Wednesday Word: Uncomfortable

Uncomfortable isn't an easy word to say.  It has this awkward pause right in the middle, whether you say it like:

Uncomf-terble

Or:

Uncomfor-table

Either way is still strange to say.  Your mouth kinda scrunches up and your tongue goes to the back of your throat when saying the 'comf' part of uncomfortable, and if you say the fully proper 'uncomfor-table,' your lips and nose sneer a little bit when saying the 'for' part.

Uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable.

I wonder if this qualifies as an onomatopoeia because the word itself is uncomfortable to say.

Have you heard awesome music today?

Topic of discussion: MuteMath.

What is that, you ask?  I tell you.  They are a band.  They are one of my favorite bands, and are in fact the only band I've seen more than twice in concert.  And I own all their music.  And I listen to it a lot. 

But what do they play, you ask?

Grumble grumble, this is hard to explain.  They are so eclectic and draw their music from so many different styles that you can't just point to one (or two or three) and say, 'that's it!'

So how many different styles can they have, you ask?  Let me 'splain.  No, there are too many, let me sum up:

Alternative rock, techno, blues, electronica, gospel, classic rock, reggae, pop, jazz.

And if that seems contradictory, listen to this:

(and yes, all their live shows are that explosively wonderful and fun)

Or this:

Or perhaps this:  (no words, just music)

So you might understand just how hard it is to describe this awesome band when the common musical descriptions don't come close enough. 

Perhaps you'd just have to be an odd sort of person to appreciate them, with odd eclectic musical tastes.

Who me?

Pretty.

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 5

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Chapter 5

Adjusting

            Life in Great-Aunt Hilsida’s house was completely different than anything Tabitha had ever experienced.  As the maid had explained to her, it was only during the morning hours that the servants did any work inside the house: by teatime they were all happily ensconced in the stables or gatehouse.  There was little urgency to any of their tasks except cooking meals, and only the cook had to do that.  The maids’ only duties were to dust the two main rooms that Great-Aunt Hilsida used, and do laundry every other week.  The two footmen mostly haunted the kitchens and pestered the cook unless there were some heavy lifting that required doing and then they grumbled their way to doing whatever it was.  Roger the Butler supervised all of this from a corner of the kitchen with a sneer plastered over his face: it was rare that anyone ever heard him give an order, and his main duty seemed to be polishing her tea set to a mirror finish and bringing it to her at the appropriate time.  The gardener and under gardener were generally only seen walking around the grounds once a day whereupon they promptly retired to a shed and spent the rest of their time inside.  (Quite often there were strange smelling smokes that wisped their way through the shed roof, and once one of the footmen swore that he saw the two gardeners come running out of the shed with their pants on fire.  What the footman couldn’t understand was why their pants were on their heads)  John the stableboy had only the lightest of tasks (sweeping out the stable, replacing the hay and occasionally hauling water for the cook) and he was often finished inside of an hour. 

            Despite the light nature of all their tasks, none of the servants seemed to have time to wait on Tabitha.  They rarely remembered to light her candles or fire, they could hardly be troubled to bring her breakfast to her room, and for all that she was a guest of the house they gave as much care and notice to her as they did John the stable boy.

            Tabitha loved it.

            She loved how they didn’t seem to care what she did.

            She loved how they forgot to bring her breakfast so she was required to go to the kitchen and eat with them.

            She loved lighting her own fires and the feeling of independence it gave her.

            She even loved how they didn’t do much (if any) work because that meant she and John could do whatever they liked all day long. 

            And the things they did!

            John was an eager accomplice to anything Tabitha had in mind, and her mind was constantly filled with plans and schemes and games that required nothing but a spirit of adventure and a few props. 

            For instance:

            Not even a week after Tabitha arrived at her Great-Aunt Hilsida’s house she and John were still exploring the grounds and neighboring houses—I say they were exploring when perhaps I should say Tabitha was exploring; John of course knew the area already but he was content to run by her side and show her everything she wanted to see and tell her everything she wanted to know.  But it was this day that Tabitha met cows for the first time, and the encounter did not go according to anyone’s plans.

            A few hours after dawn Tabitha exited the house with Wulafric frolicking at her feet.  They’d both eaten a good solid northern breakfast (bowl of porridge so thick a spoon would stand up in it, thick slices of bacon that were mostly fat, a heap of eggs and a cup of tea nearly as thick as the porridge) and they were ready for whatever the day held.  And since it was Tabitha who was ready, the day knew it would have to do a lot of work to impress her. 

            “John!  Jo-ohn!” 

            John poked his head out of the stable loft doors.  Wulafric barked happily at him.  “Tabitha?”

            “Are you done with your chores yet?”  Tabitha’s voice suggested that if he wasn’t, she really didn’t know what he’d been doing for the past few hours.  (Tabitha understood chores.  She understood that there was work that needed to get done every day—by people other than her.  And if she was up and ready to be impressed—or at least entertained—by another day at her house, John should be ready too)

            A nervous look crossed his face and jigged down to his fingers.  “Uhh…yep.  O’ course.”  He ducked back into the loft and Tabitha waited (very patiently) for him to cross the loft, descend the ladder, speak briefly to one of the other servants, walk down the long line of stalls, and then open the stable door.  The fact that these activities resulted in a lot of noise and shouting and a very out of breath John coming into the courtyard right on time—well, Tabitha was a forgiving sort.  Perhaps he needed more exercise. 

            She grinned at him.  He grinned back.  Wulafric danced between the two for a moment before flopping onto John’s feet, but he was rudely displaced as John reached out for Tabitha’s hand as they ran out of the courtyard as fast as they could manage to leave behind half-done chores, crazy great-aunts, and all the sorts of cares that children don’t care about at all but always seem to get grown-ups in a twist.

            With the wind in their faces and tufted grass under their feet Tabitha and John laughed as loudly as they wanted because there was no one but them in the whole world.

            “Where are we going today, John?”

            “You got a choice.  Still haven’t seen th’ upper fields and Old Har’s secret still, or there’s th’ cattle fair near th’ village.  People come from as far south as Garbrook.  One time, a man came all th’ way from Torrich!  But he din’t buy anythin’ and got ran off for thievin’. 

            “Really?  Do you think there’ll be a thief this year too?  That would be wonderful.  He might be a pickpocket, or a, a cattle rustler—” It was clear which option Tabitha found more interesting, if only for the possibility of seeing an actually thief.  “—and we could spot him, John, and make him give everything back unless he has something he stole from somewhere else—oh, a diamond ring, or a ruby necklace!  And then we could keep it because there’s no telling where it came from and as long as everyone here gets back what’s theirs, who’d know?”  Tabitha lapsed into a moment of silence, imagining herself bedecked in a diamond ring and ruby necklace.

            “Umm, I don’t remember there being that many thieves.  Just th’ one.”  John felt obliged to be truthful. 

            Tabitha forgave him for it.  “They’re probably just so good that no one noticed.  But we will.  No one pays attention to children, but we’ll show them all!”

            “We’ll show ‘em all!”

            Wulafric barked, wanting to join in.  He’d rather like to show them all too, although being a dog, he wasn’t quite sure just what they were showing.  But that was no reason not to be involved in all the fun.  He barked again and Tabitha and John howled back, the three of them making more noise than a pack of wolves in a henhouse.

            The normally placid village of Cotton-on-mar was transformed into a bustling metropolis—at least, it appeared so to those who hadn’t ever seen a real bustling metropolis.  A real metropolis had so much bustle there wasn’t any space to even sit in the same room as it.  Whereas Cotton-on-mar (pronounced Cotnamar) looked merely like a metropolis that had been feeling poorly and didn’t like to get out much. 

            Even Tabitha who had lived in a bustling metropolis couldn’t help but catch the excitement surrounding the cattle fair and in her eyes this small village took on the appearance of Rome at it’s peak, Paris in it’s glory, with all the headiness of Babylon and the sultry nature of the Orient. 

            Albeit if these famous cities had been filled with cows. 

