Mrs. Thorne was kind enough to give me a copy of the local paper. This is the first place I've been where announcements for masked balls outweigh church events. Cool.
Surely, if I work on The Project for a few hours this morning, I can justify a treat tonight? I wonder if this place has a clothing store open on Sunday.
I pour a glass of wine to help me think. The fog has cleared, and I can see more strange birds in the distance. Memo to self: buy opera glasses or telescope. Also, more notepaper.
Don't go out for formal rituals much, but that was nice. Lots of incense, laughing, dancing, and for a change they kept the shagging off the high altar. It's appropriate for our sort, but it does tend to freak out the High Church Anglicans just a tad to find condoms draped over the reliquaries. Mutual respect, that's the key.
So I make my way up to the roof to catch my ride home. And, of course, Bob and the Squadron are doing competitive aerobatics against the Angel Flight from the Cathedral. I may be waiting here for a while.
And who the heck is that humming "Ride of the Valkyries" as they fly overhead? I didn't know gargoyles could hum.
Hmmm. That was an interesting walk. I went out about, what? five hours ago to enjoy the autumn air, and ended up dancing with a bunch of people I'd never met before. I use the term "people" in the broadest sense, because I'm sure that humans comprised a minority.
Still, very gracious folk. No one seemed to mind that I was wearing jeans and a sweater, and while the food was a little off-putting, the music was great. Wonderful "people" watching, of course.
It is odd, however, that I didn't hear the music from the house. In fact, I was right outside the church in the town square and didn't hear a thing. I happened to be passing as a couple rather giddily lurched out from between the massive oak doors. She was wearing what looked like a patent leather catsuit, and he had on a cavalier outfit, and, I swear, bat ears. They noticed me (staring, probably, I regret to say) and beckoned me in.
Work on the project continues apace. Tomorrow I will go into town and look for an art supply store. I must also get something more suitable for dancing.
A lone figure sits in the kitchen window of his wedge-shaped house. Outside, a flying dog sprays the neighbour's hedge before flying off with its tongue lolling. High above the cathedral in the distance, a group of gargoyles perform like gothic Blue Angels. A sigh emerges from the figure as he lovingly strokes his crossbow.
The smell of burning cranberry scones fills the air, eliciting a yelp that breaks the silence of the house. Rushing to the large brick and cast-iron oven, he pulls open the door. The handle burns, the iron being impossibly hot. A knit potholder is grabbed up and used to open the overheated oven. Inside is a maelstrom of heat and fire. Cranberry scones sprout flames like Dresden after the bombings. Deeper in the furnace-like oven, beyond the ceramic baking plate, is a presence…a bright malevolence…a baker's nightmare...an Oven Afrit!
Something gradually nudges me out of slumber. Something on the air, a sweet perfume, an airy voice.
Oh, wait. It's something burning - I sniff - baked goods - I listen - an inventive litany of curses.
Maybe I should go see what's the matter .. .. .. Nah, the bed is warm, the cats are purring; I'm good here.
"I'm good for breakfast whenever you want to bring it to me." What a good idea it was to install an intercom system.
A howl issues from the intercom. A primal scream from the very depths of hades...followed quickly by, "MY SCONES!"
Soon after is a loud hissing, a clang, and a choking gurgle.
Booted footfalls sound on the stairs minutes later. He enters the room, silver breakfast tray in hand. soot and fresh burns cover his hands.
"No scones today. Just pie. Oh, and I think we need a new stove." He gives her a peck on the cheek, exits the room, and treads back down the stairs. He takes up his perch by the kitchen window and stares at the skies. His burned hands lovingly caress his crossbow.
Remembrance Day is different in Sang Sacre. People gather in groups; at Town Hall, the Cenotaph, the Tombs. It's quiet in the city; people speak, when they speak, in hushed voices. The dogs don't bark. The birds don't sing. The very pavement grieves. At eleven the silence is broken by the crack of cannon fire; the flapping of a thousand wings mingles with the booming echo. And then, faintly, just on the edge of human hearing, comes the mournful howl of a wolf. The bells start ringing, even as the wolf squeezes our hearts with pain. The majestic tolling of the Tower Chimes, the nostalgic bong of the school bell, the shrill tinkling of a hundred bicycle bells. The air is full of sound for a full minute; commemorating every drop of blood that has fallen on the soil, every tear that has been shed in pain and sorrow and joy. Our ears continue to vibrate even when the bells stop pealing.
