Story for the Day: Holiday Expectations

As Ailineighdaeth, the Frewyn winter holiday and beginning of the new year, comes to an end, there is much the residents of the keep have to be grateful for--  least of all being the absence of a certain God at their holiday celebrations:

Mr Craw donning his holiday hat

Alasdair directed the children, giving them the laurels and festoons Pastaddams made in honour of the holiday. “One end over here near the counter, that’s right, and the other in the inlet. Pin it there, and then you can continue without having it stretch over the beam.” He watched them and gave their work an approving nod. “Good. Now you can go on to the other side of the room.” He turned toward the table momentarily, and found Boudicca eyeing him with secretive delight. “What?”

                 “I love when you delegate with your hands on your hips,” she said, smiling at him. “You are one dishrag over the shoulder away from being an anxious mother.”

                Alasdair spied her unimpressedly. “I am a solicitous father and uncle,” he contended.

                “Well,” said Sheamas, moving toward the boar roasting at the centre fire, “would the father and uncle like to carve the dinner for the room? This side’s near done and it’s gotta be turned.”

                Alasdair should be delighted to do the honours. The plates were brought, Sheamas turned the spit, and Alasdair shaved several slices off the boar, encouraging the children to put the full plates onto the table, to let everyone take as much roast as they liked. He brought the last of the plates to the table himself, and just as he meant to sit down, he heard someone say something in honour of the Gods. It might have been Gaumhin or Baronous, praising the Gods for their great goodness and bountiful blessings for their meal, but someone presently wondered whether Libhan or even Menor would join them for the holiday, and Alasdair was instantly besieged.

                “Shh!” he hissed, waving down the whole table, in a thrill of terror. “Do not mention the Gods—even the ones we like—I’m sorry for it, but I don’t want a certain God in particular to show up—“ nodding significantly toward Baronous, who could not help laughing. “We are going to have a quiet holiday, and while we are all very grateful for their blessings and their looking after us, there will be no Gods in his hall for Ailineighdaeth, especially not the one we are not going to mention.”

                “Which one’s that?” Little Jaicobh asked, his eyes twinkling.

                “The one we’re not going to talk about,” said Boudicca, “though we are now all thinking about him, thanks to the one person who does not want him around.”

                Alasdair looked pained and sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want him around. I just want a pleasant and peaceful holiday, one that does not involve brotherly arguments, japery, and sudden doom every time I get up from a chair.”

                “If you didn’t think about him or believe in him, he would not plague you so half so much.”

                “How can I not believe in him?” Alasdair cried, in a panic. “I know he exists!”

                “Yes, we all do, but there are many who know the Gods exist without believing in them. Rautu knows the God you don’t want to mention exists, but he does not believe in him, and the God you will not name does not think about plaguing for a moment. You know the sun exists without believing in it. You do not get up every morning with a prayer for the sun, nor do you question whether it will rise tomorrow. You know it is there, and you trust it to do its job. It’s the same with he-whose-name-shall-not-be-mentioned. He only bothers those who pay him any attention, rather like a disagreeable and ill-behaved child. They only cry when they know their parents are by, and they only stamp and wave their arms about when they realize no one is paying them any attention.”

                Alasdair would not think about it, but in trying to put the certain God of Justice and Japes out of his head, he thought about Him, thought of his jovial jocularity and overactive sense of passion toward fulfilling prayers, and horror succeeded, and Alasdair had a moment’s agitation of Aoidhe ruining all his hopes of a peaceful holiday, of his wanting to bless everyone for the coming year—

                Nah, I’m werkin’ the holiday, lad.

                Alasdair stared at the wall and ate his roast in petrified silence.

                Got a lotta prayers to listen to for the holiday. Ailineighdaeth wishes to grant and such.    

                Alasdair dared not answer. Boudicca’s advice of treating Aoidhe like an attention-grubbing five year old prevailed, and he ate slowly and pretended not to hear the voice vibrating in his mind.

                I’ll visit for a bit, just to see how my boy is doin’ and all, but Borras’ll come visit. He’s always there for his boy’s birthday. Always tellin’ me what for grantin’ wishes for babes, and he’s after havin’ a few of his own…

                The voice was gone, a presence lifted, and Alasdair could breathe.

                “Sire,” said Carrigh presently, “are you feeling all right? You’ve been rather quiet throughout dinner.”

                “Hm? Oh—“ Alasdair hemmed. “Yes—yes, I’m quite all right. I was just thinking—“ No, no, I was not, she will ask what about—“I was just—ahem!—trying to get the boar down. I got the end piece. A bit hard on chewing, but I was determined. Excellent basting, Sheamas. Did you marinate it in mardem before oiling the hide?”

                Calamity had been averted, and though Carrigh could be under no mistake that something was on her husband’s mind, she smiled and let it pass, sensible of his desire to say nothing at table, and resolving to get it all out of him in the sloom of late evening.