The next few days passed quickly for Charles and Kimberly. What before had seemed a slight plumpness to him now was obvious as the first outward signs of her pregnancy. Although he was certain that it was just his mind playing tricks upon him, every new morning when he would roll about in sultry half-slumber, eyes stirring to behold his beloved, he could have sworn that her belly had grown larger. But for the time at least, her dresses all fit her as before.
By the day after, all of the Glen was dressed in greys, except for the Matthias’s. When he’d been in the Brewery with Brian Avery and many other new friends and neighbours, he’d never had a chance to ask what it meant. Instead, he had found himself in the careful confidences of the Lord of the Glen, who assured him that Kimberly would be fine under Lady Avery’s careful paws, and was told to drink and be merry. His diffidence from the confrontation with Baerle was mistaken for nervousness by the others, and after his second pint was washed away. He woke the next morning with a headache that rivalled the one he’d had the morning the Longs had left, but at least he had not been at singing bawdy songs.
The very next day, as Kimberly forced more of Lady Avery’s awful concoction mixed with tea down his parched throat, she explained to him the significance of the grey clothing. While Charles gagged, tongue pressing from his mouth as if to escape and slither across the floor to the fire pit where it mind find surcease within the wreathing orange flames, Kimberly spoke with an amused arch to her eyebrows.
“It is traditional in the Glen to celebrate the coming of a new child by wearing grey. It is usually only the friends of the family to be that wear the grey, but since we are friends of Lord Avery, everyone will wear it. We should too, but we’ve no grey to wear.” Charles had recovered somewhat at this point, though his eyes were still firmly shut t block out the light. “Angela said that it was like the winter before the spring, all grey and white, before life comes again into the world. I think that sounds very beautiful, don’t you?”
At that he could only mumble a groan, his mind still slugging along like a wagon wheel covered in molasses trying to trek through clinging mud. But even such a wagon eventually reaches its destination, and so too Charles eventually understood what it was that his wife had told him. It worried him at first, as Kimberly had talked about seeing Walter to purchase them both grey clothes. What if the grey was a Lothanasi tradition meant to honour their gods? While he himself had been within their temple at Metamor, even sung songs with them, he had no wish, even inadvertently, to engage in their worship.
But, as the molasses worked its way free from the spokes in his head, clearer thought prevailed. In his years at Metamor he had learned a great deal of the Lothanasi faith, and in so doing, understood vaguely the meanings of the colours and their relationships to the various deities in their pantheon. Grey was not one used expressly by the Lothanasi in expectation of a child. And so, he knew it had to be a tradition of the people of the Glen themselves apart from their faith.
Charles did not have much chance to see Kimberly that morning though, not after she had forced the vile brew down his throat at least. Lady Avery arrived before noon and had whisked his wife away for a hunt through the forests for some feminine purpose that neither were inclined to explain to him. Angela had brought another of those grey baskets with her for Kimberly to use, and after a few words to the groggy husband still feeling the effects of last night’s binge, they disappeared out the door.
After stirring up a fire in the hearth, Charles set himself to writing several letters. Leaning over the small table between the two chairs set before the fire, he had several sheets of parchment arrayed before him, a smaller stopper of ink sat upon the curling edges, while a single candle burnished light for him. After he finished his three letters, one to Misha and the Longs, one to the Writer’s Guild, and one to be delivered to Jerome via Raven hin’Elric, the wax had pooled within the basin of the candlestick.
One by one he lifted each sheet, and blew across the ink, drying the indigo upon the grey parchment. He folded each of the letters so that they could not be read without first being opened. Taking the end of his chewstick, he spread a dollop of wax along the end, and then held it in the candle flame. With a firm touch, he spread it over the centre of the fold, and then pressed the rodent crest he had taken for himself when Metamor had changed him into the already hardening wax.
He hoped that his letters would precede the news of his child to be. While he was certain the Jerome would hear of it first from his letter, wandering as he was gods-knew-where in the Midlands, he could not be so sure about either Misha or Habakkuk. Likely the vexatious Felikaush already knew and was scribing secret tableaux with the tale to be circulated amongst a specious few so that he might later scold the rat for his enthusiasms.
