Much against his will, Cal edged through the crowd towards the rectangle of wicks.

‘Really ...' he said to Lo. ‘I don't think ...'

‘You've eaten freely of my fruit,' said Lo, without rancour. ‘The least you can do is entertain us.'

Cal looked about him for some support, but all he saw were expectant faces.

‘I can't sing, and I've two left feet,' he pointed out, still hoping self-depreciation might earn him an escape-route.

‘Your great-grandfather was a poet, wasn't he?' said Lemuel, his tone almost rebuking Cal for not making mention of the fact.

‘He was,' said Cal.

‘And can you not quote your own great-grandfather?' said Lemuel.

Cal thought about this for a moment. It was clear he was not going to be released from this circle without at least making some stab at recompense for his greed, and Lemuel's suggestion was not a bad one. Many years ago Brendan had taught Cal one or two fragments of Mad Mooney's verse. They'd meant little enough to Cal at the time - he'd been about six years old - but their rhymes had been intriguing.

The rug is yours,' said Lemuel, and stood aside to let Cal have access to the performing area. Before he'd had an opportunity to run any of the lines through his head - it was two decades since he'd learnt them; how much would he remember? - he was standing on the rug, staring across the flickering footlights at his audience.

‘What Mr Lo says is true ...' he said, all hesitation,'... my great-grandfather...'

‘Speak up,' somebody said.

‘... my great-grandfather was a poet. I'll try and recite one of his verses. I don't know if I can remember them, but I'll do my best.'

There was scattered applause at this, which made Cal more uneasy than ever.

‘What's it called, this poem?' said Lemuel.

Cal wracked his brain. The title had meant even less than the lines when he'd first been taught it, but he'd learned it anyway, parrot-fashion.

‘It's called Six Commonplaces.' he said, his tongue quicker to shape the words than his brain was to dust them off.

‘Tell it, my friend,' said the orchard-keeper.

The audience stood with bated breath; the only movement now was that of the flames around the rug.

Cal began.

‘One part of love...'

For a terrible instant his mind went totally blank. If somebody had asked him his name at that juncture he would not have been able to reply. Four words, and he was suddenly speechless.

In that moment of panic he realized that he wanted more than anything in the world to please this gracious gathering; to show them how glad he was to be amongst them. But his damn tongue-

At the back of his head, the poet said:

‘Go on, boy. Tell them what you know. Don't try and remember. Just speak.'

He began again, not falteringly this time, but strongly, as though he knew these lines perfectly well. And damn it, he did. They flowed from him easily, and he heard himself speaking them in a voice he'd never have thought himself capable of. A bard's voice, declaiming.

‘One part of love is innocence, One part of love is guilt. One part the milk, that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt. One part of love is sentiment. One part of love is lust. One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust.'

Eight lines, and it was all over; over, and he was standing, the lines buzzing in his head, both pleased that he'd got through the verse without fumbling, and wishing it could have gone on a while longer. He looked at the audience. They were not smiling any longer, but staring at him with an odd puzzlement in their eyes. For an instant he thought maybe he'd offended them. Then came the applause, hands raised above their heads. There were shouts and whistles.

‘It's a fine poem!' Lo said, applauding heartily as he spoke. ‘And finely delivered!'

So saying, he stepped out of the audience again and embraced Cal with fervour.

‘Do you hear?' Cal said to the poet in his skull. They like you.'

And back came another fragment, as if fresh from Mad Mooney's lips. He didn't speak it this time: but he heard it clearly.

Forgive my Art. On bended knees, I do confess: I seek to please.

And it was a fine thing, this pleasing business. He returned Lemuel's hug.

‘Help yourself, Mr Mooney,' the orchard-keeper said, ‘to all the fruit you can eat.'

Thank you,' said Cal.

‘Did you ever know the poet?' he asked.

‘No,' said Cal. ‘He was dead before I was born.'

‘Who can call a man dead whose words still hush us and whose sentiments move?' Mr Lo replied.

That's true.' said Cal.

‘Of course it's true. Would I tell a lie on a night like this?'

Having spoken, Lemuel called somebody else out of the crowd: another performer brought to the rug. Cal felt a pang of envy as he stepped over the footlights. He wanted that breathless moment again: wanted to feel the audience held by his words, moved and marked by them. He made a mental note to learn some more of Mad Mooney's verses if and when he saw his father's house again, so that next time he was here he had new lines to enchant with.

His hand was shaken and his face kissed half a dozen times as he made his way back through the crowd. When he turned round to face the rug once more, he was surprised to find that the next performers were Boaz and Ganza. Doubly surprised: they were both naked. There was nothing overtly sexual in their nakedness: indeed it was as formal in its way as the clothes they'd shrugged off. Nor was there any trace of discomfort amongst the audience: they watched the pair with the same grave and expectant looks as they'd watched him.

Boaz and Ganza had gone to opposite sides of the carpet, halted there a beat, then turned and begun to walk towards each other. They advanced slowly, until they were nose to nose, lip to lip. It crossed Cal's mind that maybe some erotic display was in the offing, and in a way that confounded his every definition of erotic, that was true, for they continued to walk towards each other, or so his eyes testified, pressing into each other, their faces disappearing, their torsos congealing, their limbs too, until they were one body, the head an almost featureless ball.

The illusion was absolute. But there was more to come; for the partners were still moving forward, their faces appearing now to press through the back of each other's craniums, as though the bone was soft as marshmallow. And still they advanced, until they were like Siamese twins born back to back, their single skull now teased out, and boasting two faces.

As if this weren't enough, there was a further twist to the trick, for somehow in the flux they'd exchanged genders, to stand finally — quite separate once more — in their partner's place.

Love's like that, the monkey had said. Here was the point proved, in flesh and blood.

As the performers bowed, and fresh applause broke out, Cal detached himself from the crowd and began to wander back through the trees. Several vague thoughts were in his head. One, that he couldn't linger here all night, and should soon go in search of Suzanna. Another that it might be wise to seek a guide. The monkey, perhaps?

But first, the laden branches drew his eye again. He reached, took another handful of fruit, and began to peel. Lo's ad hoc vaudeville was still going on behind him. He heard laughter, then more applause, and the music began again.

He felt his limbs growing heavier; his fingers were barely the equal of the peeling; his eye-lids drooped. Deciding he'd better sit down before he fell down, he settled beneath one of the trees.

Drowsiness was claiming him, and he had no power to resist it. There was no harm in dozing for a while. He was safe here, in the wash of starlight and applause. His eyes flickered closed. It seemed he could see his dreams approaching - their light growing brighter, their voices louder. He smiled to greet them.