Free The Witch's Promise by Greg Krehbiel Page B

Year and began to think that there may be something to these cycles and rhythms of life. Some corner of his mind seemed to say "yes, this is right," as if someone had read his subconscious desires and written the script for this party.
     
    A knot of revelers interrupted his train of thought. In the center of about six shouting, laughing and singing drunks a man held a large wooden bowl, about the size of a couch cushion. A very flirty and clearly intoxicated woman produced a pewter mug from somewhere in the folds of her gown, filled it from the bowl and set it to John's lips. Before he had a chance to think about what he was doing a warm, sweet, frothy, spiced and slightly carbonated liquid poured down his throat and dribbled around his lips. The woman laughed and began to lap up the spills from his chin -- apparently unconcerned about his makeup. A moment later the sensation changed and he realized the woman was kissing him.
     
    She laughed at his surprise, kissed him again and moved along with the wassail bowl.
     
    "Didn't I tell you?" a voice said, and John was surprised and somewhat embarrassed to see Jillian smiling at his elbow.
     
    "Jillian, I ...."
     
    "Don't try to explain. I saw what happened. Come with me."
     
    She took him by the hand and led him to a quieter spot on a pile of straw near one of the free-standing fire pits. John was somewhat alarmed at the idea of sitting on straw next to a fire, but he saw a couple extinguishers sitting in strategic positions. Jillian returned a moment later with a blanket and two large mugs of wassail.
     
    He quickly downed a large portion of the strong beverage and found that there was always someone ready to refill his mug. The evening went by easily. A few people had brought stringed instruments and set up a performance on the edge of the patio. They were surprisingly good, and when someone retrieved a bongo and a recorder from the house, the music was either very good, or John was getting very drunk.
     
    Things started to go by in a blur. There were songs and dramatic readings -- or were they just long, bad jokes? -- various kinds of pumpkin cookies and bars and pies, apple cobbler, dried apples and, to John's chagrin the next morning, lots and lots of wassail.
     
    He soon realized that he had underestimated the stuff and wondered what he was going to do about getting home. Jillian seemed unconcerned. Later in the evening she guided him to a dark corner between two bales of hay.
     
    *              *              *
     
    They awoke in the morning in each other's arms, under a bedewed blanket, perilously near a well-tended fire. John's head was pounding even before he opened his eyes.
     
    "You passed out before we could give you the antidote, my friend," said a rather large, bearded, blue-painted Pict who leaned over him like a man searching the wounded after a battle.
     
    "There's an antidote for this?" John scowled.
     
    "Well, such as it is. RU-21, lots of water and three aspirin. But at this point, there's nothing for it but another draught. Cheers," he said, handing John a very large mug that had, apparently, been handed around to the other victims. John couldn't help but think of the common bowl of the Vikings in The Thirteenth Warrior, but he didn't care what was in it if there was any chance it might stop the pounding in his head.
     
    The next order of business was the bathroom, where he discovered that the night had been more interesting than he'd remembered. He fervently wished he could remember exactly what had happened.
     
    *              *              *
     
    They didn't leave the party until after lunch on Saturday. John dropped Jillian off and headed straight home for a hot bath, more aspirin and a good night's sleep, and then spent Sunday relaxing. By Monday morning he was ready for a normal day at the office.
     
    After the beginning of the weekly staff meeting, John dove into a new and rather