By the time Charles had left the three letters with Lord Avery with instructions for their delivery, he had managed to rid himself of such farcical notions. Brian assured the rat that the letters would be in the hands of Misha, Habakkuk and Raven that evening. He did express puzzlement as to why Charles would send a letter to the head of the Lothanasi faith at Metamor but not to the head of his own, the good Father Hough. Seeing a strange glint in the squirrel lord’s eye, Charles reluctantly explained that Raven would pass the letter onto his friend Jerome.
With his letters secure, Charles had gone about his daily chores in a daze. At every turn, he received congratulations anew. As the clearing was mostly cleaned of snow by this point, he spent most of his time as a scout for the Glen, usually in Garigan’s company. The ferret took him on his rounds, quizzing Charles at every turn about what to expect, testing his knowledge of the land. Despite the fog filling his mind, he still was fairly decent at recognizing the landmarks, noting the subtle differences in the scope of each massive tree, each hillock, rock, and underbrush.
By the time dusk was upon them and he returned to his home, body tired but not sore, Kimberly was already home, the gray basket sitting primly upon the kitchen counter. When he’d tried to pull up the lid to see what was inside, she’d slapped at his paws and shooed him from her kitchen. In fact, it was not long before she shooed him out of his own home as well, as Lady Avery would be coming by that evening to help her with some of the plants she’d collected.
When he tried to press at what plants, he was the recipient of a pleading gaze that made him wither and shrink away. He felt irritation at Brian’s wife over this, and he groused all the way to the brewery, kicking at the piles of snow still left to be moved. The men who were there expectantly waiting for him, shared in his agitation, but could only advise him to let the Lady Avery do her work. To keep his mind from it, he found a mazer always within his paws, and drink always upon his lips that night.
And for the next three days and nights, the same happened. With the dawn came the foul tonic that Lady Avery prescribed for a husband who had suffused himself with far too many libations the evening before. And after that came the giggling gaggle of females surrounding Lady Avery who whisked Kimberly away with that gray basket in her new grey dress. Each day they seemed to grow by one or two, but after that first day he noticed that Baerle was always amongst them. He did his best not to look at her, but found himself always questing her eyes in those brief moments while she stood in his doorway. But she would never meet his gaze, instead, saving her warmth for Charles’ wife.
The rest of his day was spent out in the woods with the other scouts, watching the boundaries of the Glen, learning all of her ways, feeling the ebb and flow of the hours upon the forest. Several times he tried to convince Garigan to take him to where his wife and the horde of women had vanished, but the ferret assured him that Lady Avery would skin him and hang his pelt from her lintel should he dare.
“But we’re Sondeckis!” Charles had protested angrily.
“And she’s a woman,” Garigan said, smiling understandingly to the distraught husband. “It won’t be but for a few more days, so relax.” Try as he might, Garigan would not explain what he meant by that.
On the third day, Kimberly had lain out a grey tunic and breeches for him to wear, and she was adamant that he do so. Try as he might, he could not get her to explain why it was so important. But she did smile prettily enough and ask him in her sweetest voice. It did fit him well enough, though the waist needed to be brought in just a tad. But she still left without an explanation when Lady Avery came a calling.
At the very least, he had told himself, he was now wearing colours that adequately reflected his mood. That evening, as he sat at one of the tables in the brewery, flanked by James and Angus, he remarked on that. The badger laughed heartily and patted him firmly on the back. “Who can say with the ways of women, eh? Best to let them do as they wish. Now eat something before you fall over!”
It was on the afternoon of the fourth day that the five wagons bearing the Long Scouts and their gifts came rolling into the Glen. Charles was on scouting duty with Garigan to the northeast of the Glen, when he heard that they were coming. Whenever the Glenners would be scouting, they would always go at the very least two-by-two. This way, one of the pair could if the need arose, leave to deliver a message to the other scouts or to the Glen itself. And so it was that the young pine marten Marcus suddenly fell from the branches overhead with a flourish, shaking their branch back and forth as he landed.
While Garigan steadied himself with one paw, Charles cast a withering glance to the youngster. “What cause do you have to try and frighten innocent scouts like that?”
