OUROBOROS OUZO
by
Jonathan L. Howard
Copyright
Ouroboros Ouzo
by
Jonathan L. Howard
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Copyright © 2014 Jonathan L. Howard
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Greece did not find favour with Johannes Cabal. It was too bright, too hot, too many of the locals wore their shirts open-necked and rolled-sleeve for his liking, and the place was awash with foreigners of every shade intent on absorbing culture through osmosis rather than study.
While he respected the country for undeniably being the cradle of modern Western civilisation (although not the several previous Western civilisations, a nugget of occult knowledge he kept to himself as much because he was anti-social as for any reasons of avoiding upset to current orthodoxy), he found little to admire in the current state of the place. It didn’t seem to be trying very hard these days, contenting itself with harvesting olives and pandering to tourists. He also found the sight of Greek Orthodox priests sinister, and this from a man who had encountered priesthoods that wore the flayed skins of their human sacrifices. Human leather jerkins were one thing, but those big Greek Orthodox kamelaukion hats were simply baleful.
It may therefore be taken as a given that it would take a great deal to induce Cabal to travel so far and to suffer such discomforts. If one expected him to immediately hie himself off to some museum to relieve it of an item that was vital to his studies, however, one would be disappointed. It also says little for one that one would be disappointed in the non-criminal behaviour of another. One should be ashamed of oneself. Disappointment aside, it was usual for any lengthy trip Cabal took to involve a serious felony at some point, with misdemeanours scattered carelessly about it.
Not this time, however. Cabal arrived at his hotel, rested and refreshed himself, and then made his way to a small taverna at the edge of the little town at which he had arrived. It was clean, almost austere establishment, backed by a cliff and overlooking the cleft in the land where the town had formed around a natural harbour. Fishing boats bobbed at anchor by the quay, and the brilliant Mediterranean sun glinted from the wine-dark sea of Homer, although it looked more like blue to Cabal. Even with his smoked-glass spectacles, it was too irritatingly bright to his eyes made sensitive by a surfeit of darkness, and he was glad to turn his back upon it and enter the taverna.
The place was almost deserted, he was pleased to note as his eyes adjusted to the less strident light. There was a man, presumably the owner, standing behind the bar. Cabal noted the paunch, dark hair turning to grey at the temples, the carefully kept moustache, the expression of very mild curiosity as he looked up from his newspaper. A natural philosopher, Cabal concluded, reasonably intelligent although likely ill-educated. Not an uncommon type for a guardian. Cabal felt he was on familiar ground.
The taverna owner seemed to take in Cabal with equal rapidity. “Good morning, sir,” he said in clear if accented English. “We do not open until noon. I am sorry.”
Cabal did not reply. He walked to the bar, feeling in his jacket pocket as he did so. His jacket was not of his habitual black, nor were his trousers, nor even his shoes or hat. Instead, he had outfitted himself in cream linen, and wore a light hat of the kind known as a “Panama.” He had convinced himself of the necessity not to die of heat exhaustion and had planned his wardrobe accordingly, though it pained him. He was only glad that he would not be seen by anyone who he might see again; while Cabal prided himself on his lack of vanity, he was deluding himself on this score.
In his pocket he found, nestling against a .25 ACP “Baby” Browning semi-automatic pistol, a coin. He tossed it onto the bar, where it clattered on its back for a second before settling. The taverna owner looked down, placidly unconcerned. Cabal had the distinct impression the man would have been more taken aback if the coin had been a normal one. That it was a gold coin about the size of a florin, and that only a handful of similar coins had ever been minted, was entirely to be expected, it seemed. The taverna owner picked it up and studied it briefly, taking in the design of a snake swallowing its tail on both the obverse and reverse sides, the only difference being that one design was the mirror image of the other.
It was a far more cursory glance than the close study Cabal had given it when it had first come into his possession. He had seen that the representation of a snake was thoroughly mediaeval, in that it would make any herpetologist tear at his beard or make similar expression of dismay. For one thing, it had legs. Assuming it wasn’t meant to be a rendering of a dragon (in which case it still wasn’t covering itself in glory, as the creature had no wings), Cabal could only guess that the artist had somehow never seen a snake and had taken the biblical curse upon the serpent to “crawl upon its belly” to mean that it had stumpy little legs rather than none at all.
As an aside, Johannes Cabal loathed mediaeval figurative art with an acidic disdain. One might say that this was a petty sort of thing to be vexed by, and that he should show a little perspective. Cabal would say if only mediaeval artists had shown any, he would not hate their work so.
The taverna owner looked up and looked Cabal in the face, dropping the coin into his waistcoat pocket. “You’re expected,” he said, a note of weariness in his voice as if this duty lay heavily upon him and rarely ended well.
Cabal was hardly surprised that his arrival had been anticipated; the coin had cost him far more than its weight in gold, both in money and favours. Of course the agents of this enterprise would have communicated its sale to the taverna.
“Then you’re ready for me?” said Cabal.
