Advent Calender Challenge: Day 1
Written for lipstickcat's prompt, "Mistletoe"
"I feel stupid," Marshall complained.
"You look stupid," Dash said cheerily.
Marshall glared, trod on the hem of his white robe, and fell out of the oak tree. He swore. Dash laughed. Simon picked up the golden sickle from where it had fallen among the tangled tree roots and underbrush.
"Guys!" said Simon. "You promised you'd help me with this. If you don't take it seriously, all the crops will fail again next year."
"This is total bullshit," said Dash, spreading a white cloth beneath the oak tree. "Curing an old man of lycanthropy doesn't have anything to do with a plague of locusts stripping Eerie's fields bare."
"You're an expert on agriculture now, are you?" asked Mars, who was now holding the edges of his costume between his teeth while he tried to climb the tree again.
"I'm an expert in knowing when something is too stupid to be real," said Dash.
"The Harvest King ritual was real," said Simon, taking the other side of the white cloth and pulling it straight. "The silver bullet stopping someone from being a werewolf was real. The locusts were definitely real. Just because it's stupid, doesn't mean it's not also real."
Dash considered this.
"Okay," he said grudgingly. "I'll admit, in this town, stupid and real don't always cancel each other out. Doesn't explain why it's us out here and not Chisel or Radford or the Loyal Order or... anyone with an actual responsibility to this town, basically."
Simon swept some leaf litter from the white flannel bedsheet, which was already getting grubby despite his best efforts, and mumbled something.
"What?" said Mars, who was now part-way up the tree and trying to get the golden sickle out of his belt without it tangling in his cream-coloured terrycloth bathrobe. It had been the best they could scrounge up on short notice.
Simon sighed.
"It's got to be performed by virgins," he said loudly.
Marshall dropped the sickle (it was a curved paring knife they had "borrowed" from Marilyn's knife block and painted with Syndi's glittery gold-flecked nail varnish. Needs must when your hometown's economy hangs in the balance). Dash pulled back from the bedsheet as if it had burned him.
"I'm not-" said Mars.
"Then I can't-" said Dash.
Simon listened to the spluttering and blustering for a few more seconds before he retrieved the sparkly sacred knife from the ground again.
"Okay," he said. "Fine. You guys are totally not virgins. If you go and get a ladder for me, and promise to hold it steady and not get into a fight while I'm on it, I'll climb up there and cut the mistletoe down."
Mars looked at the drop beneath him, mentally calculating the safest path back to solid ground. Dash had already bolted.
Several minutes passed. A bug crawled on the white sheet. Simon flicked it away.
"I don't think he's coming back," said Marshall.
"Probably not," said Simon.
There was a long pause.
"Simon," said Mars after a while.
"Hmm?"
"Just give me the stupid knife."
Simon stood on the upturned wheelbarrow in which they'd carted down their supplies in order to reach Marshall's branch. The nail varnish was still a little sticky to the touch and he left fingerprints in the thick, uneven coating of gold where he'd held it.
Marshall attacked the mistletoe as though it had personally offended him and soon the flannel bed-cloth was covered in branches bristling with yellow-green leaves and small white berries. Simon hopped down off the wheelbarrow, righted it, gathered the sheet up and, careful not to let any of the mangled shrub touch the ground, bundled it back into the cart.
"What now?" said Mars. He was still in the tree, and his face was pinker than could be explained by his climb and the effort of cutting through the leathery stems of a parasitic shrub.
Simon checked his pockets and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. He smoothed it out against the trunk of the tree and read from it.
"Now we sacrifice two white cows," he said.
"I'm not killing a cow," said Mars. "If Radford wants to save this stupid town so bad, he can-"
Simon held up a placating hand.
"It's alright, really," he said. "I brought cream soda and vanilla ice cream. We make two white cows, pour them over the roots of a tree, and we should be fine."
Marshall made a noise that indicated he was anything but fine right now.
"Can I at least take off the goofy robe?" he asked.
"No," said Simon. "Get out of the tree and help me make an ice-cream float for an angry nature god."
"This is so stupid," said Mars, but he obeyed.
The ice-cream was a little melty, and the soda was flat and warm, and as they poured the soupy mess around the base of the oak tree, Simon hoped that this god was the kind of god who hung slipshod macrame art and indistinct finger paintings from the trees at the Solstice and either genuinely didn't realise it was terrible, or pretended not to in order to avoid hurting it's worshippers feelings.
They wheeled the flannel-wrapped mistletoe back to the World o' Stuff. Mister Radford was surprised when they asked what it would be used for.
"Don't they teach you boys anything in school?" he said wonderingly, before explaining that the virginally-harvested mistletoe would be steeped in Cornade until the spring equinox and then poured over the fields to guard against the blight or another unexpected swarm of locusts.
Marshall choked on his black cow. Simon patted him on the back.
Later, Marshall pulled out the boxes in which his mother had lovingly saved her children's schoolwork, and burned his gold-star-winning middle school science project on crop rotation. When he stomped back into the house, scowling and sooty and smelling of smoke, Marilyn asked him if there was anything he'd like to talk about. Her son muttered that agrarian societies were stupid, and afterwards refused to set foot in another county fair, no matter how many funnell cake or candyfloss stands there were.
