The Elder Man

by Katherine Wyvern

  Frederic gave low whistle and shook his head.

  “No, mark my words,” concluded Van, “hunters, the lot of them, since that spiteful, ill-conditioned strumpet, Artemis, all the way down from ancient history to our pompous asshole of a president, have been nothing but a plague and a nuisance. I hate their guts. I hate them.”

  “I figured that much,” said Edith, taken aback. Van was so good-natured and even-tempered in general, that this impassioned, vehement outburst really made an impression on them all.

  “Gah,” said Van in the end with a shudder. “Apologies. I need a smoke.”

  He took out one of his thin cigars, which he offered round. Only Paul took one.

  “Ah, this is always good stuff, Van,” he said approvingly.

  “Rolled on the thighs of beautiful Cuban virgins?” asked Mark with a grin.

  “Nah, it’s my own tobacco, and it’s rolled on my own old hairy thighs, I fear.”

  “Ah, you old satyr,” cooed Monica, caressing the back of his neck. She seemed to have recovered her spirits. Or maybe she had topped them up from a bottle of Bergerac.

  Van frowned, shooting her a stunned sideways glance. Armin, who was drinking, choked, coughed, almost drowned, snorted a mouthful of beer through his nose and had to mop himself up with a handful of paper napkins, among much motherly fuss from the older ladies.

  ****

  Allie

  Allie had left the table, partly to escape the vile cigar smoke and also to take a breather from the conversation. Van could become a little intense when hunters were discussed. He had been involved in a sort of low-intensity conflict with the local hunting associations for years, with the occasional flare-up and altercation. There had been the incident with the dog and the incident with the pig, and Allie had not paid much attention—it was practically routine in rural France. She had, in fact, secretly relished the discovery that Van could be so violently protective.

  Until that frightful Sunday, less than two years ago, when hunters had pursued an exhausted stag practically into Van’s kitchen garden and well within the boundaries of his sacred woods. Roe deer were common in the region, almost a pest, but stags were increasingly rare, and a prized trophy.

  They had been in the house after lunch enjoying a digestif in front of the fire, Van and she and Paul, who was visiting, as he often did, and Monet and little Michel, and they had been roused by Jade’s frantic barking.

  It had been one of the most terrifying days in Allie’s life, the irate men just outside the garden, waving guns, the milling, baying hounds, howling, howling, howling for blood, but most of all Van’s awful rage and that great beast, lying there, panting, deadbeat but still dangerous, reeking of musk and blood, the great deadly antlers caught in a fence where it had fallen, his eyes rolling white, deranged. For a crazy insane moment she had thought they were akin, the fallen stag and the irate man, both crowned with antlers, both violently male, utterly wild, utterly other, steaming and screaming in the frozen winter forest.

  Allie had phoned the Gendarmerie in a state of babbling panic, but the hounds and hunters had decamped long before they arrived.

  She had been too scared to go close to the stag. After an hour it still lay there on one side, drenched with sweat, with blood at its mouth. Van was himself again. He had even apologized, I am sorry, I am sorry, and asked her again and again, Are you okay, are you all right?—because she had, in fact, been in something like shock.

  And because he had a way with animals, all animals, wild and tame, he had sat there, soothing the wounded stag. It had not been shot, as it turned out, but the dogs had torn a few nasty gashes in its hindquarters. When it had finally stood up, shaking on tottering legs, Van and Monet had herded it into the pigs’ pen and fed him back to health and finally released it into the forest.

  Allie prayed every day that the hunters had learned a lesson, because another such incident, she was sure, would end in murder. The local hunters were not the problem. People in the neighborhood knew Van and generally agreed that he was a bon homme, albeit special—special being the French way of saying bizarre—like his father, they said, and his father before him. A long line of somewhat peculiar men at Le Sureau Noir, they said, father to son, they all had the same face and the same crazy streak, but they were all good at heart.

  They had long learned not to hunt in the valley.

