CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
Probably Marabeth and Kris. I know they were estranged from their father but this seems to be affecting them deeply the most.
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The Beasts: A Winter Tale, continuing the story begun in The Old
- Thread starter ChrisGibson
- Start date
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
I think for me it is Peter because he has had the loveless job of being head of the family and keeping family secrets. Apparently the duty was thrust upon him early and the abortion that resulted from his fear of bringing life into the world still affects him. He coves this all up and raises his kids and deals with his divorce so for me, it Peter, even though he is not my protagonist.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
One bread, one body, one Lord of all
One cup of blessing which we bless
And we, though many, throughout the earth
We are one body in this one Lord.
The church was crowded for a funeral at this strange time of the year, and why was it a strange time, Marabeth wondered? Why was it that no one could die on Christmas, that nothing bad could happen on the second day or the third day of the year as this was. Why was it someone said, “Oh, your mother died on Christmas, how horrible!” As if, had she died in the middle of summer it would have been better. Been smellier maybe, but surely not better. Anything could happen any time, and it was just the lie of the holidays that nothing awful could happen here.
And then, this had not happened over the holidays, anyway. It was only that it was the dreadful news, like the gift of the Wicked Fairy, had come to them at this time.
”…And we, though many, throughout the earth
We are one body in this one Lord
Many the gifts, many the works
One in the Lord of all…”
It was as if, at this moment, there was no room in the story for her life, for what had occurred in the last few days. Jason McCord, over last night. The broad faced, good natured detective in her bed this morning. He had been watching her, playing with her hair, making faces when Kristian called, and she wondered if her brother suspected something. No matter, life was short and often painful. The proof was right here before them all. One must take what pleasure one could.
Right now she was sitting beside Kris, and if he hadn’t gently hudged her, she wouldn’t have gotten up to go to the Communion line. She didn’t go to church all the time now, and she wasn’t sure she would in the future. Here she was in the front row, and she thought it would be false to take a look at the covered casket, to touch it affectionately, though she was tempted to to let her family know she was a dutiful daughter, to let everyone know that she was what she should be. But who she was was someone who did not want to look at the long and silent casket on its catafalque and wonder what it housed, certainly nothing like the father she had known. And the truth was she had what was left of him. She had it in her apartment, had been reading it for over a week.
“Body of Christ.”
“Amen,” Marabeth said to Father Jefferson, which was the one concession the family had made. the pastor of Saint Agatha’s would preside over the funeral, and she was glad ot take Communion from him. She took the chalice from her cousin Cyrus who always looked nervous when he was a Eucharistic minister and nodded to the altar remembering what Sister Stephanie had always taught them, “You bow to the tabernacle, not to the altar, the Tabernacle contains the physical presence of Christ in this world. In the Tabernacle, Jesus is present.”
,
One bread, one body, one Lord of all
One cup of blessing which we bless
And we, though many, throughout the earth
We are one body in this one Lord
We are one body in this one Lord
Because she was one of the first to the altar, she could watch the long line of cousins in black, and friends, some in black, some not, as well as parishioners from Saint Agatha’s. There was Joy, with Peter, she dipped down to kiss Marabeth on the cheek on her way back to her seat at the end of the row beside Peter, and Marabeth looked around the church, at the old apse with the veiled tabernacle behind the white stone altar, the statue of the Blessed Birgin in her niche on one side of the altar, and Saint Joseph on the other. High and away from the altar, the marble statue of Jesus with his arms outstretched looked over the people heading down the eastern arcade, and all along the back wall of the apse, were the saints and angels in a mural of clouds, Saint Peter reaching down with his keys, toward Saint Paul who carried, negligently, the sword that had once beheaded him. The piano swung into another song, not sad at all, and tears sprang to Marabeth’ s eyes as she remembered the vaguely soulful choir at Saint Agatha’s, and her father, in his watery silky blue Hawaiian shurt, his hair thick and dark, singing along with her mother when Rebecca’s hair was long and red.
River of glory, springs of our birth
flood of God's riches poured on the Earth
We are born from the darkness
and clothed in the light!
We are bathed in the glory of God!
And suddenly she was so sad. It was as if she had been frozen by winter, frozen by everything, and life was just so sad and so cold and so awful and so hard, and everything she was learning was hard, and she wanted that happiness, the happiness that seemed to be more like a rest from life than actual life, when she was happy and Kris was happy, and Mom and Dad were happy and the choir was ringing in her ears and she was bathed in the glory of God.
