The good doctor Elspeth Dyce made it back to the staff quarters to see about the sudden guest. Overnight, she'd continued to check on Valmiki's health and extremities, finally giving up once servants agreed to watch him rest in a room in staff quarters. She'd returned in the morning, post breakfast, and seemed content with the guest's improvement.
Before lunch, the general rules were made clear in the polite way that Strathfayr does things. You are a guest and are welcome to what we have. We simply ask that you confine yourself to the open bailey square, the kitchens, greenhouse, and gardens, if you are so inclined. The stables and staff quarters are free for walking and are warm. For tea and reading, the ground floor of the main keep is available.
There was also polite mention of the lords who occupy Strathfayr, who may make an appearance, once they returned from day's business.
Gentlepeople, all.
There were questions of dietary requests and menus offered. From all accounts, Strathfayr, as they say it's called, is a rather well-oiled, old Scottish estate that's seen excellent care.
And that is not so surprising, really. British gentry and aristocracy always manage to sink money into construction pits, preferring the sheen of well-oiled imperial perfection over the sometime truth of dire chaos. They've turned it into an Art, really. Why not? Why not have tea and genteel living over the ache of quiet desperation?
Strathfayr does not seem in such dire straits, however. The staff is pleasant, highly-organized and efficient. Better than any hotel, really, the attention one receives. Tailored and perfected to serve any guest...
...and presumably any Lord.
Wait. But it was Lords.
The sun dips quickly in high-winter, and the kitchen is always alive with warming activity. They work to prepare dinner for the sizable staff and presumably for the returned Lords from their day's labor.
Valmiki, for all his curiosities, is hardly one to abuse hospitality - particularly hospitality so freely granted, under such conditions. He's changed into his spare clothing, after a good, thorough long sleep, and though it's a bit thin and threadbare, it's serviceable - rugged canvas trousers the colour of yellow dust, paired with a white linen tunic that's got a red-brown thread embroidering hem and cuffs and neckline. His boots, he's left off with a wry glance at the soles - it will take more than a day's drying to restore the fleecy lining to their former condition. Instead, a pair of worn sandals are fished up from the depths of the pack and pressed into service.
He's spent the afternoon wandering the 'accepted' areas - for the objects have stories enough to tell, have they not? - with flute tucked in crosswise to his belt, examining everything with the storyteller's native delight. Valmiki is a quiet guest, though, begging a thousand pardons of anyone he encounters...
And as the sun sinks beneath the winter's horizon, he's found a window for himself, and the flute's lifted to his lips, a paean given to Vishnu with merry and mournful lilting notes. It's the only time the flute's pressed into service during his explorations, thus far. "There," Valmiki says aloud, "That should see the sun safely to bed for another night. Everyone deserves a bit of lullaby, now and again, I do so declare." And he laughs.
The sound of the flute...
It traversed the stone byways and passages, curling up the curving stairs like smoke. Seeking its way. And like the snake charmers, who play such instruments to coax serpents out of baskets, you have roused the attention of a far older serpent...
He has dressed from his earlier bath, clothed in darkness that sets his beauty off like a gem. Eyes blue-violet, their color unmuted. A book closes and indigo eyes narrow. And he looks to the one who sits with him. Who in our house plays a flute?
Curious...
William sets the book of poetry aside -- not the usual Gascon mess, but a book by Hafiz, one of the masters of the Persian poets. One of his favorites. For a former Christian Crusader, he's rather broad minded when it comes to poetry.
Besides, that was a long time ago. We're all infidels now...
"Ah... our visitor, I think," William finally vocalizes. "Nice timing. It works well with the Hafiz..." He looks to you. He looks to the spread of drinks for the morning hour. You are both up uncustomarily early. The house was full of commotion. It was hard to rest. "I suppose we should go see about it..."
"Indeed," Ian agrees, already moving across the sitting room. He'd been admiring himself, but as the flute ended, he'd made his way to the sitting area, striding past William in almost timely fashion. Reaching the door, he holds it open. "After you," he says.
The flute's been tucked back into his belt, and Valmiki briefly regards his reflection - the castemark, looking so ludicrous above aquamarine eyes that show him to be something other than 'pure'. It's never been something he's talked about, but now, it amuses him, and he laughs quietly at his own reflection for a moment, before sliding from his window seat.
"All men must dance when the gods play their tune, but sometimes, if one's very skilled ... why, then a god may dance."
Valmiki slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers after pushing dark curling locks back from his temples for a moment, the pageboy mussed from inattentiveness. And he looks for someplace a bit ... warmer to sit, than frozen windowsills.
