A Good Year

  Polis Loizou

  FAIRLIGHT BOOKS

  First published by Fairlight Books 2022

  Fairlight Books

  Summertown Pavilion, 18–24 Middle Way, Oxford, OX2 7LG

  Copyright © Polis Loizou 2022

  The right of Polis Loizou to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by Polis Loizou in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, stored, distributed, transmitted, reproduced or otherwise made available in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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  ISBN 978-1-914148-06-4

  www.fairlightbooks.com

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd.

  Designed by Sara Wood

  Illustrated by Sam Kalda

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  About the Author

  FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  SECOND DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  FOURTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  FIFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  SIXTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  SEVENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  EIGHTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  NINTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  TENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  ELEVENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  EPIPHANY

  Acknowledgements

  The Fairlight Moderns series

  About the Author

  Polis Loizou is a novelist, playwright, filmmaker and performance storyteller. Born and raised in Cyprus, he moved to the UK in 2001. His debut novel Disbanded Kingdom was published by Cloud Lodge Books in 2018 and went on to be longlisted for the Polari First Book Prize. His second novel, The Way it Breaks, was published in 2021. His short stories and creative non-fiction have been published in various anthologies and literary journals. Having co-founded an award-winning theatre troupe, with which he has toured the UK festival circuit, Polis has delved deeper into the world of folk storytelling to perform a couple of acclaimed solo shows. Polis currently lives in Nottingham with his husband and cats.

  Κόκκινη κλωστή δεμένη,

  στην ανέμη τυλιγμένη,

  δώσ’ της κλώτσο να γυρίσει,

  παραμύθι ν’ αρχινίσει

  Red thread,

  wound around the spinning wheel,

  give it a kick to get it turning,

  for a story to get going

  —One of the traditional ways to start a tale in the Greek-speaking world

  FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS

  She’d heard the story from her father, who’d heard it from his father, who’d heard it from his grandfather.

  On the outskirts of the village, old Yakoumis came face to face with one of the creatures. It was after vespers on the twelve days. The night was black as molasses, and the wind that shook the bushes turned your head into a block of ice. And there, where the road curved down towards the towns, where the edge of the track tapered into a forest of pines, there at the well from which the old man raised a bucket of water, came a voice, thin but sharp as a needle.

  Which way to your village? it said.

  Yakoumis turned to find a thing that might have been a baby. A clump of black hair it was. In the light of the torch, its limbs unfolded like those of a newborn foal stretching into life.

  — Over there, said Yakoumis, pointing towards the church.

  Will you take me?

  — For the love of God! Of course I will.

  But Yakoumis the cobbler was no simpleton; he was a good Christian, and knew at once what this being was. As it extended its hairy hand to his, the cobbler reached for the piece of string he kept in his pocket. It was the method his father had taught him.

  Thank you, said the creature.

  Yakoumis grabbed its hand, the kalikantzaro wincing and stifling growls as the string pulled tight around its finger. If the old tales were true, and it appeared that they were, the creature was now his slave.

  They walked by the light of the full moon towards the church, Yakoumis pulling his new possession along by the string. Imagine what the priest would say! Here he was, a humble cobbler, and he had captured the Devil’s own. Might it be enough when the time came – would St Peter overlook his sins and admit him into heaven?

  When they passed the coffee house, the creature was taller. When they passed the cemetery, the creature had a nose and lips and ears. By the time they reached the church, it could have been a grandson, covered in dirt from the mines. The door opened onto an empty church. The priest was gone. The village was asleep, every soul at home and in bed.

  Yakoumis took the creature to his workshop. There, he tied the string in a knot around the leg of the bench.

  — You will make boots from now on, he said to the kalikantzaro.

  The thing nodded. But he requested a bowl of nuts and a glass of zivania.

  And so, every night, Yakoumis would go to bed as the creature he’d fastened to his workbench produced pair after pair of hobnailed boots. And here was the thing: they were exquisite! The cobbler felt a simultaneous surge of pride and annoyance when the villagers remarked on the improved quality of his craft.

  — Come and see the reason for it, he told some friends one afternoon.

  So he took them to the workshop, where the men stood around staring at a vacant space.

  — Here is my helper. Eh? What do you think?

  The men glanced at one another.

  — What are you talking about? There’s nothing there.

  Yakoumis looked hurt, then surprised, then angry.

  — Are you blind? He’s standing in the corner!

  The men glanced at one another.

  — For God’s sake! spat Yakoumis. Who do you think’s been having the nuts and zivania?

  The men remained silent. They ought to have known that these beings, once caught and rendered harmless, can only be seen by their captors. From then on, Yakoumis said nothing more about the other being that shared his workshop. Every morning he would find on the bench a pair of brand-new boots, and an empty bowl and a drained glass.

  One night, however, as he left his workbench for his bed, he forgot to snuff the candle. In the morning he discovered his error. By the candle’s base was the end of the piece of string tied to the leg of the workbench, its tip singed and frayed. The creature was nowhere to be seen.

