Story for the Day: The Vestry
There are many customs that thrive throughout the Triumverate, some good and others not so wonderful. Sesterna has its slave trade, Marridon has its hats and its science, and Balletrim has its Saints. Being the most religious out of the three countries, its natural that such an export should carry over, but considering how their holidays are celebrated, it is a wonder that anyone should honour such a custom:
in time to hear the dissonant tones of the bells calling out the end of service. Downcast eyes and mournful aspects accompanied the crowd of parishioners that were shuffling over the threshold, their steps in perfect time with the monotonous clang ringing throughout the marketplace.
in time to hear the dissonant tones of the bells calling out the end of service. Downcast eyes and mournful aspects accompanied the crowd of parishioners that were shuffling over the threshold, their steps in perfect time with the monotonous clang ringing throughout the marketplace.
“This is your improvement,
captain?” said Bartleby, gesturing toward the vestry. “This is a disparagement
on the rights of man. It is shameful that a man must prostrate himself to such
an odious requiem. Man is born to liberty, intellect and the wonder of discovery
are his birthright, and here are a hundred who would rather moan along to a
sepulchering chant and beg a fictious entity for contrition they don’t
deserve.” He snuffed, and his nosehairs writhed. “What is all this anyhow?”
“I believe it is a holiday borrowed
from Belletrim, adopted by those here who wish to follow their Saints.”
“Fah! Ruderary! Adopting a form of
cognitive slavery for the promise of a mythical reward—what a ridiculous way of
going on in a country where a man might do anything. The manner in which people
will shakle themselves…” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You were a
freer man,” speaking to Rannig, “as a slave in the brick pits than these people
are. Left to themselves, they will believe in cockleshells if it means they
might have a sense of salvation.”
“Take care how you talk of them, my
old friend. The Saints may come to plague you after all.”
Here was an arch look, and Bartleby
glared at the captain over his spectacles.
“I invite them to come, captain,”
Bartleby insisted. “Let them descend from their high boughs of moral
impossibility and prove themselves, if they want to be worshipped. If I speak
against them, they ought to come and smite me, or push me down a well, or make
my ears sprout trees, or whatever it is such superstitiosities do by way of
punishment.”
“Your ears already got branches on
‘em, Bartleby,” Rannig observed.
He browsed the incanescent enation radiating
from Bartleby’s ears, and the old man flailed and tried to blow the giant away
with a huff.
“You must not touch them, my dear
Rannig,” said Danaco. “He is cultivating a wisened farm, to ward off any
spiritual entities that wish to retaliate against him. They are beacons of
reason, working to repell stupidity for miles around. They are his sagely
furnishings. Only look how the sun catches in them. A gloriole for us to marvel
at and for Bartleby to triumph in.”
Bartleby put his hands over his
ears and glowered, hating his horay nimbus and disdaining the captain and the
giant for pointing it out.
“You ought to garnish them with
windchimes. They might be our musical accompaniment instead of Rannig.”
“Hang your windchimes,” Bartleby
grumbled.
“That’s what the boss said to do.”
“I do not need windchimes or garnishings
or anything else!” Bartleby cried, his fists shaking. “I am very well off with
my books and my bathing companions.”
Rannig canted his head and gave the
old man’s ear hairs an apprasing look. “Maybe you can hang a small book of ‘em,
Bartleby.”
“The weight might pull them out,”
said Danaco. “He should have to plait them to keep them together. There is a
challenge. We should stop at the ropemaker in the market and try what can be
done.”
Bartleby was very sure he should be
shaving his ears from lobe to tragus by the end of the day, and watched the
procession of parishioners leave the vestry in a gloom of gowls.
“Well, we had best wait and let
these men and women pass,” said Danaco, nodding toward the string of black
shawls shambling out of the vestry. “We are in a hurry, I grant you, but we
invite ill-luck on ourselves if we should break the line of mourners.”
“What is the supposed purpose of
this constructed celebration?” Bartleby asked.
“Some sort of ritual abstinence
from eating, drinking, and bathing, done to reduce themselves to vestigial and
regretful children, after which they go for an ablutive plunge and have a
moderate feast, followed by postprandial prayers. Something to do with purification
of the soul and the shedding of sins, I understand.” There was a pause, and
without turning to Bartleby, the captain grinned and said, “Scowl any harder,
my old friend, and your jowels will droop to your knees.”
“No bathing or drinking—ha! What
humbuggery, to starve oneself for invisible entities. All they need do, if they
are in want of contrition, is to forgive themselves and get on with it. Say
they’re sorry for whatever crimes they have committed, and then treat
themselves to a sandwich. And so they do this every year, promise not to do the
things they are only going to beg forgiveness for next year? And all this with
mossy teeth and mouths crusted over with the slag of dessication?” He winced,
pinched the bridge of his nose, and heaved a heavy sigh. “Why must people feel
the need to invent hardships and adopt stupidities—a man has no business
shakling himself when he is born free. We had best stay here, captain. The
cloud of noxious microbes swarming about this uneducated horde might attempt to
invade—what are you doing? No, captain! Don’t approach them! They should be
hosed down and scraped before you near. Microbes, captain! Microbes!” but it
was too late: the captain was approaching the sacred procession, was bowing and
exchanging pleasantries with the priest standing at the door, and Bartleby
dared not move any nearer the vestry for fear of nonsensical ideologies poised
to occupy his brain.
“They’re just prayin’ and not eatin’
for the day, Bartleby,” said Rannig, in a kindly hue. “They don’t have the
Mallacht.”
“They might as well have the
Mabhrach, or the plague, or whatever else your people consider to be
infectious. Ignorance is the worst of all contagions, my boy,” Bartleby
asserted, “for it is not limited to one people, as you see here, and it is caught
easily by the low and credulous.”
“Well, the boss won’t bring back
anything, Bartleby. He’s not either of those things.”
“Hrm, no. He is rather immune to
stupidity, but he does believe in an ethereal entity and is religious in his
way, and so are you--” and with a disenchanted look, Bartleby added,”--
unfortunately.”
Rannig smiled cheerfully, and Bartleby
shifted away from him, wondering whether only certain types of Gods begat
stupidities and whether he were susceptible to any of the nonsensical doctrines
that the captain and the giant cherished.
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