Story for the Day: A Proper Thankin'

There are many euphemisms on the farms with regard to cubicular pursuits: a 'Sethshire sowing', a 'Glaoustre mining', or a 'Tyfferim thanking' are all used when in company with the young to indicate what activities will be taking place in the home later that evening. Winters in Frewyn are long, and what better way to warm up the house than to show how thankful you are to the one you share it with:

Read more about Aoidhe HERE

The evening curtain was drawn, nocturnal hues suppressed the lingering hints of day, and a scintillating veil hung on a languorous loom, galericulated by a murrey canopy, the sky growing

bucculent with stars. A roral mist titillated the nearby meadow, dispersing against the warmth from the nearby bonfire. The set dances endured, countless couple turning and linking arms and turning again, Alasdair lead the music, calling out the keys and arranging the barndances and reels, the standers-by stood in a circle to applaud and admire, and the children danced amongst themselves away from the claudications of the adults. Partners changed, a new set began, and everyone who was elated before was elated again, the burning effigy of Aoidhe presiding over the whole with a sintering smile. Aoidhe was sitting by and welting in the revelry, fondling Chune’s hips as he surveyed the dance, listening to the music with a full heart, and welcoming anyone who approached him for his Divine Benediction. He was in a humour to be more sincere now that dinner had passed; he still reached over for a few of the chocolate cherries and fried sugar dough during the lull between the sets, however, but seeing the Gods’ children, the Fre Na Mhin, relish the end of their farming year, was exultation immeasurable to one who had been pining away at prayers for the better part of a thousand years.

                “Look at ‘em all, dancin’ and rollickin’,” he remarked, under the glamour of the evening. He gently put his hand on a small child’s head as it bumped into his leg, and it ran off again, joining the circle round the fire, thrumming with a newly adopted aurulent glow.

                “Not too much, Aoidhe,” was Chune’s delicate reproach. “You will interfere too much.”

                “Aye, well,” Aoidhe sniffed, “I’m interferin’. The Aul’ Man ain’t here to tell me what, Borras ain’t comin’, and Aul’ Horsehide can’t do nothin’ to stop me no more.”

                “No,” and with a suggestive look, she added, “but I can.”

                “But you won’t, ‘cause you like seein’ me happy and all.”

                “I do, but too many blessings—“

                “Aye. I like givin’ ‘em to the wee-uns, though.” Here Aoidhe’s smiles subdued. “They don’t know no hardship and such—well, some of ‘em do—but most o’ the time, they just wanna know if they’re gonna get to play in the corn field th’morra. Don’t like seein’ ‘em suffer for no reason. Ain’t their fault they’re here. They gotta take what they’re given till they’re auld enough to do what for ‘emselves. Sure our children are generous with each other, the JOY OF GIVING and all, but they don’t have much compared to folk from for’n-parts.”

                “I think they’re happy that way,” Chune cooed, grazing the back of Aoidhe’s neck with her fingertips.”Their wealth is in their merits, their benevolence toward one another their True Inheritance, and though there are those among our children who do have less than others, they need only rely on their friends or the Church for support. Allun made certain that our children would be well provided for.”

                Here was a glance at Alasdair, who was playing a march and trying desperately not to notice the Gods descrying him with pointed attention.

                “Didn’t make a mergle of it,” Aoidhe observed, leaning into Chune’s embrace. “Lad sure is a good king.”

                “He is. You should give him precedence at commemorations, Aoidhe. Our children chose him to be their leader.”

                “Aye, I’m givin’ it. He’s leadin’ the ceremonies now. Just wanted to do the carvin’ ‘cause I wanted the end nubbin of the roasted duck.”

                Chune simpered and tapped his arm.

                “What? End bit of a roast is one o’ our best creations. Aye, Borras made it, bein’ in charge o’ the hunt and all, but it’s the best bit o’ meat there is. I know I don’t need it, but I wanted it, and shise sin.”

                He folded his arms, humphed and looked proud of himself, and took a pull of his pipe.

                “I know the meat means very little to you, Aoidhe,” said Chune slyly. “You just wanted to herald the meal.”

                Here was a sideways glance. “Maybe,” he huffed, smoke curling out of his mouth. “I’m puttin’ the blame on you, ‘cause you made sure there’s PLENTY AND ABUNDENCE and such, and you made it look delicious. ‘S ‘cause o’ you, ” pressing a finger against Chune’s breast.

                Chune blushed in spite of herself. “I did nothing beyond bless the fields and all the crops in their proper time. You know I did nothing more.”

