A Meeting At Corvallis

"No, this is Yule, Matti. That's the shortest day, the twenty-first this year. On the First Day we go out
and find the tree and cut it, on the Second Day we bring it here, and Third Day we put it up; for the
Maiden, the Mother and the Crone, you know? And the Tree is the Holly King's … well, you know.
Then we've got nine days for the rest, cooking and making presents and getting ready for the Solstice
Vigil. Mom says we stole the Twelve Days and changed them round 'cause the Christians stole Yule and
messed it up."
"We did not!" Mathilda said, then hesitated. "At least, I don't think so. What do you decorate it
with?"
"Oh, all sorts of things. Old-time stuff, and strings of popcorn, and little carved sprites, and, oh, lots
of stuff. It's fun."
"We didn't decorate our own Christmas tree at home, but it was very pretty," Mathilda said. "We
always had Christmas at Castle Todenangst. I'd come down in the morning, and open the presents with
Mom and Dad."
Rudi frowned. "But decorating it yourself is half the fun!"
They loaded their plates from the platters and baskets as they spoke: corned beef, chunks of grilled
venison with a sauce of garlic-laced yogurt, mashed potatoes with bits of onion, fresh steamed kale,
boiled cabbage and glazed carrots and fresh brown bread and hot cheddar biscuits and butter. Mathilda
slipped a sliver of the beef to a big black tomcat crouched under her chair; he bolted it and then went
back to glaring around with mad yellow eyes. Saladin had come as part of the ill-fated diplomatic mission
from Portland last Lughnasadh, and the other Hall cats hadn't accepted him yet … or vice versa.
Juniper Mackenzie stood, and the hum of conversation stilled. She raised both her hands in the
gesture of power and blessing before she spoke, her strong soprano filling the Hall, half song and half
chant:
"Harvest Lord who dies for the ripened grain—
Corn Mother who births the fertile field—
Blessed be those who share this bounty.
And blessed the mortals who toiled with You
Their hands helping Earth to bring forth life."
Most of the crowd joined in the final Blessed be; then they waited politely while the Christians said
their grace. The two Bearkillers at the top table crossed themselves and murmured words: Bless us, O
Lord … So did Mathilda, in another fashion—Catholics who followed Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski at
Mount Angel used a slightly different rite from the Orthodox Catholic Church of the Protectorate's Pope
Leo.
Juniper went on: "And special thanks to Andy and Diana and everyone working the kitchens, who
managed to produce what looks like a great dinner right in the middle of preparing for the Yule feast."
The Trethars stood and bowed as everyone clapped. Rudi's mother took from its rest a
silver-rimmed horn of wine—that had started its life as one of a pair of longhorns over a Western-themed
bar in Bend—and poured a small libation in a bowl. Then she raised the horn high over her head and
cried:
"To the Lord, to the Lady, to the Luck of the Clan—Wassail!"
"Drink hail!" fifty voices replied, raising their cups and drinking with her.
Rudi dutifully sipped at a tiny glass of mead, watered for a youngster's strength; he preferred the
cream-rich milk in the waiting jug, but the proprieties had to be observed. The hum of conversation
began again, along with the clatter of cutlery. Rudi poured himself milk and a glass for Mathilda, spread
his napkin on his lap and ate with the thoughtless, innocent greed of a healthy nine-year-old after a day's
hard work in cold weather and with a holiday in prospect.
"Blueberry tarts for dessert!" he said happily. "With whipped cream and honey."
"So that's Arminger's kid," Luanne Larsson said, meditatively mixing some melted butter into her
mashed potatoes with her fork as she glanced down the table; one advantage of the white noise that filled