Yuletide Story: No Room at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness

Just a single 2000 word story for you this year during our Yuletide celebrations, plus a Yuletide Giveaway at the end.

However you celebrate the winter holidays, may you walk in peace and friendship.

Fireplace at Seven HNo Room at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness

Willoughby blew in with the snow, crashing the door of the Inn of the Seventh Happiness against a table squashed too close, and the wind creating chaos of the napkins and place-settings, carefully laid out for Solstice festivities.

“Making an entrance as usual, Willoughby!” called one of the people leaning against the bar, and other calls and greetings met him as he struggled to shut the door again.  The weather noises receded, and the hubbub of a warm and friendly refuge took over.

Willoughby stood behind a line of customers at the reception end of the bar.  He considered leaving the quest for a bed for later, and starting with a warming drink.  His nose, ears and feet were frozen, but his insides were warm enough, since he’d jogged the last two hours of his journey from the hills this side of Longmoor, when the storm had caught him.  If he hadn’t had the engagement to narrate at the inn he’d have turned back.

“Well, I can put you in this room if you don’t mind sharing two beds between you,” Victor was saying to the couple in front him, whose children were huddling into their sides.  One boy turned and looked at Willoughby with large, dull eyes.  Lost eyes, ones with no hope or expectation in them.

“If ye can do that, we’ll manage, thank’ee kindly.  I’ve not much money, y’see.”

“What castle?” Victor asked, since the system applied credits against castles when their citizens went travelling.

The father shook his head.  “No castle, not any more.  Hoping to make it to Fortune.”

Victor looked at them and sighed to himself.  Just another group of refugees.  He was trying to keep a tally of which castles they came from, but getting the information from them was hard without making them even more scared.  “Okay, take this chitty, keep it safe, and give it to Fortune when you get there.”

“Really?”

“Yes, if they take you in they’ll usually pay a little of your bill here with me.  The least we can do for you, really. I’m afraid it means you won’t get a huge feast, though.”

“Any food will be good, thank’ee.  And I can keep my coins for later?”

“Yes, keep them for the coach, if you can run to that.”

The father backed away, and Willoughby watched him approach the stagecoach drivers settled by the fire.  Maybe the stage would take them as far as Castle Fortune for the rest of his money, if they waited till the one had space.  Willoughby shook his head, thinking about the state of the world today.  It was not just the number of families on the road seeking a safe haven, it was the reduction in decent, honest people willing to help them.  Help that had come naturally once upon a time had become rationed, as if goodwill was a finite commodity.  He pondered his planned stories for the next few days and wondered how to get his message across without preaching.

The two people next in the line held a long discussion about whether they would share a bed together in a ten berth dormitory.  Victor looked at Willoughby over their shoulders.

“If I knew whether Prince Lupin’s rooms were free I’d have more flexibility.”

“Have you asked them?”

“The vacuum post to Buckmore is down.  Nothing’s going through.” How quickly we come to rely on these communications, thought Victor.  A few years ago he would have been confident they wouldn’t be needed, but now, with the possibility of the Prince and his family flying to Castle Marsh, or even taking their horseless carriage, he needed to keep the rooms for an emergency.

“Surely they’ll be doing Solstice at Buckmore?”

“Well, yes, but George was flying yesterday and dropped in to see me.  He said they might be grounded if the weather closes in.  I think grounded means they can’t fly, and the weather has definitely closed in.”

“I see what you mean.”

Willoughby watched as Victor directed the two travellers to the dormitory, since they’d decided it was as good an offer as they’d get.

“Any room for me, then?” he asked, leaning on the desk and looking at Victor’s complicated chart, full of crossings-out and arrows.

Victor blushed. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve given your room to two families, each of six, who arrived earlier.  They’re on their way to Fortune, too, and the stage came back since the tunnel is blocked.  There’s nothing going to Fortune, Dimerie, Cabot or beyond.  Fortunately nobody much uses the Deeping/White Horse line any more.”

Willoughby chewed his lip.  His resentment at the failure of the Realms to help White Horse made the hair on his neck rise.  He was of White Horse, but most people had forgotten that, just as they’d forgotten what went on there.  More fool them, since it was happening other places now.  He came back to the present as he realised Victor was waiting for him.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all.  Must have been a palace you’d reserved for me.”

