Home From The Sea: The Elemental Masters, Book Seven (38 page)

There was a game played which Nan viewed with a little alarm, where six men with their arms linked in pairs would toss people who had been laid across the arms up in the air several times. She couldn’t be persuaded to join, certain she’d end up dropped on her head.

Then they all sat down to eat again, and when the sun was down and everyone was full, the smaller bonfire that had devoured last year’s Mare was built to a great size, the fiddler came out and the dancing began. Nan and Sarah didn’t know the dances, so they had to watch, but they enjoyed it for all of that.

That marked the end of the hardest of the work. There was still canning and making of jelly, smoking and drying, thrashing and stowing, but it wasn’t the frantic business of getting everything in before the weather turned.

Which it did, and the cold rains came, and after the rains, the snows.

But the cottage stayed dry and warm, and when the weather wasn’t terrible, Nan and Sarah went down to the cottage by the sea to keep Mari company. Idwal and Rhodri went out with Daffyd now, making his work much lighter. Mari did the chores or sewed, a great deal of sewing as it happened, because shortly after Harvest Home it was pretty obvious the child-bearing part of the Bargain was going to be fulfilled by summer. So Sarah read
Pride and Prejudice
while Mari sewed and knitted baby things, and Nan worked on baby napkins and bedding. The cradle came down from the rafters, and Idwal nearly drove Mari half mad with trying to anticipate her every possible need or desire.

When the weather was terrible, Nan and Sarah stayed at home, feeling altogether lazy and luxurious as they wrote reports for Lord Alderscroft or read, or did handwork, or Nan practiced her cookery. The week was only broken by Sunday—services with the squire and dinner afterwards, or services at the chapel and a brisk ride back in the pony-cart. Only Neville ventured outside now, and even he preferred to drowse with Grey beside the warm stoves.

Then came Christmas, which had always been a great deal of fun at the school, but which was something altogether different at the Manor. Suddenly the quite old place was alive with the squire’s children, their spouses, and
their
children. The nursery overflowed, and Nan and Sarah were pressed into service to keep the smaller children occupied with games and stories. Not that they minded at all; the children were all on best behavior, mindful not only that being naughty would mean coal instead of presents and candy but that there were worse things that might befall them.

One of the “worse things” turned up the evening before Christmas.

There was a terrible pounding on the door and everyone ran to see. Managing to peek out a window, Nan saw the most horrific apparition on the doorstep—what looked like a horse’s skull, swathed in a white sheet, bedecked with draggled ribbons and snapping at the gathering of men around her. There was a fellow in
a fine suit and a top hat, what looked like two men dressed as Punch and Judy who kept swatting each other with inflated bladders, and a crowd of others in their best outfits. The skull was led by the man in the top-hat, and as soon as the whole family was gathered around the door, the children shrieking with fear and excitement, the group outside began to sing.

Squire cleared his throat, took a sip of the port he had in his hand, and bellowed his reply through the door.

The besiegers were not deterred.

“What is this?” Nan whispered to one of Squire’s daughters.

The young woman whispered back. “’Tis the Mari Lwyd, the Grey Mare. She is brought ’round like this at Christmas and… well, wait, and you’ll see.”

There was expectant waiting. The adults conferred among themselves. Finally the squire cleared his throat again and called through the door. “Mind! There’s ladies present! Watch your language!” Then he sang.

The Mari Lwyd romped and snapped her teeth, and the group outside prepared to do battle. But it was a battle such as Nan had never seen before, a battle of wit and song, with rhymed verses crying insults on those on the other side of the door, sharp barbs that flew thick and fast amid a great deal of laughter. Nan got the feeling that if the ladies and children hadn’t been there, a lot more indelicate things might have been said, for several of the rhymes hinted at some extreme salaciousness, terrible secrets that would be exposed if the squire did not let them in. It was clear both sets of singers knew each other—and their potential weaknesses—very well.