There are two fireplaces to choose from, both of which are stoked and fill the great hall with warmth and with illumination. The old stone has much to tell. Centuries worth. When the timbered roof was dilapidated, when more rain came through than was stopped, when animals and servants and lords were all packed in together. When this was it...
"Merci," comes the French. It is half-worn with the Gaelic, used interchangeably. As if he were unable to make up his mind. Sometimes, when he speaks it is a hybrid tongue, made up of both...
William moves down the stairs, wishing he had brought the book with him. Something to do with his hands. Ah, he will fill it with a drink. By and by...
...To the southwest, where there is an arched doorway, past that there is a set of stairs -- one of the forbidden zones -- and from that direction, there is a sound of some activity...
A servant appears from the kitchen at the very same moment, pushing a cart full of brandies and scotch, cordials and other assorted aperitifs. Like clockwork.
Or something like it...
A door opens in a corner of the room. Heavy wood, hiding a stone staircase in one of the corners of the keep. There are voices and the rustle of feet.
"I think perhaps," one voice comes, "...the other wing should be turned into the staff quarters. I've been wondering about their space," Scots-accented English comes, finishing a thought before entering public living area. "We can talk about it more later," the voice concludes, now immediately at the entry to the great hall.
He's draped himself on the stones in front of one of the fireplaces, like a small lizard sunning himself on a rock, head slightly lifted. Valmiki's crosslegged, but gives the impression, somehow, of sprawling, hands slightly back behind himself to prop himself up while leaning. At the sound of voices, though ...
He moves quickly, and climbs to his feet, those impossible cerulean eyes searching for the sources, and sweeping into a low, flourishing bow before he's even taken in who's there or not. After all, what matter? Valmiki is never one to disappoint a potential audience, until they've disappointed him, first - and perhaps not even then.
"Good sirs, my thanks, for such succor and has been given," he calls out in that merry low voice, slightly husky. "I cannot repay such graciousness, though I had world enough and time, no, nor words of my own to do the paying."
The meditative look breaks for one of...What? Black eyebrows lift at the bow and the mind quirks. Now... where have I heard that over-the-top phrasing before. Kylandre? No, no he is flowery but not prone to bowing.
Prone to getting on his knees maybe...
William starts to chuckle at his own thoughts, then clears his throat, inclining his head even as he strides forward. His fingers skim the lower back of the one with whom he walks.
"We are simply glad to see you in good health." As if to say, no repayment but that is necessary. Such graciousness. The truly aristocratic have not lost their touch.
One of the two who greets you may seem familiar. Nonetheless, he is quite large. Well over six foot in height, very broad -- not even the black garments can diminish that. Young seeming, he appears to be in his mid-twenties. Perhaps his late twenties. And there is a tempered sense of command. The man is comfortable in his skin.
To say the least...
The other that follows behind is no laggard. A young man of blonde-white hair and grey eyes, he's rather well dressed in black slacks and grey sweater, both made for him. "We are," Ian adds, pulling the rather heavy door closed with a simple draw of his arm. Keeps the chill away. "Welcome to Strathfayr, Sir. We trust that you're doing well."
We is an awfully well-toned word for one of his youth...perhaps eighteen? Twenty at the outside. The blonde is in superlative command of himself, despite his age. More than breeding, he has practiced it much for his short experience on this earth.
"Ian Dunross," he introduces himself, coming around the other to stand at his side. "Ian, please," he offers to circumvent formalities.
"And William Fraser," the other says. A Scottish name for one who neither looks nor sounds Scottish. Well... when in Rome, as they say.
The young traveler straightens up, hair falling to the sides of his face, and it draws a blink, and then a quiet peal of laughter as Valmiki sinks into yet another bow.
When he straightens, he's still grinning. "Well met, sirs, well met, and well met indeed. The one of you, I believe I recall well." Valmiki recognizes, some flash of knowledge even if the kernel is hidden - but then, it is a story, and a storyteller must not forget his stories.
"Ian Dunross," his tongue makes careful work of the syllables, tasting them and committing them to another page of memory, "I thank you for your hospitality, for Strathfayr's? hospitality, as well. I am Valmiki Rama-Jambavan," he adds, with a hint of humour spiced with fire. The poet is proud of his family, of himself.
"And William Fraser," again, the not-quite-pause over the tonalities. "I am pleased and honoured by this kindness, and the kindnesses you and yours have shown me."
Ian grins brightly, looking left and right to the two there. He can appreciate anyone who looks so happy and is so polite. "Thank you," Ian smiles, motioning Valmiki back to his seat. He stares at the traveller, moving to take a seat not so far away in an opposing chair. "Have you had dinner this evening? I trust that everyone has seen to you...and your hands and toes...they are alright, yes, Mr. Rama-Jambavan?" Certainly they have had some report, but it's always polite to make sure. "Dr. Dyce is rather..." Ian smiles and it's like summer in the hall, "...intent on everyone here staying covered and well during winter."
