Tuesday, December 18, 2018

A Very BryonySeries Christmas: Excerpt No. 6

This excerpt is from the third book of Before the Blood, which is scheduled for a May 2019 release.


Dawn broke cold and gray, but the parlor fire was cheery, as was the warmth for the kitchen's cook stove, where Mrs. Parks was stirring a pot of porridge when Bryony pattered in, clutching her stocking with a sticky hand and savoring a piece of molasses candy.

            "Goodness, child," Mrs. Parks exclaimed. "You'll catch your death!"

            "Merry Christmas, Aunt Bertha.." She held up her stocking. "Santa brought candy. Where's Uncle Orville?"

            "Fetching more firewood." Mrs. Parks covered the porridge and moved it away from the heat. "Let's get you dressed."

            After a breakfast of porridge (made with real milk, unlike the porridge Mrs. Parks prepared at home as Father shunned milk, too) and fried potatoes, they presented the gifts, Bryony first: a white linen handkerchief with scalloped lace edges from Mr. Drakes' general store for Mrs. Parks and the scarf  Bryony had worked on most of the year for Mr. Parks.

            Each stitch was a labor of time and discipline for Bryony, even though the finished result was crooked and bunched in places. But Mr. Parks pronounced  it as "jest the thing" to keep his face warm when chopping wood and ice fishing and proved it by wrapping it around his neck then and there.

            "Yore turn," Mr. Parks nodded his head at the two cloth-wrapped items by Bryony's plate.

            Bryony had two gifts: a set of farm animals Mr. Parks had a carved and a book from Mrs. Parks, A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement C. Moore. Its cloth cover was pink and featured the jolly old saint himself, driving his team of flying reindeer straight into the sky.

            "I reckon yil read it to me afore bedtime?" Mr. Parks asked.

            Bryony nodded, enthralled as she turned pages of three-color lithographs and gilt. Mrs. Parks bustled around the kitchen, packing the ingredients for dinner at the Griffiths, her Christmas gift to Mr. and Mrs. Bass.

            "So they can enjoy the day as a couple," Mrs. Parks explained.

            Mr. Parks laughed so hard he wet his trousers and shuffled to the bedroom for dry ones, chuckling behind the curtain as he changed them.

            Mrs. Parks was not amused. "Some folks don't mind piling up the laundry!"
           
            The door opened, and Mr. Parks walked out, fastening a suspender and grinning like a Hoberdy lantern.

            "A hole quiver of Cupids arrows won't turn Teddy and Sally into lovebirds, Bertha. Yer waistin' yore time."

            "Well," Mrs. Parks said as she latched the larder door. "It's the Christian thing to do. Sally Bass slaves over that poor woman day and night. She deserves twenty-four hours at home, and the Griffiths deserve a real Christmas dinner."

            "Yer a good woman, Bertha," Orville said, trying not to chuckle.

            "I just hope they appreciate it. You never can tell with some folks."

            Bryony could wait no longer.

            "Uncle Orville, please may I give Old Drew his gift?"

            "Shore, Bryony, you can feed him as soon as I load the cart. No sense dressin' you up twice for the cold."

            Old Drew had captured the spirit of the day, for he snuffled happily at the large carrot in Bryony's outstretched hand and ate it in four bites. When he finished, Mr. Parks lifted Bryony into the cart, where she sat shivering while he went inside for the rest of the food and Mrs. Parks..

            The Griffiths' four-room home was next door, which meant a quarter-mile north up the hill. These village dwellings had taken shape in a curious fashion: smallest houses at the bottom, with each house after it slightly larger in size, until one reached the top, which had two large houses. One belonged to Susan Betts and her family, and one belonged to Mayor Pike.

            Now the hill had three vertical roads. The Bass' lived at the bottom of the east road, in a three-room home similar to the Parks.'

            The moment Bryony stepped through the back door, she heard Mrs. Griffith's raspy gasping. Mr. Griffith and Harvey were sitting at the table, playing cards, but they rose at the little party's entrance. The room was warm, so Bryony knew Mr. Griffith had lit the oven.