            Tabitha however, had never been close to a cow before, and she wouldn’t have traded any of them for the riches of all the kingdoms of the earth.  (Although that was what each of the cattle merchants was attempting, it should be mentioned.  That’s why they were at a cattle fair). 

            “Do all cows look like that?”

            “Like what?”

            “Like that.”  The young girl pointed to a nearby example of the bovine race.  “How glorious!”

            John looked back at the cow just to check it had not been transformed into something glorious the moment his eyes had left it.  It hadn’t.  He turned back to Tabitha.   She was still gazing enraptured at it, and her face was taking on a look of bright determination that even John (who had only known her for a week) had come to recognize.  It also made him slightly nervous.

            “C’mon, Tabitha, we’ll see better over ‘ere.”  He managed to drag her off a ways out of the main traffic and toward a smaller pen of cows at the edge of the north section of the village. 

            It is perhaps conceivable that he assumed a quieter area and a smaller amount of cows and people would be a safer place where Tabitha could not make use of that brightly determined look.  Alas, John the stableboy had only known Tabitha for a week.  In the future he would learn that to truly distract Tabitha from a fledgling plan, one must do more than change streets.  In fact, one must change continents (very quickly and possibly with the aid of lots of rope and a blindfold and gag)—and even then one should keep on hand several interesting books for her to argue with.

            They drifted closer to the pen of cattle and Tabitha hoisted herself up on the slats of the fence in order to get closer to the ‘glorious’ animals.  (If asked to describe a cow in one word, it is inconceivable that John would ever choose a word such as ‘glorious’ to describe a cow.  Perhaps: stupid.  Or, boring.  Or if given more than one word, dumb as rocks). 

            Wanting to remain in Tabitha’s good graces, but having seem plenty of cows in his life and not all that interested in staring at some more, John decided he needed a slight errand that would take him away from here for just a few minutes.  Tabitha wouldn’t get into any trouble if he didn’t leave her too long.

            “Tabitha?  M’throat’s dry.  I’ll be a moment over at the well.  Be back soon.”  She nodded absently and he sighed (inaudibly) with relief.  And then hurried off.

To say that Tabitha barely noticed his absence wouldn’t quite be fair.  She certainly was aware he was gone, but there were these splendid new animals in front of her, and she’d known John for a whole week already.  Besides, he’d be there tomorrow: the cows wouldn’t be.  (a slightly incorrect analysis, but Tabitha hadn’t fully grasped what being ‘in the country’ meant.  It meant cows every day if she chose.  And sheep too).

It didn’t take long for Tabitha to reach out and start petting the cows in front of her.  In a spirit of fair-mindedness, she sidled around the other parts of the fence to pet as many cows as she could reach.  Discovering that there were still several cows in the center of the pen who had not yet been petted, Tabitha proceeded to climb over the rest of the fence.  It wouldn’t be right to only pet some of them, you know.

The sudden arrival of a somewhat pallid and round-shouldered man put an end to her attempted foray into the cattle pen as he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her back out.

“What are ye doin’?  Git out o’ there!  Are ye tryin’ t’ spook me cattle?”

Feet firmly planted back on the ground, Tabitha stared through narrow eyes at him.  “Spook?”

“Aye, spook!  Ye’ll git ‘em nervous and there’s no much room for ‘em to shift.  They’ll have the fence down in an instant!  And nothing for it but to chase ‘em down and keep thieves from stealing ma cows!  So go on with ye!  Do yer mischief somewhere else.”

Theives!  A subject newly dear to Tabitha’s heart.  “What’s to keep someone from stealing your cows right now?”

“What?  Me, o’ course!  They’ll no get a single hair off ma cows while I’m standin’ ‘ere.  And besides, they’ve all got ma brand.”

Tabitha cocked her head and examined the helpfully presented hindquarters of a nearby cow.  “Is that supposed to be a cactus, or a poor representation of male genitalia?”

The man sputtered.  It was the sort of sputter that suggests water being spewed out involuntarily, but as the man wasn’t drinking, he had to make do with his own spittle.  It was quite enough.  “Wha—what—ye canna—“

“I can’t what?”

“Ye just don’ say things like that—“

“Like what?  You have an objection to cacti?”

He sputtered again, then decided that the best way to deal with this small girl was to end this conversation quickly before it got any worse.  “I tol’ ye before, get on with ye!  I’ll not be havin’ ye here.”

He was too late.  Tabitha was paying a closer attention to his cows, and especially their brands.

“It’s very interesting,” she remarked.  Refusing to be drawn in, the man remained silent and pretended to be busy facing a different direction from this disconcerting girl.  “It’s very interesting,” she repeated, “that some of your brands are slightly different from the others.”  A wet fish slapped across his face could have hardly have caught his attention more firmly.  Ever so slowly he turned around.

Tabitha smiled with a remote satisfaction directed toward the cows.  “Yes, I do believe that some of these brands are different.  Now, if I were a clever man, I’d realize that a brand of a similar design could be masked by placing another brand on top.  The results may not be perfect, but who ever looks that closely?  People are so very dim-witted, you know.”

The man’s face alternated from white, to red, and then seemed to explode into a purplish hue that suffused his head and his neck.  His hands were outstretched as he stepped towards Tabitha and whatever plan he had it would be wise not to guess.  But a single word from the girl stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Thief.”

The word repeated again in a louder volume acted as a physical blow and he stumbled back a few steps.  A few heads turned their way.

“Thief.”

Tabitha knew she had him, so she smiled as she used her not inconsiderable lung power to shout, “Cattle thief!”  The heads that had turned their way were followed by the bodies that owned them and the man Tabitha was accusing panicked and fled. 

John reappeared precisely at this moment, just in time to see Tabitha racing off into the crowd after a man shouting, “Thief, thief!”

            “Tabitha!  Tabitha wait!” But it was no use: she had already disappeared into the crowd of jostling adults.

            John tried desperately to follow her.  Pushing past large men who smelled of cow dung and farmers wearing kerchiefs to appear well off he turned his head this way and that to try to spot Tabitha.  No use.  He was trapped by the taller forms of adults and he nearly fell several times but he managed to keep his feet.

            “Tabitha!  Tabitha where are you?”  Hoping a nearby wall would give him the height he needed to see above the crowd, John clambered onto it when the screaming started.  At first he couldn’t see anything other than a mass of people, but as the screaming grew louder the crowd pressed back into alleys and doorways, some even going to far as to pull themselves onto low hanging roofs with the strength of terror in their arms.  And it was only a moment before John saw it too and sent such a prayer of gratitude up to God that he was already on top of the wall and not trying to outrun…that.

That, being an angry stampede of mooing cows pounding their way down the suddenly empty streets of Cotton-on-mar.  Correction: the mostly empty streets.  One unfortunate individual was running bug-eyed and breathless just ahead of the lead bull whose horns were on the verge of grazing his hind-quarters. 

And on top of the bull, urging it on to greater and greater speeds, was Tabitha.

John felt the moment would be best memorialized by letting his jaw drop until it reached his chest.

As she thundered past his perch the little girl freed a hand to wave serenely at him before again devoting all her attention to chasing down the man whom she believed to have committed the heinous crime of cattle theft.

It is incredibly fortunate that only John noticed the little girl atop the enormous bull, or else the consequences to that day’s adventure would have been correspondingly severe to the total damages occurred.  To whit: various broken fences around the village, several smashed walls, one incident of a cow inside someone’s house, another incident of two cows found on top of the church in the choir loft (a pulley system had to be rigged to get them back down), assorted pulled muscles from outrunning the stampede, and one broken leg.  (Although the responsibility for that last one was more due to excess of drinking than the surprise of finding a cow licking his tankard). 

Tabitha’s alleged thief however, was never seen again in Cotton-on-mar.  You may decide whether or not this can be counted as a damage.

John managed to catch up to Tabitha by the old mill pond, where it seemed the stampede had tired itself out enough to become more thirsty than interested in running any further.  Tabitha was standing by the bull as it drank from the pond, patting its shoulder.  Wulafric was sitting by her feet, happy to be near her again.  Tabitha looked up as she heard John approach.

