Dear Anna,
Did I tell you that Local 564 of the Ancient and Venerable Guild of St. Nicholas, which represents Santas, Santa’s helpers, department store elves, tree trimmers, candle lighters, professional gift wrappers, goose stuffers, roast chestnut vendors, plum pudding makers, sleigh drivers, carolers for hire, bell ringers, and related trades is here on their summer retreat? Local 564 covers all of Scotland, Northern Ireland and the Border Counties of England so thy’ve been coming here for generations now.
The Several Annies from Europe are fascinated by their round bellies, wire-frame spectacles, and white beards which are quite real. One of them remarked that they were more jolly versions of Hrafnfreistuor, whom they find scary at times. Now in their defence, Hrafnfreistuor is built along the line of a mountain king in some dark story that a storyteller would describe in a tale late at night.
He’s been here far longer that I’ve been here and he ‘rents’ one of the guest rooms that we have here. No idea what he did once upon a time before he came to be here but now he spends hour upon hour drinking ale, the darker the better he claims, and writing in his leather bound journal with the embossed Yggdrasil on its cover. Though not someone who plays an instrument, he has a fine singing voice and can sing bloody well in English, Gaelic, Old Norse, and, not at all surprisingly, Icelandic. His is a deep voice, like thunder rolling in on a summer night.
He is more than a bit skilled at hedge witchery, a skill I admire. We’ve had long, rambling conversations while walking the Estate smoking our briar pipes about the proper juniper berries to make a good gin, which flowers make the best honey to use in mead, why birch bark is good brewed for a headache from too much ale and too little sleep, and why that tree should never be cut ever. It was uncanny to watch the Estate resident ravens follow him on all our walks over the past several decades.
He also assists my lads in cutting the winter firewood and he’s quite a sight with an axe! His personal axe must weight forty pounds and he can fell a tree of considerable girth in a few swift cuts. He also helped rebuild the dam on the mill pond — watching him pick up hundredweight stones and fit them just so is a sight to behold.
One summer, we hosted some Scottish revival games and he tossed the caber one-hand nearly fifty feet beyond anyone else could with two hands. And that night, he hosted a night of drinking, singing Scottish songs old when Bonnie Prince Charlie turned tail and ran, and telling stories of battles lost and love won.
So I told the apprehensive Several Annies that though he may look fierce, he’s a gentle giant. Iain’s only concern is that none of them take a shine to him as that’s not a path we want to tread down. That way lies a broken heart and possibly worse.
Affectionately Gus