            "Bertha, Orville." Mr. Griffith's voice broke as he spread out his hands, rough with broken nails and embedded dirt, marks of a hardworking lumberman. "I...I don't know how to thank you." Deep lines of unrelenting worry showed through his face's gray stubble.

            "Yes," Harvey echoed, with an expression far too somber for s young man. Unlike his father, in wool pants and flannel shirt, Harvey wore one of Mr. Hasset's old collars, along with a necktie, suspenders, and a pocket watch; and he'd tamed his wavy mound with some of Old Man Fisher's pomade. "We've never had a Christmas. We've..."

            The noisy breathing stopped. He paused, eyes frightened. Then came a loud whoop and a series of rapid barks, which restarted the wheezing. Mrs. Parks began sorting out the food, politely pretending she hadn't noticed, and Mr. Parks mumbled he needed to check old Drew.

            Bryony stared, eyes wide, heart racing.

            "Ida's in the parlor," Harvey said.

            Mr. Griffith was already sitting down and shuffling the cards.

            So Bryony wandered into the parlor. It had no Christmas tree and its lath and plaster walls had no festive decorations. The walls, however, did flaunt more of Mrs. Bass' needlework, all beautifully mounted in carefully crafted frames.

            Ida, sitting on the sofa and donned in red satin dress with gold trim, cast-off from Mrs. Pike no doubt as it fit her like an oversized sack, followed Bryony's gaze.

            "Paulie built 'em, every one." Ida pointed to the frames. Her topknot was lopsided, but every hair was in place. "Ain't he handy?"

            "Very." Mrs. Parks stood in the doorway. "Every boy should learn a useful trade." She jerked her head toward the card-playing heathens, all three of them, for Orville had joined them.. "Why, in my day, I..."

            A heartrending gagging halted the lecture. Ida fled to her mother. Mrs. Parks, superior attitude mitigated, held out her hand and said, as if ashamed, "Come, Bryony. You may help with dinner preparations."

            They bedded fish and onion slices in pie dough, stewed pumpkin, boiled peas pudding, rolled sourdough biscuits, and liberally powdered peeled apples with nutmeg and then baked them in their juices for dessert.

            It was the most Bryony and Mrs. Parks had worked together without an argument. Amongst the ruffling of the cards, the banter of the men, and periodic instructions to Bryony, Mrs. Parks cocked her head, as if to catch unusual sounds from the bedroom.

            When dinner was ready, Mrs. Parks bade Ida to eat with the others, while she sat with Mrs. Griffith and fed her bread soup. Punctuating the feast was the terrible sound of Mrs. Griffith forcing air into her rotted lungs.

            "Mr. Munsin said Thorton's payin' a pretty penny for lumb..."

            A strangled croak choked off Mr. Parks' thought. In the distance, Bryony heard Mrs. Parks say, "There, there..."

            Mr. Griffith grunted. "Yeah, we bin busy. Pass the biscuits, boy."

            Harvey did and then said, "I read in The Times that the roads connecting Jenson to Thornton are in horrendous shape. Some of the residents are trying to force the..."

            A screeching inhale, followed by frightening silence. Harvey turned pale. Ida flung her tucker over her face and sobbed. As Mr. Griffith half-rose from his chair, Mrs. Parks walked in and seated herself besides Mr. Parks.

            "She's sleeping, poor dear," Mrs. Parks tucked a bit of flannel into her neckline. "Orville, please pass the pie."

            Mr. Parks lit the candles again that night; Bryony read aloud from A Visit from St. Nicholas; and Mrs. Parks settled down with her mending. After an hour, they retired for the night, even Puss, who scorned Bryony's attempts to coax her onto the bed in favor of Mr. Parks and the fire.

            As Bryony melted into the pillow, and dream thoughts appeared, Mr. Munson's voice floated through the walls:


From God our Heavenly Father
A blessed Angel came;
And unto certain Shepherds
Brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by Name.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort....

           
            "Shame on that man, bothering folks when they're trying to sleep!"

            "Shut up, Bertha! Prbly jest comin' home from Bosie's!"

            Bryony rolled onto her side and grinned in the darkness.


 Christmas in August tree by Rebekah Baran

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