(no subject)
7th December - Tradition
It was an old, familiar setting, one she'd grown accustomed to over the years. Nothing ever changed in this annual scene, no detail was ever missing. It was perfect, still and immutable, comforting and familiar like a cherished nativity tableau.
Anita would spend the day cleaning, dusting furniture and knick-knacks in a happy silence. The room was filled with a hodge-podge of items, some European, some Chinese. Pillows and rugs were fetched and lovingly laid down, fluffed and plumped until her evening bower was ready. As the greyness of the day turned into the greyness of the night, she would stumble outside and bring in bits of wood, stacking them in the rarely-used fireplace. Mahojo was never allowed to help, despite all her protestations. She'd come to understand it eventually. This little ritual was Anita's alone. Whilst she could watch, she could never help.
Then she would light the candles, a hundred little votives that filled the air with the warm scent of plums and spice. Incense lit on an alcove table, the pictures of her mother polished and arranged a hundred times until she was satisfied.
Anita stood in the doorway and watched as Anita turned in a circle, taking in her day's work with a satisfied hum, perhaps fixing a tiny misalignment with delicate movements, relighting an obstinate candle until it was perfect.
“It is six o'clock, madam.”
“Already?” Anita whispered, shaking slightly despite the warmth. Mahojo reached out a hand to rest on her shoulder as her mistress composed herself. Anita laid her own hand on top and smiled up at her.
“Shall we watch together?”
Hours passed, wrapped in shawls by the window, Anita's eyes fixed on the horizon, on the road, first looking to the port, then to the forest. When the darkness drew in and her eyes watered she requested a candle, 'so he could see that she was waiting'. She wrapped her hands around the holder, her shallow breaths making the flame flicker and tremble, casting shadows to hide the tired tears. Mahojo sat beside her, without saying a word, one hand stroking Anita's hair in silent comfort.
“Did you know, red is the only colour the human eye can see at night?” It was almost eleven now, the roads still empty, the moon's silver cast seeming harsh and cold compared to the golden warmth surrounding them.
“...So when he comes, I'll be able to tell that it's him.”
The candles burned lower, devouring their wax until, one by one, they flickered into nothing. Mahojo found her eyes swimming, drawing closed against her will. She struggled to stay awake for another hour, another few minutes, waiting for the traditional ending to this personal rite.
The seconds ticked over into a new day, the moon dropping low to the horizon.
“He's not coming today.” The statement was carefully voiced, carefully non-inflected to suggest a complete lack of emotion, a lack of surprise and a lack of hurt.
“Not today, madam.” The statement said nothing at all about sympathy, about love or about pity. They were ritual words, not emotional conversation.
Christmas Day dawned, as it always did, as it always would after this night. The parties would start up again, the drinks would flow and laughter would fill the house, except in one room. The Mistress Anita would smile and flirt downstairs, make up artfully concealing the bags under her eyes, blaming their redness on smoke and on the cold, as it was every year.
It was an old, familiar setting, one she'd grown accustomed to over the years. Nothing ever changed in this annual scene, no detail was ever missing. It was perfect, still and immutable, comforting and familiar like a cherished nativity tableau.
Anita would spend the day cleaning, dusting furniture and knick-knacks in a happy silence. The room was filled with a hodge-podge of items, some European, some Chinese. Pillows and rugs were fetched and lovingly laid down, fluffed and plumped until her evening bower was ready. As the greyness of the day turned into the greyness of the night, she would stumble outside and bring in bits of wood, stacking them in the rarely-used fireplace. Mahojo was never allowed to help, despite all her protestations. She'd come to understand it eventually. This little ritual was Anita's alone. Whilst she could watch, she could never help.
Then she would light the candles, a hundred little votives that filled the air with the warm scent of plums and spice. Incense lit on an alcove table, the pictures of her mother polished and arranged a hundred times until she was satisfied.
Anita stood in the doorway and watched as Anita turned in a circle, taking in her day's work with a satisfied hum, perhaps fixing a tiny misalignment with delicate movements, relighting an obstinate candle until it was perfect.
“It is six o'clock, madam.”
“Already?” Anita whispered, shaking slightly despite the warmth. Mahojo reached out a hand to rest on her shoulder as her mistress composed herself. Anita laid her own hand on top and smiled up at her.
“Shall we watch together?”
Hours passed, wrapped in shawls by the window, Anita's eyes fixed on the horizon, on the road, first looking to the port, then to the forest. When the darkness drew in and her eyes watered she requested a candle, 'so he could see that she was waiting'. She wrapped her hands around the holder, her shallow breaths making the flame flicker and tremble, casting shadows to hide the tired tears. Mahojo sat beside her, without saying a word, one hand stroking Anita's hair in silent comfort.
“Did you know, red is the only colour the human eye can see at night?” It was almost eleven now, the roads still empty, the moon's silver cast seeming harsh and cold compared to the golden warmth surrounding them.
“...So when he comes, I'll be able to tell that it's him.”
The candles burned lower, devouring their wax until, one by one, they flickered into nothing. Mahojo found her eyes swimming, drawing closed against her will. She struggled to stay awake for another hour, another few minutes, waiting for the traditional ending to this personal rite.
The seconds ticked over into a new day, the moon dropping low to the horizon.
“He's not coming today.” The statement was carefully voiced, carefully non-inflected to suggest a complete lack of emotion, a lack of surprise and a lack of hurt.
“Not today, madam.” The statement said nothing at all about sympathy, about love or about pity. They were ritual words, not emotional conversation.
Christmas Day dawned, as it always did, as it always would after this night. The parties would start up again, the drinks would flow and laughter would fill the house, except in one room. The Mistress Anita would smile and flirt downstairs, make up artfully concealing the bags under her eyes, blaming their redness on smoke and on the cold, as it was every year.