Seven Swans A-Swimming

7. On the Seventh Day of Christmas… Seven Swans A-Swimming, by Hesadevil

New Years Eve, 31st December, 2003

Spike glowered at Illyria; his mouth set in a pout of such magnitude that she swung her arm back and hit him squarely in the centre of it. He flew across the function room and bounced off the opposite wall.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked groggily, rubbing his face.

“Your co-operation is waning,” said Illyria, crossing the room to join him. “And your concentration suffers in proportion to your insolence.” She moved through groups of partygoers dressed for the New Year’s Eve festivities, scrutinising their costumes as she passed them. “Why are they dressed thus?” She indicated four young men dressed in matching grey suits with collarless jackets. Three of them carried guitars and the fourth held a pair of drumsticks and a tambourine.

Spike pulled himself to his feet grumbling softly to himself. “Lorne’s New Year’s Eve party,” he said finally. “Invitation said dress as an artiste of yesteryear,” he added by way of explanation.

Illyria wandered around the room, taking in everything, from the huge clock festooned with streamers hanging on one wall, to the helium balloons filled with confetti anchored to each table. Guests arriving through the entrance door passed underneath a huge champagne glass arch, where they were greeted by Lorne dressed in the glittering white and silver suit beloved of Liberace. Beside Lorne stood Angel, looking none too happy. He was dressed in the clothes of a seventeenth century Irishman, and held a small harp under one arm.

Spike watched as his past self arrived at the door and pushed through the line of guests.

Angel held out an arm and blocked his way. “Invited guests only, Spike.”

“That’s me,” grinned Spike. “All legal and proper.” He fished in the pocket of his coat and waved the wrinkled invitation under Angel’s nose. “Now stand aside...” he paused, frowning at Angel’s costume. “Who’re you supposed to be, anyway? One of the Marx brothers?”

“No!” said Angel indignantly. He held up the harp. “I’m Carolyn.”

“Not wearing the right kind of frock,” mocked Spike, taking in Angel’s coat and breeches. “Besides, never heard of her. She some classical bint?” he asked, indicating the harp.

“He was only the greatest Irish harpist – ever.” Angel scrutinised Spike’s clothes. “You’re still not coming in,” he said, turning to Lorne. “He’s not in costume, you said guests had to be in costume.”

Lorne shifted his attention from the Elvis look-alike who had just handed him his requested New Year’s Resolution list. “In you go, Elvis,” he said, placing the list in the box beside him. “Table ten. With Big Bopper – next to Buddy.” He stared at Spike. “He is in costume, Angelcake... Billy Idol!” he said grimacing.

“No he’s not,” protested Angel. “He looks exactly the same as he always does. Leather coat, black pants, boots, radioactive hair.”

“Changed the coat,” said Spike, swaggering past and into the room. “What more d’you want?”

“There’s the little matter of the Resolution list,” Lorne reminded him.

“Paper wasn’t big enough,” Spike replied, striding towards the bar with its Cocktail Making Contest notice now flashing its lights. “Wanna have a go at that.”

Angel gritted his teeth. “Lorne,” he groaned. “Does he have to be here?”

“He’s one of the team now, Harpo,” said Lorne. “Or will be if Wes can persuade... Wesley! You look great.” Lorne held out his hand as Wesley appeared in the doorway. “Don’t tell me,” he cried, looking at Wesley’s white jacket, black bow tie, black pants and highly polished shoes. “You’re a band leader – Big Band?”

Wesley shook his head and opened his mouth to speak.

Lorne waved his hand. “No, no, no, don’t tell me. I’ll get it. It’s so forties, so American night-club owner, so...” He paused and stood back for a better view of Wesley’s clothes. “Rick - Casablanca – I’m right aren’t I?”

“Well, yes,” Wesley agreed, smiling. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Love it,” agreed Lorne. “But not as much as this little lady does,” he said smiling at someone behind Wesley.

Wesley turned and gaped a little at the sight of Fred, wearing a long full-skirted dress with gathered waist and V-neck trimmed in faux fur. She wore no jewellery, the dress’s only decoration being a red rose at the base of the 'V'.

Lorne held out his hand and escorted Fred to her table. He waved at Wesley. “Over here, Mr Bogart,” he called. “Miss Bacall awaits.”