“Wasn’t that wonderful?  I chased him for over a mile!  I don’t think he’ll ever steal a cow again, do you?”

“Tabitha—you can’t—I mean, you just don’ do—“  But John found he couldn’t continue as laughter overwhelmed whatever objection he had been trying to make.  He laughed so hard he nearly fell over and when he tried to stop laughing, Tabitha’s infectious giggle set him off again.  Wulafric stared at the both of them like they were crazy, but he took the opportunity to lick John’s face when he got close enough to the ground for him to do so. 

“Stop it Wulafric, no, get off!” John said breathlessly as he attempted to recover from the laughing fit.  “I just can’t get it out o’ my head—you on top o’ yon bull, townsfolk runnin’ scared, and that man’s face—“ he started laughing again.  “D’you think anyone knows it were us?”

“Why should they?”  Was the girl’s prompt reply.  “But they’ll probably come looking for the cows soon, so we’d better be off.”

“Back home.”

“Oh no.  I’m sure there’s still plenty to see back at the village.”

John’s laughter abruptly dried up and his smile went sickly.  They’d caused so much trouble he wanted to stay as far away as possible.  But there was one important thing to remember about Tabitha: it didn’t matter where she went, she was always Tabitha, and she would always do exactly as she pleased. 

They walked side by side back to the village, stopping occasionally to shoo away the bull that wanted to follow them. 

           

Chapter 6

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 4

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Chapter 4

The Servants Are Much Nicer

            Morning was somewhat hard to find.  For Tabitha and Wulafric (being under the bed) it was shrouded both by the bed-skirts and the clouds, although its light managed to wake both of them up anyway.  Tabitha woke with a start, her breath coming fast until she realized that it was morning and the world was a better place now that Great-Aunt Hilsida was not banging at the door.  Wulafric licked at her face and wriggled out from under her arm to stick his head out from under the bed.  His tail wagged, batting Tabitha’s nose.  She smiled, the smile giving her the strength to push past the puppy and enter the world again.

There has never been a study written on the most powerful smiles of the world and what they have allowed the bearer to do, but if there were, Tabitha’s would fall in the top 100, coming in right below the smile that allowed Rosa Evans to charm the judge into letting her brother go (this is only remarkable if you know that Jod Evans stole three horses, five chickens, ten pigs, and almost one cow.  It was the cow that got him caught, and it was the judge’s own cow).  All that is to say, this was a smile that could rearrange the order of the natural world, so instead of staying curled up under the bed all day long crying her eyes out, Tabitha merely felt hungry.

            The smile propelled her to the window where she saw a wide open land sparsely decorated with trees and the occasional stone wall.  She thought she might have seen some sheep in the distance, but they seemed to be doing somersaults, so Tabitha assumed that her eyes were playing tricks on her.  (she was right, but if she had ever heard of the famous somersaulting sheep of Salzburg, she might have reconsidered).

            The door handle jiggled, then a knock sounded at the door.  Wulafric whined and looked at Tabitha.  She had clenched her fists at the knock and backed as far into the stone of the window as possible (not very).  There was another knock, this time accompanied by,

            “Miss?  It’s all right, I’ve brought you some breakfast.  Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

            And although ‘it’s just me’ was hardly encouraging, it certainly didn’t sound like Great-Aunt Hilsida.  Tabitha unlocked the door to find a maid with a tray of what was indeed breakfast.  Wulafric crowded her ankles, sniffing industriously.  The maid beamed a smile down at him. 

            “Roger said you had a dog.” Tabitha cocked her head in a silent question.  “Roger, he’s the Butler.  Right awful looking isn’t he?  But he’s the one who most deals with her, so we try not to trouble him.  He probably told you you had to look after this one, didn’t he?”  Tabitha nodded.  “Well, I brought you some extra sausages for ‘im, and the cook don’t mind making ‘em, so there you are.”  The maid put the tray down on a small table next to the bed.  She stared at the bed keenly then back at Tabitha.  “Didn’t get much sleep did you?  Rogers said it was one of those nights.  But when we heard you were coming we tested all the rooms and this was the one with the stoutest door.  Held out all right, did it?  None of the ones in the servants quarter lasted long, so we all sleep elsewhere, only coming here to do our work, and that only before—before she has her afternoon tea.  Only Rogers stays after that, and not if it’s one of those nights.”

            Tabitha decided to speak up.  “What’s in the tea?”

            “Oh, that’s a nice breakfast tea with a bit of honey, we weren’t sure what you—“

            “No no, not my tea, her tea.  What’s in her tea?”  Tabitha had decided to adopt the maid’s habit of speaking of Great-Aunt Hilsida as a pronoun with a decided emphasis.  It somehow seemed the thing to do. (if Tabitha had been the sort to be fanciful, she would have recognized the impulse at once—to not say someone’s name for fear of summoning them or attracting their attention.  But since Tabitha was Tabitha, it never occurred to her.)

            The maid’s eyes widened.  “Ohh, her tea.  Well, other than tea…” she trailed off and seemed reluctant to speak of it.  Tabitha put her hands on her hips and her most obstinate expression on her face.  The maid wilted.  “She puts something else in it.  Peter the footman thinks it’s just spirits, but Roger says it’s laudanum, and he would know, being much nearer to her than the rest of us, God protect ‘im.  Now eat up, and I’ll take the tray back down.  Be sure to get a good lunch too, ‘cause there won’t be anyone in the kitchen after that.  I’ll leave you a tray in your room that’ll keep ‘til dinner.  Best we can do.”

            What the maid did not tell Tabitha—and did not in fact know—was that the laudanum was not Great-Aunt Hilsida’s problem.  It cannot be said to help matters any, and on most occasions made things worse, but the laudanum came after the problem.  What problem is that?  Well, some years ago, Great-Aunt Hilsida was incredibly sick with a terrible fever.  Doctors came and went but none could seem to do anything.  Throughout it all her staff were in constant attendance (they had not yet moved out of the house), especially Roger the Butler who was nearly always to be found by her bedside with cooling cloths for her forehead.  And just when it seemed that she might indeed die, Great-Aunt Hilsida started to hallucinate and gibber, throwing her arms and legs this way and that, shouting about how the dogs were barking, she could hear the dogs barking (those of an uncharitable nature would say that she was hearing hellhounds coming for her soul), and why did everyone have pineapples in their ears?  She became convinced that Roger the Butler was some sort of canine spy hiding behind a screen of pineapples, and managed to deck him.  She then ran out of the house attired only in a thin nightgown and disappeared for five hours until she was found swimming naked in the miller’s pond singing ‘Lucy Lulla-bye.’  Her fever was gone, although after that night she was never the same.  (Great-Aunt Hilsida was never what you could call an agreeable person, and most of the stories told about her date before the sickness, but after that night, Great-Aunt Hilsida was quite mad.  Sometimes.  The rest of the time she was simply herself, but most found it hard to tell the difference.)

            It was during the sickness (or perhaps the five hours in which she disappeared) that something went wrong in Great-Aunt Hilsida’s head.  Everything became overturned and upside down.  She would set the maids to sweeping the lawn, claiming that it was too dirty to bear.  She would call for dinner foods at breakfast time, and breakfast foods at dinnertime.  She would demand to eat in the dining room, but would wait on the lawn for tables and chairs to be brought out to her.  She took to wandering the halls at night and sleeping in the day.  On occasion she treated the servants like children and insisted on locking them in their rooms—which was in fact the outdoors. 

By this time the servants were having a hard time pretending that all was normal and well, and it was quite restful really to get ‘locked in their rooms’ because John the stable boy had made a section of the stables very livable, and the Gatehouse wasn’t that far away for a place to sleep, and had the added benefit of being far away from her, as they started to call her.  On other occasions, she could be found back in the miller’s pond (it seemed to have some claim upon her) swimming naked and singing songs from her childhood. 

