Story for the Day: Sponge and Quiltcake

Frewyn is famous for its desserts: from honey sponge, to quiltcake, to tarts and pies, Frewyn are the resounding champions of afters, so much so that even the Gods will turn up at table if only to have a slice of something good giving away.

The splendour of the birthday continued: Vyrdin and Aldus sat in a corner, reveling in their private literary bliss, simpering at Professor Crulge’s commentary of NO! This is not a crustacean- it’s an invertebrate, you raging rawgabbit! written in the margins in furious griffonage; Draeden finished the last of the cake in joyous accubation, while Alasdair conceded to have some of the walnut and hazelnut paste Martje had leftover from the quiltcake cut and wrapped in the morning, his pleasure diminished by Aoidhe on one side and Bryeison the other, the former practicing vulgarity with Chune and the latter all stifled mirth over Alasdair’s agony about having to hear the God of Passion tell his eternal bride, “Aye, you’re ripe for the season, girl. Gonna have to pull the piggin’ under you later.” Carrigh blushed for Alasdair’s sake, Lochan floundered and asked what Aoidhe meant, and Beryn tried to explain without having the twins to say anything about it. The call for music was made, dancing was to begin, Vyrdin the most eager to have the sets tittuped out without his being of the dancers. Ros was encouraged to sit down and guard the table in her condition, and though she and Vyrdin loved a dance, they would dance with each other. The manuscript Vyrdin had been nursing was given over to Aldus, who was quarrelling with Attenburrow’s usage of the word taxonomy, and “He ought to have used phylogeny here, as he is talking about branches of a specific tree. Professor Crulge, you are quite right to harangue him over it, quite right indeed”, and the musical members of the family went to fetch their instruments, whilst Alasdair sidled Vyrdin, to watch him gratulate in the splendour of a birthday he would condemn and have a piece of the honey sponge against his will. Alasdair was lurking unassumingly, and Vyrdin was eating his slice of cake whilst affecting to despise it.

                “It is no bad thing for an old soldier to commemorate his birthday, I think,” said Alasdair, after a pause.

                Vyrdin rubbed the crumbs from his beard and watched the children delineate who would be at the top of the set. “It’s no bad thing for his nephew to respect his wishes in not wanting to bother an entire keep while everyone is in the middle of Harvest preparation.”

                Vyrdin glared at him from the corner of his eye. Alasdair, however, was immune to his uncle’s ocular violence.  

                “We do it every year since your return,” Alasdair insisted, “and we mainly do it for everyone else’s enjoyment. Martje is always at an excuse for making cakes, and it’s easy to extend the Harvest celebrations by only one more day. If it means Harvest comes a day early, your birthday should always be used as a reason to put up the plaits and congratulate the farmers.”

                Vyrdin offered no reply, and Alasdair turned aside and sighed.

                “Are you bitterly disappointed that we made you an un-surprise party?”

                 “Yes,” said Vyrdin, with an air that obviously meant no. He glanced at the manuscript made over to Aldus’ care. “Thank you again for the book. I know Ros chose it, but she had to ask you to have Danaco send it here. Don’t deny it. I saw the letters.”

                Alasdair put a hand to his brow. “I will have something done in this keep one day without your knowing anything about it.”

                “There are many things you do that I don’t know about.”

                “Like what?”

                “Like how you manage to both maintain a slender figure and complain about your jerkin being too tight at the same time.”

                Hard looks met here, but the children were calling out for the Aunts and Uncles to start the music, and Vyrdin’s gaze softened.

                “I wish your grandfather were here to see this,” said Vyrdin, in a somber hue, watching Beryn and Aiden fetch their instruments.

                “So do I,” Alasdair quietly agreed.

                Bryeison moved toward them, silencing Draeden as he went by clamping a hand over his mouth, and began to listen to their conversation.

                 “It reminds me of the first time I spent my birthday together with everyone,” Vyrdin continued. “The first year I was here, Draeden and Bryeison were abroad, and Brigdan was still at home. I was really too diffident and anxious to say anything about it being my birthday to your grandfather, but he knew. He quietly wished me a happy birthday, hoping my situation now that I was in the keep would improve. After that, I grew more comfortable, and the year after that, I had my first birthday with my new family. We were in my room, your grandfather and I, and as a birthday gift gave me the first edition of Marridon’s Adiethian Bestiary. I didn’t know this but Draeden, Bryeison, and Brigdan were listening by the door when he gave it to me.” Here was a fond smile. “Your grandfather was the one who began my interest in books. I spent my whole first year here drowning in the library. He educated me really, since I had no education for many years before that, so I blame him for my literary tastes and obsession. He saw how much that Bestiary meant to me. It was the first heartfelt gift I had received in my young life. He went through the book with me for a few minutes, going over the historical context of each animal—most of them fictitious, but it didn’t matter.” Vyrdin lowered his eyes and grew thoughtful. “He told me how much he cared about me and how happy he was to see how well I thrived at the keep. Draeden, Bryeison, and Brigdan piled over themselves in the doorway. He smiled and said how much like brothers we had grown, and then he told me he loved me as a son.” His lips pursed, and his fist tightened in his lap. “I sank into his arms and cried. I was seventeen years old, and I wept like a small child.”

