Songs_of_the_Satyrs (34 page)

“Yes?”

Kantzaros stretched himself up to put his mouth to the vicar’s ear. Nell didn’t quite make out what was said but the tone of it was clear as was the sudden reddening of the vicar’s face. The young man backed away as though slapped, swinging his vestments and looking around wildly in embarrassment to see if any of his congregation had heard.

“See you next year,” said Kantzaros, patting him on the shoulder and running off laughing.

Left with the poor vicar, mortified and apoplectic, his mouth working silently like a fish’s, Nell decided the best thing to do was leave, so she ran too and, somehow, running made it funny and then she began to laugh.

Eventually she caught up with Kantzaros on the corner. The satyr was bent over, catching his breath.

“Hoo!”

“Was that it?” said Nell.

“Hmmm?”

“You wanted to find a priest so you could whisper vulgar comments in his ear?”

Kantzaros nodded happily. “It’s expected. We spend eleven months of the year underground, sawing away at the roots of the world tree . . .”

“There’s a world tree?”

“Of course. Do you doubt your brother’s word?”

She stopped. “Brother?”

He pulled a face. “Uncle. King. Brother. What does it matter? It’s all good.”

She made a skeptical noise and started walking. “So you saw through the roots of the world tree. Why?”

“To bring about the end of the world, of course,” said Kantzaros, falling in beside her. “An end to care and worry.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

He shrugged. “It’s expected. Anyway, that’s for eleven months of the year, but at Christmas, just when the tree’s cut all the way through, we’re allowed up into the world above.”

“So I’ve got you all Christmas?”

“I know! Wonderful, isn’t it? All the way through to Epiphany. Twelve days, like the song. Of course, I know a better version of that. Who wants two turtledoves, when you can have two plums, two melons?”

“Ah, crudity,” she said.

“All the best things come in pairs. Well, apart from one thing,” he said lewdly and would clearly have made another crotch-waggling gesture if his hands hadn’t been full of presents. “Can’t count any higher than two, anyway. There are some numbers I can’t bear to speak.”

“What? Like three?”

He recoiled and spat. “Horrible holy number.”

She nodded. “Wondered why you didn’t go up for a sip of communion wine in the church.”

“Waste of good grapes,” he said sourly and then suddenly brightened. “Which reminds me . . .”

“What?”

He raised one of the presents.

“It’s Christmas day.”

***

At her flat, in the dim light thrown off by the Christmas tree’s fairy lights, she sat and opened the green parcel with red ribbon. Inside, nestling on a thick cushion of tissue paper, was a long-necked bottle of dark green glass with a waxy cork stopper. Nell lifted it out. It looked very old.

“Wine?” she said.

“An offensive suggestion. It’s nectar.”

“What? Like the stuff bees drink?”

“Hardly.”

He suddenly had glasses in his hand and equally suddenly the bottle was open. As the rosy-red liquid was poured, Nell caught the honeyed scent of the drink.

“This,” said Kantzaros with quiet seriousness, “that Thetis used to anoint Achilles, that Calypso offered to Odysseus. Nectar.”

He offered her a glass, clinked his gently against hers and they drank. It was a powerful and heady drink, as strong as any spirit but dressed up in the warm, rich flavors of every sweet thing she had ever loved.

“Wow,” she said.

“Hmmm,” said Kantzaros. “Better than ‘that’s nice’ I suppose.”

The glass was empty and she put it down clumsily, noting that the brew had already reached her limbs.

“And this one?” she said, indicating the other parcel.

“That one’s for January the fourth.”

“You’re staying until my birthday?”

“Of course. But what’s this?” He leant across the sofa, plucked Robert’s badly wrapped present from under the tree.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s going to be embarrassingly rubbish.”

“Fantastic! I can’t wait.”

As she reluctantly opened the parcel, Kantzaros nibbled on a strip of wrapping paper.

Nell pulled back the leaves of the box to reveal a selection of steel kitchenware: spatula, whisk, potato peeler, and cheese grater all sat in the bowl of a colander.

“I always moaned about not having enough utensils,” she said.

