by Heide Goody
Nell lifted it out. “Wine?”
“An offensive suggestion. It’s nectar.”
“What? Like the stuff bees drink?”
“Hardly.”
Suddenly, he had two glasses in his hand; equally suddenly, the bottle was open. As the rosy-red liquid was poured, Nell caught its honeyed scent.
“This,” said Kantzaros with quiet seriousness, “is that which Thetis used to anoint Achilles; that Calypso offered to Odysseus. Nectar.”
He offered her a glass, clinked his gently against it. They drank. It was powerful and heady, as strong as any spirit but dressed up in the warm, rich flavours of every sweet thing she had ever loved.
“Wow,” said Nell.
“Hmmm,” muttered Kantzaros. “Better than ‘that’s nice,’ I suppose.”
Her glass was empty. She put it down clumsily, noting the brew had already reached her limbs. “And this one?” she asked, indicating the other parcel.
“That one’s for January the fourth.”
“You’re staying until my birthday?”
“Of course.” He leant across the sofa, plucked Robert’s badly wrapped present from under the tree. “But what’s this?”
She sighed. “It’s going to be embarrassingly rubbish.”
“Fantastic! I can’t wait.”
As she opened the parcel, Kantzaros nibbled on a strip of wrapping paper. Inside was a selection of steel kitchenware: spatula, whisk, potato peeler and cheese grater all sat in a colander.
“I always moaned about not having enough utensils,” she said.
Kantzaros pursed his lips. “That’s … nice. Who’s it from?”
“Robert.”
“And who’s Robert?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t,” she smiled. She jiggled her glass at him and he obligingly topped it up. As she drank, she luxuriated in the physical warmth the nectar 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?”
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, brushed the smooth, hornless curve of her skull and brought the 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 said.
*
On Christmas morning there was a brace of pheasants hanging in the airing cupboard and, in the kitchen, a selection of vegetables and herbs that Nell had never seen before. Kantzaros’ sorcery did not extend to cookery however: while Nell prepared Christmas dinner, he crouched by the fire and stared at the colander which Robert had bought her. He was so intent on the thing that he failed to notice her lay the table or even bring the dinner in.
“Kantzaros,” she prompted.
He looked up. “Oh. Sorry. They used to leave them out for us in the old country.”
“Colanders?”
“Sieves. In the hope that we would be fascinated by them and 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?”
“Given that you can’t count above two.”
“Well, quite,” he said.
“Fauns are OCD,” she mused. “Well I never.”
There was wine with the food and when there was no more food there was still more wine. Kantzaros made extravagant toasts, most of which Nell did not understand. He told tales of the ‘old country’: 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. Nell, in her own drunkenness, imagined she caught glimpses of those he spoke about: shades that hovered in the corners of the darkening room.
She drifted into sleep with stories wrapped around her, her head laid on a cushion of soft green leaves and moss. 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, groaning in pain and repenting his night of drinking.
“You drank more the other night,” said Nell. “Why the hangover today?”
“Because,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “today is a day for hangovers. The world has gorged itself and today we sweep away the leavings, put the boxes out for the tradesmen, 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 a set of bagpipes from nowhere: a peculiar furry octopus with dusty clay legs. The music he played was simple at first, a mere nursery rhyme; but as his fingers leapt from pipe to pipe to pipe with spidery dexterity, the tune branched out into numerous distinct melodies which wove around one another, sometimes fighting for dominance, sometimes spiralling up as one to heartrending heights.
When – and Nell couldn’t say whether Kantzaros had played for a minute or a day – he stopped playing, he gave her an expectant look. “A better piper than a caroller?” he asked.
“That was astounding.”
“Ha!” he barked. “You call the finest wines of Arcadia merely nice, yet are astounded by a man with an inflated goatskin.”
“A relative of yours?” said Nell wryly.
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” he said, stroking the bag wistfully. “Can’t say I liked 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 greyer place. By contrast the fairy-lit glow of her little flat was made warmer and more colourful until she was spending her days in a whirlwind haze of Arcadian wine, the nectar of the gods and the songs and stories of her uncle.
