oye como va, mi ritmo
bueno pa gozar, mulata
Spain was, and is, a predominantly Roman Catholic country. Before Mallos had been locked under the Alhambra, it had been in the interests of every man to attend church if he didn’t want to face enquiries. Consequently, he’s well versed with the Bible despite not having read it for over a thousand years, so the little book’s stories have a warm, familiar air to them. Mallos isn’t a Christian – like most of the other deities, he never talks about his personal beliefs – but there are few who would deny the engaging nature of the Old Testament stories. He’s skimmed the creation story and is reading the very intriguing story of Jonah and the whale when something rather unexpected happens: the door bursts open. From down the corridor, the pattering of feet shatters the library’s tranquillity.
Mallos’ attention had been so focused on the book that he hadn’t noticed it had begun to rain outside. Although, ‘rain’ is something of an understatement for what’s happening outside; it’s positively lashing it down. One of the library’s windows is open and a table bearing the weight of about twenty hard-backed leather-bound books is already dripping. Frowning slightly, Mallos shuts the book and places is gently onto the arm of an antique chair before striding over to the open window. As he moves, the old floorboards creak and the sound of movement in the corridor stops abruptly. The metal window latch has seized up, causing Mallos’ frown to cut a little deeper into his face as he wrestles with it. A sharp shove does the trick and, after the window slams shut with an echoing bang, he takes a moment to wipe the water from his face with his shirt sleeve before crossing the room back to his original place. He’s just picked the book up again when a young voice pipes up, explaining the mystery of the self-opening door. Mallos turns slowly to see a boy of about seven or eight standing in the open doorway.
‘He looks like Arthur,’ is the Spaniard’s first thought, and a fleeting smile crosses his face. He knows the name of his grandchildren from Lilith, but he’s never met either of them. It’s the boy’s manner more than his appearance which screams of his father; perhaps because he’s looking for it, Mallos can certainly see some of Lilith softening his face and frame, and he recognises Nimueh’s green eyes. The deity is entirely unperturbed by the child’s obvious wariness, or by the way his hand hovers over the hilt of the dagger on his belt. Indeed, the aura of calmness radiating from his person is broken only by the impish glint in his dark eyes. He looks the boy up and down a couple of times with a calculating expression on his face before holding up the book in silent answer to the first question. According to the stories, King Arthur had a number of languages so that he could converse with ambassadors and royals of other nations. What those languages were and how much of them he’d imposed on his children, Mallos is interested to find out.
“No, no lo hizo,” he replies steadily, enunciating clearly but otherwise speaking at his usual speed. “¿Es Gawain o Tristan?”
‘No, he didn’t. Is it Gawain or Tristan?’
He watches him for a moment, a smile playing lightly at the corner of his lips, before turning and crossing the short distance to the old chair. It’s upholstered with a particularly old-fashioned red and yellow pattern that Mallos choose to ignore as he settles into it. Perching his elbows on each arm, he watches his grandson over steepled fingers, waiting patiently. His stance is relaxed but slightly defiant, as if to show the boy that he isn’t going anywhere.
After a moment or two, he follows up the first question with, “¿Su padre le enseñe mi idioma?” ‘Did your father teach you my language?’
