While people are posting stuff they did for the Secret Santa, I should put this up. This is the short piece I wrote for Amarinthineamusement. I figured a funny and fluffy short story might amuse her, since one of her specifications was: ' SSSS CHARACTERS INTERACTING'. Nobody seems to have guessed I was the guilty party before the list went up, likely because it is much fluffier than my usual style! So herewith:
REYNIR HELPS!
Reynir sat waiting for breakfast to be ready. The young Icelander occupied himself with combing and rebraiding his hair as he watched Mikkel yawning over the pot he was stirring, and worried. Admittedly making porridge was not the most inspiring job in the world, but the big healer looked nearly as tired as Lalli usually did, with shadows under his eyes and a sour expression. Tuuri, sitting beside him by the cookfire, didn't look much better. Both of them had been rising while it was still dark, working over the books and notes they had salvaged so far for as long as daylight lasted, then continuing by lamplight until Sigrun forcibly chivvied them off to bed. Which was usually hours after he and Emil had crashed. Tuuri and Mikkel both were convinced that somewhere in that mass of information was something desperately important: a cure for the Rash disease, an effective vaccine, who knew? But surely something. So they searched through the piles of mouldering books and documents, they collated information, translated and frantically compared notes, for as many hours each day as they could bear to keep going.
Reynir wished he could do something to help them all. He wasn't a bad cook, his mother had seen to that, and nobody had complained on the few occasions Mikkel had let him take over, but the Dane seemed to feel that he should still do at least some of the cooking himself. Edgy and stressed as he was at present, even Sigrun was disinclined to argue.
And Sigrun, Reynir thought, was another person who wasn't coping well at present. She had insisted on going out bookhunting the day after the troll attack, dragging along an unwilling Emil over Mikkel's vigorous protests. Their expedition had not been successful. With her arm in a sling her usually perfect balance was just that little bit off, and she had fallen heavily while trying to climb a sloping pile of rubble. Emil had of course leaped to her rescue, and had brought down more broken masonry on top of them both, further injuring his own leg. He had at least managed to set off a flare, bringing Mikkel to their rescue before they froze. Mikkel had lectured them both at length about endangering the mission for a chance of short-term gains, but more instructive than his lecture had been how the pair felt next day. Emil was too stiff to move, and Sigrun had been forced to spend several days resting.
What everyone needed about now, Reynir thought, was coffee. A pity the nearest coffee was in Iceland. Not that Iceland had much, he mused sadly. And the greenhouse product was prohibitively expensive. He'd only tasted it once in his life, the year he turned eighteen. That year their wool clip had been of outstanding quality, and a couple of fleece merchants from Reykjavik had travelled all the way out to their remote farm with competing offers for the whole lot. After lengthy negotiations with his business-savvy mother one of them had clinched the deal by offering, along with the normal exchanges of money, seeds, grain and smoked fish, a tiny package of precious greenhouse-grown coffee.
The next morning at breakfast his father had solemnly brewed the stuff, while Reynir, his mother and the two of his older siblings who were home at the time had looked on in awe as the brown liquid bubbled and the delicious, enticing smell crept through the house. When his father had handed Reynir the small cupful that was his share it had felt like some sort of coming-of-age ritual; like finally getting to do something reserved for adults. The flavour had come as a shock: bitter and sharp and earthy so that he almost spat it out, but at the same time having a delicious underlying richness that seemed to go straight into his veins, making his heart thump and his mind race. He had flown through the days' work as if winged, his mind the clearest it had ever been.....yes, something like that would be perfect for his crewmates. Reynir smiled wryly as he considered how quickly he had begun to think of himself as a part of the team, then sighed as he realised how hopeless his idea really was.
Emil and Lalli stumbled out of the tank together, each propping the other up and neither one looking at all well. Emil was still bruised and limping badly, while the scout looked even paler and gaunter than usual; his expression dazed, he leaned weakly on Emil's broad shoulder. Reynir was relieved to see Lalli walking at all. There had been those few very scary days when the rest of the crew had feared he might not wake again, but eventually his lynx had returned to him, and now he did seem to be recovering physically as well.
