Story for the Day: Galan Mai - Spring Pleasures

Spring is finally come to Frewyn. and with the late budding season comes a whole host of terrors, like the threat of a late harvest and the resurgence of Alasdair's friends the clothing moths:

The capital also had its share in the seasonal pleasures: nearly everyone in Diras was out, reveling in the apricity of the vernal sun, searching for the young curls of bracken and brake, gathering the parsley and purslane sprouting around the port, while airs were lilting over the square, songs of the season being sung out in high keys, overpowering the skree of the gulls and larks kiting around the nearby cliffs. Those celebrating in conjunction with the Galleisian holiday of Valpfurgis sat on the bridge, between the church and the markets, making nosegays of mallow and marsh-marigold and braiding ornamental alliums to be hung from the eves in the evening. The gaieties extended to the castle keep, where Gaumhin and the Westren regiment were marching about in their breacans, Vyrdin and Ros were managing the new books just come in from Baleigh’s, Aghatha was out in the far field bleaching the sheets, Searle was letting Sheamas in the side gate with the rack of smoked bacon and corned cabbage, Draeden and Bryeison were with Connors and Nerri in the yard, Brigdan was at the mews with the Elites, looking after the hawks and falcons, Rautu and Hathanta were matching at Hophsaas near the royal wood, and Harrigh, the ancient gardener at the keep, who had cherished every crop in the garden and nursed every plant in the courtyard, was surveying the grounds and examining the soil in anticipation of the canicular supremacy, marking out the foxtail and fescue in the field, inspecting the green spathes of the lords-and-ladies, watching the woodsorrel wave to the breeze. He noggled through the kitchen garden, where Peigi and Blinne were minding the pansy and primrose. The cordon pear and plum trees were coming in against the north-facing wall, the current and cucumber were beginning to climb the trellises, and Harrigh shuffled to the small greenhouse, to the nurture the roseroot and raspberry and begin the mixing the summercloud for the panes.

                Peigi and Blinne went to the courtyard, to cut some of the feylily and have Harrigh approve the sprigs for modest holiday decoration.

                “They’re comin’ in a-very nicely indeed,” he said, in his languid drawl. “They ought be good for the holadee. Usually, they have ‘bout ten bells to the stalk, but the cold weather made ‘em late this year.” He glanced back at his cold frames, piled with loam on leaves, and sighed over their poor returns, thinking to himself how he should be very sorry to see any other gardener packing their hot beds and strawing their cloches only to be rewarded with such a small yield. “Six or seven bells’ll have to do for this year’s cutting,” said he, with a pining expression.

                “Do you think Her Majesty will like them, even though they’re small this year?” Blinne asked.

                “I like them very well,” said Carrigh, walking into the garden from the main hall.

                The girls turned and made their obeisances to the queen as she walked toward them, and before Harrigh could pay his addresses in form, Carrigh placed a hand on the kind old gentleman’s shoulder and interposed with a warm smile.

                “Yuer Ladyship is lookin’ festive as always,” said Harrigh graciously, marking out the fern and lily pattern on her white gown.

                “How is everything coming in?” Carrigh asked, eyeing the splendid pear blossoms opening along the wall.

                “We’s a bit bee-ynd, Ladyship, what with the late frosts and slow growin’,  but it should all be comin’ inta fluer all roight,” said Harrigh, whistling through the embrasure in his teeth. “The fluer on the feylillies is a bit short, but it ‘as all the bells one wants out of an early spring fluer.”

                The queen smiled most good humouredly. “Good,” she nodded, “I’m glad to hear everything is as it should be. I worried with the ice storm we had, and having it so late in the season, that there might be some difficulties to overcome, but I know Harrigh,” with a tender gesture, “would never allow anything to happen to our garden.”

                “My pride and joy, Yuer Ladyship,” the old man beamed, his dim eyes twinkling, “My pride and joy. One could not be ‘appier, if I may say, tendin’ to the crops and fluers of the king’s garden.” He smiled to himself, and then, in a more serious tone, he added, “I ‘ave been the envy of many men, wha’ve been asked to manage estate grounds and keep the fluer and kitchen gardens. Few can say they’ve been at their post and ‘ave been given free reign of it as I ‘ave. Ninety years I’ve been lookin’ after these grounds, since my oul’ master ‘anded the responsibility to me when I’s just a lad at seventeen years ould.”

                “And there are few who could match your determination and affection for the place, Harrigh, I’m sure.”

                The old man bowed his head. “Yuer Ladyship is good to say so, I reckon.”

                The cuttings of feylily were given over to Carrigh for inspection, and once they were approved and admired, they were to be taken the great hall and the court, where nosegays of maidenhair and swordlily were to furnish the banisters and walls. Fresh flowers adorning every corner of the court were not a necessity in general, but their delicate scents kept the lords and ladies from falling asleep in the midst of a tedious litigation, and everyone loves to avow the efforts of a gardener after a long lugubrious winter. Carrigh thanked Harrigh and his apprentices, saying she was looking forward to the fruitful spring season, and took some of the cuttings for herself, to be gilded and sewn on lapels and placed through buttons for the coming birthdays, one Alasdair reminded her of as she met him in the hall.

                 The king was just come down from the royal chambers, having suffered a panic over finding a horde of spring moths congregating under his dresser. Aghatha came, to save the sheets and remove the clump of husks congregating around a renegade sock and set the whole on fire, and Searle arrived, to clean the crevices and investigate any other hoves where the spring vermin might be hiding. Alasdair was gone when Searle began the hunt: his skin was already horripilating, and he had no idea of reprising his role as Captain for the sake of an intrusion of militant moths.

                “They are harmless, sire,” Searle reminded him.

                “Not entirely. They eat things,” was Alasdair’s paltry excuse.

                “Well, I grant you, sire they do, I believe that it what many insects generally do.”  

                “And they might not be moths,” Alasdair added, escaping into the hall. “They might be corner flies, and they bite.”

                “Or even some type of flying Lucentian roach, and those, sire, never leave.”

                Consternation struck him, and Alasdair, melting against the door post and jolting in a fit of gags, remembered when one was found in the kitchen. He did not regret the bonfire in the far field; it gave a comfort that only immolation can provide, and if the current insurgence would be anything like the infestation of last autumn, he might have to give the order to scorch the whole keep. Fire was best where bugs were concerned, and Alasdair fled the royal quarters with the instruction of, “Better burn the mattress just in case.”