Marabeth had retired to her room. After a while she didn’t think she needed to do anything but be by herself. There was no message from Jason, and that almost bugged her. He usually knew the right thing to do, then again, their relationship had been a matter of days and started with a fuck on the floor. Besides, maybe he knew the right thing was to leave her alone. Being alone was, after all, what she really wanted right now.
Downstairs she had played the gracious host, and wasn’t it good enough that she wasn’t going home tonight? It was as if all the misery of the last few days could not overwhelm her, and now she let it. Why must this life be so hard, and with no promise of getting any better. And then she cried till there was nothing else really, until she just lay on her back in the half dark and gathering shadows of a new year that would surely have as little promise as the last. And now she heard something, a hum, rhythm, an almost singing. The tune was familiar, and the words were coming over and over again and she realized, Not in the house. On the street. Chrismtas carolers. But this was almost Epiphany, that most weary of holidays, that extended and desperate Christmas was the only thing coming, and now she pushed open her window, and the cold air did not bother her at all.
In the gathering darkness, holding lanterns, their voices rising eerily from down below, she heard several people singing, low, and then with high intensity:
“THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
—And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past
To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.”
She sprang from the bed as if this were some sort of Christmas gift, and she struggled into shoes, then plodded down the steps, trying not to call attention to herself as her family looked up at her, Amy, putting a hand to her cheek, Peter touching Joyce’s hand. Marabeth came through the living room, and wrapping her grandmother’s shawl about her, that she’d taken from the hook on the wall, she opened the great door and stood there, hearing them sing
“If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane
-—Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane.
—And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass,
-—Every nighte and alle,
To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;
—And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
-—Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;
—And Christe receive thy saule.”
Their voices had risen and fallen, like an enchantment, and now they rose to their height and then went down to their depths finishing.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
-—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
—And Christe receive thy saule.
By now, Kris had come. And Jim and Peter. Cyrus, Joy, Rebecca, too, but they were all behind Marabeth, and from the circle of singers came one, bearing a lantern of cut glass than winked in the night. These people were not like them, because they did not inhabit the normal world, but they were like her, because she, in a way did not inhabit the normal world either, and the Black man in his wool cap and flashing spectacles, stopped singing, extended the lantern and said, “Marabeth Strauss, I have come to bring you greetings and condolences. This is my clan, and I am Lewis Dunharrow.”
When daylight returns, we shall conclude the story of the Strauss family and learn more about witches, blood-drinkers and all creatures of the night in
The Blood
One cup of blessing which we bless
And we, though many, throughout the earth
We are one body in this one Lord.
The church was crowded for a funeral at this strange time of the year, and why was it a strange time, Marabeth wondered? Why was it that no one could die on Christmas, that nothing bad could happen on the second day or the third day of the year as this was. Why was it someone said, “Oh, your mother died on Christmas, how horrible!” As if, had she died in the middle of summer it would have been better. Been smellier maybe, but surely not better. Anything could happen any time, and it was just the lie of the holidays that nothing awful could happen here.
And then, this had not happened over the holidays, anyway. It was only that it was the dreadful news, like the gift of the Wicked Fairy, had come to them at this time.
”…And we, though many, throughout the earth
We are one body in this one Lord
Many the gifts, many the works
One in the Lord of all…”
It was as if, at this moment, there was no room in the story for her life, for what had occurred in the last few days. Jason McCord, over last night. The broad faced, good natured detective in her bed this morning. He had been watching her, playing with her hair, making faces when Kristian called, and she wondered if her brother suspected something. No matter, life was short and often painful. The proof was right here before them all. One must take what pleasure one could.
Right now she was sitting beside Kris, and if he hadn’t gently hudged her, she wouldn’t have gotten up to go to the Communion line. She didn’t go to church all the time now, and she wasn’t sure she would in the future. Here she was in the front row, and she thought it would be false to take a look at the covered casket, to touch it affectionately, though she was tempted to to let her family know she was a dutiful daughter, to let everyone know that she was what she should be. But who she was was someone who did not want to look at the long and silent casket on its catafalque and wonder what it housed, certainly nothing like the father she had known. And the truth was she had what was left of him. She had it in her apartment, had been reading it for over a week.
“Body of Christ.”
“Amen,” Marabeth said to Father Jefferson, which was the one concession the family had made. the pastor of Saint Agatha’s would preside over the funeral, and she was glad ot take Communion from him. She took the chalice from her cousin Cyrus who always looked nervous when he was a Eucharistic minister and nodded to the altar remembering what Sister Stephanie had always taught them, “You bow to the tabernacle, not to the altar, the Tabernacle contains the physical presence of Christ in this world. In the Tabernacle, Jesus is present.”
