CHAPTER 5
Un bel dì, vedremo
levarsi un fil di fumo
sull'estremo confin del mare.
E poi la nave appare.
Poi la nave bianca
entra nel porto, romba il suo saluto.
Vedi? È venuto!
(translation)
One fine day we'll notice
A thread of smoke arising on the sea
In the far horizon.
And then the ship appears;
Then the trim white vessel
Glides into the harbour, and thunders forth her cannon.
You see? He has come!
—Un Bel Dì
From the opera "Madama Butterfly" by Giacomo Puccini
Arranged side-by-side in pretty rainbow flanks, Ziggy examined his collection of sweets. They were to remain upon his bedside table today, uneaten.
Instead, the little boy rushed into the kitchen and started sifting through the large fruit bowl sitting upon the breakfast table. After a few moments, he extracted the biggest, brightest, crispiest Granny Smith he could find. Rushing over to the sink, he washed it thoroughly (his mother sighing as jets of water richoceted off the fruit onto her clean countertop), and polished it with a cheerful yellow tea-towel until it squeaked.
This would be the most perfect welcoming gift ever.
He had been with Mummy when they had bought the apple, along with its friends, at the Lazytown supermarket. It was a wholly unglamourous experience, flavoured by bland music piped from the store's speakers and the trademark off-white of supermarket décor. It was nothing like the succulent joys of the small local candy store, with its packed shelves of lollipops and chocolate bonbons, bursting with colour, fragrance and the delighted squeals of other children. Before Sportacus had come along, this was all Ziggy had been able to see.
The little boy recalled the first time he had plunged his hands into the rich, dark soil of the community garden. It was a cherished memory— not only because of the fresh air and good company, but because it had been the first time when he had truly absorbed Sportacus' words. Things had an inner existence. The apple in his hands did not boast a plain supermarket shelf as its habitat: it was a living thing that had beed created by sun, rain and earth: things whose beauty and power awed Ziggy in their scope. He was aware that these magical elements were still well beyond his juvenile understanding. But the processed, super-sugary sweets in his bedroom, no matter how tasty they were, had started out as goo in a grey, noisy factory. Any natural qualities had been long lost in the angry clank and grind of machinery. There was no beauty in such an origin, at least as far as he could see.
It was as if his hero had come from a whole different world, one more enchanted and powerful than the insulated small town community. And as warm and open as Sportacus had always been, it felt as if there was always a field of mystique surrounding him. When Stephanie's uncle had told the children about the tantalising 'island in the North Sea', Ziggy had ached to know more. (Mummy had shown him a chart of the island in an atlas, but all the spidery squiggles and unpronounceable place-names did not hold the six-year-old's imagination much).
When it was announced that Sportacus' father was going to visit, he could barely contain himself.
"Come on come on come on let's go let's go!"
His mother sighed.
"It's only seven-thirty, dearest, he's not due for another hour yet."
Unheeding of his mother's words, Ziggy clambered up onto the couch in the living room to get a good view of the town square. Officer Lolli was already pacing about in wide circles, twirling his nightstick.
Someone else was up and about. A huge pair of magenta binoculars, perched beneath a bubblegum-pink bob, was concentrated on the pale morning sky. Ziggy flung open the window and squirmed his way out, ignoring the censure of his mother.
"Hey, STEPHANIE!"
She smiled as the boy ran up to her.
"No sign of him yet," she reported. Ziggy was not the only one impatient to meet him.
He held up the Granny Smith. "Look what I've got for him," he announced proudly.
Stephanie beamed. "He'll like that."
"And it's better than a lollipop," the boy added emphatically.
As the next hour passed, clumps of people began to settle themselves outside Town Hall, yammering away to each other with self-possessed anticipation. The township's morale was in need of a boost, and it seemed the people had agreed to treat this morning as a celebration. He was a longtime, sadly missed friend to the town. Along with the feeling of merriment, there was a highly-strung expectation that Sportacus' father would slip into the role of hero and problem-solver, effortlessly sweeping away the looming menace which had already taken a life. There had been warnings from some quarters that the old elf may not have had the capability for this. Sportacus himself ignored his own doubts, reassuring the townspeople of his father's expertise. At any rate, a wiseman from an exotic realm would at least provide a fresh perspective for the whole mess.
