A A Good Year

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 both 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