One week to go! So...you might notice that I've changed the story's rating to T...mostly due to yesterday's chapter. However, I can safely say that we're out of explicit territory...for now, at least. Instead, we're moving into masked territory...and it's not under the Paris Opera House...yeah, my jokes are terrible.
Oh; I don't want to spoil the plot of this chapter, but the words that he mummers recite ARE NOT MINE! They come from Elizabeth Wein's awesome book, The Winter Prince, and while today is not Midwinter's Day, I found her 'pageant' interesting enough that I, er, borrowed it...as well as some dialogue contained within the pageant.
As always, thanks to zagara for the reviews!
Disclaimer: I don't own AKT, or The Winter Prince.
Thirteen vaguely human figures, garbed in rough, shapeless sacks and thick fur cloaks, masked and gloved to hide their true selves, traversed London's dark, snow-lined streets, whooping and gamboling about like a band of court fools. They were a merry sight, talking, laughing, and singing as they advanced upon the first illuminated home.
A tall, masculine figure, his costume stuffed with straw to hide his lean, well-defined musculature, banged on the water-warped door, snickering into his hand as he withdrew into the crowd. A moment passed, and a man with the soft appearance of a scribe opened the door, stepping back in amused shock as the group burst into his home.
"Well, I'll be damned…" he murmured, moving away to take a small, slender woman in his arms.
The figure who had knocked stepped forward again, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of welcoming. "Way! Make way!" he chanted in a deep, clear voice. "Yield the floor, clear the way! We'll mend all evil's ill with mirth, on this Midwinter's Day."
The quiet laughter of the couple faded as the mummer paced jauntily about the floor, and they sat down on a chair in the corner to watch the performance eagerly.
"Under your green-girt beams we come, neither to beg nor borrow," the man continued. "Happy we play upon your hearth to speed away all sorrow. We are the season's rhymers! Cry welcome to us here! Fortune we bring to field and fold at the closing of the year."
The twelve others quickly formed a half-circle before their captivated audience, and a small, slight figure, wearing a hood trimmed with holly berries, stepped boldly into the center.
"In come I, the Old Year, keeper of this fruitful land." This being also spoke in a deep voice, one that sounded rather humorous and strange in its obvious caricature. It waved a hand as it paused, producing a stalk of wheat seemingly out of nowhere, to the delight of the observers. "Your stout hoards of grain, ale, and meat are blessed beneath my hand." The Old Year paused again, handing the stalk to the man with an exaggerated flourish. "Here is your hope, here is your bread, your shield against the dark's sharp blast: who boldly dares before me stand to lay me low at last?"
At that, the Old Year turned sharply, facing the rest of the players and spreading its arms in defiance. Another figure, broad and tall, wearing a hood trimmed with foil icicles, stalked out to meet it, performing a brief dance step for the couple's amusement.
"In come I, the New Year; the snow falls at my word," it said, its voice husky and thickly accented. "The black moths wheel around ere Spring, ice-edged as my cold sword. I am the one stronger than all who march in this parade: which of these gay retainers, lord, dare turn aside my blade?"
Now, yet another shape danced out of the circle. A tall, gangly creature, this one was crowned with paper flowers and walked with an affected, mincing sashay, eliciting uproarious laughter from all assembled.
"In come I, the Winter Prince, son of the Year that's gone," it exclaimed, in a high, falsetto voice. "Green ivy, hawthorn, and holly I bear for pledges of the returning Sun. I will fight for the Old Year: though the grim Midwinter's rod strikes the soil, soon the young Sun will stir the Spring's triumphant sod."
The New Year sauntered up to face the Winter Prince, placing one hand on its hip. "Pull out your sword, young Harvest Lord, defender of the Sun! As the Year dies, so you shall fall- you and the Old Year both shall I have before I quit this hall."
One of the costumed figures still in the circle, a rotund shape that crawled on its knees, carried two wooden swords, wrapped in holly leaves and ribbon, to the New Year and the Winter Prince, presenting the weapons with a courtly bow. The two duelists bowed formally to each other, then lunged almost immediately. The gathered crowd offered both cheers and jibes as the New Year veritably chased the Winter Prince about the room, striking out at all available surfaces as the Prince leaped and flipped clumsily away.
"Not fair, mate!" the New Year huffed. "Aren' I s'posed t' kill ye?"
"Oh, very well." The Prince's feigned voice did not slip as it spoke, crossing its lanky arms petulantly. The New Year thrusted forward, jabbing a hole in the Winter Prince's sackcloth costume; it abruptly fell to the floor, clutching its side in apparent agony. "Oh, I am slain!" it cried piteously.
The Old Year whipped around, dropping to its knees to try and catch the Prince. "Wretched cur, what have you done, so to dispatch my only son?" it exclaimed. Turning to the circle of mummers, it placed its hands pleadingly to its breast and bowed in supplication. "Is there a man so wise in art that he can quicken fast the slain, defy the ordered season's course and wake this youth to life again?"
"Send for a Magician!" the knocker shouted.
A short, wiry figure swaggered forward; a long black cape flapped out behind it as it moved. It held a sprig of holly in its gloved hand, and brandished the twig like a sword. "I am the Magician," it rasped.
"Oh, are you?" the knocker asked, amusement in his tone.
The Magician shrugged, disgruntled. "Apparently. Why else am I wearing this ridiculous thing?"
The group laughed appreciatively as the Old Year moved to scrutinize the other figure intently. "Have you anything within that cloak of yours that may raise my departed son?"
The Magician seemed to grin beneath its mask, and put a hand slyly to its ribs. "I have a bottle in my breast, a liquor whose clear fire could turn a glacier to a running stream. ONe drop will save your stricken son." it chanted. Then, it lifted its head and glanced around. "But first I'll have my fee. Ten silver coins."
"Don't look at me," the Old Year protested. "I'm a smith; I only deal in iron."
"Well, that's a damn shame," the Magician muttered. "Copper, then? I'll take that."
"Fine, then." Ten copper coins spilled from one covered palm to another as the ritual payment was made. The Old Year turned away then, staggering back to its fallen son. "Now try your skill, Magician," it wailed. "Grant that new life may follow old when your spell weaves through this hall, to thrive despite the cold."
The Magician knelt, and pulled a brass cup out of its cloak. Holding the goblet over the Prince, it chanted, "Into your wounds the golden drops I pour from out the healing cup-" the Magician passed a hand over the body of the still Prince. "As death came to the Winter Prince, so may the Lord of Spring rise up."
The Prince was pulled to its feet, and spun in a quick, graceful circle, stopping with a slight stumble. Laughing, all thirteen mummers gathered close, and chanted as one. "Our rhyming is come to a close; we mean to play no longer here. May fortune fold this hearth and hold: so welcome the New Year!"
I think this is the longest one so far, and it's definitely one of my favorites. I hope you all liked it!
Mumming is an old custom that was practiced all over Europe. Groups of young men would travel from house to house, disguised and masked; they would dance, sing, recite plays or poems, and otherwise perform while the house's inhabitants tried to guess their identities. If they could, the mummers were given food and drink. To make it more challenging, the players would stuff their costumes, speak in strange voices, cross-dress, etc.
So...I used 'it' to defer to everyone's anonymity, which will now be violated. The knocker was Will, the Old Year was Kate, the New Year was an OC (a butcher), the Winter Prince was Geoff, and the Magician was another OC (a footpad). The guy who doled out the swords was Roland, and the rest of our merry band was hidden within the company.
Again, I don't own the words of the pageant; Elizabeth Wein does. I had fun using it, though.
That's all from me! Ciao!