Trixie gawked at her brightly-coloured wristwatch. "It's eight-thirty! He'll be here any minute!"
The children had perched themselves on a wooden bench near a cluster of trees. The square was, by now, packed with what must have been every person in town, as well as families from the outlying dairy farms. Amongst the tumult, a striped blue hat could be seen rushing about with a nervous pace, trying to cool the warming atmosphere. The impatient excitement had aroused some tempers, and the last thing the elf wanted his parent and mentor to see was a township coming to blows.
One by one, faces turned to the sky above. The noise died down, and the minutes ticked agonisingly away. A tense hush slowly subdued everyone.
Ziggy reached for the Granny Smith he had set lovingly upon the bench's armrest, eager to have it ready to bequeath.
He let out a little cry of muted panic when he saw that it had gone. As the others remained still, waiting, the little boy clambered down from the bench and began scouring the grass for his treasure. The sun was still low in the sky, and it was hard to make out much in the shade of the trees. His short fingers fumbled about clumsily.
He started. Something fell from above, striking him square on his crown.
It bounced carelessly onto the soft grass, into Ziggy's line of sight. It was an ex-Granny Smith apple, its white flesh stripped to the core.
Before he could react, some great beast swooped down out of the trees with a powerful whoosh. It lighted nimbly upon the ground, and Ziggy found himself staring at a pair of booted feet.
"Thank you very much for the gift, young man, it made a superb breakfast!"
There were sounds of gushing coming from the square, but Ziggy was transfixed by the figure standing before him.
Though clearly in the Autumn of his life, everything about this elf-man suggested Springtime. The smile lines engraved upon his face, the wholesome glow of his cheek, and the sprightly body language that Ziggy had only ever seen in one other person. His moustache, bushy and full, was a vivid chestnut, flecked with grey. His old-world attire was likewise— a mix of saffron, silver and many shades of brown. The little boy thought it gave him the appearance of a clever old fox. Half wreathed in shadow, his eyes glinting, there was something not quite real about him, like a watercolour out of an aged storybook. It was absolutely wonderful.
Ziggy now noticed the insignia on his leather breastplate: a bright red, calligraphic number nine.
"You're…" he breathed.
The elf-man raised an eyebrow, then let rip with a deep, delighted laugh. He held a hand out to the boy, helping him to his feet.
"Now, let me repay the kind gesture, dear boy!" With bafflingly swift sleight of hand, he produced a delectably crisp-looking red apple and placed it gently in Ziggy's hands.
"Thank you," he said in a small, dumbfounded voice.
"Number Nine!" Someone called out.
The elf-man stepped into the sunshine, greeting the throng, and his praises began to be sung. The children gaped at the scene— the parents and authority figures of Lazytown had gathered around him like giddy, frolicsome puppies. Adults in business suits ran up to hug him with beatific, ear-to-ear grins. Everyone between the ages of twenty-five and forty had thrown off reserve in place of an almost infantile idolatry. Nicotine stains, love handles and receding hairlines were forgotten in a haze of nostalgic rapture.
"Why are they acting like that?" Stingy wondered out loud.
"Isn't it obvious?" Stephanie replied. "Number Nine was the grown ups' own Sportacus."
Milford paced down from the Town Hall steps evenly, head held high as he approached the old hero. As their eyes met, they regarded each other with gentlemanly decorum.
This pretense was very quickly cast off.
"Milford, you old dog!" They embraced like brothers.
"Oh, Níu, I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again. But we were expecting to see you descend from the sky. Where is—"
"—Brynhildur? Oh, she's just a little shy this morning."
Níu briskly turned around, put his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp, beckoning whistle. From behind a large, fluffy cumulonimbus, an extraordinary vessel sailed into view. Unlike the other sleek blue airship floating above the town, she had the same distinct old-world aura as her captain. Rounder, larger and decidedly more organic, she boasted an elegantly curved wooden body which resembled that of a galleon. This was held aloft by an elaborately rigged silk balloon of three massive compartments.
