Oisín McGann - Ancient Appetites

His father's desk was nearly ten feet wide, and made of solid teak. Behind it, dressed in a burgundy waistcoat over a white shirt, a cigar clamped between his teeth, sat the Patriarch. Ensconced in a tall teak and leather chair, his large head hunched over an obese body, Edgar Wildenstern resembled some kind of albino razorback boar, but for the eyes – one startlingly blue, one milky white – that fixed Nathaniel in their gaze. All he was missing, Nate thought, was the tusks. Whiskers swept down his cheeks and joined his sideburns to frame his pale, scarred, wrinkled face in thick grey bristles.

'Father.' He bowed his head.

'Hello, boy,' Edgar uttered in a bass rumble. 'Did you enjoy your time in Africa with Mr Herne?'

'Yes, thank you, sir,' Nate replied after a moment's hesitation. 'Mr Herne sends his compliments.'

'Of course he does,' Edgar grunted. 'I pay for his gallivanting, after all.'

Nate was going to reply that Herne had made the family a great deal of money with his 'gallivanting', but he stayed silent.

'You disrespected the family by running off after you finished your schooling, to satisfy your ill-conceived notions of adventure,' his father continued. 'But I suppose a certain amount of disrespect must be expected and tolerated in one's youth. You, my boy, have well and truly used up your quota.'

Nate's eyes fell on the crab-like claw that took the place of Edgar's right hand. It had been torn from some engimal, and he could open and close it at will, through small movements of his wrist and elbow. Its tips clicked together when he was agitated. Nate had just heard the first click.

'You will take Marcus's place at the head of the company. There is much you have to learn about international commerce and the sooner you start the better. Once you have acquainted yourself with the fundamentals of our business, you will go to America, and when you are deemed to be ready, you will take control of our interests there. You leave in two months.'

Nate's heart sank. He had known this was coming.

'But Roberto is the Heir now-'

'Roberto is a buffoon!' Edgar snapped.

Nate ground his teeth at hearing his brother insulted in this way, but he knew better than to argue with his father. Berto had fallen out of favour long ago; with his kind-hearted, affable nature, he lacked the ruthless qualities valued in a male of the Wildenstern line. Berto hated Edgar, and while Nate had finally rebelled by fleeing the family home, Berto had always sought out more subtle ways of defying their father's will.

But now he was the Heir, and Nate had no wish to usurp his position. Particularly as it was a position he didn't want.

'Roberto will run the estates here,' Edgar told him. 'And I fear even that will stretch his abilities.'

'I have taken a place at Trinity College, sir,' Nathaniel began. 'Engimal Studies, under Professor-'

'There will be no more talk of engimals, safaris, zoology or any of that confounded nonsense in this house,' his father cut in with a growl. 'You will study commerce, economics, law – an education that will prepare you for your future: overseeing the business of this family in the United States.'

'I don't-'

'You will go to America – to Washington and New York – and you will assume your brother's responsibilities. This family's fortune is dependent on the firm control of our dealings with those Yankee dolts, and that is now your duty, God help us.'

'I'm not-' Nate tried again.

'This couldn't have happened at a worse time, what with talk over there of a civil war and a slave revolt – as if the black wretches had the wherewithal to organize a bloody tea party, let alone a revolution-'

'I'm not going!' Nate exclaimed.

He lifted his eyes for a moment, amazed at his own courage. He would never have dared to raise his voice to the old man before. But he couldn't hold his father's fierce glare, and he dropped his gaze to the floor once more. The claw's tips clicked together like a telegraph. He could feel Edgar's eyes bore into his skull. There was menacing silence.

'A bit of time with the savages has given you some nerve,' Edgar growled finally. 'I'm glad; it was sorely needed. You're still not half the man your brother was. I suppose there's nothing that can be done about it; I put it down to your mother's weak blood.'

Nate flinched, but said nothing. Edgar rarely mentioned his dead wife and he had never insulted her before.

'But you are a man now, whatever kind of man that might be. The time for frivolity is over.'

Given that most of his childhood had been divided between his formal education and the family's inevitable self-defence training, Nate felt that he was due a few more years of frivolity yet. But to make such a remark to the old man now would be a step too far.

'You will listen now, boy. Because I will not repeat myself again.' Edgar pushed his chair back and stood up. Even slightly hunched as he was, he stood over six feet tall, and his bulk was still almost as much muscle as fat. 'The funeral is on Saturday. The archbishop will perform the ceremony. Once it is over, Silas will begin teaching you the fundamentals of our business.

'You will learn as much as you can from him. Then you will go to America and take up the reins there. And by the time I shuffle off this mortal coil – and we can only hope that is after you have aged enough to have developed some sense of propriety – you will take over the company that has made this family what it is today.

'Roberto is the Heir, through this capricious act of fate. But given that he is a feckless dandy wastrel with less sense than God gave a giggling dolly-mop, it falls to you to shoulder Marcus's responsibilities. And you will. You will do your duty. Do I make myself clear?'

Nathaniel was trembling with suppressed rage and frustration. It wasn't right. The old man had all but ignored him for most of his life. Everything had always been about Marcus. Edgar had never given a damn about the rest of his children – Nate had never understood why. And now he was expected to step into this role that had been shaped for his favoured brother, and give up all his own hopes and ambitions. It wasn't right.

'Do I make myself clear?!' Edgar bellowed.

The brooding dogs in front of his desk flinched. The two Maasai servants did not.

'Yes!' Nathaniel shouted back, with tears in his eyes. Then, more quietly, he added: 'Yes. Yes, I understand.'

'That will be all,' his father said.

He eased his bulk down into his seat and opened a thick leather-bound accounts ledger.

Dismissed as if he were a lowly servant, Nate stood listlessly for a moment, staring into space. Then he turned and walked unsteadily to the door, stepping over the reclining hound that blocked his path. He glanced back once at his father, but Edgar paid him no more attention, the tip of his crab claw tracing columns of figures in the book.

Nathaniel closed the door behind him. At the far end of the corridor was a window, and he made his way slowly towards it. It faced south, and looking out and down, he saw the grounds: the beautiful gardens, the woods beyond, and the hills that stretched away to the horizon. And far below, the roofs of the surrounding buildings. His eyes fell on the grey slate tiles of the stables, and he suddenly knew what he had to do.

M elancholy Wildenstern, or Daisy, as she was better known, sat with her husband in the breakfast room. She was drawing him as he sat there, staring into the fire and fretting away to himself. The sliding, squeaking of the charcoal was the only sound that could be heard, apart from the crackling blaze in the fireplace.