Story for the Day: The Morbs and Marrow

For all those who suffer from malaise this time of the year, I hear you. And so does Bilar:

                The mirk of midnight sinuated in, the luminaries pullulating across the sky, the moon hanging heavily in the humidity between sungates, the canopy blanketed in starlight. The capital tripped into its natural sloom, the glink of water on stone whelmed the docks, the delicate footfalls of soldiers patrolling the streets and marching along the wall pattering over the landscape, lights in windows simmered into a sobering hue, the churchyard and issuing square were silent under the splendour of the coming holiday, and the castle keep lapsed into its slumbering state, everyone having fallen asleep in the arms of some other,  the sconces along the halls surrendering themselves to the insuperable gloom, the thrill of an early winter whispering their seasonal secrets to the gales. The sun delayed its appearance, relinquishing its powers to the extended evening, the darkened morning adding a misery which everyone who dislikes the decline of the year must feel. Aurora reluctantly arrived, the sun achieving its seasonal place, its rays clambering over the median line, the Herald and callmen made their way through the town, hearths seethes with curls of smoke, the lanterns in the square were lit, and the morning of Mean Fhomhair was come, the sun lending its apricity to the landscape with disinclination. The first intimations of mass began, the jow of the bells crying out in a desperate clang, the cantillation of morning prayers singing in the High Holidays, and the pandiculations of easy farmers and frenetic butchers ushered in the opening of the markets, the brocades going up by the aid of tea and by the will of patrons anxious to have their dinners arranged and tables ready set.

                The friends and family who were unable to come to the celebration yesterday were to come this morning, and the lookout for Mrs Averleigh and all the other parents and children visiting the keep began. The first to come was Tuilaine: it was insisted that she come for Harvest, and Mureadh met her at the Haven at sunrise, coming on his Karnwyl Dray in full caparison, to convey her to the keep, where she first went to see Cairn, who was still asleep when she arrived, and then to see Bilar, to see how his work went on and discuss the general health and humour of the keep.   

                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 come 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.”