#NaNoWriMo 2014: Marseidh the Matron
ALAS! Nanowrimo is upon us! At the keep, we're 7000 words toward our
goal! If you're participating in NaNo this year, put your word count in
the comments and enjoy the story:
Dirrald’s courage was beginning to
fail him, and all doubt and anxiety, which he had been forgetful of for the
last few minutes, here revived.
“Fear not, lad,” said Eadmhaird
quietly. “We can always ask the keeper when we register if he might not look up
her name in the registry, just to be sure she is here. That will ease your
heart.”
“Aye,” said Dirrald, beholden to
Eadmhaid’s considerate attention, “it will.”
“How’d ye know Diarchaidhe’s
daughter?” asked Gearrog.
“Grew up taegether in the
orphanage. She was adopted and had tae move awae when her Ma passed on.”
“Shame it is, lad, when family and
friends leave us. Ach, if anyone knows where she is, it’ll be Marseidh, the old
matron. Good lass as they come, but mind her, lad, she’s got a matron’s face on
her.”
Thought Dirrald wondered what
Gearrog could have meant by ‘a matron’s face’, he soon found out, for the scowl
and suspicious glare cast over the counter as they came to the registration
desk acquainted Dirrald and Bhaunbher with Marseidh, the resident proprietor of
the lodge. Her neat dress and clean appearance recommended her as the matron of
so organized and well-managed an establishment, but her grey hair, smoothed
back and twisted tight into two braids, her wandering eye which perpetually
alternated between floating indolently in its socket and concurrently effecting
to escape her head, her gnarled hands, the wikes round her mouth gullied and
wrined, the lirks radiating outward from the corners of ther eyes, her forehead
etched with profound furrows granted a something like senescence to the
otherwise kindly and composed old woman. Her arms moved about in spite of her sclerotic
and depreciating form, but her high-necked gown, pulled tight and secured with
ribbon and lace at the back, kept together what nature would otherwise have
seen disjoint. Whilst one eye went in quest of some secret mission, her
stationary eye, which also tended to dirft at the peril of her face, amidst the
wreck of her misshapen aspect betrayed whom amongst the crowd she was speaking
to, and when Eadmhaird approached the counter, her eye swirled clockwise a few
times before fixing on the hunter.
“Ah, Eadmhaird,” said she, in a
musical lilt, “and what would ye be doin’ here so early now? Sure’n it’s not
like you to be comin’ before the hunt starts. Yerself always showin’ up at the
last moment, neither prepared or nothin’, just to take the win from ‘em all and
make ‘em come back here sore-footed and sore-hearted. And yerself, Gearrog!”
her better eye instantly turning toward the brickmaker, “Sure’n we haven’t seen
you here this long while.” And then, in a more accusatory tone, she added, “And
yerself stayin’ away so long. I should say malacht on ye fer not comin’ home to
mind yer house. Sure’n don’t I look in on it when we go back to the cottage for
the holiday? Hmph!” Her vagrant eye jostled about. “And who’re these two strappin’
lads?” narrowing her gaze at Dirrald and Bhaunbher as she leaned over the
counter. Her better eye moved slowly up and down as she inspected the two
brigadesmen whilst her other joggled off after a child leaping by. “Brigade
lads,” said she, with firm decision, giving them a salute by way of a nod and a
fervent pout. “Good we see yis now. None of yis have come to the hunts in the
last while, busy with all yer business up there in the mountains. Haven’t seen
Tearlaidh down here since his last brother was yet alive, Gods rest him. Well,
yer work is impartant, so it is, so I won’t say nothin’.”
“But there ye have said somethin’,”
said the groundskeeper, whose back was turned to them as he counted the keys
hanging from the far wall.
“Aye, I’ve said somethin’,”
Marseidh admitted, “and I’ll say more, I will so. Yer brave commander’s never
come back when he promised us a visit. And us keepin’ his room ready for him
all the while.”
“I’ve been keeping Commander
Tearlaidh’s room for him,” Eadmhaird contended, with smiling interest. “Didn’t
you tell me that my room was once his when you gave it to me?”
“Aye, I did so,” said Marseidh,
snurling and turning aside, staring at Eadmhaird from he corner of her better
eye, “but we kept another for him, thinkin’ he would visit, and sure he’s never
come back. Well,” she sniffed, her divagating eye bobbing, “yis lads come here
tae take his place now? Sure’n ye did, and the room’s all ready for ye how ye
like—and don’t be shy about havin’ the garls up there wit’chas. We make no
argument over the like here. Just yis keep yer hands to yerselves till she
says, that’s all I’m tellin’ ye.”
She stabbed a finger at them,
Dirrald and Bhaunbher flushed and hemmed, thinking it advisable to say nothing
and allow the good lady to conjecture as she would, and Gearrog and Eadmhaird
laughed to themselves.
“What’s all this laughin’, lads? Why ye
lookin’ so blank on me?” Marseidh closed
her wandering eye and stared at them with the stationary one. “Yer not foolin’
this old gran, so yer not. All the young garls be walkin’ around here for a bit
o’ craic before the huntin’, and sure’n ye give it to ‘em, takin’ ‘em up there
and havin’ yerselves a laugh. I don’t see the difference when comp’ny is
comp’ny: yer gonna have it, or yer not, and that’s it so. Eadmhaird, yer room’s
cleaned and ready for ye, son. Gearrog, yer fire’s been started—and don’t be
tellin’ me nothin’ about not puttin’ the fire on till first snow,” stabbing a
finger at his nose. “I know a snow when I smell it, and there may be none on
the ground yet, but the air’s got that scent, and this ol’ nose is tellin’ no
lies, lads. Yer hearin’ it from me now, so y’are, that by th’morra, Gods be
praised, there’ll be snow on that ground.”
“I hope you’re wrong, Marseidh,”
said Eadmhaird amiably. “The hunt will probably go on for a few days at
least.”
“Ha!” Marseidh rasped. “Not if yer
in it, son. This hunt’ll be done by the afternoon, that’s my wager.”
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