Milford chuckled. "I see the old girl's still sky-worthy."
"Old elf technology," Níu murmured. "We build things to last. Now, what's all this business I hear about the Doctor's house?"
In instant response, Níu felt a gentle tug on the side of his baggy trousers.
"Excuse me? Mr Sportacus' daddy, sir?"
"Ah! The little apple-bearer!" Níu exclaimed.
"My name is Ziggy, sir."
"A very fine name, indeed. You may call me 'Níu'."
Ziggy smiled shyly. "That's an interesting name."
"Ha, I'm sure you've never known anyone else with such a title."
The boy shook his head.
"My other title is 'Íþróttaálfurinn'," Níu stated.
Ziggy'seyes goggled. "I hope I don't have to call you that."
Níu laughed again, the same joyful, deep laugh as before. "I like you already, Ziggy!"
The smile that blossomed on the child's face momentarily blocked out the morning sun.
The two looked up to see a zippy blue blur scoring an uneven path through the crowd. It came to rest by their side.
"Sorry sorry sorry…" Sportacus babbled, "A cat got stuck up a tall tree the moment you appeared!"
Níu's face suddenly darkened. "Whelp," he declared, giving the younger elf a light clip on the head. "That's the same excuse you employed as a lad when you would come home late. How daft do you think your old father is?"
"But, Pabbi…"
A round of high giggles chimed out from the bottom of the steps. As the other citizens began to mill about and wander back through the town, the children had approached. To their view, Sportacus being scolded was an irregular— and therefore hilarious— phenomenon.
"You think I could come here and not expect a warm welcome from my own son?"
The cringe on Sportacus' brow deepened, his usual confident bearing humbled. "I…"
"Oh, come here, boy."
The next thing he knew, the superhero was being crushed by an impassioned bear hug. "I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too, Pabbi."
Níu finally released him, clamping his hands on the younger elf's shoulders. "Don't think we haven't heard about your exploits. Milford's been raving about your good influence in his letters. Your mother wanted me to tell you how proud she is."
"She's not here?"
Níu shook his head. "She wanted to come, but last week, Ari's two girls decided it would be fun to play with fireworks inside the school hall. Your mother has to hold her classes beside the large mossy hillock until it's rebuilt."
"Your mother is a teacher, Sportacus?"
Stephanie's eyes were sparkling, gazing up at both of the elves with sheer admiration.
Níu grinned down at the girl. "Ah, you must be Stephanie."
She bounced a little on her toes. "Yeah, that's me, Mister Níu," she replied in a fluttery voice.
He knelt down slightly to meet her eye level. "You know, my dear, that boy of mine always hassled me for a little sister to play with. From the way your uncle describes the two of you, I'd say his wish has come true."
Stephanie batted her eyes heavily as a blush clouded her cheeks.
Sportacus cleared his throat. "What about Percy and Odie, Pabbi?"
"Oh, they're just fine. They wish you as well as you can be, but they're both busy with their own daring deeds."
"Who are Percy and Odie?" Ziggy asked.
"They're my older brothers," Sportacus informed him. "I wish you guys could have met them today," he sighed.
"Wow, Sportacus, your family all have such funny names," Trixie remarked, and the group laughed.
Níu explained. "The wedding present I gave my wife was a beautiful, leather-bound book of stories from Ancient Greece, which I picked up on my journeys through the Mediterranean. She loved it so much, she named our boys after her three favourite heroes. Percy and Odie are short for 'Perseus' and 'Odysseus', respectively."
"And Sportacus?" Stephanie asked.
"Named 'Spartacus' at birth, after the liberator of the Roman slaves," he replied.
'Spartacus' made a face at this.
"But the little fellow would never sit still. Always jumping around or playing with a ball, and the nickname his brothers gave him stuck."
"It's way better than 'Spartacus'," Sportacus muttered.
Another peal of laughter tore through the group. All the children shared a jolt of delight at the concept that their hero was also a son and a little brother. For some reason, this revelation had not lessened their respect for him. If anything, it had reinforced their bond, the connection that denoted he was one of their own.
