Photo by SAVVAS SOURMAIDIS on Unsplash
Writing inspired by the following SWC prompt:
Wassailing is a Twelfth Night tradition, with pagan roots, which has been practised in the English countryside for many centuries. On the twelfth night after Christmas rural revellers gather in local orchards to drink, sing, dance and make merry – all in an attempt to please the spirits of the fruit trees and thereby guarantee a good harvest for next season. It’s a loud and rowdy winter party in the dark, spiced with folklore magic. Take your reader wassailing with you and your neighbours.
Kalady
by Connie Phlipot
Vera arranged the harlequin print scarf across her forehead, making sure the sides were neatly tucked in, like a nun’s wimple, hiding her receding hairline and her forehead weathered by years of harvesting in the sun. She criss-crossed the voluminous scarf across her chest, pulled it tight to flatten her breasts, and tucked the fringed ends into the waist band of her woolen skirt. Confident no wisps of fading blond hair had peaked out from the scarf, she looked around at her fellow passengers on the open wagon. A bovine head bobbed alongside her, wooden horns poking holes in the darkness. The bull looked directly at her eyes rimmed with coal. Sweat dripped from what Vera presumed was his chin; he wiped it with his hoof and laughed in her face. The cold bit her eyes, tears dissolved the flecks of coal, streaking her cheeks. The Bull licked them with a normal male tongue. She pulled a flask from under her skirt and took a long gulp. The homemade alcohol was strong, she struggled not to gasp, but… It warmed her face and dissolved her apprehensions. The bull looked longingly at the flask. Surely he had his own? She handed him hers. He drank thirstily.
Two goats stood up in the middle of the wagon, rocking it. Vera crashed into the creature next to her, a cross between Father Christmas and the devil grinned wickedly in her face. Vera didn’t know who he represented. There was a full panoply of characters for this season, her grandmother had explained it all to her a long time ago, but she didn’t remember much of it. A stock character was her disguise, the old village woman. An easy costume and appropriate, since compared to the young people around her, she was an old lady. Grandma had also told her that the evil spirits believed the costumed villagers were really the wild beasts they portrayed and would run away from the noise and dancing. If they didn’t dress up and cavort around the village during Kalady, Christmas time, the spirits would have no fear and torment the inhabitants in the New Year. Ruining the crops, sickening the animals. No one believed any of it anymore, but it didn’t matter. It was fun to dress up, get drunk, visit neighbors. She hadn’t gone out on Kalady for years and wouldn’t recognize her fellow revelers even without masks. This was a ritual for young, single people, not for married folks with children like her. She didn’t feel married. Her husband had left her to work abroad when she was six months pregnant. He was chopping lumber somewhere, supposedly saving up to come home and buy some land. Occasionally he deposited money in the bank account he’d help her set up. She didn’t expect to ever see him again. When the days became unbearably short, the sun setting long before supper, and she couldn’t bear another afternoon embroidering with her mother-in-law, she ached for the holiday celebrations of her youth. As the darkness shrouded the hut, she shut her eyes and felt the warmth of drunken lips on hers and the tickle of straw on her back. The thought of never experiencing that again sickened her. She was not yet ready to resign herself to this house, this family, this darkness.
The baby was sleeping soundly, little bubbles popping from his mouth with each breath. “I’m going out to see friends,” Vera said to her mother-in-law. Before the older woman answered, Vera went into the cold storage room under the steps and gathered up the remnants of her old costume stashed behind the jars of mushrooms. Mice had nibbled at the edges of her scarf, but the colors were still intense, the red stripes like hell fire, the blue diamonds icy as the north wind. She brushed off the thick netting the spiders had spun across her heavy woolen skirt with a rag redolent of pickles and sauerkraut. Squinting into the the reflection of the moon in the window, she circled her eyes with a scrap of coal dampened with her spit. Then walked through the snow to the gathering place in front of the church. The wagon stopped in front of the first cottage in the village. A dog ran out from the gate barking hysterically at the goats, monsters, devils, bisons emerging shakily from the vehicle. The devil shook his stick at the dog, as if it were one of the evil spirits they were supposed to disperse. The dog crept behind the house, whimpering. Vera knew this house. Her husband’s cousin had lived here until he, too, went off the lumber camps. Vera had been the one to read the letter to the family — she was the only literate woman in the family. She sounded out the words slowly, not comprehending them until she had finished. “A tree fell on Arkady. Thanks be to God, he died instantly.”
The Bull pushed her forward with his horns. “We’ll sing for you, we’ll dance for you,” someone shouted. The cottage door opened and the group danced inside to the uneven, discordant sound of a hurdy-gurdy, pipe, small drum, accordion. Vera grabbed the hands of a toddler — probably her cousin’s child — and twirled him around and around. His high-pitch harmonized with the squeal of the wooden pipe. The lady of the house offered them hunks of bread and cheese and shots of samogon. They danced off to the wagon.
“To your Health! Harvest! Happiness,” they sang out.
The cold penetrated Vera’s layers of wool. She put her hands under her armpits to warm them.
A hoof tapped her arm, “Look!” his warm alcoholic breath dampened her earlobe. A star nestled close to the inner curve of the quarter moon. “It’s good luck” she kissed her fingers and slid them under his mask, touching his warm lips. The horses slowed as they approached the final destination. According to local tradition, they saved the baron’s house for last. Unlike the cottages perched close to the road, the manor house was set back along a winding, sycamore lined drive. In the past, when her grandparents were still serfs, the baron’s house servants feted them with drinks and sweets. The baron was now in charge of some strange country, his wife lived in Petersburg, his daughter had hung herself in the orchard years ago. Only a caretaker lived there. He wouldn’t even open the door for them. But still the wagon went up the winding path. They’d dance outside around the house and empty their own flasks. Hoping their energy and the spirits would make the old, happy days return. Vera swayed back and forth with her arms around the bull. An old man sat in the topmost room of the manor a silhouette beside a single, flickering candle.
Thank you for sharing this story!