  The problem was the new hunters, of which there were more and more in recent years, lawyers and accountants out of the cities, with no sense whatsoever of the land, or anything else.

  Of course in the next days she had called herself a ninny for seeing Van as a crazy antlered forest demon. One ended up seeing strange things after a few years of hearing Van’s stories about ancient gods and living in his house full of antlered sculptures. Monet had been there, too, and quite unperturbed, not that that was a conclusive argument either way. The day you started taking Monet as a standard of mental sanity was the day you were gone and done.

  So, in the approved, traditional British way, she had had a glass or two or three of gin, laughed hysterically a few times over the next week, and got over it.

  She was standing with Jean-Pierre, who had joined them for dinner, just outside the summer kitchen, when Michel’s shrill voice came piping through the trees. She ran to meet her son, alarmed, and saw him running up the path with muddy hands and feet, followed by Maja and Jade.

  “Maman, Maman! There is a fairy drowning in the lake!” he gasped when he reached her, taking her hand pleadingly and trying to pull her toward the pond at the bottom of the garden.

  “Don’t be absurd,” grumbled Jean-Pierre. “There’s no such thing as fairies!”

  Michel shot him a deeply disapproving look, but before Allie could open her mouth to intercede, he had dashed off toward Van, who was still sitting at table, chatting with Mark, Edith, Meintje, and Armin, totally oblivious to this exchange. Michel rushed to him and piped piercingly, “Vani, Vani, there’s a fairy drowning in the pond!”

  Van blinked and, after the merest second’s pause, turned to the table and said, quite composed, “Ladies, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. A Fairy Security situation just came up.”

  That made everyone at table giggle, but Van was already walking off with Michel. Jean-Pierre looked disgusted. Allie gave an inward sigh and followed her son to the pond. Armin, Edith, and Mark came too, made curious by Michel’s agitation.

  It was not a fairy of course. It was one of the large black and green dragonflies that zoomed around the garden all summer. But it was easy, seeing them sparring in mid-air and patrolling their watery domains with incredible ferocity, to see how people of old had come up with the idea of tiny, quarrelsome, warring winged folks.

  This one must have been ensnared somehow and was flapping and struggling in the middle of the pond, unable to take off from the water and quite out of reach of any helping hand. Van snatched a long stick from the surrounding undergrowth, thrust it in the pond, and the struggling creature clung to it immediately and was drawn out to safety. When Van plucked it gently from the stick, it lay sodden and motionless in the palm of his hand, and Michel wailed miserably.

  “Is she all right?”

  “She is a he,” said Van. “See how blue his tail is? Only males have this blue stripe. He might still live. But only if you help him.”

  Michel’s eyes went huge.

  “Can you hold him in your hand for seven minutes? But you must not crush him or tease him or drop him. He’s a fighter, but he’s very fragile, you understand?”

  “I can,” said Michel, very serious.

  “Are you sure? It’s a big responsibility, to hold a life in your hand.”

  Michel nodded. Van gently transferred the drooping dragonfly to his small outstretched hand, and they all made their way back to the kitchen, Michel carrying the dragonfly as carefully as a holy relic.

  “It’s not a fairy warrior. It’s a bug,” muttered Jean-Pierre.

  “He’s four years ol
d,” said Allie quietly, just for him. “He’s got a right to believe in fairy tales a little longer.”

  They sat around table, and talk resumed. Michel was still standing, holding his wet dragonfly. He was becoming tired. Seven minutes is a long time for a little child. Van quietly pulled him close, and Michel leaned his cupped hands on Van’s lap.

  After five minutes or so, Michel gave a gasp of surprise. The huge insect had picked itself up and was shaking his iridescent wings a little and wiping its shiny googly eyes. After another minute its wings began to whirr with the deep, droning hum of a miniature helicopter.

  “Almost there,” said Van.

  Michel was half grinning, half terrified by the suddenly very alive creature in his hands.