Milford unobtrusively slipped back into his office as the two elves and brood of young ones took off to the sports park. It had been a while since spirits had been so high— Níu's return had been just the burst of brightness that the Mayor had hoped for. His little niece certainly hadn't smiled so much since Murgatroid's death.
The unpleasant business of Deverhill Manor, Milford decided, could wait until tomorrow.
**
"Kick it to me! Kick it to me, Mister Níu!"
A carefully aimed football zoomed across the ground into Stingy's clutches. He dribbled it up the midfield, until he was level with the goal.
"Bend it like Beckham, Stingy!" Trixie called out.
Taking aim, the boy slammed a yellow trainer into the ball, sending it flying. It would have easily scored, if it hadn't knocked the unfocused goalkeeper square in the back of the head, flying back out towards the halfway line.
"Woooh!" Stephanie raised clenched fists to the heavens in triumph. "Good save, Sportacus!"
"Huh?"
Níu let out a huff of a sigh. "What's with you, boy?"
As the children rushed over to the benches for a breather, the older elf cornered the younger.
"Alright, out with it."
"Out with what?" Sportacus frowned at him.
"Nothing distracts you from football but something really serious. And you're so rarely capable of 'serious'."
After a few moments, a hangdog smirk registered on his face.
"My crystal," he answered. "It beeped on the night before we found the Mayor's uncle, and for some reason it didn't lead me to him."
Níu nodded in understanding. "Yes… yes. Old Murgatroid. Poor jackass. I suspect Ignatius left something nasty in his house that the authorities never found. I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of it in time."
Níu stared up at the hill where the manor stood, becoming lost in his own musings. Sportacus' impatience spurred him on.
"Why couldn't I help him, Pabbi?"
He continued staring at the hill, and drew breath to speak.
"You know the real tragedy about Murgatroid Meanswell? He was a loner through and through. Even in his youth. Far too rational, I'd say. Only saw the world in terms of objects, instead of the relational spaces between. I'm quite sure dear Milford was the only company he ever welcomed. Even his grand-niece— big-hearted, inquisitive little thing she is— was ignorant of his existence."
Níu fell silent again. Sportacus itched for an explanation to all of this.
"This is not a pleasant question, Sportacus… How many people in the world do you think are suffering right now?"
Sportacus shook his head reflexively. "I don't know… lots?"
"'Lots' would be right. And why isn't your crystal beeping for them?"
Sportacus could not answer this.
"Because you do not know those people. You may wish happiness upon strangers, but you cannot take them into your heart, you cannot love them. Murgatroid was a stranger to you, through no fault of your own."
Sportacus looked into his father's eyes, a weighty notion being shared between them.
"Isolation is a devastating poison, and too often, self-inflicted. It is a terrible crime to cut oneself off from the pulse of the world like that, to be alone."
Sportacus took a deep breath, allowing himself to absorb these words.
He balked a little when his father's face split into a wide smile.
"Well, I never!"
Sportacus looked over his shoulder. Níu's gaze was concentrated on a corner of a nearby wall, where the younger elf just made out a sliver of dark purple darting quickly behind the canary-coloured stucco.
The old elf bounded over to the wall, discovering a rather terrified villain cowering behind it.
"If it isn't little Robbie Deverhill!"
Too scared to run, the stooped-over man could only scowl at the outdated surname he was adressed with.
"I would have thought you'd be long gone from Lazytown by now, off to seek fame and fortune with those formidable talents of yours. What's keeping you in this little town?"
Robbie looked from one stupidly cheerful elf to the other, too struck with dismay to craft a good comeback.
"It's Rotten, now," he said finally, with as much spite as he could muster.
"Pardon me?" Níu queried.
"I'm Robbie ROTTEN, old man. There was no way I was keeping his foul name."
"He's as rotten as they come!" Trixie blurted out from behind the three men. Eager to resume the game, the children had scuttled over to join the elves.
"Pabbi, Robbie has taken the post of local villain," Sportacus explained in a subdued manner.
Disappointment splashed across Níu's face. "Oh, Robbie," he groaned, a descending cadence to his voice. "I had surely thought you would have risen above such vice by now."