“No, just the cubbyhole downstairs, but I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not, Victor.  Is it always like this at Solstice?”

“It used to be fairly quiet.  Everyone at home for the season.  Last year we had a full house though, which is why I suggested you came to entertain them this year, but it’s… well, we’re more than full. I hope you’re the last.”

The door banged open, sending a blast of frigid air through the room.

“Maybe not,” Victor sighed, eyeing a young couple, with the female clearly in need of assistance after a difficult journey.  One of the people near the door got up and offered her his seat, which she took gratefully.

“I can sleep on the long seat near the fire,” Willoughby offered.

“It’s already taken by two of the drivers.  The other two are on the floor beside it, and the two that came back from the Dimerie line have bagged the cushions on the side by the wall.  If you don’t mind, I’m putting you in Saku’s bed, and he’s going in with Argon.  They’ll be thrilled to be sharing their room with you.  Is that okay?”

Willoughby grinned.  Sharing with Victor’s kids would be just fine.  He wondered what the Saku he knew so well, and the Argon he’d seen around before he’d left his real home castle, would think.  “No problem, as long as they don’t snore.” He winked to show he didn’t mean it, and Victor’s tension dissipated.

“Now, where on earth am I going to put this pair?”

***

Nobody else arrived that night, and no stagecoaches left the next morning, partly because it was Solstice, and partly because the snow had mounded up around the top of the cliffs surrounding Seventh Happiness, and drifted in great piles into the southern edges of the little settlement.  A group of locals, assisted by visitors, dug out the entrance to two of the four southern tunnels, just in case someone was coming through from Dimerie or Cabot, but the drivers said they weren’t setting out in case they got stuck in a drift.

At noon everyone crammed into the inn for the Solstice celebrations.  In castles they were usually formal affairs, with speeches from kings and followed by sumptuous feasts.  So Victor said as he started his speech.  Willoughby heard mutterings and extended his listening to hear “not in Vexstein, they weren’t,” from several quarters, and a complaint about a couple of other castles, too.

Victor went on to say how the people of Seventh Happiness were “glad to live here, free to make our own lives, and to share what little we have with our visitors.  We remember the old year, and all the things we achieved, the kindnesses we received and gave, and the things we want to do better next year.  And as the days grow longer, we look forward to good growing seasons, good harvests, good health, and good cheer!”  At that everyone raised their glasses and made a toast to the community of the Seventh Happiness and to next year.  And some said “to safety” or “to a home of our own” or whatever they wanted most.

Then Willoughby told the first of his stories, which was of the hero who had been caught out in the woods at Midwinter, and was found by lots of lost villagers with nothing to eat because the harvest had failed.  After a few adventures they found their way back to the shelter of his cave and he magically fed them all from just the few grains of wheat he had in his saddlebag.  Everyone enjoyed the story, and then it was time for the feast.  Calli, Madge and Toby had done wonders to make a little food go a long way, too, and there was enough for everyone to have a really good meal, with lots of lovely vegetable soup to fill up the corners.

Then while all the adults had a rest, Willoughby told the kids the story of a young couple who had to travel a long way one Solstice, and they had come to a busy inn in their home castle because everyone had to be checked by the tax collectors.  “And there was no room at the inn, so the landlord offered them shelter in his stable.  And there, during the night, the lady found she was ready to give birth, and she did so, and laid him in a manger, soft with hay, watched over and warmed by the ox and ass that lived there.”  The kids were spellbound by the visitors that came to see the child, who was destined to be a great king, but lived in poverty until he was old enough to claim his inheritance.

“Will I be a king one day?” one child said to his parents after Willoughby finished, but Willoughby didn’t hear the reply.  Maybe all children could aspire to be kings, he thought.  Maybe you don’t have to be born a prince to become a great leader.

It was later in the evening, after he’d told the adults the story of the Diamond Souls, that he was relaxing, thinking he’d surely earned his keep this Solstice, when Victor came over to him with a large glass of mulled apple juice.

“Here.” Victor said.  “Thanks for the stories.  It would have been even more chaos without you, with all those kids to keep happy.”

“Are they all heading south?”