"I feel stupid," Marshall complained.
"You look stupid," Dash said cheerily.
Marshall glared, trod on the hem of his white robe, and fell out of the oak tree. He swore. Dash laughed. Simon picked up the golden sickle from where it had fallen among the tangled tree roots and underbrush.
"Guys!" said Simon. "You promised you'd help me with this. If you don't take it seriously, all the crops will fail again next year."
"This is total bullshit," said Dash, spreading a white cloth beneath the oak tree. "Curing an old man of lycanthropy doesn't have anything to do with a plague of locusts stripping Eerie's fields bare."
"You're an expert on agriculture now, are you?" asked Mars, who was now holding the edges of his costume between his teeth while he tried to climb the tree again.
"I'm an expert in knowing when something is too stupid to be real," said Dash.
"The Harvest King ritual was real," said Simon, taking the other side of the white cloth and pulling it straight. "The silver bullet stopping someone from being a werewolf was real. The locusts were definitely real. Just because it's stupid, doesn't mean it's not also real."
Dash considered this.
"Okay," he said grudgingly. "I'll admit, in this town, stupid and real don't always cancel each other out. Doesn't explain why it's us out here and not Chisel or Radford or the Loyal Order or... anyone with an actual responsibility to this town, basically."
Simon swept some leaf litter from the white flannel bedsheet, which was already getting grubby despite his best efforts, and mumbled something.
"What?" said Mars, who was now part-way up the tree and trying to get the golden sickle out of his belt without it tangling in his cream-coloured terrycloth bathrobe. It had been the best they could scrounge up on short notice.
Simon sighed.
"It's got to be performed by virgins," he said loudly.
Marshall dropped the sickle (it was a curved paring knife they had "borrowed" from Marilyn's knife block and painted with Syndi's glittery gold-flecked nail varnish. Needs must when your hometown's economy hangs in the balance). Dash pulled back from the bedsheet as if it had burned him.
"I'm not-" said Mars.
"Then I can't-" said Dash.
Simon listened to the spluttering and blustering for a few more seconds before he retrieved the sparkly sacred knife from the ground again.
"Okay," he said. "Fine. You guys are totally not virgins. If you go and get a ladder for me, and promise to hold it steady and not get into a fight while I'm on it, I'll climb up there and cut the mistletoe down."
Mars looked at the drop beneath him, mentally calculating the safest path back to solid ground. Dash had already bolted.
Several minutes passed. A bug crawled on the white sheet. Simon flicked it away.
"I don't think he's coming back," said Marshall.
"Probably not," said Simon.
There was a long pause.
"Simon," said Mars after a while.
"Hmm?"
"Just give me the stupid knife."
Simon stood on the upturned wheelbarrow in which they'd carted down their supplies in order to reach Marshall's branch. The nail varnish was still a little sticky to the touch and he left fingerprints in the thick, uneven coating of gold where he'd held it.
Marshall attacked the mistletoe as though it had personally offended him and soon the flannel bed-cloth was covered in branches bristling with yellow-green leaves and small white berries. Simon hopped down off the wheelbarrow, righted it, gathered the sheet up and, careful not to let any of the mangled shrub touch the ground, bundled it back into the cart.
"What now?" said Mars. He was still in the tree, and his face was pinker than could be explained by his climb and the effort of cutting through the leathery stems of a parasitic shrub.
Simon checked his pockets and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. He smoothed it out against the trunk of the tree and read from it.
"Now we sacrifice two white cows," he said.
"I'm not killing a cow," said Mars. "If Radford wants to save this stupid town so bad, he can-"
Simon held up a placating hand.
"It's alright, really," he said. "I brought cream soda and vanilla ice cream. We make two white cows, pour them over the roots of a tree, and we should be fine."
Marshall made a noise that indicated he was anything but fine right now.
"Can I at least take off the goofy robe?" he asked.
"No," said Simon. "Get out of the tree and help me make an ice-cream float for an angry nature god."
"This is so stupid," said Mars, but he obeyed.
The ice-cream was a little melty, and the soda was flat and warm, and as they poured the soupy mess around the base of the oak tree, Simon hoped that this god was the kind of god who hung slipshod macrame art and indistinct finger paintings from the trees at the Solstice and either genuinely didn't realise it was terrible, or pretended not to in order to avoid hurting it's worshippers feelings.
They wheeled the flannel-wrapped mistletoe back to the World o' Stuff. Mister Radford was surprised when they asked what it would be used for.
"Don't they teach you boys anything in school?" he said wonderingly, before explaining that the virginally-harvested mistletoe would be steeped in Cornade until the spring equinox and then poured over the fields to guard against the blight or another unexpected swarm of locusts.
Marshall choked on his black cow. Simon patted him on the back.
Later, Marshall pulled out the boxes in which his mother had lovingly saved her children's schoolwork, and burned his gold-star-winning middle school science project on crop rotation. When he stomped back into the house, scowling and sooty and smelling of smoke, Marilyn asked him if there was anything he'd like to talk about. Her son muttered that agrarian societies were stupid, and afterwards refused to set foot in another county fair, no matter how many funnell cake or candyfloss stands there were.