                “He had a way of getting us to do that,” Bryeison added. “If you think you were bad on your seventeenth birthday,  you should have seen me on my fifteenth birthday with him.”

                “Was that the birthday you received the letter about your parents?” Alasdair asked.

                “It was.”

                “I am both glad and saddened I wasn’t here for that one,” was Vyrdin’s earnest entreaty.

                “You might not have been here, Vyrdin,” said Draeden, clambering over Bryeison to reclaim his seat, “but I certainly was, and I will never forget it. Even though I had lost my mother when I was only five, I did not really understand that she was not coming back, which attributed to many difficulties I had growing up—I was always nervous—I still am nervous-- I always feared that father was going to leave me too, I had immense difficulty expressing my emotions properly, and my physical health suffered because I was such an anxious child-- but seeing my father’s grief and dejection at her death was an agony so horrific I never wanted to witness it again. He was inconsolable for months. It was a season at least before he could resume court-- the whole country was in mourning-- but hearing my father wail with such heartache was a penance. Brigdan’s family and I were his only consolations. He recovered eventually, but I never wanted to hear that kind of unbridled grief again. I heard it when Bryeison received the letter about his parents’ death. I had never seen Bryeison cry so much, I had never heard such despair, but my father was there, and he eventually took the place of a parent, looking after Bryeison and his well being. Once my father had coddled and cared for you, he could make you cry in a moment merely by telling you that he loved you. I am fortunate to have been spared all the agony of his loss. I was already gone when he passed, but I did know a something like distress when I thought I was going to lose you last year.” He turned to Alasdair and clasped his shoulders. “Don’t you dare ever become ill again,” he cried, jossing him about. “My heart nearly leapt from my mouth when I saw you lying there in the infirmary bed. You’re not allowed to be feverish or injured ever again, do you understand, because I will not allow you to die before me.”

                “I’ll do my best, father,” said Alasdair dutifully. “Certainly anything to stay away from the infirmary for a long while.”

                Here was a sly glance at Bilar, who was standing at the other end of the room, superintending a small glass of sherry, surreptitiously counting all the slices of cake and pie that had been eaten throughout the course of the evening. He, of course, has a small slice of the leftover quiltcake, but he knew the meaning of moderation, unlike Tomas, who though a very good sort of man would eat more than his exercise habits required, and Lochan, while he did not eat any meat, certainly ate a sinful share of honey sponge. They were sure all to be in his infirmary in the morning, and if not, he was sure there would be queue at the latrine tower. He ought to ask Aoidhe to make good on his japes, if only to teach the royal family about health and correct nutrition, but the family from Tyfferim was by, and there was no telling a flock of farmers anything about reducing their consumption of bread.

                They’re not gonna listen to you, lad, a voice resonated.

                Of that, O Lord, I am all too aware, was Bilar’s unspoken answer, directed at Aoidhe, who was eating the last of the birthday cake.

                Bilar sipped his sherry and examined the bottom of his glass. At least your being a God makes the five slices of cake you had not so very bad.

                Well, ‘s what cake’s for, eatin’. Sure ‘S what we made you for. AND OUR CHILDREN SHALL GIVE TRIBUTE IN PROPORTION TO THEIR WEALTH AND bake us cakes and similar.

                Bilar could not but smile to himself. Yes, I’m very sure the Good Book says every devout Frewyn must make His Lord Aoidhe several pies and cakes to garner his Divine Favour.

                I’m the God o’ Justice, lad. You make such a nice dinner and don’t invite me to the afters, I’m gonna bring FIRE AND IMMOLATION DOWN UPON YOU and all.

                Would that all wrathful Gods be so easily appeased.

                Wrathful? Naw, don’t got room for spitin’. That’s my brother’s job. Don’t mention him though. Menor’ll get upset and all the snow’ll melt aff his shoulders.

                I say nothing, O Lord, while your siblings are by.

                That’s a good lad. And don’t say nothin’ about this cake neither. I want some o’ those fruit wedges come Ailineighdaeth.

                Bilar sighed through his nose. It will be the rebirth of stomach sickness rather than the rebirth of the year.

                Well, ain’t the High Holidays till they crapulated ‘emselves. They’re all big lads and good girls. They can mind ‘emselves. And dyin’ from eatin’ ain’t so bad. There are worse ways to go.

                There was no refuting Aoidhe, though Bilar did wish that God of Japes and Justice would practice more economy in front of everyone else, but there were always a few patients the cleric could count on: Pastaddams was always careful and moderate, and though Alasdair did flump too much over the fit of his jerkin, his anxiety not to return to the infirmary would settle the business of too much cake for the king.