The two boys sat down by Reynir to wait for breakfast. Despite his own stiffness, Emil fussed over Lalli, tucking a blanket around his shoulders while the scout growled half-heartedly at the attention. Reynir suspected that Lalli secretly enjoyed Emil's attempts to care for him, though he usually responded to them with irritable snarls or grumbles.
Sighing at his inability to help, Reynir went back to the task of combing and rebraiding his hair. He cursed as his fingers encountered yet another tiny seed caught in the strands, forming a small hard knot that caught the comb and caused it to tug painfully at his scalp. He carefully worked it loose, then stared at the seed as it lay in the palm of his hand, wondering how such a tiny thing could attach itself so firmly. It looked... fuzzy, and seemed to be covered in tiny hooked prickles or hairs.
His musings were interrupted by a sudden hard grip on his wrist. Reynir looked up, startled, as he recognised Lalli's slender, long-fingered hand. That was odd. He had already noticed that Lalli never touched anyone if it could be avoided - well, except for an occasional comforting pat to Tuuri or Emil. But now he was gripping Reynir's wrist, holding his hand still, gaze fixed on the seed. Lalli started to speak, realised that Reynir wouldn't understand him, and turned instead to speak to Tuuri. Tuuri looked puzzled for a moment, then translated.
"Reynir, Lalli wants to know where you found that seed, and whether there were any more where it came from?"
"I didn't find it, it found me. Those things are all over, they're a weed; we even had them in a few places in Iceland, back on the farm. They stick to your socks, and the dog, and the sheep, and of course in my hair! My mother used the plants to make dye, but I don't know of any use for the seeds. Why is he asking?"
After another exchange in Finnish, Tuuri explained. "He says the scouts and hunters use it back home. They chew on a handful of the seeds to stay alert if they're really tired. He says it tastes vile, but it helps to keep one awake and moving. They call it 'poor man's coffee', I don't know why. I've read about coffee, it was a mind-altering drug of the ancients."
Reynir leapt up and dashed off to the closest place he had seen the dry seed-covered vines - sprawling around the base of the equestrian statue next to the tank. In ten minutes he was back with his handkerchief full of the seeds. Lalli took a few with a nod of gratitude and began to chew them, grimacing at the taste. Reynir looked thoughtfully at the remaining seeds, then carried them over to Mikkel.
Reynir remembered the coffee-making ritual quite clearly. The seeds were briefly roasted, then crushed and steeped in water which was gradually heated almost to boiling, then taken from the heat and allowed to steep for a little longer. He wondered if the same process would work on this stuff. At least it might improve the taste! Once he had explained the effect of coffee, and what Lalli had said about the seeds, Mikkel was willing to try. At this stage, Reynir thought, Mikkel looked as if he might be willing to try anything.
Soon an interesting aroma began to drift about the camp. Not precisely the unique scent of coffee, Reynir thought, but not unlike it. Definitely worth a try.
And in the buildings, restless ghosts calmed and quieted as the echo of a familiar odour rolled in their windows, an incense bearing the memory of other, better times.
NOTE: for any other plant geek, the plant referenced is Galium aparine, otherwise known as cleavers, clivers, goosegrass, poor mans' coffee or sticky willie, as well as less polite names applied by those who are trying to weed the long tangled sticky stems out of their garden or remove the seeds from their dog, socks or sheep. The seeds make quite a reasonable coffee substitute, since they contain some caffeine and actually belong to the Rubiaceae, the botanical family of which coffee is a member. And like nearly everything else in the family it's a dye plant - most of them give pinks and reds, coffee gives reddish-brown. If you've ever eaten a free-range egg with a pink yolk, or a chicken with meat that stays pink near the bone even when cooked, this is what the hens have been eating. Birds are as much caffeine junkies as humans!