“Bogey and Bacall,” murmured Present Spike. “I’d forgotten.”

Illyria concentrated her attention on Wesley and Fred. “There is significance in the costumes they chose?”

“Right couple, wrong films,” explained Spike.

“Films. These are the movies of which Lorne spoke earlier. They are shadow plays.”

“Not really.” Spike sighed. “Look this is getting far too complicated.”

Illyria ignored him, her eyes sweeping the room, focusing on the costumes. “This New Year’s party. This too is a shadow play. Everyone appears as someone else.” She gazed once again at Wesley and Fred. “Perhaps they play at being what they would wish to be.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Spike. “But mainly it’s an excuse to get pissed, do some more overeating, make promises about being a better person next year, and get off with someone on the stroke of midnight.”

“Get off?”

“As in indulging in a bit of snogging,” explained Spike. “Which is what the silly cow who’s just walked in is hoping for.”

Illyria swung round just in time to catch sight of Harmony giggling her way past Angel.

“The invitation said ‘artist’, and when it arrived I’d just been to see that fabulous film about the girl... you know... the one with the earring. Only it wasn’t her earring, it was his wife’s earring.” Harmony burbled on, oblivious to Angel’s blank look of incomprehension. “And the wife hadn’t an idea what was going on. It was so obvious that there was, you know. That Mr Darcy’s so scrumptious. How anyone could resist? He’s all dark and broody and... Oh, hey!”

Harmony stopped, catching sight of Lorne who was making his way back from Fred’s table. “Lorne, tell the Boss that I am in a proper costume. I’m the girl with the pearl earring.” She lifted the fold of silk scarf she’d woven round her head in imitation of the subject of the famous painting and revealed the lobe of her ear, adorned with a single pearl teardrop.

Lorne grinned the frozen grin of a long-suffering Karaoke bar owner. “Artiste, Harmonica, not artist. But I think we’ll waive the distinction. You do look rather exotic.” He waved Harmony through. “Enjoy yourself, my little Sultana.”

Harmony beamed. “Lorney, you are the sweetest. And you throw the best parties ever. And…” she stopped and gave a piercing squeal as she caught sight of the chocolate fountain in the far corner of the room. “Lorne! It’s fabulous! Anyone who’s anyone has one of these this year.” She peered over Angel’s shoulder, standing on tiptoe for a better view. “I’ve never seen one this big.”

On a raised platform stood a five-tiered chocolate fountain, flanked on either side by an enormous pineapple. Around the base, baskets of fine spun sugar latticework held a selection of juicy figs and succulent dates, walnuts and savoury pretzels. Bowls of fine Italian glass were piled high with strawberries, cherries and grapes, while platters of tiny orange physalis, each crowned with golden paper-thin leaves, jostled for attention with plates bearing marshmallows and peanut-butter balls.
Illyria moved swiftly through the crowds, pulling Spike along with her. “I wish to see more. This room is alive with emotions that speak to me. There are more shadow plays here than those assuming masks have chosen.”

She stopped at the small side table beside the fountain. It held an arrangement of wooden bowls with tightly fitting lids bearing labels announcing their contents. Illyria studied these with interest, while various guests, oblivious to her presence, selected items to spear with long-handled forks and hold under the silky flow of bittersweet chocolate.

“The scarab is sacred, yet it is offered to all,” she observed.

Spike peered over her shoulder. “Beetles, spiders, centipedes, scorpions.” He read each label in turn, then glanced across to where Lorne was welcoming Gunn who was wearing a blue silk boxing robe bearing the name ‘Ali’. “Just ‘cos a bloke’s a demon, doesn’t mean he isn’t welcome at one of Lorne’s do’s.”

“What is the purpose of this ‘do’?” Illyria asked coldly. “These are not friends, or family. Why are they here?”

“Told you, it‘s an excuse for a piss-up,” answered Spike. “Was for me, at any rate, that night.” He turned his gaze on the bar, where the cocktail making contest was about to begin.

“We shall see how you fared,” announced Illyria, sweeping towards the bar.

