#NaNoWriMo 2014: To be a Bhean
Bhean is the word for young woman in Frewyn, but in Westren it's used as an affectionate and respectful term reserved for wives or close female friends. There aren't many who would use it in odd company, but it's always nice to hear it wherever and whenever it might be said.
Marseidh leaned over the counter, and
said, in an audible whisper, “The man bets again’ ye
this time.”
Eadmharid raised his brows. “Does
he?”
“Heard ye were bringin’ the
brigadesmen wit’yas,” said the groundskeeper, his attenuated fingers browsing a
drawer of old letters. “Figured if they were trained by Tearlaidh, they oughtta
give ye a good run for it.”
“I believe they will.” Here was a
glance at Bhaunbher and Dirrald. “If they allow me to win and the hunt is over
this evening, they have to return to the mountains.”
“Ah liek bein’ up there, “ said
Bhaunbher, “but it’s good tae be in town again, even if onlae for a little
while. And Ah’d liek tae see mah brother, if he’ll come. Eadmhaird, anybodae
can come here tae visit, aye?”
“Aye, anyone is welcome at anytime.”
“Ah’d like to invite mah brother
here for the hunt. Ah promised Ah’d see hem when Ah came doun. Is it o’ right
if Ah have pen and paper from ye and ask ye tae send out a letter for meh? I’d
pay for the sendin’ an’ everythin’.
“Never ye mind it, son, “ said
Marseidh, her two eyes focusing on Bhaunbher for a moment before baltering off
in opposing directions. “Ye just take pen and paper from yer room in the
dresser, and when yer finished, ye bring the letter here and we’ll have it out
by the Scoaleigh whenever yer wantin’, so we will.”
Bhaunbher bowed his thanks.
“Well, then, I outta give yis one o’ the
larger rooms if yer havin’ a guest.” She wrote on the ledger before her,
miffling and tootling to herself over their names and the number room they
should be receiving, her better eye following the hand that was scribbling
furiously away, but presently she stopped to ask, “And will yis lads be wantin’
a tent for outside or have ye brought one with ye?”
“Ah thenk we’ll be o’ right without
a-yin,” said Bhaunbher. “We’re used tae sleepin’ without it.”
“Aye, like Eadmhaird, who likes to
freeze himelf to death, sleepin’ under rock and snow just to set those traps o’
his.”
“It is well worth the effort,”
Eadmhaird asserted. “The feast in the dining hall makes up for whatever trials
I endure to provide for it.”
“And yerself proud, and so you
should be. Yis lads are in for it, if yer stayin’ for the dinner. Ye’ll never
eat again like ye do here, I’m tellin’ yis that.”
“Never,” said Gearrog, shaking his
head with affected sincerity. “Marsiedh sure is tellin’ yous lad how it is: eat
here, and ye walk out ten pound heavier.
Ye never ate like ye do here, all ‘em vegetables piled up with salted butter
and garlic, all ‘em meats, sliced and roasted just how ye like, all ‘em fruit
tarts and pies—“ He sighed and looked pleasantly pained. “Borras, I’m starvin’
mesel’ just thinkin’ about it.”
“And it isn’t merely the fare, lads,” said
Eadmhaird. “The ale here, and indeed everything on tap, are the finest brews in
all of Westren.
“So the two oo’ yis’ll be stayin’
for dinner in the hall then?” said Marseidh, already writing their names on the
dining registry.
“Aye, bhean.”
Aimiably and honourbly it was said,
but Marseidh felt the appellation in a more tender style; an address she had
always been used to hear in her youth was being offered her again, flattering
the slender vanity she still secreted away, and while her features remained
crumbling and decrepit, and her eyes roved about at random, she could not but
help a slight blush at hearing Bhaunbher address her so reverentially. Her eyes
drew round to the middle, her jowels tinged with a muted erubescent glow, she
grew coy, her shoulders curling demurely as much as the confines of her taut
attire could allow. “Go ‘long with ye now, son,” said she, trying not to
giggle. “I ain’t a bhean. Haven’t been one since I was a pretty thing many
years ago now.” She gave an amorous sigh and clapped her hands together,
causing her roaming eye to twirl. “Ye make an’ oljin feel young again, son.”
“Yer on yer way to a free room, I
says,” said Gearrog, in a half whisper.
“Nonsense, son. He has a free room
by bein’ in the brigade. He don’t need to make no compliment to me for that.”
“Perhaps you should have saved your
flattery for when it would have counted,” said Eadmhaird, smiling.
Marseidh chuffed. “Go along wit’ ye
now, sure’n it always counts, ‘specially to an oljin like me who hasn’t been
called anythin’ half so nice in years.”
“Called ye that to ye the other day,”
said the groundskeeper, in a quiet and wounded voice.
“And ye should so. Ye married me a
bhean, and that’s what I am to ye, so I am.”
The groundskeeper stopped rustling
his papers, righted momentarily, and exhaled before straightening his fine
black doublet and returning to his work, rifling through a list of menus for
those staying in the state rooms whilst trying to resist murmuring to himself
of his having called her his bheanrin not ten minutes ago. It was useless,
however, to beg a remonstrance here; he knew he was being provoked into
professions, and he would make them later, once all their business for the day
be over and the last insorbietious hunter succumb to a drunken sloom. It was
the game they played for the better part of thirty years: he would love her,
she would pretend not to hear his declarations, he would show his affection by why
of private reminiscences , she would surrender her contrived injury and
affront, and the game would begin again. To the observer, it seemed as though
they were any cantankerous couple, one a haggard old gammer and the other a dry
old stick, but to one another, they were the most unexceptionable person in the
world. They teased, they taunted, but never in a bitter style or with an angry
character; they were all for old wedded love, and their devotion to one another
as business partners and collaborators betrayed a conjugal felicity and concordance
that only those who are perfectly easy and loving with one another possess.
Their playing at being an old disagreeable couple only served to strengthen the
relationship they had cultivated and coveted over the better part of forty
years, and though each did the chief of their duties with their backs facing
one another, one managing about the grounds and settling the accounts in his
white gloves and tapered suit, and the other arranging the matters of the house with indefatigable
good wit and sensibility, their hearts were collocated in all the cares and
minutiae of the day. A look was exchanged, one imperceptible to those who watched
and thought they saw an accusatory glance, for in its feigned air of allegation
was the indelible and unmitigated affection of forty years spent in joyous
matrimony.
“A bhean so I am now,” said
Marsiedh, trying to hide her flushing cheeks and failing miserably.
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