Wallace Arden Garrity was going to die. He hadn't been to a doctor, hadn't had a gypsy curse laid on him; he was just one of those people who had knowledge of the time of their own deaths.

Soon.

He'd accomplished what he'd meant to. It was easy to push yourself beyond all endurance when you knew how much time you'd have left--less than thirty years, all told. Four albums: two plats and one gold, the rock'n'roll ones. The last was what you might call "classical." He'd been compared to Yanni and John Tesch by fool who knew better. Knowing death was coming made even that bearable, somehow.

He'd finished his last tour. He'd written his will, leaving his money to his sisters and his catalogue to an old girlfriend who'd see it done right. The one thing he'd scratched off his schedule had been writing his memoirs. He'd settled for liner notes on his last album, and even doing that had grown tiresome.

And now it was time to go home.

At the desk, Sarah took one look at him and burst into tears. "Not you, too!"

He nodded. "Me, too. I've known my whole life the time I would die."

"But it doesn't have to happen like this!"

"Why would I want anything else?" he asked.

Sarah sighed. "I suppose not. Some people want to be here. Me, I don't think about anything else. Out. That's all I want. It's all I care about. Oh, nevermind, Mr. Garrity. You don't need to hear my troubles."

"Call me Arden." He pulled her head toward him and kissed her on the forehead. "You'll find what you need. I promise."

"That's sweet," Sarah said. "But when I look in the mirror, I don't think so."

She gave him a key, changed her mind, and took it back. "Not the pagodas--not the pagodas--"

"It won't matter," Arden said.

Her hand froze on the rack of keys. "Oh, Mr. Garrity!"

To tell the truth, he was soaking up her pity like it was tropical sunshine.

---

She gat him what must have been the most ordinary, mundane room in the place. It was still more interesting than a room in the Louvre. He'd never been a big reader, so he skipped the titles on the bookshelves, but he liked the oriental scroll of a grumpy old man, the complicated brass compass with the mermaid on it, the golden apples and silver trees inlaid into the wainscotting.

The bellboys brought up boxes and cartons of instruments and amplifiers and wardrobe and sheet music. No matter how many boxes they brought, the room never seemed to fill up.

It was all in the will.

He showered and dressed in a white tux, which set off his auburn hair smartly. Downstairs in the restaurant a grand piano had been set up.

The waiter, who Arden sometimes suspected of owning the place, brought him a silver platter with canapes, a glass of water, and a tiny flute of what looked like pure gold. He tapped the edge of the smaller glass with a pale finger. "Afterwards," he mouthed. The waiter tipped his tophat to him.

Arden nodded and sat. He began with some classical Spanish guitar pieces he'd adapted for piano, becuase it was early in the afternoon and he knew he'd have to save his voice for later. He tried one of the canapes--a tiny piece of toast with spiced cheese and dried flecks of tomato--but it turned his stomach.

He moved on to some of the deceptively easy Beethoven pieces. Here and there, he couldn't resist throwing in a motif stolen from one or another of his old rock songs.

Antonio, whom he'd met on his first trip, refilled his glass of water and stayed to listen as Arden shifted over to Scott Joplin and a few of the songwriters who'd loved him. A woman Arden hadn't met joined them and started scatting the words to Carl Sandburg poems--she had an interesting take on the word s-s-s-smoke--so he shifted to jazz.

Antonio kissed the woman on the cheek and went back to the bar. She fetched another glass of water, sat on the edge of the bench, and drank martinis. If Arden hadn't had someone else in mind, the way she ate her olives would have been suggestive.

By then, the restaurant was starting to fill up with guests. He'd heard some of their stories from Antonion over late-night drinks last time he was here. He chuckled. In a way, he was about to join them.

The woman whispered, "Gotta go," and squeezed him around the waist.

Arden switched to some lovely adaptations of pop songs. He'd refused to look over his shoulder, but he knew it was there, and she was listening: the painting of the wood nymph had spoken to him last time. "Chase me!" she'd giggled. He played songs that begged for a woman's voice, but there was no answer.

Antonio brought another glass of water from the bar. Time to begin. Time to really begin.

He sang the material from his fourth album, just to get it out of the way--no, he admitted to himself, part of him wanted to make sure people knew who'd been serenading them all evening, before he died at midnight.

Then he started playing the new songs, the ones she hadn't heard yet. He listened carefully and thought he heard a rustling behind him.

But that was it.

Nine o'clock. Ten o'clock. Eleven o'clock. Midnight.

He ran out of songs, ran out of time, took a deep breath, and started over.

Maybe he wasn't going to die, after all.

About three in the morning, he stopped, because he realized she wasn't coming.

Arden pushed back the bench and closed the lid. The place was empty--even Antonio had gone home. His water glass was dry, but the golden liqueur on the top of the piano beckoned him.

He picked up the tiny crystal flute and sipped. His voice had becmone nothing but a croak, bu the salty, lemony liqueur soothed his throat. He belatedly raised his glass to the room and said: "To the wood nymph!"

It seemed like a thousand ghosts toasted back. "To the wood nymph!"

Behind him, he heard two soft footsteps. He turned, and there she was, stepping out of the painting, naked but for a thin slip, smiling at him.

He opened his mouth--he had, thanks to the liqueur, one last duet in him--

She raised her finger to his lips. "Shh."

He nodded, and she smiled wider. That's when he saw her teeth.

---

"Delicious carcass," Hannah said.

"I don't see why you had to eat me," the satyr in the picture said.

"One of those ritual sacrifice things," Hannah quipped.

"Oh, well." The satyr pulled a set of panpipes out of his fur and began to play.

---

• Sarah At The Desk
• Waterlogged
• Maybe Not Tonight
• A Wet Way to Live
• The Horror Hour
• Bookshelf
• How Antonio Saved the Circus
• The Bartender’s Guide to Serving Mythical Creatures
• Karaoke Night Tonight
• Freckles and Lemonade

- De Knippling

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