As they wove their way across the room, the crowds speeded up, flashing by them in a blur of colour and noise. They passed through seven booths created to give some tables more privacy, their walls radiating the blood red colour of the fabric draped over the partitions. Overhead boughs gilded with gold leaf hung down almost touching the floor under the weight of giant baubles encrusted with emeralds and rubies, and huge crystal teardrops suspended from gold chains. In the centre of each booth, the table was covered in a rich damask cloth and laid with crystal wineglasses and silver cutlery and charger plates. A gold platter held the centrepiece; a pedestal of ice, bearing a sculpted swan, swimming on a lake of caviar.

“Looks like he really blew the entertainment budget on this one,” reflected Spike as they emerged beside the bar.

“This is different from what we have seen before. It is not about friendship or love. It is designed to impress,” Illyria said without emotion. “It denotes power and prestige.”

Spike and Illyria watched as Harmony called for the ingredients to numerous concoctions that were mixed, shaken or stirred before Spike’s past self sampled each one and pronounced his verdict.

Illyria fast-forwarded time once again and Harmony announced the winning cocktail. “Absinthe Without Leave,” she said brightly.

“Think I’ll go and help myself to a little sweetener after all that,” said Spike’s former self, making his way towards the chocolate fountain.

Harmony followed, stopping on the way beside the Queen of the Night mannequin adorning the stage area. She removed her headscarf and reached up towards the black ostrich feather atop the golden head-dress.

“What are you doing, Harmony?” said a voice from behind the Queen.

Harmony froze and waited for Angel to appear. “Um, just trying it on, Boss,” she stammered.

“Stick with the scarf,” said Angel. “It suits you, and besides…” he broke off as Harmony shrieked into his ear.

“What is Spike doing?” she squealed. “That is so unhygienic.”

Angel turned to face the chocolate fountain and paused briefly before storming over to Spike. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

Spike watched his past self slowly finish sucking chocolate from his index finger. “Only what the sign says.” He pointed at the notice skewered to a pineapple.

“Dip your favourite,” Angel read aloud. He scanned the contents of the table. “You’re supposed to use these,” he snarled.

“Prefer the digit,” Spike smirked. “Besides – know what my favourite chocolate-covered thing is?” He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Angel glowered at him. “You’re drunk and if you can’t behave, I’ll…”

“Lighten up, Peaches. New Year’s all about havin’ fun.”

Angel slapped Spike’s hand away as he reached for another finger coating.

Spike tilted his head again and frowned. “Why’re you here? Thought you hated this sort of thing.”

Angel glanced over to where Lorne was organising the final line-up of Karaoke performers. “I owed it to him, for the Halloween mess,” he replied. “He deserves to enjoy at least one party this year.” He picked a cherry from a bowl and held it under the flow.

“Not gonna happen, not while you’re still here,” said Spike. “You’re genetically incapable of enjoying yourself.” Spike plucked the chocolate-coated cherry from his Grandsire’s fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Add to that a tendency to make everyone else’s life a misery...” Spike paused and thought for a second. “Isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather be?” he asked, his gaze wandering back to the bar. “Someone you’d rather be with, now that you’ve finished the greet and meet?”

Angel surveyed the room. All around him, humans and demons were nosily feasting and drinking. “Yes,” he said finally, resting the harp against the table, “there is.”

He made his way over to Lorne.

“Elvis, you’re up first, honey, just watch the decibels and go easy with the hips. Those globes don’t come cheap.” Lorne waved at Angel, indicating that he knew he wanted to speak with him.

Angel slipped past and whispered something in Gunn’s ear. Gunn nodded and Angel slipped out of the room.

The Elvis look-alike curled his lip and took up his position in front of the microphone. With one hand on the mike stand and the other thrust out sideways, he bent one knee, swivelled his hips and launched into an ear-splitting rendition of Blue Suede Shoes. Illyria and Spike moved closer to Lorne to hear the message Gunn was delivering.

“He’s gone to sit with Cordy,” they heard Gunn shout.

Lorne’s face fell. He reached for a cocktail on a tray that was being carried head height towards one of the private booths. He threw back the garishly coloured liquid and grimaced, smiling slightly at Gunn as they waited for the song to finish. “Let’s hear it for the King!” he bellowed at the crowd. “Next up – and are you boys in for a treat – it’s the sex bomb herself. Take it away Marilyn.”

Illyria closed her eyes and breathed in heavily. “We shall watch the culmination of the evening,” she announced.