Rama-Jambavan. Valmiki Rama-Jambavan. Now, where have I heard that before. The face, yes... the face I recognize. I seldom forget a face. The Abbey. You were the late night visitor. Oh yes.
William holds his voice as Ian speaks, as Ian in truth takes the lead. Though the younger of them both, at least so far as any might tell, he does take the lead. It is something with which the dark-haired gentleman seems comfortable.
"Something in a drink? It looks as though the staff have thought of everything. There is brandy for me. Scotch for Mr. Dunross, and tea, I presume, for whomever should wish it," William announces, smooth voice, languid baritone elongating his English. He is not used to speaking it. It sounds... melodically uneven.
"Tea is something I quite enjoy," Valmiki says with an attempted grave expression, which does not sit well on his features at all. It breaks into another grin when he's not paying attention. "No, I've eaten luncheon, but not since - I am not accustomed to dining too heavily, or too often, I fear. But I am rapidly becoming addicted to the cream teas served here..."
Sticky buns and currant cakes, fairy cakes and seedycakes, lemon tarts and hot buttered scones, Welshcakes and the enduring, unending panoply of delicate tea sandwiches and ladyfingers - it seems an embarrassing largesse, at times, but a wholly thrilling one, when one is prepared to indulge the inner child. And while in England, it seems, one dines as do the English...
Another low laugh, and Valmiki tucks his hands behind his back, as if unsure what else to do with them, or to hide them from scrutiny. "Nothing fell off this morning - or rather, I should say, this afternoon - when I awoke," comes the cheerful response. "I appreciate your doctor's kindness, and only hopes she will forgive me for any rudeness I may've offered her while I was ... not entirely myself. Truth be told, the only thing which aches at all is my head - allow me, by the by, to compliment you on the sturdiness of your front door."
Ian grins and nods, glancing at William. Scotch is always acceptable. "The door is quite sturdy," he notes, sitting back and crossing his legs, "...made from the strongest trees from a nearby forest. I hope your pillow is much better than the door."
"So, we must ask," Ian grins, leaning in a little, "...how did you end up out on such a night? There is little out here. Did your auto have troubles?"
Stay to the road! Keep off the moors! William glances up, eyes flickering blue and violet, as if they were backed by actual flame, as he pours a cup of tea for the guest. A glass of scotch for Ian. For himself, lastly, there is an unmarked plum concoction. Deep purple. So deep it is nearly black. Bits of fruit lingering within. Deadly stuff, really.
"Hmm... if so, we can give you a tow to Beauly," William offers. Well, not we literally -- our staff. "The nearest actual village. It would be no trouble at all..."
A cup of tea with cream is carried to the guest, with spoon and a cube or two of sugar on the side. After, the glass of scotch, neat (naturally), to Ian. Lastly, the wide bodied snifter, as if the stuff within it were brandy, he takes his violet drink with him to a nearby chair and settles in it.
A lordly sprawl of Medieval proportions, giving his long legs a stretch, an easy wide berth. William lifts the glass, sipping as he listens.
"Had I such a vehicle, I would be honoured by your offer," Valmiki acknowledges with a slightly wry smile. "However, I fear my trouble is that the 'bus I was taking from Inverness had sudden reason to change course, and I, thus, part with it. The driver was ... most insistent. To where he disappeared, I do not know, but when the sky decided that she and I were friends no more, well ... I lost my way."
Valmiki settles back into an actual chair for a change, with the cup, and a ready smile of thanks. "For this blessing, much thanks. - Rain turned to sleet, and sleet, to snow, and then back again, until I thought I'd lose my eyebrows to hoarfrost. In the end, though, you see, Lady Parvati, goddess of luck's boons, did not lead me wholly astray, for rather than falling silently to perish by roadside or tree-lined meadow and lonely moor, I stumbled - quite literally - upon your doorstep."
"Well, I am glad you ended up here..." Ian smiles, cradling his scotch. Fingers curl easily around the glass. "Do you realize that you...must have walked... 6 kilometres...across plain...to find us? The bus route is downhill, near the red phone kiosk. And that is in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town is Beauly, some 20 kilometers away." He is impressed. "And," Ian adds, "...that was utterly irresponsible of Charlie. I am very surprised he would leave someone with pending weather."
Indigo eyes narrow, share a look with the other lord -- two young lords out in the middle of nowhere... are they brothers? They don't look related. "Hmm... doesn't sound like Charlie. Most around here, or who know the area, know better than to let off someone in the middle of this land, with the weather being what it is. You're lucky indeed. That... or just very accomplished in the means of survival. We usually don't get tourists," he smiles.