Various doctors again came and went, with most of them recommending the calming influence of Laudanum.  After a time, Roger the Butler could see no other choice or possibility for restoring even a bit of his employer’s sanity, so in one of her more normal (that is to say angrily disagreeable) moments, he bravely broached the idea to her, and uncharacteristically, she agreed.  But rather than helping, as it has already been stated, the laudanum only appeared to increase the problem.  Sometimes.  Great-Aunt Hilsida’s rages were more extreme and violent, but they were mostly fewer, especially when nothing was done to upset her.  So all the servants (by popular accord) moved out of the house and into other quarters, only setting foot in the house during the mornings and early afternoon, before she had her tea.  Only Roger stayed, unless her violence was too great.  And after he saw what the laudanum did to her, he tried to find a moment to introduce the idea that maybe she should stop taking it, but it was too late.  Great-Aunt Hilsida quite liked the laudanum and ordered him to always keep a ready supply of it on hand.  He obeyed.  And the house fell into disrepair for who was there to see it?  And what reasons were there to clean it well when their work was undone by her at every turn?  So it went undone.

            Tabitha knew none of this.  She only knew that her Great-Aunt Hilsida was even worse than she had ever thought, and that the laudanum was to blame.  (she had guessed that it was Great-Aunt Hilsida herself who was responsible for all the broken rooms and shattered furniture, and it followed that the laudanum was responsible for her state of mind, so it was the laudanum really that had torn up the house and forced the servants into a traveling exile to and from the house each day).  Tabitha decided that this could not last.  She would not let it.  And how was she to restore the balance of the house so decidedly weighted in favor of her Great-Aunt Hilsida and her laudanum?  Why, remove the laudanum of course.

            Feeling much better now that she had the beginnings of a plan (Tabitha adored plans, as it is readily seen), she decided that some exploration was in order. 

Number one, to find the laudanum and destroy it. 

Number two, to allow Wulafric to stretch his legs and use a convenient bush.  Perhaps that should have been first, since it really was the first thing Tabitha did do, but she thought of it in that order, so it has been put down that way. 

And number three, Tabitha was in a house that was the epitome of all the gothic novels she had ever read—how could she not want to explore it for her own sake?  She would not be Tabitha if she felt otherwise.

            So after a trip outside to let Wulafric sniff most of the bushes before choosing a particularly grand shrub outside what Tabitha thought might be her parlor to do his necessary contribution to the growth of all things, Tabitha and Wulafric wandered the halls of Great-Aunt Hilsida’s wrecked house.  In one room where the prevailing color scheme seemed to be blue, all the furniture was mostly intact, but upside down.  The mice seemed to favor this room (all that stuffing being in easy reach now) and had stolen most of the cushioning off the upside down furniture.  Wulafric went sniffing into all the corners and Tabitha heard a slight rustle and scamper as mice fled before him (mighty hunter, all hail!) and smiled.  In another room where the color scheme was mostly pale colors and white walls, there were ashes scattered all over the floor and charcoal handprints all over the walls and one enterprising smear across one corner of the ceiling.  In a red room there was green paint covering the floor like grass, and in a green room there was red paint splattered like blood.  All of these rooms had their doors broken open, and all of them were destroyed except one: the gold room was untouched.  Tabitha could verify this to anyone because she spent more time in this room than any other, trying to find what her mad Great-Aunt Hilsida had done to this room.  But she couldn’t find anything.  The door was just as shattered as any in the house, but Tabitha eventually decided that the room was left exactly as it had been. 

It was getting on to almost after lunchtime now, and the afternoon light was beginning to come in all orangey-yellow through the windows and set the golden room afire.  Tabitha sat on the golden brocade settee with Wulafric dozing in her lap as she watched the shadows move over shelves and around tables until she realized that she had better go to the kitchens to see if anyone was still there to feed her. 

            The kitchens were empty, but true to her word, the maid had left a large plate of dinner in Tabitha’s room (cold meat, bread, cheese, two apples, a pot of jam, and what might have been a custard) along with a smaller plate (more cold meat along with a raw meaty bone) for Wulafric.  The sound of contemplative hunger was all that was to be heard for a few minutes, during which time Tabitha realized just how silent the house had been all day long.  She and Wulafric had often seemed like the only souls in the house, and perhaps the only souls in the whole visible world.  At home there was always some bustling noise from outside coming in and making itself comfortable, let alone the noise of industrious servants and the grand declarations of her mother.  Here there was nothing of the sort.  Even she didn’t appear to make much noise—at least, in the day time.  Tabitha glanced nervously at her door.  It was still standing open, and she wondered if she ought to close it.  (remember, Tabitha didn’t know that last night was not quite typical of Great-Aunt Hilsida.  Great-Aunt Hilsida’s fits of rage, although frequent, were not nightly occurrences, and in fact Tabitha had nothing to fear this night, although as it has been said already, she did not know that) 

The light from the sun was almost gone and there were no candles yet lit in Tabitha’s room.  She supposed she would have to light them herself, as there would be no servants to do it for her as they were all elsewhere hiding.  She did not think even for a moment of Roger the Butler coming up here to light her candles.  Tabitha thought she might like to avoid asking Roger the Butler for any favor, big or small.  He didn’t seem the type for lighting a young girl’s candles.  Although truth be told, the Butler back home would not have either, but that was only because he had three footman under him as well as there being three maids, three undermaids, and the Housekeeper herself as a last resort for lighting candles.  The Butlers Guide to Butlery did expressly state that there was no task which a Butler might refuse to do for his masters, but then it went on to also state that the very best Butlers always found someone else to do the distasteful or dirty tasks.  There was in fact an entire chapter on delegating tasks; who was it best to delegate what task, and how to keep the master from either finding out, or caring.  Roger the Butler seemed more the sort to look at her as if she was daft for being unable to light her own candles, and Tabitha hated being looked down on and patronized to.

            There turned out to be a small tinderbox next to some candles on the mantelpiece, and very shortly Tabitha had several candles lit as well as the fire in the fireplace going.  The outdoor light was completely gone by now, and Tabitha thought she could hear someone walking around downstairs.  She listened closely: it didn’t seem like Roger the Butler (a sway-step sounds somehow different than other forms of locomotion) and the only other person in the house was her.  And since Tabitha was listening very hard, she could even discern the sound of her cane as she walked: step, thunk step, step, thunk step.  The sound grew louder and then fainter as she walked below Tabitha’s room and into another room or hall.  Tabitha got up, disturbing Wulafric who was industriously chewing on his bone, to close her door and lock it.  They spent a pleasant while in front of the fireplace, secure in the knowledge that she could not get in.  But it was not too long before Wulafric became aware that some bushes needed watering, and even young as he was, he understood that there were no bushes inside the house.  He reluctantly stood and walked to the door, looking back at Tabitha and whined softly.  She looked at him, a little rock of dread settling in her stomach.  She wanted to take care of him as she ought, but opening that door and going outside…well, it must be done so she would do it.

            The door slowly opened, and two small heads peered around it into the dim corridor.  One candle was held in Tabitha’s firm grasp and they crept their way to the nearest staircase and outside door.  Wulafric took care of some bushes near the stable, and while waiting for him to finish, Tabitha was startled into looking up by the sound of wings over her head.  What she saw was most astonishing.

            Having lived her whole life in the city, she had not seen many stars due to the ever increasing prevalence of street lamps, but out here only her candle lit the dark world and the skies above were unimpeded by man made obstructions.  The stars shone with brilliant fire and twinkling majesty, crowning the heavens with more splendor than ever sat upon a monarch’s brow.  The sky seemed crowded with them all, the blackness overwhelmed with pin-pricks of light that danced in Tabitha’s eyes as she gazed ever upward.  Wulafric (having performed his duty admirably) leaned against her leg, rubbing his head against her calf, causing her to look down.  “Oh Wulafric,” she said to him, “There are so many of them, and they are all so beautiful.  Is it not wonderful?”