The music faded and Spike watched with fascination as the guests swirled and shimmered before his eyes. He felt giddy as the reds and golds of the room danced and undulated in waves. He too closed his eyes, opening them again cautiously as the music reasserted itself, the final bars of Rock Around the Clock resonating through the room.

Lorne plucked the microphone out of the grasp of a slightly stunned Bill Haley. “That last one was for all you groovers out there,” he announced. “Getting in the mood for the countdown to the big twelve double zero. Fill your glasses, grab your partner, pucker those luscious lips and get ready for lift off. Ten… nine... eight... seven...”

The crowd gathered beneath the clock joined in enthusiastically. “Six... five... four... three... two... Happy New Year!”

All at once, a cacophony of Party poppers filled the air with paper streamers, that exploded upwards before floating slowly down onto the revellers below. As they did so, the balloons above the tables burst in sequence, showering the diners with hundreds of tiny gold and silver stars.

Spike watched in silence as Fred and Wesley clinked the rims of their glasses together. They allowed their fingers to brush briefly before lifting the glasses to their lips and swallowing the remaining contents.
“Happy New Year, Fred,” said Wesley softly, looking deep into her eyes.

“Happy New Year, Wesley,” replied Fred, dropping her eyes and blushing slightly.

“This is not 'getting off',” commented Illyria.

“No,” agreed Spike. “It’s something else altogether.”

Illyria directed her gaze to the large red leather sofa, tucked away in the alcove by the window, where Spike’s past self sat, slumped at one end. He was gazing into the half-empty whisky glass in his hand. As the final stroke of midnight sounded, he threw back the remains of the drink, then rested his head against the back cushion and closed his eyes.

Illyria remained silent and unmoving.

Spike stared past her. At the first crack of fireworks outside the window, his past self opened his eyes and gazed out of the window.

“Why did you not do as the others?” asked Illyria.

Spike sighed. “It’s traditional to do one of two things on the stroke of midnight, Highness.” He motioned at Fred and Wesley. “A gesture of affection with a loved one, or,” he swung his attention to Lorne, leading a line of Conga dancers between the tables, “celebrate the highs of last year and look forward to a repeat performance.”

“All this is without substance,” Illyria replied, indicating the partygoers. “Shallow indulgence of selfish desires.”

Spike was impressed. “You’re learnin’ fast.”

Illyria waited unblinkingly for Spike to continue; fixing him with a glassy blue stare that never wavered.

He began picking at the gilding of one of the Christmas decorations on the table beside them. “What do you want from me, Queenie?”

“To know why.”

“Why what?” Spike snapped a twig from the arrangement and watched as a shower of glitter cascaded to the floor.

“I wish to know why your leader did not choose to celebrate the victories of the past year with you and your comrades.”

Spike shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong bloke,” he said, watching his former self drift into a booze-induced doze. “Haven’t a clue what Angel got up to for most of that year. I was still the new kid on the block.”

“I wish to know more of this tradition. It is a warrior’s tradition to make offerings to the gods, in remembrance and supplication.” Illyria rotated through a full circle, observing the different areas of the room in turn. “I see no tradition here, only gluttony and greed and indulgence.” She glanced down at the table and picked up the gilded box containing the New Years’ Resolutions. “These were mere entrance tokens. They played no part in this night’s events. There was no sacred ceremony acknowledging the Old Year’s death and the birth of the new.”

She fingered the remains of the twig in Spike’s hand. “Tradition is dying, along with the green. There is no priest to guide the worshippers through the sacred texts.

“That’s traditional,” said Spike, pointing at Lorne, returning with his line of dancers still following.

“A clown who hides his fear behind a mask of smiles, leading those who dance to please themselves, not in remembrance of past glory.” Illyria stared into the night sky. “I will witness this ceremony where it is worthy of the name Tradition.”

“You’ll have a long search, Princess,” said Spike wearily. “American traditions don’t go back that far. They’re more yer instant variety.”

Illyria gazed at his face, her glacial eyes piercing through into his soul. “It lies within you,” she announced, “at the core of your human self, and in another land.”

Spike shivered slightly as her gaze froze time once more and the golden glow of Lorne’s expensively decorated party venue faded.