Finally the squire capitulated, and the entire party came in, with the Mari snapping at the children deemed “naughtiest” during the year, half-frightening, and half-exciting them. There were cakes and ale all around, a shilling dropped in the cup of every one of the singers, and then the party went on to the next destination and that was more than enough excitement for the children, who gladly went to bed after it.

The children all made charms called
calenigg
, hard green apples with three twigs for legs and split almonds stuck into it so it looked all spiky. A small candle was stuck into the top, along with three tiny sprigs of evergreen, and the whole was brushed with bitter almond oil. These got put in every window; Nan was told that they brought good luck and the luck would last as long as the
calenigg
did.

Christmas Eve brought carols and taffy-making, but everyone went to bed early. The girls were warned that this was because Christmas Day began earlier than they might expect, and so when they were roused by the sleepy maid before the first hint of dawn, they were not surprised. Off the entire group went in a caravan of carts and the old coach that seldom got pulled out, Squire and
family to church, Nan and Sarah parting with them to go to chapel, where dawn was ushered in with a service of all carols, quite unaccompanied, called
Plygain.
Nan found herself unexpectedly moved by the singing; everyone in the congregation seemed to be in perfect tune, and the Welsh reputation for beautiful part-singing was certainly upheld.

They rejoined Squire and his family and came back to the Manor for a great day of feasting and presents, more taffy-making, games, and more singing.

The next day, Boxing Day, Nan and Sarah took presents and two great baskets down to Mari, Idwal, Rhodri, and Daffyd, and got most welcome presents back—and how on earth they had managed to keep the things secret with Nan and Sarah in and out of the cottage, neither of the girls could imagine. Mari had covered two little boxes with an intricate mosaic of shells no bigger than a baby’s fingernail; Daffyd had carved them intricate spoons—though
not
love-spoons—out of whalebone. And Idwal and Rhodri had gone diving for treasures.

Idwal had used his magical powers to clean the objects once they had been found… they weren’t things of gold, or even much silver, and perhaps they would not have meant much to anyone but the recipients, but they were, well, perfect.

For Daffyd, the two had gotten two full sets of blown-glass floats for all of his nets and fish-traps. Only quite well-off fishermen could manage to get so many together. They were not as fragile as one might think, but they did break, and they were expensive for such a small fisherman as he to replace.

For Nan, Idwal had brought a knife and Rhodri the matching sword of fine Toledo steel. These were obviously old, and why they had not rusted away to nothing on the sea-floor, she could not tell, and decided not to ask. She was more than touched and thrilled by the gift, she was astonished that Rhodri had actually had the insight to choose something like this for her. “I tried to find a bodice dagger, but alas, there were none down there,” he said, with a shrug and a grin.

For Sarah, there were a curious bronze ring, and an equally curious diadem. Idwal nodded as she unwrapped them and looked at them curiously. “Spirits will recognize them,” was all he said. “If they are old enough. Some even if they are not old enough. These will give you some measure of protection, and in some cases, the spirits will follow your commands.”

And for Mari, there were four packages, two for her and two for the baby that was coming. For the baby, there was a teething ring of ancient ivory, and a rattle made of narwhal tusk. For her… Nan didn’t recognize what the things were, but it was clear that she did. One was a mirror-like piece of black glass, the other a silver-mounted shell. She clasped both to her with an expression of amazement.

“Eh, a good workman deserves good tools,” said Rhodri with a shrug.

Idwal just smiled, as if he was well aware he had found something special.

Nan and Sarah had brought more commonplace things, but since Rhodri and Idwal had never seen the like before, and Daffyd and Mari were not used to Christmas luxuries, there were many exclamations. Everyone got one of the peppermint pigs that the Welsh loved to give their children. Everyone got an orange. The Selch had an incredible appetite for sweets, not too surprising, since sugar wouldn’t survive long in the sea, so besides the peppermint pigs, the two Selch got hoards of bullseyes, cut rock, peppermint drops, lemon drops, and a great amount of the taffy that had been made up at the Manor, for the crowd there had made
far
more than was good for the children to have. And the baskets they had lugged down held the small goose they’d carefully roasted in their little kitchen, along with all of the usual Christmas dinner goodness.

