Story for the Day: The Bramble

There is always a bigger fish.
There are also always older Gods.
For however powerful the Four Sons of Diras promise to be, there is always one who reigns supreme over them, one whom Baba Connridh dotingly calls 'The Bramble'.

The nidor of braised meat stewing in suet and spices made Baba turn back to the house, but she stopped at the threshold, seized by a sudden thrill. The wind changed, the nearby boughs bent westward, the house creaked, bringing down a few rebellious shafts of straw from the thatch, and a warmth descended. A hum pursed her lips as she surveyed the rows, eyeing the whitethorn in the distance with grim suspicion.

                “No…” she breathed, taking her hand from her knitters, “this ain’t them…”        

                A tidal rote filled her ears. It came from the west, the clouds billowed and stirred, the sun escaped under the horizon, a turbulence struck through the air, and a sudden velocity of substance pooling down from the heavens broke over her in a violent wave. A gale crashed against the back of the house, a subsonic crack echoed throughout the farm, and the subliminal sibilations began. A presence fraught with the Ephemera of Life and Death loomed over her. It expanded outward, reaching across the fields, the trees bent as though endeavouring to conquer the farm-- time slowed, bringing the whirling orphaned leaves to a halt. Something moved with erratic steps, shifting in static perturbation over the field—it stopped at the foot of the stile, a shadow materialized, a creeping obtenebration whelmed the back of the house. Baba’s long braids luffed against her chest, and she was unmoved by the raging force. The shade advanced with a sudden jolt, the shock of which threw the back door to the house open. The cat fled, escaping from the shadow at the edge of Baba’s boots— it was consuming the stile, it was rising over the house. Baba looked up, and an arborous creature was standing over her, lurching meaningfully, with head low and back arched, its ligneous limbs weighing down its shoulders. It groaned in dendrous creaks, speaking its secrets to the passing wind, regaling the farm with the addresses only the hallowed would pay. Two eyes peered out from a foliate face, lichen ornamented its hederaceous brow, its skin a peridermal  ocher complimented by the evergreen decorating its chest. A tasset of pinecones hung round a deciduous fauld, and an avalanche of oak and ivy cascaded from its chin. The scent of verdure came up from the ground, a fulmination of life flourishing from the Being’s steps. It lowered its nowl, dominating the stile, and Baba tutted and looked unimpressed.

                “Aye, so,” she grumped, putting her hands on her hips. “Figured you’d show up anyhow, with yer boys always visitin’.” She shook her head. “Amhaile, all this show fer nothin’,” tossing a hand. “Coulda just come in the front door since I got one. You put the sun up and keep the moon down and keep the seasons goin’ along as they should, but none o’ yous figured out how to knock.”

                There was a snare hidden at the front door, to keep away wayward solicitors and a few of the neighbour’s children that grew tired of breaking their limbs to get through the window and might as well break something else trying to infiltrate as not, but a God might have prescience enough not to step on it instead of roaring onto the land by way of the onion beds.

                A groan answered her, a mangle of vines was extended, and a slight bow was offered.

                “Aye, bramble, I see ya, so I do,” Baba exhaled. She kicked aside something that had fallen out of the Being’s beard. “Gettin’ yer acorns all over my loam, and I won’t have the squirrels come diggin’ up my bulbs come spring.” She glanced at the wildflowers ringing its feet. “Better not be puttin’ weeds in my furrows, I’m tellin’ ya that, or that’s you pullin’ ‘em out yerself come spring.”

                The being seemed amused, its emerald eyes glowing with gentle warmth. “You Know Me…” it breathed, inhaling summer and exhaling winter, the Fullness of Existence sibilating from its lips.

                “Bhi Borras, ’course I know you,” Baba replied, scratching her sides. “Everyone does, whether they know it or not.”

                The beard of oak and ivy rustled in a smile.   

                Baba grew impatient. “What? I don’t get the usual greetin’? No ‘hullo, child’ and all that?”

                The being canted its head. “Is That What My Sons Do?”

                “One of ‘em anyhow. The moper likes bein’ formal, makin’ bows and apologies and that. Why’re you askin’ me anyhow? You oughtta know what yer sons do. Ain’t you the End All and Be All or whatever?”

                Diras, God of Life and Death, End All and Be All, lurched over Gran Mara Connridh, his verdant mantle unfurling in an animated brocade. “I Am All That Is…” his voice resonated.

                “Good,” she said, pushing his vines aside, “then take all yer all-o’-this outta my furrows, if ya don’t mind.” She pointed to the flowers at his feet growing and dying at an alarming rate. “And stop that or turn it off or whatever it is you gods do. If yer gonna be makin’ things grow, yer gonna be usin’ yer feet to put the clover in for me come th’morra, so you will.”

                Diras seemed hardly to understand her: she neither feared him nor marveled at him, treating his appearance more as an irritation than a blessing. He seemed to be unaware, however, that her farm meant her rules, and not even the God of Life and Death Himself was immune from reproach here. His sons should have warned him-- or he should have consulted them-- before making an unexpected visit to the old woman’s farm. Dislike and derision he had come to expect from those who believed he had governance over the minutiae of everyday life, but indifference and disinterestedness was new to him.

                 “If you’re here to give me a tellin’ about my tomatoes, I got half a mind to give you, bramble,” Baba continued. “Puttin’ the blight on ’em so’s I couldn’t grow ‘em— aye, I know they’re a Lucentian crop and don’t belong in Frewyn soil, but the weather was dry enough for ‘em, and I ain’t goin’ to town just for tomatoes when I got room enough for ‘em in the patch.”

                Diras had no idea about tomatoes; they had bearing on Life in the Realm, and as he certainly did not create them, nor was he responsible for their maintenance, he only stroked his floral frontsmane and listened in silence.