Kantzaros nodded. “That’s . . . um . . . hmmm. Who is this gift from?”

“Robert.”

“And who’s Robert?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” she said, smiling. She jiggled her glass at him and he obligingly topped it off with nectar. As she drank, she luxuriated in the physical warmth it transferred to her.

“Drink of the gods, eh?”

“You betcha,” said Kantzaros. “Tantalus was condemned to eternal torment for daring to steal it.”

“And you?”

“Huh?” He looked at her and his roguish grin wrinkled oddly. “Damned and blessed in equal measure. I am the night on the town and the morning after.”

She reached forward and ruffled his hair. Her fingers lingered on his stubby horns. “You are the very devil, Kantzaros.”

“There is a certain superficial similarity.”

He put his hand to the crown of her head, felt the smooth, hornless curve of her skull, and then brought his hand down to cup her cheek.

“So where’s my Christmas present?” he said.

She stood up and bent to put a kiss on his forehead. He smelt of darkness.

“That,” she said. “And a sofa to sleep on and a blanket to keep you warm.”

“A fine exchange,” he replied.

***

On Christmas morning, while Nell prepared dinner, Kantzaros crouched by the fire and stared at the colander that Robert had bought her.

He was so intent on the thing that he failed to notice her set the table or even bring the dinner in.

“Kantzaros,” she said.

He looked up. “Oh. Sorry. They used to leave them out for us in the old country.”

“Colanders?”

“Sieves, I suppose. In hope that we would be fascinated by them and be distracted from our mischief-making until dawn.”

“It’s just a colander.”

“But all the little holes!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you feel the need to count them all? Huh?”

“Right,” she said. “And given that you can’t count above two means . . .”

“Well, quite,” he added.

“Fauns are OCD,” she mused.

There was wine with the food and when there was no more food there was still more wine.

Kantzaros made extravagant toasts, many of which Nell did not understand. He told tales of the “old country” and of the schemes and ploys of the beautiful centaurs, of his battles of wits with the hare and the wolf. He spoke of kings and heroes and, in his growing drunkenness, it was uncertain whether he was speaking of them or to them. And Nell, in her own drunkenness, imagined that she caught glimpses of those he spoke of, shades that hovered in the corners of the darkening room.

She drifted into sleep with stories wrapped around her, her head lay on a cushion of soft green leaves and moss, and in her dreams, she was lifted up by the cavalcade of characters in her uncle’s stories and taken with them on their endless journey.

***

On Boxing Day, Kantzaros lay on the sofa with his scarf over his eyes and groaned in pain and repentance for his night of drinking.

“You drank more the other night,” said Nell. “Why the hangover today?”

“Because,” he said through gritted teeth, “today is a day for hangovers. The world has gorged itself and now is the day to sweep away the leavings and put the boxes out for the tradesmen, to pay the piper and acknowledge the fragility of everything.”

“If you say so. Can I get you anything?”

“The crushed bark of the willow tree.”

“You mean aspirin.”

“It sounds better the way I say it,” he muttered.

***

On Saturday, along with the food and alcohol, Kantzaros produced from nowhere a set of bagpipes, a peculiar furry octopus with dusty clay legs. The music he played was simple at first, a mere nursery rhyme, but then, as his fingers leapt from pipe to pipe to pipe with spidery dexterity, the tune branched out into numerous distinct melodies that wove around one another, sometimes fighting for dominance, sometimes spiralling up to some heartrending height as one.

When—and Nell couldn’t say whether Kantzaros had played for a minute or a day—when he stopped playing, he gave her an expectant look.

“A better piper than a caroller?” he asked.

“That was astounding.”

“Ha!” he barked. “You would call the finest wines of Arcadia merely nice but are astounded by a man with an inflated goatskin.”

“A relative of yours?” said Nell wryly.

“Yes,” said Kantzaros. “But I didn’t like him very much.” And then he grinned with a mouth full of peg-like teeth and she didn’t know what to believe.

***

Snow blew in from the east and the world became a colder and grayer place. And by contrast the fairy-lit glow of her little flat was made warmer and more colorful until she was spending her days in a whirlwind haze of Arcadian wine and the songs and stories of her uncle.

