first step toward mortality,

the question after question asked by the officials with their

forms. Words had always held power, but only in this land did

men weave words onto pieces of paper to capture souls. Once

the final words were spoken by the papa, the priest at the Ortho-

dox Church, binding her to a mortal man, the transformation

would be complete.

As the boat docked at West Brighton, Daphne gazed on the

swarms with dismay. Despite eight months in New York City

and the crowds on the excursion steamer, she had expected Co-

ney Island to be an island such as she had known in Greece, with

hills and perhaps a few trees, rocks and places where she could

slip away and free herself, if only for a while. But this! A short

distance from the water's edge, beer bars and oyster bars were

Jammed in between sideshows, while farther back hotels

sprawled their way down the sandspit island. Instead of rocky

shores, there was sand, almost hidden by (he endless crowds of

people. Hundreds splashed in the waves, shrieking with laughter,

wearing costumes Daphne thought even more hideous than those

she was forced to wear daily.

She let herself be urged down the gangway to the iron pier by

a still-talking Mrs. Pappadeas. The younger children clung to

their mother's wide skirts and chattered with excitement.

Nikkolas followed silently, his eyes never shirting from Daphne.

She could feel them on her back, as hot as the sun overhead. Be-

hind them alt, Mr. Pappadeas carried the basket with their lunch.

Once they reached me beach, they trudged along until they found

WOOD SONG            219

a likely spot Mr. Pappadeas set down me basket and looked

around with a satisfied air.

"It's good, getting out of the city," he said, making one of his

rare comments. He spoke in heavily accented English rather than

Greek, and for a moment Daphne struggled to understand the

words. She wasn't sure she had: they hadn't escaped the city,

they'd carried it with them.

Mrs. Pappadeas, shooing the youngest children away from the

water, replied in a more familiar tongue. "A pity we can't live

here, Stavros. You could fish again."

He scowled. "And how would I get a boat, hah? I don't fish

another man's boat. No, the fish-stall makes good money and

flat's what I am now. A fishmonger."

A fisherman, a man of the sea, son of generations of the sea.

Selling fish caught by another. Nothing was as it had been-

Daphne spent her days in a cramped shop, surrounded by flowers

that were as far from their home as Stavros1 fish were from

theirs. Almost as far as she was from her own.

The day wore on, as tiring as a day in the shop. Nikki contin-

ued to follow her with his eyes- He tried to catch her alone, but

Daphne was too old a hand at that game. She ignored him, as she

had always ignored hungry-eyed young men. But she was afraid

a match would soon be arranged. Eleni was her only "relative,"

responsible for Daphne in the eyes of-the world. The longer they

stayed in this country, the less Eleni remembered the village.

Once she forgot the truth, marriage would be inevitable, and

Daphne would never again dance with me trees.

The family sampled the pleasures of the island, spending their

dimes on cheap trinkets and the sideshows. They bought oysters

and Saratoga crullers, and me younger children played at the wa-

ter's edge with me wooden buckets that every child on the beach

carried. Daphne stared out over the waves breaking on the shore.

She wanted to change herself into one of Zeus' eagles and fly to-

ward the horizon, fly till wings gave out. But that power had

never been hers.

"Would you care to bathe, Miss Dendrophilos?" Nikki's voice

broke her thoughts. It was polite enough, pitched low so his

mother wouldn't hear. "You can rent a bathing costume for only

a quarter. I'd be happy to go in and keep you safe." He moved

closer and smiled at her possessively. As though she already

were his mortal wife.

Careful as he'd been to speak softly, his mother overheard.

"Nikkolas! She's a good girl, not one of those shameless crea-

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tures." She nodded sharply out toward the rope, where several

young ladies in bathing costume clung, squealing as the waves

broke over them. "No lady would dress that indecently. Leave

her alone."

With a muttered apology, Nikki drew back, his face sullen.

Daphne was grateful for his mother's intervention. The water

was tempting, but she refused to don one of those bathing cos-

tumes. She didn't find them immodest, but they were ugly. The

heavy black wool clung to the limbs, hampering them as much

as the voluminous skirts of the dresses she wore at the shop.