“Yeah, one way or another.  Although of course, if they’re here, they’re heading south.  I heard from Sowerby there are a lot heading north, too.”

Willoughby considered that.  People travelling north and south, away from the Troubles. The Realms were divided.  Only people with flying machines could travel swiftly and safely between the two.  That didn’t help for a strong society.  He shifted in his seat, as Victor shifted too.

“I didn’t think much of your second story,” he said.  “He was’t much of an inn-keeper if he couldn’t find room for a mother about to give birth.”

“I suppose he thought she needed peace and quiet.”

“Well, yes, but there’s always ways.”

He was interrupted by Calli as she came in.  “Two boys,” she said, smiling.  “Mother and children doing fine.  The father, too, come to that. They’re sleeping now.”

Victor nodded, looking slightly smug.

“Where did you put them?” Willoughby asked.

“Oh, they’re in Prince Lupin’s room.  Thought it best, really.  A birthplace fit for a king, really.”

Willoughby laughed. “You never know, Victor, you never know.  These are strange times.”

“Strange times maybe, but there’s never no room at the Inn of the Seventh Happiness.”


 

BookElves_Vol2_authors(c) J M Pett 2015, with thanks to Rebecca Douglass for pinching the gist of Halitor at Midwinter, which appears in the BookElves Anthology Volume 2.  Willoughby’s other stories appear in the forthcoming Princelings Book 7: Chronicles of Willoughby the Narrator and on Jemima’s blog here, and in the Bible (Luke, 2.7)

Now enter the Giveaway – entries close on the stroke of the end of the year.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

New Dylan & Dougall story coming soon

Yes, if you’ve read Dylan’s Yuletide Journey, you’ll be ready for another short story starring the delightful shaggy Princelings of the North, Dylan and Dougall.  This started life as a possible serial for Christmas 2013, the year I went with Fred’s Yuletide Escape.  That’s an important episode in the development of the Princelings saga, but I don’t know whether it’ll get into book 7 or 8, or whether it will just stay on this website forever.

BookElves_Vol2_authorsDougall’s Reindeer Adventure is the new story, featuring Dougall, of course, and it will be appearing in the BookElves Anthology Volume 2, which is published on 12th November 2015. It’s three chapters long, and about 5,000 words, suitable for all ages over 8.

In which we eavesdrop on King Fred…

The Narrathon is over, the Solstice is past, the Yuletide celebrations have finished and all the residents have renewed their allegiance to Castle Marsh on a surprisingly mild and windy Green Willow Day.

Willoughby the Narrator has said his goodbyes to his followers and to his many friends at the castle, but King Fred accompanies him to the gate.

“You are very welcome to stay, you know.”

“Thank you, but I think I must move on, or I could get too comfortable in one place all winter.”

“It didn’t stop you taking the residency at Buckmore,” Fred says, referring to the previous year when Willoughby had been Narrator-in-residence, an initiative of Prince Lupin’s that had turned into a fixture.

Wiilloughby smiles, and looks over the southern marsh and the expanse of reeds he must travel through before he reaches the line of trees in the west.

“Where next, anyway?” asks Fred.

“I think I’ll visit the ladies.”

Fred laughs.  “Well, they’ll give you a warm welcome.  Then you’ll be eaten alive by their own story-tellers!”

“Yes, they’re very good.  Glad they don’t go travelling or they’d put the rest of us out of work.”

“I have a job for you to do, if you want to keep moving.  Actually, I have a job for you if you don’t, as well.”

“I know you need a steward, and I am thinking about it.  Seriously.  If you don’t have one this time next year…”

“Come for our Narrathon next year, then, and it’ll cover what I’d like you to do in the meantime.”

Willoughby looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“It should be easy.  Just keep your eyes open.”

“I always do that.”

“Well, we need to know what’s going on at Vexstein.  Really know, I mean, not just what they tell us.  What the people think, how they are treated.”

“Whether the rumours are true, in fact.”

Fred nods, lips grim. “Be careful, though. We’ve not seen any refugees from there for months.  Many months.”

Willoughby sighs.  “I also need to check the situation at White Horse.  And nobody’s seen Prince Kevin of Deeping since the spring.”

