Author: Michelle Franklin, Word Count: 1,355
Featured in Midwinter Archaeological Story Moot: Live Stream – Twixtmas 2024
A great many things kept happening, some of them good, some of them Myndil. Despite what some people might have implied in the past, Myndil was not the harbinger of bad news; it was only that if he appeared somewhere without warning, people often began screaming a few seconds later. Myndil wasn’t overly fond of shouting; he lived with orphaned children, and they knew how to make a noise when they wanted to be noticed, but professions to god were certainly acceptable and certainly welcomed, especially if those professions were asking god to do something in a very pretty way.
Myndil was taking in some kindling from the small wood beside the abbey and he was thinking. Myndil always thought actively about things and in a manner which always unnerved the abbot, because his thinking had an audible component to it; his mind moved on purpose, his mouth moved by accident, and his voice did what whatever the other two believed was a good idea.
At this moment, he thought that thinking about his birthday was a good idea. “It’s only December the fifth, which means there are twenty more days till my birthday,” he calculated. “I love my birthday, because I always forget it’s about to happen, and then when it does come upon me so suddenly, I’m always delightfully surprised. We’re so busy preparing for the winter and the days go so fast, and then Sister Iarlaith makes frumenty and suddenly it’s my birthday.”
Whenever the other children celebrated a birthday, they liked doing cake about it, but Myndil’s greatest joy in life was Sister Iarlaith’s frumenty. He liked his puddings as anybody else, but it was that she made them and knew he liked it that made it special. On December the twenty-fifth, in the year 916 AD, a child was born, one to bring love and light to some people and headaches to everybody else. Nobody called it Myndilmas, because there was no mass dedicated to him, but it was Myndil’s birthday. His mother had always said he was a gift from god, but his father thought otherwise and said that Myndil had spawned from a hole in the ground, one he was always desperate to throw him into. Instead, when Myndil was five years old, his father gave him to the abbey and made Myndil everyone else’s problem.
He was currently thinking aloud to god, which made him god’s problem.
“How I love the winter holidays!” said Myndil, taking up some kindling. “Everyone is always so cheerful, especially around my birthday. I know everyone likes celebrating your son being born into the world, but the Good Book doesn’t tell us when he was born, and I find it interesting that your son and I should both have a birthday on the same day. Isn’t that curious?”
Someone hemmed, as though they were only partially paying attention. YES, said a voice in the background. INTERESTING.
Myndil paused. “If he was so important to you and to the world, God, why didn’t you tells us when your son was born?”
GOD THOUGHT IT WOULD BE MORE AMUSING THAT WAY.
“But everybody is always arguing over it.”
YES. HA HA.
“I’ve heard some people say his birthday was really in January, but I don’t think that’s likely, because most people are born in the spring or summer, when the storks come in.”
Even more curious, Myndil wondered why God had only ever had one son. There were rumours of others, but Brother Vindimir told him that nothing good at all ever came from people named James and so he forgot about it. Myndil had always wondered why god had only one son, especially but something or other always interrupted him; he was busy with work, or was busy making people regret themselves. He was gathering kindling and withies, meditating on the past year, looking forward to the next, thinking about Sister Iarlaith’s saying that this year had got away from her, though Myndil always felt that he knew exactly where the year was—when he came upon a large mound of something dark, damp, fuming.
“Oh,” said Myndil, eyeing the fewmets charily. “I’ve never seen one that fresh before, or that concentrated. I wonder what animal did that. Was it a bear, do you think, God?”
Myndil thought god was a compassionate and devoted friend, when god was really preoccupied and self-interested.
GOD IS BUSY. The voice sounded significantly disgruntled. GOD IS LOSING AT DICE.
“I thought you said gambling was only allowed on feast days,” Myndil reminded him.
It was a feast day tomorrow, but given that it was the morning of the eve of something, God made every extenuation, especially when he was ahead.
God made him no answer, but a shadow rose and mantled Myndil from behind, a familiar shadow that had an enormous but friend-shaped outline.
“Is that one of yours, Aodhgan?” Myndil asked, pointing to the large mound ahead.
The shadow stepped forward and into a streak of white winter light; it looked like a mountain of muscles with a handsome face attached. Aodhgan inspected the fewmets and almost laughed. “My wolf doesn’t have—” He paused to think of a word. “—Emissions. Even in my human form, I couldn’t do that.”
“Oh.” Myndil eyed the mound and slowly realized. “Well, that’s rather unsettling then,” said he cheerfully.
Aodhgan considered the animals they had around the abbey and knew that none of them could leave behind what looked like a teeming molehill. The only other person besides himself who was large enough to do that was Brother Crannach, and though one of the oldest members of the abbey, he was long housetrained.
“Well,” said Myndil eventually, “whatever did that, I’m sure it’s moved on by now, else you would have sensed it. I’ll bring these withies in and help Brother Vindimir with the washing before the holiday sets in.”
Aodhgan surveyed the woodland and followed the tidal path with his gaze. “What holiday is it today?”
“The Feast of Saint Nicholas,” said Myndil, with a thrill in his voice. “All the Brothers and Sisters always love this feast day because all the children go to sleep early, and if they’re very good and very quiet, there is a little gift for them in their shoes in the morning.”
The nisser, who was in the byre milking his cow, popped his head out. “IT WAS ME!” he cried, wringing his tiny fist. “AH’M THE WUN WHUT BRINGS THE WEANS THEY’RE GIFTS!”
“It’s really Sister Iarlaith and Brother Crannach,” Myndil explained. “They knit things and make toys for the children, but the nisser puts on his red hat and goes about pretending to be the gift-giver. Do you have the custom in Ossory, Aodhgan?”
“Not that I remember,” said Aodhgan, smiling. “We do have stories of the Callaieach, the winter hag who goes around with her bundle of firewood, and anyone caught in her way either dies or is cursed to age faster than everyone else.”
“But you’re already cursed.” Myndil mused and tugged on his lower lip. “So, which part of you would be cursed, the wolf bit or the human bit?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”
“Do you think we can find her and convince her to come here, because our ghosts do get lonely from time to time and it would be a nice thing for them to have friends—which reminds me, it’s nearly time for their treats.”
Myndil moved off to the graveyard and began clapping his pockets. A chill settled over the graves, and a sudden “…ooOOOOOooOOoOoOOOoo!” wooed out on the mist.
“I’ve got them for you—No!” said Myndil, swatting a spectral hand away. “That one’s not yours! That’s Old Brother Boulder’s!”
Myndil began spreading the crumbs like fish flakes, and the ghastly hands glaumed for them, leaving Aodhgan to wonder who had left the steaming gift for them in the woods. It had an ethereal scent trailing off it, one that seemed to transcend the space it occupied, as though its heady aroma reached backwards and forwards through time.
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