And then it was suddenly New Year’s Eve and she surprised herself by dancing along to Kantzaros’s pipes, and at midnight he raised his glass, yelled, “Janus, you’ll never see me coming, you two-faced bastard!” and bounded across the furniture, leaping from chair to table to chair before pulling down a shelf and falling to the earth with a bump, surrounded by books Nell could not remember owning.

***

On New Year’s Day, they walked in the park and threw bread to the ducks on the ice-covered pond. Every crumb of bread Kantzaros threw seemed to transform midflight into a stone, and he hooted with glee each time one of his stones struck an unwary and sometimes terminally surprised duck.

Nell put her arm through his and gently steered him away from the pond and toward the Victorian glasshouse at the centre of the park.

She tugged at the edge of his scarf. “Is it deliberate?”

“What?” said Kantzaros.

“The scarf. The brolly. You look like wotsisname out of those children’s books by thingy.”

“Ever loquacious, dear niece.”

“You know,
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
.”

He spat on the ground. “That foul piece of Christianization. Yes. You refer to Mr Tumescent the Faun. Cast into the role of petty Judas, you’d note.”

“I don’t think that was his name.”

“Who’s the expert here?”

She frowned at him.

“So what’s it like underground?” she said.

“Dark,” he replied.

“I mean, do you really live underground, sawing through the world tree and that?”

“It is what I said.”

“I mean . . . I didn’t know if it was a metaphor or something.”

“Have you ever tried living in a metaphor?”

“Where will you go when you leave me? Where will you actually go?”

“Mmmm. Do you think I am a dream? A fantasy? A mental delusion?”

She nodded and then said, “I mean, if this is a mental breakdown I’m having then I would heartily recommend it to others.”

“Thank you.” He squeezed her arm affectionately. “There
are
dark places in this world. Gray, windowless caverns. And the world tree has many roots to be sawn through. What separates me and mine from the great galumphing human race is we know what we’re doing and we’re wise enough to give it a rest from time to time.”

***

The following day, she left for work before he woke.

After the last few days, the Blame ‘n’ Claim call center seemed ethereal and otherworldly. Despite the holiday season there were plenty of calls to field, but she couldn’t keep her mind on the job. She stumbled over her script and lost the thread of things more than once.

She went to the coffee machine for a caffeine boost and a chance to collect herself. Nell found a group of office underlings around the coffee machine, sharing a joke. Robert was among them.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hi there,” said Robert. “How was your Christmas?”

“Oh. I had a mad uncle drop by for a couple of days.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have an uncle.”

“I didn’t know you paid attention to things I said.”

He paused lengthily and Nell realized that she knew less about Robert than she thought.

“Thank you for the present,” she said. “Very . . .”

“Practical.”

She smiled. “Nice,” she said. “It was very nice.”

“I think ‘nice’ is even worse than ‘practical.’ ”

“My uncle liked the colander.”

“Good for him. Frankly, I might as well have sent you a big sign saying ‘cook for me.’ Next time, I’ll cook.”

“You don’t cook.”

“I will, next time,” he said.

“Next time?”

He coughed awkwardly. “And New Year?”

She shrugged. “Took the mad uncle to the park so he could throw stones at the ducks. You?”

“The best,” he said and that caused a wave of laughter from the underlings around them.

“What?” said Nell.

“Oh, nothing.” He grinned. “We had a very good New Year.”

There was further laughter from the others. It was dirty and secretive and hurt her, not because it was directed at her, but because it suggested that Robert, who she had never thought as special enough to belong anywhere, did not belong exclusively to her. She was surprised to find herself feeling and thinking such things.

Something must have shown on her face because he touched her arm tentatively.

“You could have been there,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied hollowly.

“But you could have,” he said. “All you had to do was turn up.”

She nodded silently as she backed away.

***

Before her front door had even closed behind her, she angrily ripped the skirt from her waist and flung it across the room where it swept the tacky little Christmas tree from its stand and fell down behind the television.