Not any that live to tell the tale anyway...
Tsk, how awful. I'm starting to sound like Christopher Lee...
William sips at the violet substance, capturing his own lip for a savoring taste of it, and he inclines his head again. "We will see to it that you receive passage to Beauly at the least, where you can resume your trip. Hell of a time to try to travel the Whiskey Trail," William notes with a languid voice, and an equally languid smile.
Why else would anyone be this far north?
"The gods have always favoured me or cursed me, by turns," Valmiki says simply, with the faith of one who believes what he says utterly and absolutely. "If they kill me, why, then they must raise me again in new flesh, and that .. takes time. Gods," he smiles suddenly, a flash of white teeth, "are easily as impatient as the mortals who follow them. But it is by their grace that I live to tell of what has occurred, and by no skill of my own."
A pause, and a slight furrow of eyebrows that creases his forehead. "I do not know who the driver was," the poet says candidly, "so I could not name him, be it Charlie or ... any other name. But I have had many journeys interrupted, and I cannot say what his motives were - however, he was most adamant I not remain with him and his vehicle, and I did not wish to argue the point. I am not a coward, but," his lips quirk, "he was considerably larger than me, and he had a crowbar - a winning point to a debate."
Aquamarine gaze switches between the two lords equably. "The ... Whisky Trail?" Valmiki's confusion is palpable. "I am afraid I do not know of it. What would be this trail?"
Someone threatening? Ian seems really surprised by it all, but also appears content to let it go. As the whisky trail comes up, he looks to William to explain it.
Who am I, Mr. Fodor's?
"Let's just say, it's the cultural lifeline of Scotland, distilled and liquified into a glass of single malt. It's the reason most venture up this way..." William breaks that off and turns to Ian. "Brandishing a crowbar, dropping tourists off in the middle of the country? This bodes ill, and sounds not at all like the usual crew." What is going on? Something someone is not saying. I will speak to him myself...
It disturbs him, the entire matter. "I apologize on behalf of driver, the company and the country, for that matter. It's terrible... this..." His French suddenly shows. Terrible has an utterly different pronunciation than the other words packed around it. William half frowns, pausing a sip. "I will be speaking with the service. They are not to do that, and especially not in this weather... so... where were you trying to go?"
Ian lifts his glass, as if to provide evidence of the cultural significance of single malts. "Cheers," he whispers, taking a drink while he listens to the exchange of questions and answers.
How does one explain the mysterious guiding force that guides my footsteps? I do not know if it can be done - certainly not without looking a fool. Ah, well, let me be a fool, and rather a fool than a half-wit.
"I had nowhere to be, in particular," Valmiki shrugs lightly, a restless roll of his shoulders. "I am a traveler by trade - to stay too long in one place, is anathema to me. There is a restlessness that grows until it sings in my bones, and then my feet finds the road, or my seat, transport - that, at least, is acceptable to the spirit that moves me." The corners of his eyes crinkle with warmth for a moment. "But as to where I was trying to go ...? You may as well ask me where mountains strive to reach as they thrust themselves up to the sky, sir - I cannot tell."
Hands covered in skin that never was originally of England's green lift the porcelain delicately to that slightly too-full mouth, and the lips curve in wryness. "I am sure that it sounds madness to you, but it is the only answer I have to give. I am here, so I suppose one might say it is here I was trying to go, as much as any other place on this earth." The cup is cheerily tilted in Ian's direction. "And to you, sir."
Ian grins even brighter. "A true traveler," he chimes, delighted with the prospect and serendipity of it all. "And you have ended up in our little part of the universe." He nods, both honored and oddly half-expecting such. "It is terribly interesting here," he observes, just in case neither of you were aware. "We have heath and moor and forest. There are cows, but Beauly is the most beautiful town in all Scotland in Spring. There is a festival." There. That recommends the highlands.
"I should not tease," Ian says, looking at William. "We do not see travelers of your kind these days," the young one says, "...so, despite your circumstances, we are lucky to have such a guest. And a guest with a flute." A plus.
William lastly lifts his own glass, with a soft 'salut', not very Scottish, but more 'him'. He listens. He is quiet. He smiles. He glances to his partner. There is an easy smile, a familiar look, one that is, for a brief flickering moment, absolutely intimate, and then the guest is brought into the fold of the so-called lord's (lord of what exactly?) attention.
"Steeped in history. Poetry. Legends. Myths," William continues. "In fact, we live in a legendary forest. The trees around us are part of Dunsinane Wood, which is haunted by the spirits of witches and kings." One king in particular.
"But," another sip, "...there is much to see beyond that." He looks to Ian, a smile.
Posted by rowan at June 19, 2003 10:49 PM