“’Tis the first time we’ve had something other than salmon for Christmas,” Mari said in wonder. “Not that there’s aught wrong with salmon!”

So there was a second Christmas feast. And just to fill out all the
corners of the baskets, Nan and Sarah had been knitting stockings of the softest possible lamb’s wool for Mari, Daffyd and the baby-to-come for months. None for the Selch, of course, who always went barefoot and seemed not to feel the cold, but Mari and Daffyd immediately put on a pair and reveled in the warmth.

The Welsh, it seemed—at least when they were of families who had sufficient means and leisure to do so—celebrated Christmas all the way to Twelfth Night. New Year’s Eve was the occasion for another feast, rather than a ball or a dance as were held in London—and Idwal had asked privately that the girls
not
come down to the cottage for it. “It is something of an… uncanny night,” he warned. “We’ll be locking and warding Daffyd’s cottage. The Land-Ward’s mark will likely mean you will never know what’s about, but it would be best if you take no chances traveling any farther than between your dwelling and the Manor.”

So the two took up the squire on his hospitality again, especially since New Year’s was more of an occasion for adults than children. It snowed, hard and thick, which made both of them glad they were not going down to the sea and made attending the dances in Criccieth quite impossible, and the children romped in it until they were utterly exhausted and it was easy to put them to bed. The party for the adults then began. One of the squire’s daughters played the piano, so there was dancing, and a great deal of hilarity as Squire and one of his sons undertook to teach Nan and Sarah the local dances.

But just before midnight, there was a tremendous pounding on the door, and the music ended with a discordant chord from the startled piano player.

“Oh no,” said Squire’s wife in dismay. “I’d hoped the snow would keep them away—”

“That lot?” The son teaching Nan to dance snorted. “Not unless it was a blizzard. I’ll get the tribute, Pater, you answer the door. The rest of you—well, you know.”

“What is it?” Nan asked, feeling for a sword that wasn’t at her side in automatic reflex.

“Mostly a nuisance, dear,” said the eldest of the daughters, looking put-upon. “But it could be unpleasant. If you want to see, peep out from the top of the stairs, but don’t go down to the hall. You’re considered half-English, as we are, and—well—you’ll see.”

Now greatly curious, Nan and Sarah went to the top of the stair above the door, and hid in the curtains there, as the sound of raucous singing came from outside. After a moment, she thought she recognized the melody, though the words were so slurred that not even Puck’s gift of the language helped her make them out.

“Is that the Mari Lwyd song?” she whispered to Sarah, who nodded. Just then Squire came to the door, with two strong manservants, one carrying a small barrel, and the other carrying a tray of pottery mugs. They were shortly joined by the eldest son. As soon as the first verses were finished, they quickly sang in return.

“Instead of freezing,

We’ll lead the Mari,

Inside to amuse us

Tonight is Christmastide.”

So—there would be no challenge?
Well
, thought Nan,
Considering how drunk they sound, that might be just as well.

But when the door was opened… a chill went right down her back. This Mari had to be the most terrifying thing she had ever seen that wasn’t already a spirit or some other dread supernatural creature. This was no half-amusing puppet meant to mock-frighten children.

The horse skull seemed, somehow, to float on its own, though she knew it was on a pole, carried a good two feet higher than the man who personified her was tall. The gray and tattered drape was very, very long, and floated out behind him, effectively concealing him from view. The ribbons adorning the skull were old, most were the red of dried blood, or at least that was the color they seemed, and there was a wreath of dead flowers about its ears. The eyes were shining and red, and malevolent; they reflected the lamplight in a most uncanny way. And there was nothing mechanical about the way its jaws snapped. It seemed dead-alive, and if Nan had not
known better, she would have been sure it was some awful thing brought back to life by magic.