Yeats made for the hall. The fresh scent of the kitchen gave way to the odor of old books, leather, and mothballs. While the outside of the house appeared to be rotting, the inside was full of treasures. Brightly painted tribal masks stared at him as he passed through a sitting room, while opposite them, knights grimaced from a floor-to-ceiling painting. There were carvings and colored stones on every table. The floor creaked beneath his feet and he wondered if he should have removed his shoes. No one had said anything about that.
Odysseus waited at the bottom stair. A stained glass window provided kaleidoscopic illumination to the yawning darkness above. It was a narrow passage, each step worn by countless footfalls. Natural light caught the edge of the top. Odysseus padded up.
The first stair creaked horribly. Yeats cringed and a drop of tea splashed his leg. Still warm. His steps turned into a cacophony of squeaks and squawks. "Come on, Yeats!" he scolded himself. He took a deep breath and scowled.
A resounding silence followed the last squawk at the top of the stairs and the air stopped moving. It felt as if the room had been closed for many years. An old man sat near the window with Odysseus at his feet. His hair was whiter than Gran's and came down past his shoulders. He stirred and his eyes widened.
"William!" he exclaimed. His knuckles whitened on the chair arm. "I knew it! I knew you would come back. Good boy! And where is Shaharazad? Is my granddaughter with you?"
"I'm Yeats."
"Yeats?" Mr. Sutcliff stood stiffly. He searched Yeats's face, his disappointment obvious. "No, you're not Yeats. I did think at one time that you should have been Auden or Milton. But your grandmother told me to mind my own poets. Your father, now he was Yeats."
"That was my grandfather," Yeats said. "Yeats William Trafford."
The old man regarded the cat. Odysseus rubbed against his legs. Mr. Sutcliff sighed and leaned down to scratch the animal's ears again. Then he did something even more alarming.
"Is he there, Odysseus?" he asked. "Is there a boy standing, holding my tea? Or have I imagined him?"
For an answer, Odysseus trotted over and rolled his tail along Yeats's legs. Mr. Sutcliff nodded. He sighed again, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of spectacles. He smoothed the front of his shirt and straightened his back. "I see. So, you are Yeats and you look the spitting image of William. Well, come here, boy!"
Startled, Yeats stumbled forward, spilling more tea down his leg. He desperately wanted his arms free for protection, but they were holding the tray. The old man stood, peering into his face. Mr. Sutcliff suddenly reached out and took his chin and Yeats stifled a gasp. His grip was as sure as Gran's. His eyebrows were horrifically bushy.
"Hmmm," he murmured. "Intelligent. Curious. Reliable." He shifted Yeats's chin to look at his profile. "Burgeoning courage as well."
Yeats turned his head aside. "I brought your tea," he said. Mr. Sutcliff did not seem to notice. Instead, he tapped his lips thoughtfully with his fingers. Yeats considered laying the tea and cookies on the floor and bolting for the stairs. He had met many quirky people at the university, but Mr. Sutcliff was rapidly rising to the top of the list.
"Is William downstairs?"
"Yes."
"And he is a man?"
Yeats lowered the tea to the floor. "He is my father."
The old man grunted. "I see. And your mother?"
"Her name is Faith."
"Faith?" Mr. Sutcliff felt for a pipe on the table without releasing Yeats from his gaze. "Now there's a good name. Plain, mind you, but solid—versatile, even. The stuff of all good poetry. Yes, indeed!" His last words were muffled as his lips took the pipe. Yeats waited for him to light it, but Mr. Sutcliff merely sucked the end comfortably. "'Now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.'" He returned to his window. "I believe in that. I really do."
Yeats gritted his teeth. Gran wanted the tea delivered and Yeats was determined to see it through. "Would you like your tea, sir?"
The old man motioned with his pipe. Yeats took a few hesitant steps, then hastily set down the tray. He returned to the door. He needed to get downstairs and make sure his parents weren't fighting.
"William … is a man," Mr. Sutcliff murmured. He shook his head. After an uncomfortable silence he added, "Will he see me?"
"I don't know, sir," Yeats answered. "I imagine he would."
"Imagine?" The old man spun quickly.
Yeats readied himself against the door frame. Mr. Sutcliff brushed long strands of hair from his eyes. "Yes, imagine. That's the key. Has he the courage, I wonder?" He tapped the pipe against his lips. "I don't even know if it's possible. We don't know enough, do we? Perhaps … perhaps with enough sincerity it might … I don't know." He was silent for so long, Yeats thought Mr. Sutcliff had forgotten him. Then the old man tapped his temple with an idea and spryly spun around. "Can you? Can you, Yeats? Dare you, I wonder? Would you have enough courage?"
"I've got to go now," Yeats stammered.
Mr. Sutcliff pointed his pipe. "Remember the words, my boy? Do you remember?" The old man closed his eyes:
"'Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.'
"That was William Butler Yeats—your namesake. But I'm sure you knew that."
Yeats fled, landing on the stairs two at a time and making such a commotion he expected them to break at any moment. He slowed near the kitchen only to find Odysseus trotting alongside him. The cat glared disapprovingly.
Yeats gasped. "Don't look at me like that!" When he realized his hands were shaking he turned them into fists. He glanced back at the stairs, then stepped into the adult conversation.
His parents were sipping tea. He was comforted to see them sitting next to each other and his father's glasses back on his nose. Odysseus demanded to be picked up.
"How did that go?" Gran asked.
Yeats couldn't tell if she was speaking to him or to the cat.
"I gave him his tea," he said.
"Good lad." Gran put the cat down. "You must be more careful on those stairs, dear. They aren't used to such youthful energy. My goodness, you sounded like an Oliphant in distress."
Still panting, Yeats stammered, "He thought I was someone else. He thought I knew his granddaughter. Shaharazad or something?"
His father's cup rattled violently, followed swiftly by a curse as the tea shot over his knees. His mother's teeth were clenched and the blood drained from her face. His father looked as if he was going to faint.
