Post by Salandis on Dec 24, 2018 4:39:37 GMT -6
It was the first week of December, and the manor came alive again. Car after car had made the slushy trip out to the distant manor, and in a tradition older than most of the people present, those that arrived immediately set to cleaning. It was no small undertaking: The manor was large, far larger than the double handful of rooms in the central hub that Raine ever actually used these days. The old wings for residence were kept in repair, but only saw use in these special weeks.
Rooms that lay unused most of the year were aired. Dust sheets were pulled away, and wax and polish was applied with vigour to bring a sparkle to old wood furnishings and bright work. Floors were scrubbed, halls were mopped and then coated again in rich polish to bring out a deep golden lustre. Fireplaces were cleared and re-set, and even the halls with display cases were carefully dusted and polished to a pristine brightness. The great kitchen received attention first, of course, and once the great hearths were clean and prepared a population of matriarchs (And the occasional tolerated male) set to preparing the food that would feed the other workers, and then the feast to be held afterwards besides.
It might have shocked an outsider to see the people working so industriously over two days in such a frenzy of cleaning. Not in the cleaning itself, per se, but the people doing it. The age ranged greatly, from elders that had to be chased back to chairs to youngsters who complained at being dragged away from phones and tablets, but that was normal. No, the position of these people was what was strange. Among those cleaning were those who, outside this manor, were noted investors, board members, department heads, executive officers. Many were millionaires in their own right, the sort who would normally hire others to do such menial work. All of them put on aprons and wielded dust cloths without complaint or respect for their normal station (Aside from teenagers, whose complaints were expected and ignored, and children, who were allowed to play). They had, on arrival, eyed up Ari (a previously unknown guest) and then simply welcomed him as family, with hugs, welcomes… and a cleaning cloth.
By the second night the cleaning was done, but there was no celebration, not yet. The food was still plain, the evening spent in quiet reminiscence, for the next day was one bound in a sadder tradition. As soon as dawn broke, the assembled extended families attended the small chapel that was built aside from the house, secluded slightly within the forest. It was a building Raine had built at the polite, intransigent insistence of the first residents of the manor grounds, who would not work – not even when practically slaves – without a place of worship. Raine had given in only begrudgingly, and while he remained at odds with the religion he had, after a fashion, found peace in the serenity it granted those he had watched over. And never more so than now, when a yearly service was held in remembrance of all those who had lived under his roof, worked in his fields, and especially those who had died far from home. It was a service held in memory of those who were not there, a list that grew longer every year. For many of those who attended most of those names were abstract, carved in the stone of the chapel so long ago the edges were rounded and worn. For Raine those names were each people he had known and cared about. He often spent the remainder of the day in that hall or in the small private graveyard attached to it. Not in prayer, or worship, but in simple remembrance – visiting each name, and reminding himself of the good memories of each of the people who were now only memories – only his memories, sometimes – and names engraved in stone. They would be wide ranging, from a sweet, loving memory of ages past, to a bittersweet memory of those who had joined these halls only this year gone.
Ari had been pulled away, with some protest. This, too, was tradition as this clan understood it. Knowledge not spoken of, that the man left in that room knew each and every one of those people, even those dead two hundred years and more.
Instead, as always, it was the children that pulled Raine free from the church. For the last two days Raine had been “babysitting” them, and they knew what was supposed to happen next. Most of them, having played out with “Uncle Raine,” would ask if Marchelute was going to visit that year. It was not always guaranteed, for if he felt a change coming on him the Ifreeti would decline: He would never risk transforming around children. But they also knew that this building is one place that Marchelute would never visit, even if they didn’t know why. And if Raine wanted to see him again…
And after all, Marchelute also remembered many of these people.
That night saw celebration. The halls were clean, the kids were settled, and Marchelute would join them – albeit in the upper halls, among those who knew him and were comfortable in his presence. Ari was swept into the celebration as much as anyone, with wide ranging talk, good food, and probably more drinking than he was used to. It was also the night that, rarely, invited guest would arrive. The first days were spent first in tribute, for they all had been slaves under the master of the house and were now great. The third day was in remembrance, of those who had left them behind. The last days were celebration for Christmas and the New Year.
The great hall was alive with voices, as all the families ate and talked. Then, as the food was set away and the youngest were put to bed, the younger adults vanished on half-hearted excuses to visit the library. Marchelute joined the hall, for there was no one left that did not know him then. Ari remained too, even as the evening wore on, until at last only the oldster Jarl O’Shaughnessy (Who had made a dramatic improvement in health over the year, and no longer even needed a nurse) sat snoring in an armchair near the fire.
Raine looked at the guests who, by tradition or assumed ignorance, had remained in the hall. Ari was nodding off in a comfortable chair nearby. While not quite asleep, the toll of drinking among the Irish sure to catch up by the morning. Well, later in the morning to be strictly serious. Marchelute also sat by the fire, eschewing a chair for Persian style cushions. Raine gently swirled his brandy, taking an appreciative sip while he looked at his latest guest. "Ah'll admit," he said softly, wary of the sleeping octogenarian, "Ah wasn'ae sure yeh would come, Isaac. It's a rare few ah've invited tah these December gatherings, after all, and fer most of that time yeh were technically a parole officer of sorts." He sipped again, looking around the room. "Still and all, it's glad Ah am yeh came. They seemed tah like yeh."