                She went to return Aoidhe’s touch and found her hand trapped by his. He was pulling her forward, he was holding her against him, he was leaning down and crushing her breast with his hand, but the moment he pressed his lips against hers, a small cry rang out from the bonfire.

                “No kissin’!”  a child exclaimed, whirling by them.        

                “This here ain’t kissin’, lad,” said Aoidhe, in between osculations. “This here’s thankin’.”

                “No thankin’ neither!”

                Aoidhe glanced over at the Donnegals, who had been very insistent upon thanking their wives later in the evening for having prepared a few of the dishes at dinner, and Aiden and Adaoire coughed and turned aside, continuing to play the last reel of the set, and Aoidhe turned back to the child with a gallant smile.

                “’Mere, lad,” said Aoidhe, putting his pipe away. “Hearken a bit, and Aul’ Aoidhe’s gonna tell you somethin’.”

                The child came, and Aoidhe drew him close, keeping his diffident slump in the bend of his arm.

                “You know who this is?” he asked, pointing a thumb at Chune.

                The child made a heavy nod, rocking back and forth on his toes. “’S Chune.”

                “Aye. And who’s that?”

                The child shirked a shoulder and shyly excavated his nose. “Goddess o’ wheat and farmin’ and all.”

                “And all,” said Aoidhe, with triumph. “You know what else she is? She’s my bheann. You know what a bheann is, lad?”

                The child’s brows folded over themselves, and he dug deeper into his nasal caverns, slinking farther into Aoidhe’s arm.

                “A bheann is yer marrow, lad,” Aoidhe further explained, “the one you wanna be with and maybe have a family with and raise a farm with.”

                “Oh.” The child plucked is finger from his nose and inspected the roscid findings. “Like a wife?”

                “Aye, wife-like, and all farmers from Tyfferim to Sethshire know we gotta be real thankful for our bheann. They sure do alotta work on the farm, milkin’ the cows, muckin’ the pens, hoein’ the garden, takin’ in the eggs, pluckin’ the chickens, warshin’ the walls, cleanin’ the house and similar.”

                The child unconsciously stuck his finger in his mouth and began to chew. “What do all the men do then?”

                “You tell me, lad,” Aoidhe simpered.

                The child shrugged. “I dunno. All’s my Da does is go to town and come back smellin’ like old malt. Ma says all’s he does is lay about and get market-merry.”

                Chune turned her face aside and laughed silently into Aoidhe’s shoulder.

                “Aye, Mas are hardworkers,” said Aoidhe, with smiling sympathy. “They sure gotta keep their brennans outta all that trouble we get ourselves into.” Here was a wink at Chune. “My bheann’s gotta do a lot for our children. She’s gotta make the harvest, look after the crop and keep it safe from pests and poor weather—“

                “I thought Fuinnog does the weather—“

                “I’m tellin’ you somethin’, lad.”

                “Mm.”

                “Aul’ Aoidhe’s tellin’ you we oughtta be real thankful for all the work our bheann do, so if you want me to stop thankin’ Chune for bein’ my bheann, lad, you’re gonna have to tell the whole o’ Tyfferim they ain’t allowed to be thankful no more.”

                This seemed to contradict itself in the boy’s mind, and he frowned at the ground and restructured his face, working through the confusion by gnawing on his knuckles.

                “Aoidhe,” Chune entreated, “please let him find out what it means on his own when it is time.”

                “Aye. S’ gonna be some surprise when he learns though.” Aoidhe patted the boy on the back. “Don’t think too hard, lad. Yer brain’ll start leakin’. You just run along now and dance till yer teeth fall out.”

                The child was very happy to be liberated and excused from any further deliberation, the greatest exertion of mind hitherto having been the ambition of what was going to be his lunch at Church for the coming week now that most of the crops were out of the ground. He bounded away, rejoining the other children for the new set, hastily wiping his bemired fingers on his shirt before taking hands with his new dance partner, but he was not released without the subliminal advise of And ‘member, lad, don’t eat the maple snow that’s gone brown.

                “Don’t know how Borras does it all the time,” said Aoidhe, smiling to himself, “always visitin’ the wee-uns and not explainin’ things to ‘em.”

                “He only plays with the children, Aoidhe,” Chune reminded him. “He does not try to teach them about local cultural practices beyond their age ability.”

                “Oughtta be taught. Wee-uns need edi-cation. Show ‘em young so’s they know how to do it proper when they’re older.”

                Chune doubted that a child of eight years old needed to be knowledgeable in regional  venery rituals and courtship routines, but she only smiled and let it pass, wondering that Aoidhe should be so liberal in wanting everyone to know how the women of Frewyn’s farmsteads ought to be thanked.