Puddles

Chapter 17: Interseal

"Thank you, my good people, for this wonderful festival tonight. Our humblest apologies for the early closing, but no one, I'm sure, cares to go on with the festival under such a downpour."

Because obviously we're all having way to much fun listening to you dragging out a 'goodnight.'

The festival had unofficially ended about twenty minutes ago, and the king's official closing speech seemed to increase the amount of cold, stinging rain on our shoulders. Apparently politicians don't change from one world to another.

Finally, the loud, ear-jarring voice was slowing, slowing, stopping, done. Out of required respect for the aging monarch, the people waited patiently for the carriage to pull up with an alacrity the king did not have in getting into it. After buckets of rain and and several nodding heads, the carriage pulled away and headed up the long, wide road to the palace. Everyone simply rushed away to the safety and warmth of their cottages. Mr. Winslow left to bring the wagon over, and came back shortly. I turned at the sound of clippety-clops and took Mr. Winslow's waiting hand after he had helped Mrs. Winslow in. We rode home quietly, only Mr. Winslow and I keeping up the conversation.

"So what do you do Mr. Winslow?" It was a question I tended to ask new aquaintances, and now I said it more out of habit than actual curiousity. But he answered with authentic interest.

"I am a Keeper of Rooms," he replied simply.

"And.... what is that exactly?"

"It means that I manage a certain section of the rooms in the Royal Palace. It is my responsibility to govern what happens in the rooms, their proper welfare, and it is my duty to know everything there is to know about my section." So basically housekeeper, I explained to myself. We needed one of those worse than the palace did, and we only had three bedrooms.

"And what do you do, Caderra, back where.....you came from?"

Mrs. Winslow's question surprised me, both because of the object change and Mrs. Marra's sudden entrance into the conversation. And I couldn't help notice the hesitation in her words, bringing back with dizzying shock of the fact that I was an outsider here.

"I, uh.....I don't really do anything, for a living, you know, to earn money. But I do play soccer, and that's considered work I suppose."

The silence told me that they either had NO idea what I was talking about, or they were chewing on that information. Possibility number two would turn into number one anyway. But I, ignorant of the understand point of awkardness when you just drop the conversation, attempted to explain soccer.

"Its this game where you have a ball, and then you kick the ball," I paused to make sure they were following me. I think the cogs were turning because Posy interjected with a 'I love balls!', so I continued. "What you have to do is kick the ball into the other team's net. Each team had one, and its just like this big.... net, I guess. If you can do that, you score a point." 

Scansen, whom I'd almost never talked with, came to my rescue. "We have a game like that, but its called 'bortley.' In our game someone tries to run the ball into the net."

"Bortley? Cool! In soccer you can't use your hands; you have to kick the ball away from the person."

"That must be so boring! Why not just kick the persons legs instead? Then they have to give up the ball, and you can take it."

Kick the person? "Well, people could get hurt that way, I guess. But you-"

Mr. Winslow's voice calling out our arrival cut my sentence short, and we all rushed briefly into the rain, and soon into the warm house. Mrs. Winslow threw a couple logs into the tiny fireplace that stood in the back of the family room, and stoked up the last bits of warm coals that had somehow outlasted the festival. Then again, the much-awaited celebration had not lasted that long. The children ran upstairs to change into their pjs, and then came racing back down the stairs to settle around the light and warmth of the fire. As I watched them sit talking to each other, waiting for something, I thought, They're such good friends. Siblings who actually enjoy each other's company--wow. When Posy patted the spot next to her, and Mr. and Mrs. Winslow strode over to the fire, the family enlightened me as to this special time designated before bed.

This was Interseal, pronounced in-TER-see-al, a time for coming together, sharing sorrows and joys. We started with the youngest, Posy. Then the sharing travelled on up the family ladder, until at last it ended with Mr. Winslow. A brief pause followed the Interseal, when Scarlough piped up, "How do you feel today, Caderra?"

I of course had zoned out onto different trails of thought during this process, and Scarlough's question shook me suddenly out my daydreaming. "Wha?" I answered lamely.

Posy laid a small hand in mine. "What did you feel today? Do you have something to say?"

So many things, simply not enough time. But I spoke anyway. "Yes, actually. I felt anger for the impracticality of a merchant tonight. I was disappointed by the apathy of the king and his sons. And I lost trust."

Everyone in the room, including myself, sat still in thought, the fire dancing gracefully across our faces. How could these people have lived so long in such darkness? Such injustice, treated like dogs with some scraps of meat thrown to them once a year. I do not claim psychic powers, but I strongly believe that we all generally agreed on the insufficiency of the rulers of this poor country.