            It would perhaps be polite to leave Tabitha alone with the stars for a moment until she is ready to return indoors.  Great beauty is not often appreciated as it ought, and moments when one can see clearly what lies around us everyday are very precious.

            When Tabitha finally came back to earth it was to the knowledge that she was very cold (she had left her coat on the back of a chair in her room) and getting very tired.  Her candle had blown out but the light of the stars were bright enough to lead her back—she thought.  And she was right—except that starlight wasn’t terribly good at showing the bucket that tangled between her legs and made her fall flat on her face right outside the stable entrance.  Although not given to shrieking when surprised, Tabitha did give a sort of ‘urk’ that was combined with a ‘gaaa’ that blended into a loud ‘oof’ when she hit the ground. 

            “Who’s there?”  A voice spoke from inside the stable.  “Roger, you there?  Who is it?”  The door cracked open, the person behind it clearly ready to shut it if the person outside turned out to be her. 

            “It’s me,” Tabitha said automatically, instantly feeling keenly both embarrassed for her fall, and for the inadequacy of that response which countless numbers of people have felt from the beginning of time. (It is strange that the automatic response of most people is to reply ‘it’s me,’ even when the person asking ‘who’s there’ doesn’t know who they are.  This has caused no end of trouble and embarrassed confusion when ‘it’s me’ is taken for someone else and either harassed or welcomed profusely.  In fact, most cases of mistaken identity can be traced back to that fateful phrase ‘it’s me,’ which goes down as the third most awkward phrase of all time.  The second is the improper application of ‘you too,’ (which has been around for much longer than people realize), and the most awkward phrase of all time only appears in an obscure dialect of ancient Babylonian that hasn’t been uttered in thousands of years, but the awkwardness of it is so absolute that not even time can dull or override it.  The only saving grace is that it cannot be spoken as it no longer exists, or else it might cause another empire to collapse)

            “Who’s me?” the speaker showed some intelligence on wanting to know who ‘me’ was before letting down their guard.

            “Tabitha.” Said Tabitha, getting up and dusting herself off.  Wulafric was wagging his tail and jumping up and down, thinking that her falling on the ground was an invitation to play. (it doesn’t take much for a dog—much less a puppy—to think a person wants to play, and Tabitha had fulfilled the two requirements: she was alive, and she was there).

            The door opened a little further until Tabitha could see a crack of a person, no, a boy about her height standing silhouetted against the light from inside.  He obviously came to some decision about her because he swung the door fully open and Tabitha could see that he was indeed a boy a little older than her with hair of the deepest black (although run through with bits of straw).

            “’m John, th’ stableboy.  You’re the miss, right?”

            Correctly interpreting this to mean that he was asking if she was the girl who had just moved in, Tabitha nodded yes. 

            “Why didja come ‘ere?  Parents died?”

            Tabitha shook her head.

            “Father remarried and the new missus don’t want you around?”

            Again, no.

“Parents thought this was a nice place to send you for holiday?”  All through his questions, John the stableboy’s voice was getting more and more incredulous.  Tabitha thought that perhaps she should just tell him the reason or else he might explode with confusion.

            “I got rid of three Dancing Masters, one Painting Master, and my Sewing Mistress.  Mother wanted me to be accomplished.  I didn’t see the point.  She thought my Great-Aunt Hilsida could teach me—well, I really don’t know what she thought Great-Aunt Hilsida could teach me.  She never said.  But she sent me here, and my father didn’t object, so I’ll never speak to him again.”

            John the stableboy was a bit stunned at this outpouring of information.  “Cor.  Want t’come in?  She sometimes walks outside at night, an’ we like to keep indoors.”  He motioned with his head to the lit interior, provoking Tabitha’s curiosity about just what this stable cum living area looked like.  She nodded gravely and urged Wulafric forward with one foot before entering herself.  John shut the door behind her and lowered a heavy bar across it.  In the light of the stable Tabitha could see that he was barefoot and terribly skinny, although his strength had been admirably demonstrated by lifting that heavy bar. 

            “She don’ keep no horses anymore, but we leave the first few stalls open for visitors, tho’ don’ know the last time someone stayed above a few minutes, other than you.  Th’ stalls in th’ back are where we stay.  Come on.”

            The stables were surprisingly (or perhaps not so surprisingly) well kept and odorless.  Tabitha couldn’t even feel much of a draft, and the warm yellow glow of the lanterns made it all feel safe and welcoming.  Of course, the bar across the door keeping her out was a nice touch that Tabitha could appreciate.  They passed a couple stalls that had obviously been turned into private rooms with curtains across the doors and small pallets with equally small tables inside. 

Most of the servants who stayed in the stables found it just as good as any servant’s quarters, and with far more privacy, as no one was expected to share a stall.  John himself got the entire top loft, but he’d been living in the stables long before anyone else, and when the move had happened no one disputed his claim.  He sometimes shared with Roger the Butler, but neither of them minded. 

In the far back of the stable was what had once been a loose box (a stall at least twice the size of the others if not larger, for when a special horse required a bit more room) and was now a common area complete with a table and benches for the servants to gather around and chat companionably.  They all looked up at Tabitha when she and John entered and the conversations paused a moment, but then a few of them nodded thoughtfully and a space was made on one of the benches for Tabitha to sit. 

            It would be good to take this moment to say that while Tabitha had never been on bad terms with her servants (aside from the time when she set fire to a pillow in the drawing room and then left it smoldering merrily while she went to the kitchen to steal raspberry tarts while all the servants rushed upstairs to deal with the fire) but she had never been in the habit of thinking of them as equals.  Servants were there to serve, and although being kind to them seemed to produce better results than insults, Tabitha had never taken the time to really think about her servants or what they did when they weren’t serving (true, the Butler had given her a much read copy of The Butler’s Guide to Butlery, which proved that he did read in his spare time, but Tabitha had never thought to wonder what else he read). 

Now here she was, clearly in their domain, and she had no idea how to act.  Not that this normally bothered her too much, she just acted as she pleased and it all seemed to come around just fine (the vague thought had been trickling through that perhaps if she hadn’t gotten rid of all her teachers except Arthur the Tutor she might not be in this situation, but Tabitha had been doing a grand job of self-denial on that), but now it struck her that while she was in this horrible place, these servants might well be her only companions other than Wulafric, and although he was wonderful beyond measure, he couldn’t cook her food and make sure her rooms were cleaned properly.  For if these servants didn’t want to tend to her, they wouldn’t, and there would be no one to make them (she didn’t count).  That caused an awful drop in the pit of her stomach, the realization of her total aloneness in this world, and while Tabitha might have been a bit self-centered and used to getting her own way, she wasn’t mean spirited (usually, unless faeries were mentioned) and she had no desire to be completely alone and unhappy.

            And with the greatest of care that any traveler in a foreign country ever took when meeting the wild natives, Tabitha essayed a small smile, knowing that it is best to appear friendly and helpless in order to win sympathy (she had tried to look helpless before when talking to her father, but up to that point in her life she had not known what being helpless really was: now she had some idea and although she hated the feeling she was quite ready to use it to secure a future that would hopefully involve less helplessness).  To her relief, most of the servants smiled back, thinking to themselves what a relief that she wasn’t some hoity toity city girl who would make their lives a misery with demands that they couldn’t fulfill but would have to try in order to keep her from telling her anything.  For Tabitha had not yet learned (although she had come close to learning it, but it had more been a natural gift so the raw idea of it had not yet struck her) that in order to have power over others, one must assume that one has the power already, and seeing that confidence, others would assume that the power actually existed, and do their best to do what the person with power wanted.

Tabitha had a full helping of self-confidence, but she was still a small girl who understood that adults ruled the world, and directly opposing them never got her anywhere.  Fate must be thanked for ushering her into the servants’ quarter this night, for if she had not gone, she would have turned out rather different, and not at all to anyone’s liking.  She would have learned all the wrong lessons about power and control, and none of those about friendship and honest humility.  She would have had an iron control over her emotions and a quite formidable mind, but she would never have allowed anything so impractical as love to enter anywhere near her. 