,
One bread, one body, one Lord of all
One cup of blessing which we bless
And we, though many, throughout the earth
We are one body in this one Lord
We are one body in this one Lord
Because she was one of the first to the altar, she could watch the long line of cousins in black, and friends, some in black, some not, as well as parishioners from Saint Agatha’s. There was Joy, with Peter, she dipped down to kiss Marabeth on the cheek on her way back to her seat at the end of the row beside Peter, and Marabeth looked around the church, at the old apse with the veiled tabernacle behind the white stone altar, the statue of the Blessed Birgin in her niche on one side of the altar, and Saint Joseph on the other. High and away from the altar, the marble statue of Jesus with his arms outstretched looked over the people heading down the eastern arcade, and all along the back wall of the apse, were the saints and angels in a mural of clouds, Saint Peter reaching down with his keys, toward Saint Paul who carried, negligently, the sword that had once beheaded him. The piano swung into another song, not sad at all, and tears sprang to Marabeth’ s eyes as she remembered the vaguely soulful choir at Saint Agatha’s, and her father, in his watery silky blue Hawaiian shurt, his hair thick and dark, singing along with her mother when Rebecca’s hair was long and red.
River of glory, springs of our birth
flood of God's riches poured on the Earth
We are born from the darkness
and clothed in the light!
We are bathed in the glory of God!
And suddenly she was so sad. It was as if she had been frozen by winter, frozen by everything, and life was just so sad and so cold and so awful and so hard, and everything she was learning was hard, and she wanted that happiness, the happiness that seemed to be more like a rest from life than actual life, when she was happy and Kris was happy, and Mom and Dad were happy and the choir was ringing in her ears and she was bathed in the glory of God.
Marabeth had retired to her room. After a while she didn’t think she needed to do anything but be by herself. There was no message from Jason, and that almost bugged her. He usually knew the right thing to do, then again, their relationship had been a matter of days and started with a fuck on the floor. Besides, maybe he knew the right thing was to leave her alone. Being alone was, after all, what she really wanted right now.
Downstairs she had played the gracious host, and wasn’t it good enough that she wasn’t going home tonight? It was as if all the misery of the last few days could not overwhelm her, and now she let it. Why must this life be so hard, and with no promise of getting any better. And then she cried till there was nothing else really, until she just lay on her back in the half dark and gathering shadows of a new year that would surely have as little promise as the last. And now she heard something, a hum, rhythm, an almost singing. The tune was familiar, and the words were coming over and over again and she realized, Not in the house. On the street. Chrismtas carolers. But this was almost Epiphany, that most weary of holidays, that extended and desperate Christmas was the only thing coming, and now she pushed open her window, and the cold air did not bother her at all.
In the gathering darkness, holding lanterns, their voices rising eerily from down below, she heard several people singing, low, and then with high intensity:
“THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
—And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past
To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.”
She sprang from the bed as if this were some sort of Christmas gift, and she struggled into shoes, then plodded down the steps, trying not to call attention to herself as her family looked up at her, Amy, putting a hand to her cheek, Peter touching Joyce’s hand. Marabeth came through the living room, and wrapping her grandmother’s shawl about her, that she’d taken from the hook on the wall, she opened the great door and stood there, hearing them sing
“If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane
-—Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane.
—And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass,
-—Every nighte and alle,
To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last;
—And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
-—Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;
—And Christe receive thy saule.”
Their voices had risen and fallen, like an enchantment, and now they rose to their height and then went down to their depths finishing.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
-—Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
—And Christe receive thy saule.
By now, Kris had come. And Jim and Peter. Cyrus, Joy, Rebecca, too, but they were all behind Marabeth, and from the circle of singers came one, bearing a lantern of cut glass than winked in the night. These people were not like them, because they did not inhabit the normal world, but they were like her, because she, in a way did not inhabit the normal world either, and the Black man in his wool cap and flashing spectacles, stopped singing, extended the lantern and said, “Marabeth Strauss, I have come to bring you greetings and condolences. This is my clan, and I am Lewis Dunharrow.”
When daylight returns, we shall conclude the story of the Strauss family and learn more about witches, blood-drinkers and all creatures of the night in
The Blood
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was a well done conclusion to The Beasts! I liked how everything was tied up, at least for this part of the story. I look forward to The Blood. Thanks for continuing to share your great stories!
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
You're welcome. I didn't know I'd be posting the end tonight. The Blood won't be coming for a while, at least a week. I'm going to slow the pace of things around here.
