Errand Boy

Errand Boy

Postby Treadwell » Mon Aug 01, 2016 4:39 am

Morning of the first day of the eighth month, 216 A.R.
The Treadwell estate.
First floor sitting room.


"Poppa! Play with me!"

This is Egbert Treadwell. Eight years old, one of several inheritors of his parents' once sandy blond hair and their growing girths. He is one of the liveliest of the children at the house, often on the move, scurrying and puffing for breath. Today, he rushes about the house only in one of his dressing gowns, white and flowing.

"No, Eggy. I have had a most terrible time fixing Pinky's fence this morning, mmph mmph, and I mean to sit here in my chair and sleep."

This is Aloisius Treadwell. Seventy-one years old, father to ten and huffing for breath just like his young son before him. He is lively only in the sense that he is alive, preferring to stay as slow and sedentary as is possible. Today, he slumps in his rolling chair wearing the brown coveralls and yellow, long-sleeved jumper he wears to work outside or in his toyshop.

"Ohhh."

"Kindly go find your mother, mmph, and ask her where my blanket is, and bring it to me. I must nap, and I will not sleep without it, hm hm."

"Yes, Poppa!"

And away Eggy goes, with gown swishing and feet flapping on the rugs and stones. He finds the one he calls "Mummmm!" in the master bedroom upstairs, wearing her own nightgown and nearly dozing herself in bed. The request is shared between pursy puffs.

"I took your father's blanket and washed it. Gregory should have it. Go ask him. He's likely in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Mummy!"

And away Eggy goes!

The butler, nearly as old as his employer (a mere year younger) and possessing a considerable paunch himself under his black suit and white cummerbund, is indeed in the kitchen, patiently waiting for a side of meat to finish cooking while he carefully slices up a block of cheese.

"Blanket?" he repeats on being asked by the winded child before offering the boy a cup of reasonably cool water and a loving arm around the shoulders. "Rest a minute, Egbert. Mrs. Alice, your mother, brought me that blanket, and it was very wet. Your uncle Langley offered to let it warm by his fire and then dry out his window."

A minute's rest, indeed, and then another huffy-breathed swishing of gown as Egbert hurries along, skipping past some of his siblings on the way up the front hall. Langley recently changed rooms to one on the bottom floor, past the portraits of the family in the main hall, to not have to deal with the stairs.

Egbert finds his uncle a voluminous old red bird, of sorts, perched atop his stool at his writing desk, wearing his burgundy velvet robe that signifies his place in the Church of Tubbius. A nearly finished letter to his son, John, slowly dries its ink before him. The bedroom is toasty, indeed, due to the fire still glowing dimly before him. He likes it warm, perhaps warmer than he ought, so he is one of the few folks to start a fire up in the middle of summer.

"But where is the blanket?" The boy asks after another rejection, this one soft and rumbly after his uncle rises from the desk to give Egbert a kiss to a cheek.

"Aunt Elizia saw it in here drying, dear Egg, and she took it with her to fix a tear on it, where it is fraying. I suspect she has it in her room next door."

A nod is given, and the child is off again, wobbling, his legs starting to ache. A turn left out of the door, a stop to breathe, a polite knock: the frail, old woman much prefers privacy, something she rarely finds in a house with so many children, servants, her two brothers, and the baby brother's wife. In a few moments, though, the door is open, and, "Where is it?" of annoyance. There is no blanket.

"Where is what, child?"

"Poppa's blanket! He. . . he. . . ."

"Breathe, Egbert. Slowly. In and out. I had to mend it. I took it back to your father's sitting room this morning while he was foolishly hefting and hammering at that pig's fence. I had it finished before she nearly knocked him over into the mud when he was feeding her."

"But where?"

"It is a blanket, child. I put it away in the trunk opposite the couch. Blankets are not meant to pile up on furniture where they get in the way!"

And away Egbert goes again! He soon toddles back to his father's sitting room, exhausted and flushed, only to hear a very familiar rumble from within; despite Aloisius's insistence that the toymaker couldn't sleep without his quilt, it seems that he is managing to do so quite well. A pudgy left thumb, abandoned in sleepy suckling, rests at the old man's lips, wet.

Egbert Treadwell can be a very quiet and dutiful child when he must be. He slips into the sitting room, carefully snuffing the few candles aglow for a little extra light, and then slowly opening the trunk mentioned. And there it is, on top, Treadwell's purple blanket that he so adores! Over to his Poppa Egbert goes, the blanket trailing him, the trunk left open. The boy spreads the covers over his snoring, dozing father. . . and then yawns, himself, eyes blinking wet and weary.

Soon, there are two Treadwells snoring in the sitting room. On coming to awake Aloisius for a late lunch, Gregory will stop short and smile in the doorway. Egbert will be sleeping, too, hugged up to and spread over his father's great belly, hidden away under that precious purple blanket.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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