“If you go to Vexstein, tell Lupin or me that you’re going in, and tell us when you come out, too.”

“How long will you wait after I go in?”

Fred pauses. He’s not thought of that.  How long will Willoughby need to find out what’s going on?  How quickly should he or Prince Lupin take action if they don’t hear from him?  And how long would make it too late?

“If I go in,” says Willoughby, having worked through the same questions in his head, “I’ll make sure someone knows how I am each day.  I’ll let you know.  If I go.”

Fred nods. Being a king is no fun, most of the time.

Willoughby grins.  He sets off down the track from the castle, round the pond and off towards the woods.  His fiddlesticks are casually slung across his back, and he whistles a jaunty tune.  Being a narrator is fun, all the time.  Especially when you have hidden talents.

(c) J M Pett 2015

Yuletide Narrathon – The Twinkletree Fairy

We are in the upper courtyard of Castle Marsh, listening to the Yuletide Narrathon…

King Fred stepped up to the fiddlesticks and stood beside them. He looked around at the happy people in the courtyard. This is how it should be, he thought, and let them chatter on about the last narrator until they saw him waiting, nudged each other, and waited for him to speak.

“Well, everybody, we come to the final story in our Narrathon. I’ve enjoyed it hugely, and I think you have too, haven’t you?”

Cries of ‘yes’, ‘enormously’, and other murmurs rippled round the courtyard, out-competing the cold wind.

“I have a small surprise. It’s customary for an award to be given to the best story at a Narrathon. Given this is our first one with a proper narrator,” he saluted Willoughby, sitting the other side of the fiddlesticks, waiting his final turn, “I felt it was a little obvious that he would win.” Laughs all round, and a sheepish grin from Willoughby. “I hope he doesn’t mind, but instead of giving him the prize, I’m splitting it evenly between our three home-grown talents, who were very brave in tackling the task of entertaining you all.”

Cheers, cries of ‘hear, hear,” and ‘absolutely!’ greeted this announcement.

“So, Geoffrey, Marcus and Marina, here is a small hamper for you and your families to enjoy.” Three of the king’s assistants each took a small basket of food and treats over to one of the home-grown tale tellers, to the applause of the crowd.

“So now we come to the final story in the first real Castle Marsh Narrathon. For the last time this year, but I hope not for the final time, I give you… Willoughby the Narrator!”

Huge applause and cheers, even though most people were huddled in family groups under blankets, cupping hot drinks to keep warm.

“Well, well, thank you, King Fred, and all of you, for keeping a poor Narrator warm and comfortable through a cold winter’s day.” Many laughs: Willoughby had been keeping himself warm by various fires and in the dining hall for most of the day in between stories.

“My last story of the night is one that may give you dreams tonight – if you can stay awake to listen to it.” A loud yawn from one of the younger members disturbed his speech. Appreciative chuckles from the audience, many of whom hugged sleepy youngsters to their sides.

“It was Green Willow’s Eve – maybe it will happen again on this Green Willow’s Eve, who knows – but anyway, people had gathered together under the big Yule Tree in their courtyard,” he waved at the tree decorated with ribbons and lights standing by the steps leading to the lower courtyard. “It was decorated just such as yours, with ribbons, and little lights, but also with small metal sculptures like harps, and flutes, and spiders’ webs, and snowflakes. Underneath the tree lay a pile of presents for the children and the families, all wrapped in pretty paper, and on top of the tree a small figure looked down on everyone. She was very small indeed, not even as big as your hand, little one,” he said, looking at one of the youngsters in the front row. “Even smaller than one of King Fred’s ears!” Most people glanced at Fred, but he laughed, and his daughter Jasmine pulled his ear and then whispered into it, making him smile again. Fred had very large, handsome ears.

“It was, of course, the Twinkletree Fairy on the top of the Yule Tree, and she looked down on everyone, to make sure nobody was left out or unhappy, unless they were like Drood and insisted on being miserable to spite themselves.

