Hiddensee: A Tale of the Once and Future Nutcracker(46)

“A dryad,” supplied Felix.

“Her name is Dogface,” suggested Moritz.

“No, it is Pythia,” said Felix. At Dirk’s scowl he put up his palms. “Sorry. Your tale. I’ll be quiet.”

“Pan and Pythia,” said Franz. “Pythia and Pan. Are they married?”

“No, they hate each other too much. But they are isolated together in the Little Lost Forest as it slowly sweeps its way north. It was in Bavaria not long ago, I think, and maybe it is in Baden now.”

“Can we see Pythia?” asked Moritz. “Will she scare us?”

“She’s beautiful beyond compare,” said Dirk. “She’s like your mother.”

“Oh, her. Well, what about Pan? Can we see him?”

“He’s tricksy. Here, look, he’s a little like this.” Dirk fiddled in his coat pocket and withdrew the old knife with the carved figure crouching atop it. What a big head, and bulbous eyes, almost leering.

“Why does he look like that?”

“He’s—he’s—” Dirk was stumped. “He’s ancient but he’s not old. He wants to stir up mischief.”

“He’s not the only one,” interjected Felix. Dirk shot him a look. Felix continued, “I mean, isn’t Pan the mascot of every university boy-scholar since the School of Socrates? Why do he and the Pythia not get along, do you think? Is it simply that she is sacred and he is profane? She is all arbory by the valley stream, and he is the wind in the uplands? They hail from different tribes, like the Montaguesi and the Capuletti?” At Dirk’s bewildered look, Felix said, “Juliet and Romeo of Verona, from families with different interests and allegiances?”

“Pythia wants—evenness,” said Dirk slowly.

“Civic order. Civilization,” intoned Felix. “And Pan wants anarchy and riot.”

“Who wins?” said one of the boys, and the other, “And how do they fight? Do they have swords and cannon?”

“They don’t fight. They only have each other, whether they like it or not. And their shifting homeland.”

“Oh no,” said Moritz. “They don’t fall in love, I hope.”

“Yes!” said Felix, smacking his knee. “Pan uses his knife to open the Pythia’s golden walnut, eh, Dirk?” He raised an eyebrow and licked his lips.

Dirk snapped, “Why is it always like that for you?”

“Because I’m young and I’m male and I’m alive. Obviously. Aren’t you?”

Dirk couldn’t really answer that. The little boys were relieved though that romance wasn’t the sine qua non of the tale. “What they both want, despite themselves, is the same thing,” said Dirk. “They want a place for the Little Lost Forest to grow large enough that they can both live there without being in constant argument. They want it to be a place all its own. Not lost anymore.”

“The forest is scary though,” said Moritz. “Wolves.”

“Baby wolves are nice,” said Felix.

“But their mothers,” said Franz.

“Mothers can be very nice.” Felix smirked. Franz and Moritz exchanged glances.

“I hope there isn’t any wolf at all,” said Moritz.

“There isn’t,” said Dirk, a little desperately. “There’s only a mouse. But he’s the king of the mice, did you know that?”

They began to look a little more interested despite themselves. A mouse was the right size. Felix closed his eyes and pretended a huge snore, and soon it was no longer pretense.





58.


After they’d eaten their lunch and stopped to pee by the side of the road—insisting Dirk get out with them and stand nearby in case of wolves—the boys gradually fell asleep in a heap. Felix finished the crust of one of their loaves and stretched out his legs to rest his calves on Dirk’s lap. Dirk shucked them off.

“That’s not much of a story,” Felix said. “Is that all you learned about the Pythia from the strategies of the venerable Mesmer?”

“You used to be nice. Why are you so dismissive?”

“I want her to be wildly fecund. Louche, licentious, the female equivalent of Zeus, taking whomever she wants. Pan won’t be enough for her, even if he is a satyr of sorts. She needs a god.”

Dirk grunted. “Do they teach you pagan texts at university? Imagine superstitions having a place of honor there. Are your professors and ministers so flummoxed by Christian thought that they have to relish primitive lore from the childhood of the world?”

“The old-fashioned stories have always been with us, Dirkie. The cross was planted in the mouth of antiquity so modern faith could begin; but the old beliefs mumble from the ground. Those who halt their incessant prayers can hear the old stories telling themselves out loud. Indeed, I think that is what you do—that is your genius.”

“Genius!” He felt a hotness rise from his collar. “All this is nonsense meant to amuse the boys. Or stultify them into sleep, as I’ve done.”

“Don’t feel too elevated, now,” said Felix, kicking Dirk companionably. “These stories belong to Europe and to the world. Like Odysseus on his ten-year magical voyage, amid the likes of Cyclops and mermaids and Circe the witch—Odysseus coming back to Penelope the faithful wife. A world story. You know about all that?”