A Celebration Of Silence

A Celebration of Silence

Smoke rose steadily from the sizzling fire-place in the castle kitchen. Three darkened figures stood at the board, one cutting onions, another plucking horse-grass, and a third pounding away at a mortar. A buzzing swarm of flies hovered near the lamp on the wall, and a row of pies was laid out on a shelf to cool.  

The onion-cutter was the tallest figure, bony, and sporting the air of an old and slightly bedraggled dog. The onions had a none too cheering effect on her complexion.

“Weather has been right disagreeable.” She sniffed and renewed slicing with slow and determined strokes. “Wet. Too wet.”

The second figure was of middle height, red-faced and formidable, but with a placid, cow-like expression.

“Well, it can't last long, Perra dear. The king is planning the celebration of silence already.”

At this the third and smallest figure thrust the pestle against the mortar most violently indeed, and the light flickered.

“Please, control yourself, Arvy dear. Personally I enjoy the holiday.” Horse-grass seeds fell swiftly from her practiced fingers as she spoke.

“‘Tisnt so bad. Silence tisnt appreciated enough anyway.” Said the sad-eyed figure solemnly, wiping her nose on her apron.

“That's the attitude, Perra. A lull in our lively lives, is what the king says.”

“I like silence–it's pretty, Doris, and–”

“Yes, I daresay it is.”

“A pretty holiday—”

There was an unceremonious crash as Arvy dropped the pestle, pushed the bowl away and flounced down from off the stool she had been standing on, making her even shorter; barely coming up to Perra's elbow. Hands on hips, she faced the other two.

“Pretty? Pretty? How could you care about pretty when---it's ridiculous! Everyone is so glad for the holiday and nobody seems to realize how Disgusting the whole thing is—”

Perra and Doris gasped loudly and made urgent gestures to be quiet.

“Shh, dear, we know, but–”

“Dont say that,” whispered Perra, and her cap strings seemed to droop.

I daresay i have never seen a funnier looking child than Arvy Bristlebush. She was clothed in a rather limp cotton dress that was much too big for her and made her comically small head sticking out the top look even smaller. Her pointed chin jutted out like a spear, and her eyes, starting from underneath tousled reddish bangs, were the biggest and blackest you've ever seen. A floppy brown cap gave her the appearance of a temperamental mushroom. 

“Well I don't think it's pretty. I think it's horrid.” And her voice, shrill and mouse-like, rose to an even higher pitch. “And I certainly won't be going round saying “silence is golden” and all that utter nonsense.”

“Really, dear, ‘utter nonsense’ might be going a bit far,” said Doris gently.

“It is not!” squeaked the girl. “I can't stand the king and his silences! I won’t have it!”

Perra and Doris exchanged knowing glances. Their young comrade had pitched such fits of Indignance before. They knew it would soon pass.

The squeaky voice railed on for another minute; but sure enough she soon stopped with an impatient noise and seized the pestle, whereupon she pounded the spices hard enough to make the candlelight shudder. She had forgotten to get up on her stool and the counter-top came up to her chin; the angle was awkward. The other two retained a timid silence until another few minutes had safely passed.

“Er. . . Aren't those onions splendid, dear?” asked Doris after a bit.

Perra wiped red eyes. “Splendid.” She paused and sniffled. “Mighty big'uns, at least.”

Doris agrees that they were mighty big. Then she asked Perra about the weather. Perra remarked again on the disagreeable dampness thereof. Doris sympathized and asked if she was feeling alright. “Tired, but alright” Perra responded, before requesting that Doris lend her a handkerchief. Doris did so.  

All through this Arvy remained stonily abstract from the conversation, but the furious pounding of mortar-and-pestle was a constant reminder of her presence. The floppy brown cap quivered with every “thump! thump!” of the pestle, and her hair stuck out from under it like a squirrel's tail.  

“Goodness me, I forgot.” Doris exclaimed. “I need apples for the princess’ supper to-night! Dear me, she will be upset! Unless. . . Arvy dear, will you run to the grocers and get some?”

Arvy readily agreed. The low roof and windowless stone walls of the kitchen were becoming hideously stuffy, and the bracing chill air of the outdoors held a pleasant sensation for the youthful spirit. Arvy burst out the back door of the kitchens and along the wall walk, then down and out the main gate into the streets of the city. She knew the way to the grocers quite well, having traveled there to procure various foodstuffs for Doris many times afore. She took her time, admiring colorful street-corner shops, greeting people she knew, and in general relishing in the noise and hustle of the town after the quiet confinement of the kitchens.  

Just as she neared her destination, an even louder noise burst out above the rest: a tremendous blast of trumpeting. As she watched with interest, flying flags of red and gold approached, along with a grand caravan of eight magnificent black horses, a gold plated carriage, twenty soldiers, and a gaggle of other important folk riding behind on more horses. The carriage passed with a loud clacking of hooves, and Arvy caught a glimpse of the interior. It was positively stuffed with courtiers, secretaries, ambassadors, arch-dukes, and governors, all talking at once, making suggestions, arguing, explaining, correcting—all directed at the King, who sat in the middle, absorbing all of it and responding to as many at once as he could. The trumpets gave another screaming blast, and the whole sight swept round the corner.

Arvy stared. Suddenly she found herself rather sorry for the king. 

  Perhaps he does deserve a celebration of silences.