Modem clothing was as graceless as the shape of their buildings.

Daphne turned her back on the ocean. There was no answer

there.

As the time drew near for the return trip, Daphne again felt the

pull of the sea. If she could throw herself over the rail—but that

would be cruel repayment to the Pappadeases, and useless be-

sides. She was no child of Nereus. They would steam upriver

and return to the swarming tenements, and soon she would forget

the hills of Thessaly and accept the arranged marriage.

As though to confirm her fears, Nikki once more tried to draw

her apart from the others. "Before we leave, would you like to

ride the roller coaster?" The final words were in English, and

she had no idea what they meant.

Before she could ask, Mrs. Pappadeas shrieked. "Nikki! That

devil's road? Here we give our guest a day to enjoy and you

want to scare her half out of her wits." But she was beaming as

she spoke; she obviously approved the idea.

"What is this roller coaster?" Daphne asked. The Church's

devils held no terror for her, but this new world was full of other

fears.

"A new thing, they just built it last year," Mrs. Pappadeas

said. "There are cars on little wheels and you roll over hills

made of wood. They used to call it the sliding hill."

"Please—I would be honored," Nikki said, his dark eyes hot

on her.

Daphne didn't want to go anyplace with Nikki, but the phrase

"hills made of wood" intrigued her. "Perhaps if you would like

to, Mrs. Pappadeas," she began.

Nikki's mother shook her head violently. "No! It's for you

young people. But maybe the children ..."

They walked down the beach toward the new attraction, suit-

ably chaperoned by Nikki's younger brothers and sister. As they

drew close enough for her to see the hills in question. Daphne re-

WOOD SONG             221

gretted her impulsive yes. The structure was just a flimsy lattice-

work of wooden beams and cross-braces, like a railway bridge

grown wild. Closer, it looked even more like one, for there were

twin rails to carry the cars. It wasn't as shaky as it appeared at

a distance; the beams were solid wood and the rails were sup-

ported al every point. As Mrs. Pappadeas had said, the top of this

bridge to nowhere was sculpted into dips and crests. It was an

impressive piece of American engineering, but it wasn't a hill of

wood. Daphne had grown tired of American engineering.

There was a line of people waiting to ride the amusement.

Nikki spoke firmly to the children. "You will ride in a different

car. I will ride beside Miss Daphne." He took her arm as calmly

as he had assumed the right to use her name.

For once, she hardly noticed his arrogance. The understruc-

ture, as regular as Arachne's weaving, drew her. Uprights stood

like sturdy trunks, regular and strong. Beams crossed the way the

branches of trees that danced in her grove had done. Daphne

moved closer to the supports. It was cut wood, dead and sepa-

rated from the living trees, yet it called to her as no living tree

had called her yet in this land. She stretched her hand out and

touched the wood with reverence. Under her fingers, it felt alive,

warm from more than the heat of the sun. This was the promise

of the laurel.

The touch of Nikki's hand shocked her back to awareness of

her surroundings. His arm had slid around her waist while she

stared in fascination at the web of wood, and he now took advan-

tage of the children's shrieking excitement and the holiday atmo-

sphere to pull her closer. "My father has said he will speak to

your aunt next week," he murmured, his mouth almost brushing

her hair. He said no more, and there was no need. She knew

what he meant: arrangements for their marriage. Her reluctance

was ignored, as no more than the proper modesty of a decent

girl.

One of the children tugged at Nikki's sleeve, demanding his

attention to settle a squabble, and Daphne carefully pulled away

from him. Her fingers stroked the wood once more, savoring its

warmth. The tree-longing was stronger lhan it had been since she

had left her grove, but it could do no good here. Dead, dry lum-

ber. If it were a tree—but she knew better. Goat-footed Pan had

never held his revels in this strange land, and the trees locked her

out of their heartwood. Still, this wood spoke as her own grove

had, calling her name.

They reached the head of the line. While Nikki fished in his

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pocket for enough nickels to pay for them all. Daphne whispered

a prayer in the old tongue to the gods that were gone. If they

proved as dead as this wood, she would accept her new world