  And then, as if its motor had finally properly warmed up, the dragonfly stood on its legs with an elastic spring in its stance, took one last look around, and it was off. It took a turn or two over the table and then sped off toward the forest, a streak of shimmering gold in the sunset. Everyone whooped and clapped.

  “You did it, young man! You saved a fairy boy!” said Edith.

  “Whew,” said Van. “It’s nail-biting stuff, folks, emergency fairy medicine.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Michel was over the moon. He climbed into Van’s lap, basking in the triumph and attention.

  Jean-Pierre scoffed.

  It was hard for Allie to watch Van and Michel together sometimes and to be caught between the three men in her life.

  Damien had been dead three months when Michel was born. Van had been there for her, and for the child, accepted the responsibility to be Michel’s godfather, and given them a place to stay when she could not face going back to her empty house. He had been more than a godfather of course. Until Jean-Pierre had come along, and also after that, he had indeed been as good as a father to Michel.

  It was wonderful, of course. It was also so complicated.

  When Allie had failed again and again to become pregnant, and it had finally dawned on her and Damien that something was not quite right, and Damien’s problem had been discovered, it had been Damien himself who had suggested a sperm donor. Allie had said, half in jest and half in despair, that she wasn’t going to have a stranger’s jizz squirted up her snatch, and Damien had suggested, very tentatively, that it would not need to be a stranger. If she preferred it that way, it could be a friend.

  And so Michel had been Van’s gift to them.

  Van had never wanted any children. He had said so quite clearly, thrown by Allie’s request, as any man would be. It would not be his child, Allie had said. It would be hers and Damien’s. Nobody ever needed to know Van had had anything to do with the matter. And indeed Van would not have anything to do with it but shoot a load in a cup, somewhere, in a clinic room in Cahors.

  But then Damien had taken that bend in the road a little too fast on a wet dark night, and Van had been left with a devastated friend and her newborn child.

  He was a good man. He had taken care of them until Allie had been back on her feet again. He was happy Jean-Pierre was around now, willing to be a stepfather to Michel. He had done his best to step back, let Jean-Pierre take over. But that bond that Van had never wanted had happened anyway, due to the circumstances. And the fact that Michel obviously liked Van much better than he liked Jean-Pierre, and practically worshipped him like a god, was a source of constant frustration for Jean-Pierre and apprehension for Allie.

  Van had never spoiled Michel. But he could step between reality and stories as easily as a small child could. They had woven a whole enchanted world in and out of the fabric of Le Sureau Noir, sometimes in words nobody else understood. Life in this place was a child’s dream, always in and out of the vast garden, always on the edge of that fairy tale forest, where every tree, in Van’s tales, had a name and magical properties and a secret power. Meals at Van’s might be served at odd hours but always had the quality of a quest. Finding fruit and eggs in the orchard, vegetables in the garden, foraging for greens in the wild, baking bread in the dragon-oven. They were also, invariably, very good meals and even better for having been won from the land.

  At home, life was both more structured and less satisfactory. Neither Allie nor Jean-Pierre were very good cooks, and although food was usually on the table at 7 PM sharp, it was not likely to be up to the standard of someone who had grown up in Van’s house. Allie’s home was a small stone cottage set in its own ground, and there was an ancient borie, a small cob playhouse for Michel, an old cat, and a few chickens. But it could not compare with the vast, intricate, wonderful mystery of Le Sureau Noir.

  Allie could only hope that when Michel began to go to school his attachment to Van and his fascination with Van’s world would fade a little and he would become more interested in the usual boy things, football and Formula 1 and superheroes, and then, perhaps, he would have something more in common with Jean-Pierre.

  It might have been easier if Jean-Pierre had had no other reason to be jealous of Van. But Van’s solitary life and his long, steady, generous regard for Allie offered every reason for speculation to the suspicious mind, which was doubly unfair since Van had never, ever allowed anything to happen between them, at any time.

  That Michel was, technically, Van’s child was not something Jean-Pierre knew. Nobody knew, not even Michel. Allie was infinitely grateful that Michel had turned out a miniature copy of herself, blond, pink, sunny, and blue-eyed. She hoped that for the world he was and always would be hers and Damien’s son.