  Yakoumis never saw it, or any others of its kind, again.

  Of all the tales about the kalikantzari, it was this one that came to Despo when she woke on Christmas morning. Partly it was to do with her father’s telling of it; his eyes went bright at the tying of the string, his lips curled at the mention of zivania. Since childhood her mind had cast him in the role of the cobbler. At the end of his days the telling, the fine-tuned performance, would be interrupted by a scratching cough, and he’d hack up blood into his handkerchief. He would always, for a moment, look dismayed, as if he’d had other plans, and then he’d remember to look happy for her. She was enamoured with him, and he with her. Instead of helping her mother to shell beans, she’d follow her father around the farm, and she would sit on his knee, his hand guiding her little fingers over the cows’ udders, and she’d listen as he would tell her all his peculiar tales.

  Perhaps he chose to tell this story of the cobbler instead of other ones so as to dampen her fear. Some of the Christmas yarns were wicked, but in this one the creature was quickly subdued. There was no detail about its stench, sweat and urine, or the grotesqueness of its body – charcoal and hairy – or the limping about on the legs of donkeys. There was no unhinged laughter to the whine of fiddles through the pines, no trickery or violence visited on the old protagonist.

  But the story ended with the creature vanished. And Despo knew, from the hundred other tales, that the creature had skipped back into the dark woods, back into that hole in the ground from which its kind emerged.

  It was Christmas morning. She would keep the creatures at bay, from her mind, her house and, she thought, as her hand moved by instinct to her rounded stomach, her unborn child. To this being inside her, whom she prayed would be a boy, she whispered the words with which her father would end his tales:

  — Don’t worry, my love. It’s all lies.

  *

  They’d been woken by the rooster. Despo waited for the third crow before she raised herself to dress for church. The bells called out through the morning mist, guiding the Christians of the village to the service. Today, the Saviour was born.

  Rejecting the offer of her husband’s arm, Despo took the step into the church, and then her place beside him in the pews. The tears slid down her cheeks; tears of gratitude and joy. In the candlelight the saints watched from their icons. The Virgin held her miracle baby, her rich blue robe enveloping them bot h like a womb. The priest’s wine-rich chants spread through every body and washed over the ceiling, pillars and pews. But the corners of the altar were lost to the darkness. In another icon, the Saviour was an adult and bleeding at the wrists. There was a gash in his abdomen, a bloodied hole exposed to the world. Despo crossed herself, then crossed her stomach, too. Loukas was smiling at her, but in that sad way of his, as if he could only ever find joy in half a thing. The lamps in his head came on when their neighbours turned to kiss and hug them after the sermon. Happy Christmas and a good new year. May they all live to see the next.

  — You’ll drop any minute, said Anthou to Despo outside the church, afterwards. She was ten years older, so already had a dozen kids. Most had survived but one was blind, such was the will of God.

  — Oof! As long as he’s not born today, Despo replied.

  — If he is, tie his hand to yours with wicker, so he won’t run off with Them. Are you drinking chamomile?

  — I am, but it’s useless.

  — Nonsense, it’s good for the stomach. Keep at it.

  Despo was already tired of Anthou’s advice, but she nodded as she should. The woman was staring at the younger one’s stomach with either distaste or concern, it wasn’t clear.

  Despo willed the baby to wait. Better after Epiphany. The kicking was growing impatient, the ache too much, but she would rather suffer it for twelve more days than risk the baby’s life. Though she tried to sweep the kalikantzari from her mind, they lingered there, as they did in the shadows under bridges and in chimneys, waiting to come out. With God’s blessing, she would remain unharmed. Her son would be granted the best chance at life.

  — It’s all lies, my love, she whispered. It’s all lies.

  *

  They sat in silence at the table, where they imbibed the warmth of egg-and-lemon soup. It would only be the two of them till sunset, then they’d amble to his godparents’ house for the feast. They’d been over there the night before, stuffing their faces with roasted hog and floating on conversation over the threshold of night. The salt of the meats had overpowered Despo, but she’d swallowed them down. It was only the changes of pregnancy taking their toll.

  Christmas was her favourite time of year. Yes, the sun rose dim and was soon blown out, leaving them shivering against each other on the creaking bed, but these were days of pause, to count and enjoy their blessings. One of which came early on the morning of Christmas Eve; that scent of freshly baked bread encasing the village, when the ovens were lit and the housewives brought their pies and pastries and loaves. People laughed together over dinner. They reminisced about the departed, they clinked glasses of wine, and they looked forwards, beyond the pain of the past. Easter was the time for death and grieving, but now, celebrating the birth of Christ brought with it the hope of a new beginning, a prayer for a good year ahead.

  — Bless your hands, said Loukas, as he set down his spoon to wipe his mouth on his sleeve.

  — Are you full? There’s more.

