New Story for the #NewYear: Clerical Work

For all those, like myself and Bilar, who have to work through the holidays:

Bilar had been at his desk all night: his study of the sample he had taken from Brigid had led him into the Burrows of Knowledge, and where an interest in discovery is avid, eager minds will follow, and Bilar followed the star of his curiosity all night long. He wrote and studied, fidgeted and fussed, and just as he was on the tail of a conclusion, the somnolence that had been hanging on him all night surmounted him. He lay his work aside, to keep from smirching it, and surrendered to fatigue, laying his head on his desk, promising himself only to close his eyes for a few minutes and get on with his medical conclusions. Weariness never speaks in minutes when it can communicate in hours, and many hours had gone before Bilar opened his eyes again, lifting his head only when Aghatha entered the infirmary, bearing the tea trey and an empty basket for the bedclothes.

                “By Ogham, is it morning already?” said Bilar, tapering his gaze and looking pained.

                “Ay, Bilar. Been mornin’ these two howehs aulreadeh,” Aghatha chimed, setting the tea trey down. “When yeh didn’t cum in for yeh usual earleh mornin’ breakfast, Ay knew yeh wor ‘ere by yehself, propped oveh ye werk. Ay thought Ay’d cum and bring yer tea in ‘ere.”

                “Thank you, Aghatha,” said Bilar, rapt a dismal haze. “Very kind of you to consider—“ He was interrupted by a much needed pandiculation. “By Ogham,” he exhaled, cleaning his spectacles, “this day already feels like two days long.”

                “Aye, aul holidehs do,” Aghatha sang, pouring the tea. “The eve spent much in the kitchen, makin’ preparations, the mornin’ spent with friends and famleh, the aftehnoon spent sleepin’ off suppeh, and the nyght spent wyde awake when ye ought be shuttin’ yer eyes. From Seamhair to Brigid’s Day, Ay neveh know what day it is. So many holidehs to think of and manage for. Meh duties keep me from fallin’ inteh the winteh slump. O’ that mirk, neveh knowin’ what tyme o’ day it is—if Ay didn’t take in the sheets every mornin’ and do the cahpets and arrases evereh aftehnoon, evereh day’d be lyke God’s Day. Mayhem and megrims from mornin’ till nyght.” She brought the tea and milk over to him and set the cup down. “What’s ailin’ yeh, Bilar?” said she sweetly, pouring the milk. “Ay know yer the Royal Cleric, son, but even a cleric needs lookin’ afteh sumtymes.”

                “Oh, it is nothing, Aghatha,” he wearily assured her. “Only fatigue from too much work.”

                “That’s ailment enough, Ay’d say.” She glanced around the infirmary: the room was clean and the beds were still made, but the pillows lay flat, the few plants brought in from the garden were untrimmed, and there was little to cheer the place save a few toys in the corner for any children who should be waylaid by illness and the sun falling in streaks through the large lancet windows peering into the training yard. A few flecks of dust floated in the shafts of amber sunlight, the vagaries of clouds moved along the floor in passing obtenebrations—there was little life here, no joy or animation, the vibrancy from the room had gone, and all intimations of someone else having superintended the infirmary had been erased. Indelible, however, was the mark that had been made on the cleric’s heart.

                “Ay, I know,” said Aghatha, with a plaintive air. “Must have a bit o’ the morbs this tyme o’ year.”

                “Aghatha, as much as I do appreciate your dialect and find it very pleasant in general, I do wish you would use clerical terms when discussing illness,” said Bilar, holding his cup with a tremulous hand. “I do not have the morbs, as you state, because that is not a real condition. I do not have the junters either, before you fling that one at me.”

                Aghatha pursed her lips in a smile and shook her head. “The sulks, as Sisteh Surreigh used teh say.”

                “It’s nothing really. I’m only tired from having stayed up so late. You ought to be fatigued, considering your studies in sarcology last night. You are far too happy for this time in the morning.”

                “Aye, Ay’am,” Aghatha beamed, all over exultation, “but Ay ought the be happeh around holidehs, same as anyone.”

                “Yes, well,” said Bilar gravely, minding his tea. “Not me, I’m afraid.”

                “And why should yeh be afraid,” Aghatha chimed, thumping Bilar on the arm. “Yeh’ve got yer famleh ‘ere.”             

                There was a sound in the hall. Two of the undermaids flitted by, evidently cherishing exquisite secrets about which of the Elites they liked best, the chutter and chelp of promoted gaiety filled the hall, the echo of which offended the cleric’s ears.

                “Yes, precisely the thing I want around the High Holidays,” Bilar grumbled. “Outrageous frivolities, obligatory gift giving, compulsory jollity-- I would much prefer the quiet comforts of the Farmer’s First Month: the tranquility of knowing that there is a month of solitary living before the first thaw brings them back into the fields. I would furlough myself in the same style, would my duties to the royal family not prevent me, that I might get some real work done for the Haven rather than have to tend to Podger’s social conditions or Macgintseigh’s broken clavicle for the four-hundredth time.”

                He sipped his tea and stared at the far wall, and Aghatha simpered and tutted at him.

                “Yer ryght on yer way to become the next grizzledygrumps,” she laughed, stripping the beds, “jus’ lyke Aul’ Masteh Cneighsea.”

                “Yes, well, now I understand why ol’ master Cneighsea was so delightfully miserable. At least something good will become of me. A little petulance is good for the heart.”

                “Aye, and a bit o’ merriment is good for the marrow.”