Rooms that lay unused most of the year were aired. Dust sheets were pulled away, and wax and polish was applied with vigour to bring a sparkle to old wood furnishings and bright work. Floors were scrubbed, halls were mopped and then coated again in rich polish to bring out a deep golden lustre. Fireplaces were cleared and re-set, and even the halls with display cases were carefully dusted and polished to a pristine brightness. The great kitchen received attention first, of course, and once the great hearths were clean and prepared a population of matriarchs (And the occasional tolerated male) set to preparing the food that would feed the other workers, and then the feast to be held afterwards besides.
It might have shocked an outsider to see the people working so industriously over two days in such a frenzy of cleaning. Not in the cleaning itself, per se, but the people doing it. The age ranged greatly, from elders that had to be chased back to chairs to youngsters who complained at being dragged away from phones and tablets, but that was normal. No, the position of these people was what was strange. Among those cleaning were those who, outside this manor, were noted investors, board members, department heads, executive officers. Many were millionaires in their own right, the sort who would normally hire others to do such menial work. All of them put on aprons and wielded dust cloths without complaint or respect for their normal station (Aside from teenagers, whose complaints were expected and ignored, and children, who were allowed to play). They had, on arrival, eyed up Ari (a previously unknown guest) and then simply welcomed him as family, with hugs, welcomes… and a cleaning cloth.
By the second night the cleaning was done, but there was no celebration, not yet. The food was still plain, the evening spent in quiet reminiscence, for the next day was one bound in a sadder tradition. As soon as dawn broke, the assembled extended families attended the small chapel that was built aside from the house, secluded slightly within the forest. It was a building Raine had built at the polite, intransigent insistence of the first residents of the manor grounds, who would not work – not even when practically slaves – without a place of worship. Raine had given in only begrudgingly, and while he remained at odds with the religion he had, after a fashion, found peace in the serenity it granted those he had watched over. And never more so than now, when a yearly service was held in remembrance of all those who had lived under his roof, worked in his fields, and especially those who had died far from home. It was a service held in memory of those who were not there, a list that grew longer every year. For many of those who attended most of those names were abstract, carved in the stone of the chapel so long ago the edges were rounded and worn. For Raine those names were each people he had known and cared about. He often spent the remainder of the day in that hall or in the small private graveyard attached to it. Not in prayer, or worship, but in simple remembrance – visiting each name, and reminding himself of the good memories of each of the people who were now only memories – only his memories, sometimes – and names engraved in stone. They would be wide ranging, from a sweet, loving memory of ages past, to a bittersweet memory of those who had joined these halls only this year gone.
Ari had been pulled away, with some protest. This, too, was tradition as this clan understood it. Knowledge not spoken of, that the man left in that room knew each and every one of those people, even those dead two hundred years and more.
Instead, as always, it was the children that pulled Raine free from the church. For the last two days Raine had been “babysitting” them, and they knew what was supposed to happen next. Most of them, having played out with “Uncle Raine,” would ask if Marchelute was going to visit that year. It was not always guaranteed, for if he felt a change coming on him the Ifreeti would decline: He would never risk transforming around children. But they also knew that this building is one place that Marchelute would never visit, even if they didn’t know why. And if Raine wanted to see him again…
And after all, Marchelute also remembered many of these people.
That night saw celebration. The halls were clean, the kids were settled, and Marchelute would join them – albeit in the upper halls, among those who knew him and were comfortable in his presence. Ari was swept into the celebration as much as anyone, with wide ranging talk, good food, and probably more drinking than he was used to. It was also the night that, rarely, invited guest would arrive. The first days were spent first in tribute, for they all had been slaves under the master of the house and were now great. The third day was in remembrance, of those who had left them behind. The last days were celebration for Christmas and the New Year.
The great hall was alive with voices, as all the families ate and talked. Then, as the food was set away and the youngest were put to bed, the younger adults vanished on half-hearted excuses to visit the library. Marchelute joined the hall, for there was no one left that did not know him then. Ari remained too, even as the evening wore on, until at last only the oldster Jarl O’Shaughnessy (Who had made a dramatic improvement in health over the year, and no longer even needed a nurse) sat snoring in an armchair near the fire.
Raine looked at the guests who, by tradition or assumed ignorance, had remained in the hall. Ari was nodding off in a comfortable chair nearby. While not quite asleep, the toll of drinking among the Irish sure to catch up by the morning. Well, later in the morning to be strictly serious. Marchelute also sat by the fire, eschewing a chair for Persian style cushions. Raine gently swirled his brandy, taking an appreciative sip while he looked at his latest guest. "Ah'll admit," he said softly, wary of the sleeping octogenarian, "Ah wasn'ae sure yeh would come, Isaac. It's a rare few ah've invited tah these December gatherings, after all, and fer most of that time yeh were technically a parole officer of sorts." He sipped again, looking around the room. "Still and all, it's glad Ah am yeh came. They seemed tah like yeh."
