Free Thirteenth Night by Alan Gordon Page A

behold a strange sight. On the other side of the wall, the market was bustling, but with animals outnumbering the people. Cattle, horses, goats, and sheep flooded the square, with dogs nipping at their hooves and children dancing fearlessly among them. I blinked with astonishment, then remembered what day it was and hustled downstairs to fetch Zeus over to the church.
    Outside of the Feast of Fools, the blessing of the animals on Saint Stephen’s Day is my favorite ceremony. It is the acknowledgment, the recognition of those simple creatures who give us their lives. I was especially glad to see the goats getting their fair due. The Gospel of Matthew to the contrary, there was many a time when I was poor and hungry and found hospitality in a goat shed. Nothing like cuddling up to some warm goats on a cold night. And if you’re lucky, you can sneak off with a cupful of milk before the farmer discovers you. On the other hand, sheep have never done me a bit of good. I shall rewrite the parables someday, get them to make more sense.
    I worked my way through the milling herds to a cluster of horsemen. I nodded cheerfully to the Captain, who scowled back. A beautiful little girl of perhaps eight years trotted up on a white mare. The horse was grandly festooned with ribbons and dried flowers. The girl was dressed simply but elegantly in a white cloak trimmed with ermine. She was hatless and wore a wide-eyed expression of the utmost solemnity. She took her place at the head of the riders and waited with the rest of us.
    The doors of the old church were flung open, and the Bishop himself came out to beckon us in. “Horses first!” he shouted. The girl rode carefully up the steps. We followed at a respectful distance.
    â€œWho is she?” I asked a farmer riding next to me.
    â€œCelia, the daughter of the Duke,” he answered, then caught himself. “No, I mean the sister of the Duke. I keep forgetting the old man’s dead.” The old man was younger than me, but I decided not to mention that fact.
    The Bishop bowed to the girl. She nodded and to the crowd’s delight had her mare bend a foreleg to him. The crowd cheered. The Bishop took her reins and led her to the altar. There before the plain wooden cross he sprinkled holy water over a barrel, blessed it, thrust his hand in, and scooped out some oats. He held them up to the mare, who lapped them greedily, then threw another handful over both horse and rider. She guided her mount off to one side, and one by one we approached to have the ceremony repeated.
    I looked to the front pews and recognized two of my dinner companions seated with a heavily rouged woman that, with a start, I recognized as Olivia. Nature no longer did all. Seated next to her then was Sebastian, looking stout and unhappy, and the crowd of children fidgeting on his right were theirs.
    I looked across the aisle to the Duke’s pew to see a woman in black, veiled to the point of opacity, watching the girl rider. Viola, still trim, still with the bearing of a youth. Next to her was a severe-looking man, with long flowing brown hair streaked with gray and a beard as grizzled as mine. He beamed as he watched Viola’s daughter, then settled back into a frown when he saw me looking in his direction. Claudius, I guessed. I did not see the young Duke. I turned my attention back to the Bishop.
    He smiled when he saw me. “Good morning, traveler. Did the inn meet with your approval?”
    â€œYes, indeed, your Holiness. We both thank you for your recommendation.” He turned his attention to Zeus, who looked at him balefully.
    â€œIn the name of the ass, and of the ass and the colt, and of the white horse that is to come, I bless thee in the name of Our Savior and Saint Stephen,” he intoned. He held out his hand fearlessly. Zeus sniffed it suspiciously, then gobbled up the oats. We were dusted with a few more, then followed the other riders back outside.
    â€œNow,