(In collaboration with @QuilledSister; she titled this Keening)
“The song one!”
“Oh but you’ve already heard that one.”
“Tell us again!”
“Yeah, yeah, we want to hear it again!”
The four grandchildren at her feet began to chant “again, again!” Her daughter-in-law shot her a pleading look from the other end of the sofa. She dramatically hemmed and hawed, then closed her eyes for just a moment. She took a deep, happy sigh, glided her wrinkled fingers across the many crystals resting along her neck. When she opened her eyes, the mischievous glint told them they’d won her over.
“It was a dreary evening…”
“Just like this one?!” “Anna, shhhhhhhh-” “Don’t shove me!” “I didn’t, I jus-”
A raised silver eyebrow, then silence.
“Ahem. It was a dreary evening… yes, a little like this one. But this was a long time ago—back when the mountains were so tall you could climb up to touch the stars! When the ocean was so young the sea nymphs still had to show the waves which way to go. Back when the world still had mysteries in it… parts unknown, parts unseen…
“In those days, there had been great battle. The fields where they fought, soaked in mud and blood, were still littered with fallen friend and foe. Warriors, grasping their their steins—”
“What’s a stein?”
“It’s a beer mug, lovie. Like the one your daddy’s got there, but these were made out of wood, or bone, or minotaur horns.”
“Ohhhhhh, okay.”
“Grasping their steins with bruised knuckles, the backs of their necks still slick with blood and salt and sweat. Their eyes were tired, but bright with life. Their wounds were not yet cleaned or stitched or even counted. But they gathered. Warriors always gather after battle, if only to remind each other they are still alive.
“The Keeper of the tavern poured generously. There would be no accounting of glasses or gallons tonight. Perhaps not tomorrow either. Perhaps not until fresh graves had been dug, been filled, been mourned. No, the rescued lives of her family and her village were enough to cover the cost of every barrel in her cellar tonight, if need be.
“But would drink be enough? To celebrate, to commiserate? Could mead and ale wash away the sweat and the scars? Could another round pay tribute enough and properly thank the gods for their favor?
“As she poured, filling stein after stein for the warriors—men and women both, you know, who had gone out not knowing if they would return carrying their shields, or carried on them, or not at all—she began to hum, to court the hearth with a simple, old melody. Warm us, her heart whispered, hear us and heal us.
“The murmurings between tables quieted to hear the gentle croon. Then, from the bar came a husky basso voice, like honeyed bourbon over broken glass. One old warrior turned away from the Keeper and toward the gathered survivors huddled in the center of the mead-hall. His face was strong and sharp; you could imagine he’d been handsome many frays ago.
"Hear now, shield-fellows,
How the worlds were wrought!
Worlds woken wide
From the wound-dark night
Before spear-song started
Before sword-teeth bit
Before iron answered
The oath of flesh
There stood the Long Night
And the Door-That-Endured
“As he sang ancient words following the Keeper’s contralto melody, the corners of the mead-hall closed in, as if the living and the dead that night were gathered to hear the tale together once more.
"No hand had hewn it
No high god held it his
It waited, wind-worn
Where war-roads cross
Where shield-broken slain
Seek boast and bench
Where rain-gods rumble
Over rainbows and roof-beams
“The murmuring from the tables picked up again, on key this time, joining the old warrior in remembering what could never be lost, no matter how many battles they fought.
"East-born came Harliot
Hearth-ward and horn-ward
Keeper-of-Drink
Cup-warden of the Door
She-who-stands-steady
Storm-still, wound-wise
Her eyes held ashes
Her hands never shook
She brewed not barley
But battle-rest"
“Why does she have so many names?”
“Because the one who tends the bar is sacred. She doesn’t just pour drinks; she offers safety and rest and companionship to anybody who stumbles into her inn. She’s a good listener, too, unlike you children. Let me tell my story.
“The man kept singing with his friends, and the mead-hall Keeper helped them stay in tune.
"Then through the threshold
Strode the Stranger
Blade-bare bairn-bearer
Burdened with loss
No helm hid her
No hawk-banner flew
Yet Sorrow sat near her
Like a shield-sworn friend
Men say she smiled
As seers smile seldom
Knowing how many heroes
Would be hewn in time
"Harliot horn-lifted!
Hall-silence deepened
Set she the stein ("there's that word again!")
On the counter-stone
'Drink, road-weary one
The fight is long.'
“Now the tradition was, in those days, that when you sang this verse, you’d raise your drink as high as you could—yes, like that—and keep it up until the song was over.
"The Stranger drank
Shuddered the Door
Nine Winds woke
Wandering found ways
Stars seized shields
From the ember-field
The whale-road of heaven
Widened with fire
Worlds rose in foam
Fates burned like sparks
And birth-bells rang
Under battle-clouds"
“What does all that even mean? What’s a whale-road?”
“Where did the world come from? And all the stars, and the moon and the sun? These people believed what the song said: the whole universe was born from a single, perfect act of hospitality.”
“What’s ‘hospitality’?”
“That means always treating your guests well, because one day you might be their guest, too. Listen.”
“'Thus,' sang the gathered company, standing now despite their weary legs and wounded arms, deep rumbling voices joining high tenors and a few striking sopranos,
"Thus began battle-turning
With first peace poured
From that cup we drink
Ere each storm and spear
No mind for mercy
No heart for fear
"Remember, remember
"If the Keeper's cup
Ever falls from her fingers
If the Stranger
Stays far from the Door
Then thunder flees and forgets
The throat of the sky
The war-gods grow wakeful
Wine-less, and cold
And the world-hall will darken
Without drink, Door, or dawn.
“They repeated the last bit once more,
"And the world-hall will darken
Without drink, Door, or dawn.
“There was a moment of quiet, the Keeper’s quiet hum the only sound.
“The wind halted. The stars hushed. The sea stilled. All waited, just for a moment.
“And then the old man downed the rest of his ale in one gulp, slammed it onto the bar, and roared with laughter. Soon the whole company was laughing, knowing they lived one more day, and the world kept turning, and the ale kept pouring, and the Door stood always open.
“‘ANOTHER!’ shouted a voice, and the Keeper’s hands went back to work.
“Soon every horn was full again, the torches burning bright against the dark. The Keeper’s son produced a fiddle and struck up a livelier tune, and suddenly the night was not so empty, and the dawn was quite near indeed.”
A round of tiny applause was her reward. She cherished it.
“Nana P, will you tell us more about the Pour-lady?” “The pourer, Anna!” “Whatever!” “It’s not!” “Is too!” “Who was the Stranger?” “Yeah, who was she?” “Is not!” “Is too—”
“Perhaps if we all brush our teeth and wash our face and tuck ourselves in, I will come around and give you each a little hint about the Pourer’s story—or the Stranger, Christina—how about that?”
“OKAY!” chorused four voices, setting off the beat of four pairs of feet racing through halls and up stairs.
“Thank you, Pepper. They love that old story, though how you remember all those words every time is beyond me. Say, speaking of mead and ale… can I get you a refill?”
“Oh, that would be lovely, dear.”