It is often the smallest of things that decide someone’s future, so let everyone be grateful that Tabitha is right where she ought to be, or else this story would be much grimmer and have an entirely different ending.

            So the servants were pleasant enough to her, although they mostly went about their own business talking to each other about the affairs of the day and local gossip from the nearest village.  (Rachel, one of the maids, had family in Cotton-on-mar, and would often visit them and learn from her mother all the news that had happened since her last visit.  Rachel enjoyed a role of some importance among her servants, as no one—not even Rachel’s family—would visit her house at any hour of the day or night.  So Rachel told the servants all she knew, and they would discuss it at some length, as there wasn’t much else to talk about, except for her stranger exploits).  Tabitha listened intently, and occasionally one of the maids or the footmen would take a moment to explain a joke or seemingly innocuous statement that had raised eyebrows and caused a round of ‘well I nevers.’  It was in these moments that she would ask a few questions about this or that, and so Tabitha got a larger working knowledge of the area and all the goings on of both her house and the nearby village. 

            It wasn’t too long however before Tabitha began to droop with weariness.  The servants made moderately discreet eyes at each other asking, ‘what do we do next?’  But John the stableboy beat them to a decision.

            “’ere, Tabitha, d’you want to sleep up in th’ loft for th’ night?  Plenty room for two, and this ways you don’t chance meeting her—”  all the servants shared a collective shudder.

 Unsure yet on whether she was brave enough to dare meeting Great-Aunt Hilsida in a dark hallway, Tabitha nodded gratefully and followed John to the loft ladder.  An awkward moment ensued when it became apparent that Wulafric was not able to climb the ladder, nor was Tabitha able to carry him one handed, but John lowered a bucket from the top and Tabitha loaded Wulafric into the bucket to be hoisted up. 

(Nearly every time Tabitha came to the stables hereafter to listen to the servants, she would climb the ladder to talk with John, and a bucket was lowered for Wulafric.  Since this was done when Wulafric was a puppy, even after he grew much too large for buckets of any sort, he took a large delight in the sight of a bucket, much to the confusion of those who did not know any better). 

John spread a blanket on top of a soft pile of hay for himself, and insisted that Tabitha and Wulafric sleep on his pallet.  Not knowing that it would be polite to refuse (and it must be said that lacking a polite education, John wasn’t expecting her to refuse at all) Tabitha smiled her small unsure smile at him, and in that moment John lost his heart to her forever. 

            There are those who say that children cannot fall in love, and indeed cannot love properly at all, but they are fools.  Such love should be cherished and nurtured, but so often it is not recognized or valued, and therefore it withers for lack of care.  John the stable boy was a careful sort, however, and his heart was strong.  Though whether it would prove strong enough for Tabitha is something only the future will tell.


Chapter 5

I made a shirt!

I made a shirt today!  And almost finished it!  So exciting!

It is the most wonderful soft stretchy nylon mix and it is dark brown and oh so comfy!  I bought it on my last fabric run and I couldn't resist making something out of it.  So when I got up today I cleaned my room up (not too much work since I'd done a deep clean last week) in order that I could go into craft mode. 

Craft mode needs lots of space, and has been known to take up that space for months at a time--see Eowyn dress--much to the chagrin of my mother who believes in cleaning house every week promptly and thoroughly.  Sorry Mom.

So after cleaning I got out two different fabrics that I wanted to make things out of: the stretchy brown, and a most wondrous olive green cotton (think the softest designer t-shirt material, woohoo!).  I'd had the green for a while, but the brown just called to me more so I made it today.

Did I mention I made a shirt? 

Shirt!

It's just your basic long sleeve semi-casual, but the sleeves are extra long and widen out over the hands so that they flop nicely when I wave my arms, and the neckline is a sort of oval scoop neck, with the thin part of the oval pointing down.  Don't know what that's called, but it probably has a term.

So I cut it out and sewed it together, but then I had a quandary: should I add some floppy ruffly hems in a bright gold material that I had?  It might look quite nice. 

We can skip past all the agonizing and tilting of the head and considering and wishy-washing over what to do, and end with; I tried it out on one sleeve and didn't like it, so no gold fabric this time! 

Which is almost a relief because I think this might be the first simple project I've ever done.  No, seriously.

First sewing project was a bodice made from leftover jeans and my graduation gown (who ever uses those things again, anyway?) but I had to do it all by hand because I didn't have a sewing machine yet.  And it was the first thing I ever really made and I didn't have a pattern so it came out with some slight problems.  So Difficulty Level = High.

Second sewing project was a reproduction of a Napoleonic war era British officer's uniform from the 95th rifles.  (Sharpe's Rifles, anyone, anyone?  Bah.)  The real thing looks something like this:

(Sean Bean rules!) 

And mine came out like this:

11 hours on that braid alone, grumble grumble, and don't get me stared on the buttons.  There were nearly 60 of them!  And I should have done the braid first instead of the buttons, but guess what?  You don't really think about it until you've done it and then it's all 20/20 hindsight.  Oh, and there is a specialized sewing machine foot to do what I did with all that braid, only it's a million times easier.  Grr.  So Difficulty Level: Extreme.

My next project didn't come out so well.  My first time using a brocade fabric and I didn't double over the seams so it fell apart.  It was another bodice and it was so pretty!  'sigh.'  Still a bit of a bummer.  Difficulty Level: Fail.

I also made two winter cloaks, one with a very very long nap (nap, when referring to fabric, means the length/depth of the fabric.  Think of a really fuzzy material: the nap is the distance from the bottom of the fabric to the top) that kept getting caught on my sewing machine.  I had to keep a pair of scissors handy just to cut the fabric loose each time it snagged.  My sewing machine nearly committed hari kari after that one.  So Difficulty Level: High.  The other cloak had a far less fuzzy lining, so Difficulty Level: Moderate/Low.

I then decided to make a Steampunk jacket.  Steampunk is fun!  Piping is not.  Piping is evil.  Piping caused me to rip out my seams so many times I wore out my seam ripper.  Grr.  Came out pretty nice, though.

Check out my awesome sleeves!

So that was generally awesome, and Difficulty Level = High.

Next was a light summer shirt where the sleeves were laced up with ribbon from the elbow all the way to the shoulder.  Very nice, very awesome, but I lacked proper tools to punch holes for the eyelets, so Difficulty Level = Moderate.

Now, the Eowyn dress.  There was so much difficulty there I almost don't want to even list it I'd feel so depressed.  It was my first time using an embroidery machine, and since there was no pattern for Eowyn's embroidery, I had to make it up myself, using two patterns from online; slicing and dicing and generally getting very frustrated for 11 straight house.  And then I could actually start using the patterns to make what I wanted, so another 10-15 hours to do that.  And then my grommet tool broke and I had to improvise and etc etc, Difficulty Level = High.

 (but so pretty and fun to wear)

Somewhere in the middle of all of that I also tried to make a pair of boot slippers for myself and failed.  Made a pair of moccasin slippers for my Mother and succeeded.  Tried to make a pair of lace up leggings that were also a failure.  Succeeded in making two Christmas stockings for my sister.


Whew.  I'd almost forgotten all the things I've made over the last three years.  I almost feel accomplished!


Which leads us to my latest endeavor: brown shirt.  Difficulty Level: Low.

The closest project to make to match that was the second winter cloak: moderate/low difficulty level.  But now I can say that I've done a basic sewing project!  Woohoo!

Anyone else get the idea that I've been going about this all backwards?  Perhaps I should have started with the easy shirt....

(pictures forthcoming)

Poem: Wrought

Wrought

Beyond physicality and flesh

There waits the ever dying dream

Alive to death and living absent lies

Repairing forceful quests of yesterday

While sacrificing future breath

To keep on breathing smoke—

Ahhhhhhh—

And again

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—

Bitter lunged and aching aching

Faking pain and peace together one

In super-human-ficial prayer

Raging in the reason floods have counted

Treason pestilential

Full of splitted flesh and rot—

Rot of the soul

The never-dying facing fact

Begun when all was laughter—

Finding good in poverty alone forever

Filling foreign dust with absence underdone

Disgust discussed this once

And found it good to seem mere halves of everything permitted.