  — I’m full. You made enough for six.

  He was smiling, in his way.

  — Eh, there’ll soon be more of us, she said.

  His smile wavered, then fell away. A darkness came over his eyes and mouth. And when he spoke, his voice weighed a ton:

  — Next time, make less.

  He rose from his seat and before she knew it the door was shut behind him. In a moment she saw his face behind the glass of the small square window. He was heading for the stable to feed the donkey. Then he was gone.

  She had always been told to shut her mouth, and never in her life had she listened. It was lucky that her husband’s hands, like her father’s, almost never turned to fists. Any mention of the child appeared to provoke him, but she told herself it couldn’t be that. It must have been the excess food she’d made. God willing, the grapes would be good this year, and their worries less frequent.

  It wasn’t the child; it couldn’t be. What sort of man didn’t want a son?

  She distracted herself by cooking for the feast. She had promised her husband’s godmother she would make koupepia, so she rolled up her sleeves and got to it, pausing only for the sudden shot of pain in her back. First she soaked the vine leaves. She let her hands linger in the bowl. Then she slammed the pig shoulder on the table, sliced off the tendons and tissue, and cut the meat into strips. With a knife in each hand she hammered at the strips until they became chunks, became cubes, became gravel.

  What did it matter if Loukas never learned to love their child? She alone would lavish her son – and it would be a son – with more love than he’d ever need. It was what she had done for her siblings, before they were split up and scattered among the family, across the island. She would lather his fat little limbs with soap and kiss his soaking hair and hold him to her aching breast. And she would sing as she had to her brothers:

  St Marina, maiden

  You who lulls babies to sleep

  Lull my baby too

  My sweetest song

  Her very own boy.

  She minced the onion and tossed it in the oiled pan. The smell was like a blade. How her body had been changed, weakened. There was the always-bothered pelvis; the worn-out back; the swollen ankles; the blue veins in her legs, crawling upwards like fingers reaching for the child inside her. And there was every chance she might lose him. If not before birth then during, or shortly after. Five times the latter had happened to her mother, each of those children born only to die. After the salt had been rubbed on their limbs, after the ash had been dabbed on their lashes, after the holy water had blessed and cleansed them. And they were all in the ground before a week had passed, shocked asleep in their coffins. Their final breaths hung frozen around the house.

  To think of all the little ones who’d died unbaptised… She prayed the angels had got to them before the Others did. There were stories of infections. Deformities. Children born with tails, or hands and feet clumped like donkeys’ hooves.

  Even if her son was lucky enough to live into his next year, he might die of a thousand things. Snakebite. Drowning. The consumption that had taken both her parents. The leprosy that had crumpled Loukas’s mother and sent her away from him. Or the illness, worst of all, that had gripped his father.

  She would not think of it. Instead, she would spoon parsley, rice, tomato, onion and pork into softened vine leaves, and wrap them as if against the cold. The koupepia sat together, swaddled in the pot.

  She froze.

  Her nails had grown. Despo knew to be careful of splitting them. It made the creatures stronger.

  *

  In the afternoon Loukas took his rifle to the woods. There among the snow-dusted pines he picked at berries on bushes, plump saffron mushrooms and fallen acorns, which he touched to his moustache and breathed in. Every so often he’d raise the gun and miss a bird. And sometimes, between the trees, he’d spot a squirrel darting off, or a vague other shape. Hairy face or hind legs – it was never slow enough to catch and discern. A goat or a mouflon.

  All he wanted was to be out of the house.

  There behind a fallen pine were some bushes, and behind them the creek where they’d found his father face-down in the water. He felt a vague ache in his heart. Six years. Almost without thinking, he fell back against a pine and stayed there, his breath going in and out, a panic seizing him as if he was about to expire. When the feeling passed he crossed himself, and gave up the hunt. He knelt to pick at the mushrooms on the floor. Grilled on charcoal, a squeeze of lemon: what more could you want?

  An arm’s length away from the tips of his fingers, there on the ground, was a wavy line. Glinting scales. He jumped. Up on his feet, rifle cocked, he aimed. But the serpent body was still, and the head, he realised, was missing. On closer inspection it had been chewed off; the snake was now a frayed rope. There was a rustling in the bushes. Loukas remembered his rifle, and fired. He heard the sound of feet, buried beneath the noise of running water. On the other side of the bushes was another snake. Again, it looked half eaten.

  When he emerged from the woods, there where the road turned down towards the town, he bumped into the Englishman and his wife. They were dressed in their fine clothes, as usual. He wore a light jacket and she wore a skirt that stopped just below the knee. It wasn’t only the length of the garment that was provocative, but the suggestion that the winter had no effect on this woman at all. Had she no soul? It was true what they said: these people were made of ice. In the sun they melted. Loukas picked out the word Christmas from the couple’s greeting, but was too flummoxed by their sudden appearance to respond with anything more than a nod.

 

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