Marcus laughed then, eyes bright with mischief still to do. “The Long Scouts are coming!” he declared in a proud voice. “Just doing my job as a scout too!”
His heart stiffened, excitement replacing the annoyance of a moment before. “Really? They’re here?” Charles took several steps towards the marten, nudging his bow slung over his shoulder to the side.
Marcus nodded emphatically, tail wagging back and forth. “Oh yes! They’re coming up the road from Metamor right now!”
“Excellent! You stay here with Garigan, I have to go and see them.”
Garigan growled morosely. “You aren’t leaving me here with that one?” He pointed a finger towards the pine marten. “It might not be safe for him, you know.”
Charles laughed then, and stepped around the younger scout. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
But the pine marten bore a slightly injured expression, though it was mixed with an inexhaustible supply of good humour. “I will! Right Garigan?”
The ferret nodded, and then laughed as well. “All right, come on and sit down. And stay seated this time, please?”
Charles was already out of earshot before Marcus could respond. He was scrambling down branches, hoping as they twisted downwards. Where the branches thinned out, small handholds had been fashioned into the wood. With most of the snow melted, it left the wood rather slick in places, and so he was careful, regularly using his Sondeck to tighten his grip. When the branches of two trees were close enough, he would hop from one to the other, moving closer and closer to the Glen as he did.
Eventually, as he began to overlook the clearing in the centre of the Glen, he had to climb down the rope ladder that dangled from one of the lower hanging branches. It was from a height he’d jumped once or twice before in his life, but only when he’d had no other choice. As his foot paws once more touched ground, he was delighted to see that the Longs had not yet arrived. He wanted to be there when they made their entrance at the Glen.
Smoothing out his grey tunic and breeches, he leaned against the trunk of one of the trees a good ways back from where the road spilled out onto the grounds. Hillocks lined the clearing, some of them dug out into overhangs to protect the wagons and the horses. Once the snow shad melted, a thick moss mesh would be lain across them to conceal them from view. At present they stood open like a giant had scooped the earth free with a shovel.
He heard the scraping of claw upon bark, and glanced to one side. Lord Avery jumped the last few feet down to the ground, and took a few moments to brush his paws along his own grey liveried hose and doublet. He examined his claws with a sour moue upon his muzzle for a moment, and then looked up. As he saw Charles, he smiled once more. “You heard, did you?”
Charles nodded at that, arms crossed before him. The end of his bow was poking into his tail, and so he shifted it to his other shoulder. “Marcus old me a few minutes back. I’m just surprised it took them this long to get out here.”
The Lord of the Glen let out a hearty laugh at that, and patted his free shoulder with one paw. “My good rat, do you not think it took them a couple days to organize the gifts they would bring?”
“True,” Charles mused at that, smiling slightly. “It does not seem that long ago that they all brought me gifts for my wedding!”
“It was only seven weeks ago, that’s why!” Lord Avery smiled curiously. “It took Angela and I a year before we conceived.”
“Darien and Christopher are six now aren’t they?”
The squirrel nodded, his smile fading slightly. “And going on thirteen. By Summer’s end I fear they will be learning the sword and bow like scouts.”
Charles snorted at that, wondering for a moment how fast his own children would age if they were born as rats too. But those thoughts lasted only a moment before he could hear the fall of hoofbeats and the creak of wagon wheels coming up the road. He stood straighter, his body stiffening, eyes straining to see the first glimpse through the tall trees. His ears turned forward, flesh trembling for even the slightest sound of voices. His heart beat seven times, he counted, before he could make out the familiar burr of speech. Ten beats later, and he picked out the laughing voice of Misha from the rest. He smiled widely, standing on the tips of his toes, whiskers twitching as he tried to find their scent on the flowing breeze.
The wind brought him the scents of many animals, as well as a few humans too, the thick scent of horses was the clearest of them all. A moment later, he could see the first of the wagons turning the bend in the road, starting along the last jaunt before entering into the Glen. Charles could see that Misha was sitting up along the rail of the wagon. The fox’s head turned towards him, and his one ear perked instantly. With a leap, Misha propelled himself from the wagon, and ran past the horses, laughing, tail wagging unrestrained behind him.