And then it was New Year’s Eve and she surprised herself by dancing along to Kantzaros’ pipes. 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 crashing to earth, surrounded by books Nell didn’t remember owning.
*
On New Year’s Day, they walked in the park and threw bread to the ducks on an ice-covered pond. Every crumb of bread Kantzaros threw transformed mid-flight into a stone. He hooted with glee each time one of them struck an unwary (and sometimes terminally surprised) duck. Nell put her arm through his, gently steering him away from the pond and towards 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 Christianisation! You refer to Mr Tumescent the Faun. Cast into the role of petty Judas, you note.”
“I don’t think that was his name.”
“Who’s the expert here?”
She frowned at him. “So what’s it like underground?”
“Dark,” he replied.
“I mean, do you really live underground, sawing through the World Tree and that?”
“That’s what I said.”
“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?”
“Do you think I am a dream? A fantasy? A mental delusion?”
She did wonder. “I mean, if I’m having a mental breakdown, then I would heartily recommend it to others.”
“Thank you.” He squeezed her arm affectionately. “There are dark places in this world. Grey, 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 previous few days, the Blame ‘n’ Claim call centre 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 more than once.
She went to the coffee machine for a caffeine boost and a chance to collect herself. A group of office underlings were clustered, sharing a joke. Robert 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 any uncles.”
“I didn’t know you paid attention to things I said.”
He went quiet. Nell realised she knew less about Robert than she thought.
“Thank you for the present,” she said. “Very—”
“Practical.”
She smiled. “Nice. It was very nice.”
“I think ‘nice’ is even worse than ‘practical’.”
“My uncle liked the colander.”
“Good for him. I guess 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 stared at his shoes. “And New Year?”
“Took the mad uncle to the park so he could throw stones at the ducks. You?”
“The best,” he said. There was a wave of laughter from the underlings around them.
“What?” said Nell, wondering what she’d missed.
“Oh, nothing,” he grinned. “We had a very good New Year.”
There was further laughter. It was dirty, and secretive, and hurt. Not because it was directed at her, but because it suggested Robert, who she’d never thought as special enough to belong anywhere, didn’t belong exclusively to her. The feeling surprised her.
Something must have shown on her face because he touched her arm. “You could have been there.”
“Yeah,” she said hollowly.
“But you could have,” he said emphatically. “All you had to do was turn up.”
She nodded silently as she backed away.
*
Before her front door had closed behind her, she angrily ripped off her long skirt and flung it across the room. It swept the tacky little Christmas tree from its stand and fell behind the television.
Kantzaros, who had been sleeping on the sofa with the colander over his face, sat up. He put down colander and the wine glass he had been holding, and considered her violent handiwork. “Taking down the decorations already?” he said blearily.
Nell wiped away the snot and tears with the back of her hand. “Why me, eh?” she said.
“Hmmm?”
She gestured at her bare legs and gave an involuntary stamp of one of her hooves. “I didn’t ask for these!”
“You have a mighty fine pair of goat’s legs there, Nell. Stirs something in a man, I tell you.”
She gave vent to a suppressed yell of rage. “Who the fuck would want mighty fine goat’s legs?”
“Goats?” suggested Kantzaros.
She picked up the nearest thing to hand, which turned out to be Kantzaros’ bagpipes, and lobbed them inexpertly at his head. They bounced off his face with a sharp, discordant squeak.
“I want you out of here!” She stormed into her bedroom, threw herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillows.
Sometime later, she heard the bedroom door open.
“You were both conceived and born in the Chinese year of the goat.”
She rolled over. Kantzaros stood in the doorway, very still.
“And you’re a Capricorn,” he added.
“So was Jesus,” she said. “He didn’t have to put up with hooves and fur, did he?”
“Any child born during the twelve days of Christmas can become one of us.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “And with me for a father, the odds were against you.”
She sat up. “Father?”
He spluttered. “Father. Uncle. Brother. It’s all good.”
She shook her head.
“There are antidotes,” he said.
“Really?”
“I could bind you in ropes woven from straw or garlic stalks.”
“Not sure if I’ve got any in.”
“There’s the singeing of the toenails thing, too.” He glanced at her hooves. “Maybe a bit late for that.”