Memory is long and deep in Blood; the crowds remain silent, reflective. The mood is not broken, but shifted, subtlety, in stages. It begins spontaneously; sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears, always with singing and dancing. Flasks are passed, bottles decanted, kegs tapped. And we celebrate our memories into the night.
As is only fitting.
"no hat no hat no hat!"
"It's festive. You want to look festive when we go see Santa, don't you?" I ask, the Devilbunny-sized Santa hat in one hand, Clovis in the other.
"not festive. dorky. not appropriate for evil overlords. crumples my ears", Clovis informs me, waffling his nose in righteous indignation.
Pete looks up from the sketch he's doing, "I still think you're mad for taking the rabbit to see Santa in the first place. You know he's just going to ask for more minions. Or mind control rays."
"miiiiiiiinions."
"I know. But the photos will be priceless! Besides, I like visiting Santa."
"Jilli, Santa won't bring you an arc welder. No one who knows you will give you an arc welder."
"never hurts to ask", Clovis points out.
Pete gets up from his seat on the fainting couch to give me a kiss. "Have fun. Don't terrorize whatever poor teen is working as an elf this year."
"We didn't last year", I remind him.
Sang Sancre's Santa doesn't set up shop in any shopping mall or store. Every December a cozy little faux gingerbread cottage just ... appears next to the outdoor ice skating rink in the park. It's past 9:00 when Clovis and I get there, just late enough that most of the parents and kidlings have headed home.
This year, I don’t recognize the Santa’s Helpers. Usually they’re at least vaguely familiar, in that “oh, I’ve seen them around” sort of way. But they don’t seem alarmed by a goth girl holding a stuffed fanged rabbit who is nervously brushing his ears, so I don’t worry about it.
We get to the head of the line, order form for the pictures in my hand. “Pictures first or talking to Santa first?” asks the tall, thin, blonde “elf” in dark green velvet.
“Pictures, I think. That way Clovis won’t be bouncing around so much.”
We walk up to Santa, who raises his eyebrows and smiles at Clovis. The photographer fusses around with our position next to the jolly old elf, and re-fluffs the tulle veil on the back of my top hat.
“Say ‘presents’!” he carols, then blinds us with the flash bulbs.
After a few seconds of blinking, I sit down on the chair next to Santa. He looks at us and asks “Have the two of you been good this year?”
“I helped save the town from inter-dimensional forces of evil, does that count?”
"didn’t eat any minions. took a …” Clovis wrinkles his nose in disgust, "bath.”
Santa looks a little non-plussed by this, but forges ahead. He taps Clovis lightly on the nose.
“So, what do you want Santa to bring you, since you’ve been so good?”
"minions! lots of ‘em!” stuff from castle gudanov!”
I catch Santa’s eye and interject “Uh, Santa, just ignore the stuff from Castle Gudanov part. That would be a bad idea.”
"would not. fun toys. explody.”
Santa gives Clovis a mock-stern look. “Santa’s Workshop doesn’t have a contract with Castle Gudanov anyway.”
"minions. minions, minions, minions. gingerbread ones and real ones.”
“He just wants to eat the arms and legs off the gingerbread ones”, I stage-whisper.
Santa shakes his head, then looks at me. “What about you, miss?”
I think about it.
“I’d like a black and white stripy Victorian walking suit with full skirt, a bottle of absinthe, and a corset made from oil-slick finish PVC.”
Santa blinks.
“Oh, and a copy of the black and white stripy dress that Christina Ricci wears at the end of Sleepy Hollow”, I add, then smile in my best gosh, aren’t I just adorable, and don’t I deserve all of that? manner.
Santa hands me a candy cane. “Well, I’ll see what I can do. But you two are sure you’ve been good all year?”
"yep. good devilbunny, good witchy goth. deserve prezzies! and to rule the world. can we rule the world, please? oh, and candy!”
After shaking Santa’s hand I walk off the podium, trying to keep my candy cane away from Clovis.
“No. No sugar for you. It’s almost your bedtime.”
"nuh-uh. hours away. candy candy candy.”
One of the ‘elves’ (is it the same one? If not, then they hired twins this year) hands me the envelope with our pictures. “No charge,” he tells me. “We liked the bunny.”
"cute bunny.” says Clovis smugly. " deserves candy.”
I take our pictures, then head back out into the winter night.
“Look Clovis, it’s starting to snow again. Wanna stop and make snow angels?”
"snow devilbunnies.”
“Sure, if you can explain to me how it works.”