Wednesday Word: Ca(l)va(l)ry

There seems to be this strange misconception among well, everyone, that the words Cavalry and Calvary are interchangeable. 

This is very very false.

It is most easily seen in that extremely popular phrase made immortal by countless television shows and movie:

'Here comes the cavalry!'

Only the problem is, most people actually tend to say:

'Here comes the calvary!'

Which is just a shade different than what they mean to say.  What they mean to say is:

'Here comes the large military force of men mounted on horses!'

What they end up saying is:

'Here comes the hill where Jesus died!!'

Now, it doesn't matter a jot whether or not you believe in Jesus.  But it is a plain and simple fact that the word 'Calvary' refers to the place where people believe he died.  End of story.  That is the definition of the word.

It is a rather unfortunate fact that these two words sound so similar--with only the placement of an 'l' to distinguish them.  It is also equally unfortunate that 'Calvary' is easier to say that 'cavalry.'  This assures its continued misuse in our language, and in an effort to stop that, I propose we practice saying 'cavalry' to make it no harder to say than any other word in our language. 

Because seriously people, if we can all say supercalifragilisticexpialidotious, we should certainly be able to say cavalry.

Say it with me now: CA-val-ry

ca
val
ry

ca
val
ry

Here comes the cavalry!

Here comes the large military force of men mounted on horses!

Yes!  Yes!  You've got it now!

Cavalry!  Cavalry!


My work here is done.

As the world turns

Today's a pretty good day.  I got enough sleep (don't know how that happened, I went to sleep around 2 because my computer took too long to defrag) it's sunny out, I'm going to a cool sewing store where I'll hopefully pick up a couple cool new feet for my sewing machine (walking foot!  pintuck foot!  rolled hem foot!  piping foot!) and I'm finally mostly over all my sore muscles that I got helping a couple friends move house. 

So today is a good day, right?

Of course right.

But for some reason I'm going to tell you about sad things today.  Because that's just how it works.

Number one sad thing is that Dame Judi Dench, the wonderful mistress of the silver screen, has Macular Degeneration.   Now, most of you won't know what that is, and why should you?  But here's the short version: MD is a degenerative eye disorder where you slowly lose the center of your vision, and everything around it becomes really blurry.  For a quick example, put both fists right in front of your eyes maybe an inch or two away.  That's what it's like for someone with MD.  Your peripheral vision will remain pretty much intact, but it becomes nearly impossible to read or recognize people's faces--even when they're right in front of you. 

My Bubby (Jewish Grandmother) has had MD for 10 years now.  It's a slow progression, and at the beginning it wasn't so bad.  At first, you just think you're vision's going a bit, well that's normal, you're older and things start to fail a bit.  (she was around 90 then, she's 101 now)  But your center of vision starts to act like a black hole: it just keeps eating away at everything around it until even light can't escape. 

The only mercy about it is that it isn't painful at all, at least, not physically.  And you certainly can't die from it.  But in every other way this disease is 'life-threatening.'  Your life as you know it will never be the same.  My Bubby was a voracious reader all her life, a great cook, and the most independent minded woman you'd ever meet.  Well, that last bit hasn't changed any.  But speaking as a voracious reader myself, listening to books on tape is no substitute for reading the words yourself.  And cooking becomes dangerous when you can't see what you're doing. 

Not that she lets any of this slow her down much.  She still lives on her own, pays her own bills, does most of her own cleaning, and she can whup you until next year at Bridge. I did mention she's strong-minded?  

But no matter who you are, MD is one of the most frustrating things to happen to you--as are all eye diseases that slowly steal your vision.

I had a theater professor in college who had Retinitis Pigmentosa--a close cousin to MD, where you lose all your peripheral vision and are only left with the center, and even that slowly narrows to nothing.  He was one of my favorite professors, and when I first met him he was already considered legally blind, white cane and all.  He could still see, but not very much.  But he was still teaching, still directing plays, still determined to not let his disease steal away what he loved to do, even if he couldn't stop it stealing away his vision. 

And here we slowly circle back to Judi Dench, a renowned actor who's been playing indomitable ladies for so long I suspect it's rubbed off a bit (or that's just how she is--wowza!).  She's 77 years old and she's not letting MD stop her from doing what she wants, she still intends to continue acting as long as possible. 

Which is great.  The world would be a sadder place without Dame Judi Dench.  So perhaps this could be seen as a positive thing, a message of hope where you see that a wonderful woman won't let life get her down.

But I find it somewhat sad too.  Having seen close up how difficult MD is to deal with, I just wish this hadn't happened. 

And number two sad thing isn't really sad (depending on your point of view) so lets wish Alan Rickman a Happy Birthday!  He's 66! 

(cue sad shoulder slump) 

Why can't the best actors just stop aging?  Why can't we keep them forever?

The Improbable Adventures of Tabitha Anne King, Chapter 3

Click Here if you missed chapter 2

Chapter 3

The Locals Call it Desperation Manor

(Because to want to stay there, you must be desperate)

            Tabitha looked up at her Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler, the man sneering down at her—for that was his main expression, although his face had been known to exhibit anger, shock, and on one memorable occurrence, a smile (but that was only when Hilsida fell into the pigpen after her cup of afternoon tea).  Even when he was asleep he sneered, as if his dreams were really nothing remarkable and he’d seen it all before.  He jerked his head to the side and walked into the gloom of the front hall, either expecting Tabitha to follow him, or not caring what she did.  She followed, Wulafric trotting at her heels, up carpeted stairs and down carpeted halls, though all the carpeting could have stood some washing and beating, and possibly could have stood some new carpeting, as it appeared as if a horde of angry barbarians with dirty feet had stormed down the halls and then stormed right back, doing this several times with possible intervals to dip their feet in a mud hole.  They passed rooms with doors that sagged open, looking like the aforementioned barbarians had opened them with a battering ram, while other rooms seemed to be locked tight and undisturbed.

 The Butler finally stopped in front of an intact door at the back corner of the Manor house.  He dug around in his pocket for a key which, when found, creakingly protested being used for its original purpose.  But the door opened onto a room that was sparsely appointed and a little worn, but not as bad as some of the rooms Tabitha had glanced into on the way down the hall.  All the furniture was intact (instead of in various sized pieces like a giant’s toothpicks), the rugs and wall hangings were old (but not shredded as if by giant rats) and the windows were small (but not broken, for Tabitha had heard the wind whistling around shattered edges from every direction in the house).  All in all it was not a bad room.  The puppy immediately tried to jump onto the bed and missed, only jumping as high as the bed skirt.  Tabitha crossed to him and picked him up to put him on the bed.  He yipped to himself in excitement. 

An awful noise caused Tabitha to turn around: Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler was clearing his throat in his imitation of the normally polite gesture.  But where the Bushfield’s Butler had a quiet rumble of a polite cough, Great Aunt Hilsida’s Butler sounded like he was hacking an avalanche, which was against rule number 86 of the Butler’s Guide to Butlery which stated ‘If you really must interrupt your Master or his guests, do so in a way that is loud enough to be heard, but not quite soft enough to be ignored.’  Although it must be said that perhaps Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler was not breaking the rule—he was just overused to Great-Aunt Hilsida.  The Butler motioned again for Tabitha to follow him.  She left her satchel on the bed next to the puppy but when she would have picked him up, there was another horrendous throat clearing behind her combined with a shaking of the Butler’s head.  Tabitha’s eyes narrowed.  She had only just gotten her pet, and she had no desire to leave him behind.  She continued her motion to pick Wulafric up, but the Butler surprised her by grabbing her arm and yanking her away from the bed and out the door, closing it before she could gather her wits to object.  Once out in the hall, he swung her around to face him, gripped her shoulders hard and leaned down close.  “You feed him, clean up after him, and we don’t tell her you have him, all right?”

Tabitha forced a “Wh-what?” through her mouth.