More than once in the past, this would have been a signal for a bunch of cultist assassins to come boiling out of a back room and Cabal regretted that his usual Webley .577 was at home, too huge a handgun to sail through customs without attracting attention. Still, the Browning was loaded with hollow-nosed rounds, so that was some recompense.
The owner sighed, the sigh of a man who does not enjoy this part of his job, but no cultists came a-boiling so Cabal understood his melancholy to be entirely spiritual. “Your friend arrived half an hour ago. He’s waiting in the private room.”
“Friend?” said Cabal. The idea was baffling to him. “I have no friends.” And this was no more than the truth.
“Colleague, then,” said the owner, uninterested in semantics.
“Nor colleagues,” for it is the lot of the necromancer to live a life of solitude, the only type of party they generally attend being the sort that involves an impromptu hanging and a burning of their life’s work.
“There is a man,” said the owner, running out of synonyms for “friend” in his small yet functional English vocabulary. “He is in the private room. He said you would be coming.”
Cabal considered the possibilities and concluded that it could only b
e somebody involved further up the diffuse structure of what in one light was a business and, in another, a conspiracy. That he was unknown to the taverna owner was hardly surprising in that case.
“This man, what does he look like?”
“You will see him in a moment,” said the owner, and led the way before Cabal could outline the advantages of forewarnings.
Cabal followed the man up into an enclosed stairwell and thence to a short landing above the taverna’s public room. He opened a door and gestured inside. With some small foreboding, Cabal entered, but was only surprised to find himself in the small private dining room alone. When the owner looked in, the glances he gave hither and thither showed he was not alone in this.
“He was here,” said the owner. He seemed mildly curious rather than perturbed. “An old man. He said you would be here soon.” He dispersed the mystery from his attention with a shake of his head. “He must have left for a minute. He will be back. I will bring you your meal, mister.”
“I didn’t come here to eat,” said Cabal sharply.
The taverna owner looked at him a little pityingly. “You cannot drink on an empty stomach. It is bad.” He vanished from the doorway, and Cabal heard his heavy tread descending the stairs.
Left alone, Johannes Cabal inspected the room. The first thing he noted — barely consciously but by a reflex born of hard experience — was that the room only had one door by which to enter and exit it. There was, however, a broad window overlooking the wood and canvas canopy that protected the outdoor dining area, and one light was open to allow the gentle sea breeze in. This, if push came to shove as it so often did, would allow a rapid if undignified egress, and the frame looked strong enough to bear the weight of a running necromancer should he decide to escape this way or that.
The room itself was as austere as the one below, with only a few small cheap prints of the Parthenon, the Acropolis, and the Sanctuary of Asklepios at Epidaurus to clutter the walls. There were a couple of bookshelves in an alcove, but these were barely troubled by a handful of books on each and, mercifully for Cabal’s easily bruised aesthetic sense, no items of bric-a-brac. For furniture, a square table with two chairs facing one another.
He was absorbed by the view across the bay to a steep headland when the taverna owner returned bearing a tray upon which was a plate of finger foods, some bread, a shot glass and a miniature bottle of green glass. He looked around the room, once more displaying some bemusement.
“You still can’t find this mysterious ‘friend’ of mine, can you?” ventured Cabal.
“Oh, no,” replied the owner, still peering around. “I have seen him just now, on the stairs ahead of me.” He looked at Cabal as if he could explain the matter. “The old gentleman came in here.”
“Nobody has come in here until you returned just now,” said Cabal with heavy emphasis. He looked at the tray. “Leave it on the table, if you would.”
The taverna owner did so and, with another glance around the room, left.
Cabal sat down, back to the window, facing the door, and arranged the meal to his satisfaction. The plate of bread here, the bowls of tzatziki and dolmadakia there, an array of crudites thus. He took a carrot stick — the presence of carrot was apparently the platter’s nod to international cuisine — and the small bottle, crunched thoughtfully upon the former as he regarded the latter. The bottle was stoppered with a small cork, sealed in orange wax, and the body was marked only with a simple label. It bore no writing, only the image of Ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail.
This was why he had come here. This was the product of a great investment in time and assets. He had to admit, it did not seem like so very much.
The glass contained a few fragments of ice, freshly chipped. He took his switchblade from his pocket, clicked it open, and carefully peeled away the seal. Once freed, the cork came away easily, and he dropped it by his plate. Cabal took a cautious sniff at the bottle’s open mouth, and shied a little from the strong smell of anise that met him. With a small grunt of displeasure — for he was no great devotee of louching spirits, be they sambuka, absinthe, or, as in this case, ouzo — he poured the liquid over the ice. As it mixed with the ice water brought bleeding from the fragments, the clear spirit grew cloudy. Cabal knew it was nothing more remarkable than the formation of an emulsion, but it seemed fancifully to him that the ouzo was making the water curdle. He thinned his lips, both in response to such an unscientific thought, and to the terrible ordeal that faced him. He strongly disliked ouzo and its kin.