The tall man's lip twitched, anger escalating. He finally came up with an insult.
Níu frowned deeply at the expletive, and it almost caused Sportacus to faint. Though it was obviously an Icelandic term, it certainly sounded pretty horrid to the children.
"Yes, well, I can see that hasn't changed," the older elf tutted.
Ziggy wanted to back away from the irate figure, but something sparked in the back of his mind. He tentatively stepped toward the man and tried to catch his eye.
"Um, Robbie?"
The villain desperatley wanted to be elsewhere. "What?"
Rallying his courage, Ziggy produced the crisp red apple Níu had given him and held it out.
"Y-you can have this, if it will make you feel better."
Thorough revulsion was hurled his way.
"What are you trying to do, you little brat? Poison me?"
He thrust himself to his feet, curtly turning his back on the boy. "You can keep that disgusting thing."
As he stomped off, Ziggy's wobbling lip gave way to a deluge of tears, at which his friends quickly came to his aid.
"Oh, Ziggy, don't worry about what he said," Stephanie cooed, patting the boy's back gently.
"Yeah, he's just a stupid crook, anyway," Stingy testified.
As the others eased the blonde child's distress, Sportacus watched the escaping form of Robbie with unerring concern.
"Should I go talk to him?" Sportacus asked his father.
Níu held up a halting hand, his own eyes set upon the children. He watched silently as Stephanie insisted Ziggy enjoy the apple he was so willing to share. They sat in a ring on the grass, all fawning over the smallest member of their group.
"I really think I should—"
"It'll just make it worse," Níu insisted.
The older elf's impassiveness seemed to fuel his son's fidgeting all the more.
He adressed Sportacus without looking up. "The bond between the elf and the human child is a strong one."
"I know, Pabbi." He rolled his eyes, dismissive of what he saw as a redundant statement.
Níu continued. "They understand and appreciate our people on a level that most human adults cannot. So often do they become our playmates and friends, and so often do we become their protectors."
Sportacus examined his father's face. His usual puckish smile was there, but somehow it didn't seem as lively. His vivid blue eyes had dimmed a little as he watched the children's attempts to cheer Ziggy up.
"A child abused, neglected, lost or lonely is an intolerable offense to an elf. The worst offense."
Anxiousness stilled Sportacus' fidgeting.
"Pabbi?"
A long silence went by. Níu watched a band of fat, grey storm clouds behind his son's head sail slowly past.
"I should have been aware. I should have made myself aware. He was not going to just settle down as he grew older. But I chalked all those bruises up to the fights he'd always get into. I was too much of a coward to dwell on the alternative answer."
The younger elf was burning with questions, but waited for his father to speak again.
"I tried, at first, it's not like I didn't try. But I gave up on him too soon. That is even more of a betrayal. No child should be denied the patience of their guardians. I made time for every child in Lazytown but him."
His words began to make sense. "Robbie."
Níu had closed his eyes, sinking into his memories. "There's no excuse. Much of the fault lies with me. To think that after his daily scolding for graffiti and curse words, I always readily dumped him back into that lion's den. And when the Doctor was arrested, it was only for the trespasses he'd made in his research! He was never charged for those years of abuse... I'm sure feeling invisible was even harder for Robbie to tolerate than being frowned upon. He has a right to scorn me."
"But it wasn't your fault at all, Pabbi!" Sportacus cried.
Níu shook his head. A sad kind of heat entered his voice as he spoke next. "There's no use rewriting the past, boy. What's done is done, and we all have to bear the consequences. Robbie is the greatest single regret of my life. He is not the child that I couldn't save. He is the child that I could have saved, had I not insisted on my delusions so."
A chilly North wind rustled the trees. The two elves slowly turned their attention back towards the brood of children lolling about on the grass.
"They are precious. Don't make the same mistake I did, Sportacus."
Sportacus displayed a rare moment of reverence. "I'll try my best not to, Pabbi."
**
A/N: Yay Nine. Plenty of backstory. A lot of the information given in this story is in retrospect, I noticed. It has a lot to do with family history, I guess. :P