  There were days when she wished Van would just bloody find himself a girlfriend and put Jean-Pierre’s mind at ease. She was not quite sure how she would like to see another woman in Van’s arms. She glanced at Monica, who was fawning on him shamelessly, and thought, How would I like to see her at home in Van’s house? It didn’t bear thinking of. But it would be much better for everybody, all things considered.

  And there were days when she wondered if she should suggest moving away to some other part of France with her new family, maybe even back to England. But she could not bring herself to do this to herself, to Van, to Michel. And there was the company. All her life was here.

  All she could do was try to soothe Jean-Pierre’s ruffled temper as best she could and hope it would not explode.

  It did not help that she adored Van. She was honest enough to admit it. Not as she had loved him at first but with a steady, visceral fervor of awe and gratitude that could never go away and that, while not sexual in nature, not anymore, was not exactly sisterly either.

  ****

  Armin

  “So how did you know that it would be seven minutes?” asked Armin, who was both amused and fascinated by the dragonfly incident and also, deep down, a little skeptical.

  “Oh, I just made that bit up,” confessed Van, grinning. “I never carry a watch, so how would I know? But it’s usually some minutes, give or take, before they dry up and take off.”

  “Are you often involved in dramatic fairy rescues?” asked Meintje with an affectionate smile.

  “Well, someone has to do it.”

  “Ah. And what are these fairies called?” asked Armin, amused, thinking of the Vanva and the paphoonies.

  “Aeshna cyanea,” said Van.

  “What?”

  “Aeshna cyanea. The southern hawker. It’s one of the largest and fastest European dragonflies. Wonderful predators. And very inquisitive. They fly up to your face and make eye contact. Plucky little buggers.”

  “I thought it was a fairy.”

  “Maybe it’s both. Don’t be pigheaded. You never know. Immortal and magical beings could be lurking all around you, pretending to be perfectly ordinary.”

  “Sure. Of course,” said Armin, winking. There was a scatter of laughter but only half-hearted. Everyone was tired.

  Michel had fallen deeply asleep against Van’s chest, with his mouth open and drooling. Maja had sunk out of sight under the table, in her mother’s lap.

  There was still
a buzz of talk, but most people were beginning to yawn outrageously.

  “I’ll go and put the ducks to bed if you like,” whispered Armin, leaning close to Van’s ear.

  “Oh, yes, please, do that, honey bun,” said Van, which made Armin snort with laughter and also damn near swoon at the same time and then start with shock. He looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed that exchange, but they were all talking away in various separate groups. When he turned again, he saw Van gazing at him pensively and wondered what it meant that he would use such an obvious pet name in public, or almost in public, and if it meant anything at all. Van was the sort of man who could easily pass it off as a little joke. He called them all children, after all. Why not honey buns? Armin was at a loss for words, and Van just turned his attention to Sofia, who had just come to sit by him and ask him a hundred questions about some leaves she had collected along the path from the outhouse.

  ****

  Van

  When Allie got up to go, Van passed Michel to Jean-Pierre with a small wrench to his heartstrings. Michel was deep asleep, as limp as a wet towel, and had no clue about the transfer. Van felt like a traitor. He said his goodnights, made sure all was set up for tomorrow’s breakfast in the kitchen, and made his way back home in silence, wondering if Armin was already there or if he was still trying to herd ducks or if he had gone to bed in the palace, after all, too tired to wait up for him.

  But he might have spared himself that pang of doubt, because, as soon as he opened the door of his home and stepped into the dark living room, he was met by a strangling, long-limbed hug and an avid searching mouth.

  “I thought you’d never come home,” said Armin, after a minute of such fervid kissing that Van had to work his jaw shut again with some effort.

  “Sorry. They all talk and talk and talk … and you can’t just fling a sleeping child into the nettles, you know? Which reminds me, I need a dry t-shirt. Gosh, that kid can drool.”