He put the fateful moment off a little longer by dabbling another carrot stick in the tzatziki and slowly eating it. As he ate, he regarded the door before him. It was open, allowing him a view of the small, empty landing. This was not interesting in itself, but that he was sure the taverna owner had shut the door on leaving was. Yet, there it was, open. He had not turned his back on it for one second, nor barely taken his eyes from it. Yet, there it was. Open.
He has a strong sense that he already knew the significance of this and, although this was not intrinsically perilous in itself, still it served to make the room seem a little chillier. He took up the glass and sipped at the liquor. It was vile, by his lights in any case. Still, he was not here to enjoy the stuff, only to endure it. He tilted back his head and poured the foul stuff down his throat. Even as he was swallowing, he was slamming down the glass and reaching for some food to take the taste away. As he chewed on some fragments of salad, an old man entered the room.
The man did not introduce himself or even acknowledge Cabal’s presence immediately. He simply drew back the chair opposite Cabal and sat there, looking around the room with bored curiosity as if in a waiting room. Finally, he looked across the table yet still did not meet Cabal’s gaze until the man frowned slightly and he saw Cabal as if it were the first time he had even noticed he was present.
“Ah, said the man. “There you are.”
“I have been here the whole time,” said Cabal.
“No,” said the man. “No, you haven’t. Not the whole time.”
Cabal decided he didn’t like the man. Now it only remained to see where on the spectrum of animosity he should place him, which would indicate what actions he might pick from his palette of unpleasantness; anything from cutting sarcasm all the way through to emptying the Browning into the man.
Cabal looked the newcomer up and down. He seemed to be a reasonably well-preserved sixty-odd year old, thinning white hair, a pale complexion, blue eyes only a little rheumy. Cabal looked at the man’s eyes, then at the shape of his face. He exhaled contemptuously.
“Oh, for gods’ sakes,” Cabal said. “This is how the stuff works?”
“Well, yes,” said the man, complacently. “What were you expecting? A shining tunnel into the unknown? Really, young man, if you’d continued your researches even an hour longer, this would be no surprise to you.”
“I researched for three weeks.”
“Should have made it three weeks and an hour then, shouldn’t you?” The man helped himself to some bread and dolmadakia. “Don’t mind, do you?” he said, and started eating without waiting for a reply.
The man ate unhurriedly for the next half a minute, while Cabal’s short fuse burnt out. “Well?” he demanded finally. “Tell me.”
The man had just taken a bite of bread and chewed it slowly, at the same time signalling by means of hand gestures to Cabal that he had just taken a bite of bread, was chewing it slowly, and would Cabal be so kind as to wait until he had swallowed?
“There,” he said, once he had swallowed, “much better. I missed breakfast to be here.”
“Do I really become so irritating?”
“Not at all,” said the man, who was also Johannes Cabal. “You’re irritating now. You simply become a little more urbane in how you express it. There, I have vouchsafed you a vision of the future. I’ll be getting along now.” He did not get up, but only smiled at Cabal. “Not really what you had in mind, is it?”
“You know full well why you’re here,” said Cabal, grateful that he could theoretically do his future self to death without endangering his own existence.
The man picked up the empty bottle and examined the wordless label. “Ouroboros Ouzo. One of a number of interesting potions that will only work for the imbiber once. You appreciate that I have spent many years wishing I’d saved that coin for a more worthy use? Still…” He shook the bottle and put it down. “What is done is done.” Cabal started to open his mouth, but the man interrupted him with, “Yes, I’m sure that if you had really wanted a selection of well-worn aphorisms, you could have bought a box of Christmas crackers and regaled yourself with the mottoes. I remember saying that when once I sat where you are now sitting. My, I was so amusing.”
He smiled. He did so easily, and Cabal realised that he must do so habitually. A small terror ran through him; just what monster had he summoned from the veiled future? But, wait…
“Was that sarcasm?”
“Yes.” The smile did not waver. “Of the cutting variety. So, I am summoned, by the agency of a platter of food and a disgusting drink. Indeed, I can tell you this of your future; you shall never acquire a liking for ouzo. Still, much nicer than all that mucking around with dead goats and suchlike when you’re summoning demons. That never gets any better.”
“If you are me,” said Cabal, although he knew it certainly was, “then you know what I am about to ask.”
“Of course.” The man leaned forward, the smile fading. “You will also appreciate why I cannot tell you.”
Cabal did not. “What?” he said, slightly stunned by this development. “You had better be able to tell me. I did not willingly…”
“Yes, yes, I know. How can I not? It’s inconvenient, it’s hot, you feel your dignity is being weighed upon although, if it’s any compensation, that outfit actually rather suits you.”
“No compensation at all,” said Cabal, anger flicking like a cat’s tail.
“Little point in growing angry with me. The only reason I am not furious with you is that I have had years to get over it. Indeed, I have reconciled myself to my imminent extinction at your hands. Not actual hands,” he added quickly. “Metaphorical hands.”
Ouroboros Ouzo: A Johannes Cabal Story (Johannes Cabal series) Page 1