“The time came for the presents to be given out, and everyone crowded round to receive their gifts. Of course, there were squeals of excitement as the children tore off the paper (or unfolded it very carefully to smooth it out and put it aside for next year),” general laughter, since Marsh folk were known to be careful to reuse things. “There were toys to play with, music things to blow or play, corn-dollies to look after and play ‘imagine’ games with, and one whole troop of wooden soldiers with painted faces and green jackets.” A few cheers rippled around for the small group of soldiers who had been stationed at Marsh for so long they were considered part of the castle.

Castle Marsh Narrathon

“But suddenly there was a snowstorm, and everyone dashed inside, leaving most of the presents where they lay, under the tree, save for a few that children had been holding when the snow came. Since it was late, the children all went to bed clutching those few presents, or empty handed.

“One of the empty handed ones was Clara. She lay in bed thinking about the soldiers out in the snow, wondering if the corn-dollies would get wet and soggy, and whether anyone would think to bring them inside when the snow stopped. The castle grew quiet, since it was late, and Green Willow Day is a busy one, so everyone goes to bed early. The moon got up and Clara could see its light on the snow outside, so she crept out of her bed, pulled a blanket around her – just like you – and tiptoed out to the Yule Tree.

“The fairy on the tree saw her and flew down to her shoulder. ‘What are you doing, Clara?’ she asked.

“‘I’ve come to see if the toys are all right,’ she said.

“‘Wait here with me and watch!’ the fairy said.

“And Clara crept under the boughs of the tree, into the shade, with the fairy on her shoulder, and she watched, and didn’t feel at all cold, because the fairy sprinkled fairy dust over her, so she could see magical things without freezing in the dark of the night.

“The snow glistened in the moonlight, and the moon swung around to light the lumps and bumps that were the toys hidden under the snow. As Clara watched, the lumps began to move, and out of each of them came the soldiers, and the corn-dollies, and the gingerbread voles, and the furbees, and they all danced around and had their own party in the moonlight. And the musical instruments all played, and it seemed to Clara that the toys had grown, or she had shrunk, because she was dancing with them, and the handsome soldier bowed to her and danced her all round in a circle in the snow, whirling and twirling and kicking up snowflakes like a gossamer ballgown.

“Then suddenly the music stopped in a jangle and the corn-dollies started screaming. Mice had run out from the depths of the castle and were attacking the partygoers! The soldiers cried to the rest of the toys to get into a huddle at the bottom of the tree, and they fought off the mice, hand to hand in the darkness, since the moon was setting above the castle walls. Clara joined the huddle, but she could see the soldiers fighting with the mice, and suddenly her dancing partner wasn’t there anymore! The rest of the soldiers beat off the mice, who ran away back to the depths of the marsh, and the huddle broke free and started to chase after them to make sure they had really gone. The soldiers called them back, and they returned to the base of the tree.

“But the party was over. The toys went back into their snow mounds, and Clara found she was her normal size again. And there in the snow was her handsome soldier, his head knocked off his shoulders, all broken.”

Willoughby paused, gauging the tension in the audience. There were a few sniffs, and he could see light glinting in a few eyes where tears had welled up.

“The Twinkletree Fairy came to Clara’s shoulder again and asked why she was crying.

“’My handsome soldier is all broken, and he fought so bravely for me and for all the others.’

“’Thus does it happen, sometimes, my child,’ said the fairy, ‘that people have to fight to defend the safety and peace of the others.’

“’Poor, poor soldier,’ said Clara, and she picked up the pieces and held them together, and kissed them. And the Twinkletree Fairy waved her magic wand and the pieces repaired themselves, and the soldier had his head again, and his arms and legs. Clara laughed and said ‘thank you!’ and skipped back to her bed, the wooden soldier in her hands. And she put it by the side of her bed, and said goodnight to it. And the soldier looked over her while she slept, and for who knows how many years afterwards, to keep her safe from harm.”

Willoughby looked around his audience, judging whether to finish on a happy ending or a moral.

“So keep your twinkletree fairies safe, dear Marsh folk, and be prepared for aggressive mice, but otherwise, have a very happy Green Willow Day, and thank you very much for your hospitality for this poor Narrator, this Yule tide.”

And he bowed deeply, all round, so that each person in the audience felt he had bowed specifically to them, then he jumped up into the air and disappeared in a flash of white smoke.

(c) J M Pett with thanks to the story of the Nutcracker

Header image © Jacquie Lawson.com

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