“I just want to be normal,” said Nell.
“No you don’t!” said Kantzaros vehemently. “You want something. You just need to be strong enough to recognise it.”
“What do I want?”
From nowhere he produced two glasses of wine.
“I don’t think alcohol is the answer,” said Nell.
“No – alcohol is the axle grease. Of thought and conversation and decision and deed. Wine is part of the journey, not the destination. Drink up and we’ll be on our way.”
She shook her head but took the glass anyway. He sat down on the bed beside her and stroked her leg. Nell watched his fingers burying themselves in her fur.
“Why goat’s legs?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“But why goat? Why not sheep or cow or horse or dog—?”
“—Or chicken.”
“Or chicken.”
“Goats are intelligent creatures, Nell. Inquisitive. Even when you think you have them tamed, there’s still that bit of wild left. We’re not docile like sheep or cows. You can never trust a goat.”
“Can’t I trust you?” said Nell.
He squeezed her thigh: tender but powerful. “Absolutely not. The desert tribes knew our power. The Arabs called us azabb al-akaba, the ‘shaggy demons’. The Israelites called us se’irim or ‘hairy men’ and tried to placate us with gifts and sacrificial offerings.”
“Get away.”
“S’true. ’Til that bloody Moses character anyway, with his ‘You shall no more offer your sacrifices to the se’irim after whom you have gone a-whoring.’ Makes it sound like they were a-whoring after me all the bloody time. Fat chance. A short step from there to blaming the sins of the tribe on a goat and sending it out into the desert to die.”
“The scapegoat.”
“Right. But it takes a lot more than a desert to kill a goat. And, the way I see it, if you keep heaping sins on a goat for long enough, that goat’ll get to thinking.” He drained his glass and looked through it. “Belief’s a powerful thing.”
He slapped her leg, stood up and took her by the hand into the lounge. He sat her down on the sofa and refilled their glasses.
“And speaking of gifts and offerings—” He pulled down the red parcel with green ribbon from the mantelpiece and placed it in her lap.
“It’s not my birthday until tomorrow,” said Nell.
Kantzaros looked
at the clock on top of the television. “We could wait for five hours…”
They sat in silence for almost a full minute before Nell growled and opened the parcel.
The V-shaped object was dark and had the greasy sheen of something which had been held by a thousand different hands. She couldn’t tell if it was made of stone or wood or some strange metal.
“Pipes,” she said.
She turned them over. There was one mouthpiece leading to two pipes, each angled away from the other and bored with four holes apiece. Carved trails of ivy – or maybe it was real, petrified ivy – twined around the pipes, binding them together.
“More pipes.”
“Ah, but these are different from the bagpipes,” said Kantzaros.
“I can see that. The absence of a bag for one thing.”
“Not what I meant,” said Kantzaros. “The bagpipes are mine. These auloi are yours.”
She smiled. “I can’t play.”
“Belief,” said Kantzaros and went in search of a fresh bottle of wine.
While her uncle made investigative noises in the kitchen, Nell put the pipe reed to her lips and blew. The pipes produced a harmonious two-tone note.
“And you said you couldn’t play,” called Kantzaros.
She experimentally covered a hole with her fingertip. The notes changed, although not for the better. She tried other fingerings until she managed to produce a harmony equal to the first.
“Here,” said Kantzaros, thrusting a filled glass at her. “Piping is thirsty work.”
“I’ve only just started.”
“Wine improves music,” said Kantzaros. “And more.”
“It only appears to sound better.” She drank regardless.
“We live in a world of appearances, don’t we?” He picked up the bagpipes. “With me.”
He began a simple tune. She watched his hands on the pipes. After a little experimentation she found a configuration of notes which, to her ear, harmonised with his pipes. When his fingers galloped on to variations and counter-harmonies, she kept the simple tune going. Cheeks puffing, he nodded in approval and played on.
The bagpipes were louder than the woodwind she held in her hands, but the sound she produced was clearer, purer, more akin to a brass instrument. While his music skittered and bounded, melodies running like animals through shady, twisted woods, hers was the sunlight. Sometimes concealed by his melody, frequently revealed in unusual ways, but always there: a constant.