“She doesn’t like dogs,” was the reply that was tossed over the Butler’s shoulder as he sway-stepped at a remarkable speed down the hall.  Tabitha clenched her fists.  Fine.  All the more reason to make Great-Aunt Hilsida want to send her back as soon as possible.

Great-Aunt Hilsida was sitting in the second best parlor in a grey dress with burgundy trim that fanned out from her chair like a bloodstained shroud. (Actually, it really was the best parlor at the moment, and had been for quite some time since Great-Aunt Hilsida had mistaken an armchair for Napoleon Bonaparte and the other furniture for his secret police, and then proceeded to hack away at everything using an old sword that had been displayed over the mantel of the fireplace.  Even the walls had not escaped hacking, but then, Great-Aunt Hilsida’s afternoon tea had been particularly strong that day)  Her eyes were surrounded by sagging wrinkled flesh, while her mouth was as puckered and tight as a raisin stuffed inside a lemon.  She gripped a sturdy cane that was almost completely encased in metal, (it would be wise to remark that the metal was extremely dented) and she raised it to point at Tabitha.

“Your mother wants me to make sure you learn your lessons.  She has asked me to keep a close eye on you, and she has said that I may do anything I please if you should disobey me.  Are you thinking of disobeying me girl?”  Great-Aunt Hilsida leaned forward, settling her cane with a decided thump on the floor (the ground was pockmarked from many such thumps), “Because I know your mother is as softhearted and as softheaded as they come, but she knows I am not, oh, she knows I am not.  And I can form you into a Lady as she knows she cannot.  How does that make you feel, girl?  Are you angry now that I’ve insulted your mother, the inestimably weak Lady Bushfield?”  Tabitha stayed silent.  She wasn’t insulted, because everything Great-Aunt Hilsida said was correct.  In fact, it hadn’t even occurred to her to be insulted until Great-Aunt Hilsida said so, and even then, it didn’t seem to matter. 

Disappointed at the lack of response, Great-Aunt Hilsida leaned back in her chair.  “Yes, your mother is the silliest woman to be born in our family in three generations,” (not quite correct, as there is some room for argument about Neridell the Novice, a woman who was nearly famous for the amount of time she almost became a nun.  By the time of her death, the total was up to 35, a number only eclipsed by Beatrice of Bothon, who became a novice 58 times, but actually did make it to being a nun), “and I believe you take after her, yes indeed you do, I can see it on your face, her face—“ Great-Aunt Hilsida’s voice was rising, “and I will not have you defying me!  Do you hear me?  You will not defy me!  You will not—“ at this point she coughed scratchily and had to reach for a cup of cold tea on a table at her elbow.  She downed what was left of it and subsided into sullen murmurs and a dark glare at Tabitha who decided that it was a good thing she wasn’t planning to stay here.  The rumors had always said being near to Great-Aunt Hilsida might not be good for your health, and they appeared to be right.  (although one must wonder about how Great-Aunt Hilsida has managed to live so long being near to herself, but that is one of the great mysteries of life).  Great-Aunt Hilsida jerked her head toward the Butler who hadn’t left the room and the man cleared his throat loudly and turned to lead Tabitha back to her room.  But before she made it more than two steps, Great-Aunt Hilsida spoke again out of the depths of deepening darkness by the fireside, her voice sounding like the passage of a running man who shouts; the sound is loud at first, then trails off quickly.

“Girl, I understand your name is Lori.  Are you properly honored to carry it?  My own mother was named Lori, and I have seen no one to match her.  No one…”

That just about did it for Tabitha.  She had been willing to say nothing up until now, but on the subject of her name she could not remain silent. 

Tabitha turned back to her.  “I have always disliked the name of Lori, Great-Aunt Hilsida, no matter who carried it before I did.  I much prefer the weight of Tabitha.”

Great-Aunt Hilsida swelled (rather like a frog, actually, but the sound that came out of her throat was much less attractive than a bullfrog’s croak).  Her eyes flamed red in the reflected glare of the fire, her hands clenched at her cane and when she spoke, her voice cracked and boomed as if a wayward thundershower had found its way indoors. 

“You will be grateful for your name or I will make you so!  You wretch!  You festering pest of a worm!  You miserable maggot’s droppings!  You simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter!  That is your name now, girl!  Hear me?  That is your name now!”

It was perhaps an unfortunate time for Tabitha’s mind to wander, but she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually be named ‘you simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter.’  It would take quite a bit of time to say, and Tabitha had a hunch that it would never catch on with parents.  Who would want to take the time to say ‘You simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter, come here,’ when all they really wanted to say was, ‘Rachel, come here,’ or, ‘Jack dearest, don’t pick your nose,’ or, ‘Earnest, it’s time to go to sleep.’  No parent wanted their child’s name to be longer than the orders they gave them.  The orders might get ignored (more than usual, anyway). 

What was so unfortunate about the timing of Tabitha’s mental abstraction was that she missed what her Great-Aunt Hilsida’s Butler was doing, which was this: as soon as Great-Aunt Hilsida started swelling and shouting, he bowed (quite commendably) and abruptly turned and ran down the hallway as if he expected the house to come crashing down around his ears.  If Tabitha had noticed this, she might also have left, but she was too busy being distracted by the thought of actually being named ‘you simpering stupid asinine hole of a puking dung-heap’s daughter.’

Great-Aunt Hilsida arose.  Mountains have fallen down and oceans dried up with less force than the sight of Great-Aunt Hilsida standing up in a rage.  Despite what anyone who did not know her well might think, and despite all the appearances to the contrary, when Great-Aunt Hilsida moved, she moved like lightning, and what she moved toward now was Tabitha.

Tabitha, who had recovered from her distraction just in time to jump back from Great-Aunt Hilsida’s snarling lunge and race down the hallway after the fleeing Butler, Great-Aunt Hilsida close behind, her hand almost snagging the ribbons of Tabitha’s gown.  They ran down the dark hallway (for the sun had finally set), up the dark stairs, down the long corridor that led to Tabitha’s room and just before Great-Aunt Hilsida managed to insert an arm or a foot through the doorway, Tabitha shut it as fast as she could and locked it. 

The door shuddered on its hinges.  Tabitha shuddered in her shoes.  The door banged again, reminding Tabitha of half the rooms on the corridor with their doors shattered and rooms destroyed.  She had wondered what could have caused such destruction (ravening hordes of barbarians aside) and now that she knew, she could scarcely believe it.  Great-Aunt Hilsida, that old woman, was as strong as any two young men you could find, and as fast.  The door juddered and the lock clattered.  Tabitha supposed she should be grateful she had made it into her room, but the condition of the other rooms left her little hope that given time, Great-Aunt Hilsida wouldn’t get in.  She ran to her two small windows.  She was at least 10 feet off the ground.  Whirling around, she realized she had not seen her puppy since she came in.  Desperation made her search everywhere, but she found him at last under the bed, growling fiercely but tucked miserably into the farthest tightest corner he could find. 

“Wulafric, Wulafric,” Tabitha whispered as she crawled under the bed with him.  He licked her face and cuddled up against her, still facing the door and still growling softly.  Tabitha, overwrought and desperately unhappy, began to cry.  She had never imagined that it would be like this, that Great-Aunt Hilsida would in fact be a monster, an ogre as terrible as could be imagined, even by someone who hated faerie tales with ogres in them.  She had imagined an awful old lady, set in her ways and disagreeable, not this fiend in an old woman’s body.  No wonder there seemed to be no servants, that the Butler was no true Butler and everyone spoke of Great-Aunt Hilsida with a shudder.  No wonder.

And as Tabitha cried herself to sleep, Wulafric kept tiny guard over her, and although she never noticed when the door stopped its shaking and Great-Aunt Hilsida left to find other easier prey, Wulafric noticed, and sighed in relief.  For although he might one day be a large and fearsome protector, right now he was still a puppy, and even puppies who will grow up to be large and fearsome protectors can be afraid.

Chapter 4