(no subject)
Some hundred or so footfalls beyond the wood-plank’d path there stands a clearing shaded by tall trees. In one such tree, perched safe amongst the lower branches, there is a fine tree-house, built small but stout by surer hands than Viola’s and made to stand ‘gainst wind and weather.
And in that clearing, ‘neath those trees, the most essential of her possessions be bundled up in neat array all ‘round: proof of one morning’s work of packing, for she’d thought to move herself to New Gilead (could it still be call’d so when it stood empty of those who’d claimed it, built it, named it?) for a time rather than to travel oft between this place and there. She’d have done it, too, but for the fact that Toby’d not be moved.
Pleas and threats she’d made in turn, at such length that she’d resolved, finally, to climb up and see just what her pet was so loath to leave-- and now she has little choice but to stay, else leave the nesting mother all alone.
So there sits Viola, amid the wreckage of her day‘s failed endeavor: and Viola is drunk, or trying to be.
With her back pressed ‘gainst a stout tree trunk, her legs stretched out before her, she rests loose-limbed and languid in the shade, a jug of finest, foulest gunslinger-distill’d liquor to hand. On her breath, strong spirit and saucy song offend the air in equal measure-- she must have learn’d the tune a lifetime ago, in the too-merry mourning house of the countess Olivia--’til from above a coarser cry lends itself to the chorus. Hey nonny, the parrot shrills, twice and thrice o’er.
“Peace,” Viola mutters. Then, louder: “Peace, Toby!”
She tips her head back as far as’t can go, peering up, up, up into the leafy boughs above where nests the bird Sir Toby, who is after all this time no sir at all. ‘Tis no less than she deserves, Viola supposes, and certainly no less than she should expect from a gift the Island gave to her. Toby cocks her yellow-crested head and squawks.
“Nay, mother hen,” Viola retorts. “Cluck not at me. Thou hast made thy nest: now lie in it.”
[[Off to work, but I'll be back! ST, late tags, etc., etc., etc.]]
And in that clearing, ‘neath those trees, the most essential of her possessions be bundled up in neat array all ‘round: proof of one morning’s work of packing, for she’d thought to move herself to New Gilead (could it still be call’d so when it stood empty of those who’d claimed it, built it, named it?) for a time rather than to travel oft between this place and there. She’d have done it, too, but for the fact that Toby’d not be moved.
Pleas and threats she’d made in turn, at such length that she’d resolved, finally, to climb up and see just what her pet was so loath to leave-- and now she has little choice but to stay, else leave the nesting mother all alone.
So there sits Viola, amid the wreckage of her day‘s failed endeavor: and Viola is drunk, or trying to be.
With her back pressed ‘gainst a stout tree trunk, her legs stretched out before her, she rests loose-limbed and languid in the shade, a jug of finest, foulest gunslinger-distill’d liquor to hand. On her breath, strong spirit and saucy song offend the air in equal measure-- she must have learn’d the tune a lifetime ago, in the too-merry mourning house of the countess Olivia--’til from above a coarser cry lends itself to the chorus. Hey nonny, the parrot shrills, twice and thrice o’er.
“Peace,” Viola mutters. Then, louder: “Peace, Toby!”
She tips her head back as far as’t can go, peering up, up, up into the leafy boughs above where nests the bird Sir Toby, who is after all this time no sir at all. ‘Tis no less than she deserves, Viola supposes, and certainly no less than she should expect from a gift the Island gave to her. Toby cocks her yellow-crested head and squawks.
“Nay, mother hen,” Viola retorts. “Cluck not at me. Thou hast made thy nest: now lie in it.”
[[Off to work, but I'll be back! ST, late tags, etc., etc., etc.]]