Charles could no longer stand against the tree, and ran forward as well, his own smile too broad to not laugh. He could see other Longs also jumping from the wagons and rushing to greet him, but none moved as fast as the fox. Charles slowed down a bit so that he would not crash headlong into his good friend, but Misha could not control his enthusiasm. When they collided, Charles was nearly bowled over by vulpine girth. Misha grabbed his arms tightly, and held him aloft as they came to a stop, hugging him firmly, and then giving him several firm pats on the back.
The fox’s grey eyes seemed to shine all the colours of the spectrum at once as he stood there, finding his voice amidst the joyous laughter. “Congratulations! This is... Congratulations! I’m so proud and happy and.. Congratulations!” At this last exclamation, the fox hugged him once more, while the rat could barely find time to even breathe.
Before he knew it, he was surrounded by so many familiar faces, all Longs. Each patted him on the back or hugged him as tightly did the exuberant fox, their voices a cacophony of praise and delight. There to one side was Lisa, smiling up at him broadly. Finbar and Danielle, arm in arm, continued to pat his shoulder as if it were a charm to gain luck from. Georgette, Jotham, and Ralls all moved back and forth, each taking turns to be next to the father-to-be. Laura and Allart with their families did their best to reach in as well. Even Padraic, the newest of the Longs was standing in close, his fur a bright shade of pink, testifying as to how new a Long he was.
As the wagons pulled in closer, Charles could see the great bear Meredith being helped from one of the wagons by his wife and his children. He smiled broadly at that, waving to the injured ursine. He looked far better than the last time Charles had seen him. “Did everyone make it?” Charles asked, barely managing to get his question heard over the delighted cries of his fellow Longs.
Misah shook his head then, his smile not perturbed even the slightest. “Arla and Kershaw are not here, both were too injured to make it. They send their best though. Where’s Kimberly?”
Lord Avery had moved up to join them, though the squirrel still gave the Long Scouts plenty of room. Charles glanced back at him and then gestured with one paw towards the tall wooden sentinels surrounding the clearing. “Kimberly is with Lady Angela and some of the other women doing I don’t know what. They won’t tell me.”
“As well they shouldn’t,” Lisa chimed in primly, her husband now standing with one furry paw each on her shoulders. Lisa reached up with her one hand and gripped Alec’s paw gingerly. “It’s nothing you should worry about I’m sure.”
The other women, except for Georgette, who had once been a man, nodded in agreement at that. Even Jotham, though now a man, but once a woman, gave a firm nod.
“They’ll be on their way back by now,” Lord Avery said at last. “I’ll have the wagons looked after. I assume you are staying the night.”
“Absolutely!” Misha said, his voice almost a shout so great was his excitement. “We are going to celebrate with Charles and Kimberly for the newest members of our family.”
Caroline, who was now being held firmly at Misha’s side by his arm, smiled to the squirrel, sharp teeth poking out from her muzzle as she did so. “I do hope you haven’t had a baby shower yet for them. We would like to attend.”
Brian chuckled lightly at that, “Speak to my wife. I think it is tomorrow.”
Misha leaned over and gently licked some of Caroline’s whiskers, causing the otter to turn back suddenly and blush in her ears. The fox then smiled back down to Charles. “I’m so happy for you both. Let’s go to the Inn so we can get rooms for the next two nights. We can eat and drink there while we wait for your wife to return.”
Charles nodded, seeing past the fox as the wagons all came to rest at the road’s end. There were five, each led by a pair of horses. Two of the wagons were covered by a thick tarp tied down at every corner and side. “What’s in those two wagons?” he asked, pointing with a finger.
Finbar laughed. “Surprises!”
“Lots of surprises,” Jotham chimed as well.
“I’m going to have to wait, aren’t I?” Charles asked, bearing a mock look of resignation.
“Not for the food and drink,” Misha declared, giving his shoulder another good pat. “Congratulations, Matt. I’m just damn happy!” He then could not help himself anymore, reached over and gave the rat another impromptu hug.
Before the rat could even catch his breath again, he was peppered from all sides by hugs and back slaps from the rest of his fellow Longs. His smile felt as if it had been sewn onto his muzzle. It was so good to be with family.
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