[The Action of this story took place about three years after that of “The Ladies Man”. Life at Midgard-Hebrides was drawing to a close; proposals and acceptances were far more common than on that eventful day when Sahil had thrown down the gauntlet to Taryn K., and there was scarce a chap in that old Scottish Castle who hadn’t, at some time or another, admitted to having gone sentimental about a girl. Roxanne, the first Elveren Flame, had left to pursue her education in more balmy climes. This, then, is the story of the last great romance of Midgard Hebrides]
The Saint Valentine, after whom the day in February is named, was a Priest in Rome, possibly a bishop. He was imprisoned for giving aid to martyrs in prison, and while there, converted the jailer by restoring sight to the jailer's daughter.
There are several theories about the origin of Valentine's Day celebrations. Some believe the Romans had a mid-February custom where boys drew girls' names in honour of the sex and fertility goddess, Februata Juno; pastors "baptised" this holiday, like some others, by substituting the names of saints such as Valentine to suppress the practice. Others maintain that the custom of sending Valentines on 14 February stems from the belief that birds begin to pair on that date. By 1477 the English associated lovers with the feast of Valentine because on that day "every bird chooses him a mate." The custom started of men and women writing love letters to their Valentine on this day. Other "romance" traditions have become attached to this feast, including pinning bay leaves to your pillow on Valentine's Eve so that you will see your future mate that night in your dreams.
But this isn’t a treatise on the origin of the Festival that has made billions of dollars for Greeting-Card companies. It’s just a Valentine Day story from the Midgard-Hebrides Chronicles.
Arabella Radeyevna was one of those girls it was impossible not to like – especially if you were a red-blooded male. She was friendly, intelligent, had no ‘airs’ whatsoever (though she well might have, given the adulation she excited), sensible – which is quite a different thing – and a delightful, if sometimes dangerous, disrespect for authority. Though I doubt most of her ardent devotees were much bothered about any of these sterling qualities – they rarely looked beyond that fact that she bore a striking resemblance, from head to toe, to Kylie Minogue. Add to this her uncanny ability to make anything she wore, including the drab, grey, school skirt, look like something out of a Valentino Catalogue, and you can see why it wasn’t unusual to find lovesick swains trying to scribble verses dedicated to her in the quiet nooks and crannies of Midgard-Hebrides High School. Besides, ever since she had, at the previous year’s Christmas Bash, kissed Apollonia Gogol, another acknowledged beauty, on two separate occasions, in full view of the school, her stock had risen to stratospheric heights among all right-thinking men.
Given all this it’s hardly surprising that a certain Elver named Jormund found himself quite ecstatic when ensconced on the picturesque hedge of the picturesque garden that bordered the picturesque heritage building where we had our classrooms.
What we spoke about for the first half-hour is…ahem…immaterial, and has no bearing on this story. Suffice to say that I had been on the verge of saying something devastatingly clever when she cut me off by saying,
“I’m worried about Joshhound. He seems to be terribly depressed these days.”
I thought this was a most unwelcome change of subject.
“This is a most unwelcome change of subject, Arabella,” I said accordingly.
Like legions of women were to do after her, Arabella ignored my objection and continued,
“I wish you’d talk to him.”
“Me?”
“You!”
“I hardly know the feller!” I protested.
“Yes you do. I saw you waking home with him after school last week.”
“Well he lives in the next lane. But I don’t really know him!”
“Nonsense. You must go and find out why he’s so down. He won’t talk to me so it must be a guy thing.”
“I don’t see why you’re SO concerned about a silly chimp like Joshhound anyway,” I muttered resentfully.
“He’s not a chimp. My best friend in the whole world, Rita Stringthing likes him very much. She can’t bear to see him like this. But the poor thing is so shy she won’t talk to him. And so she wants me to talk to him. But he won’t talk to me. I tried to talk to him when we were putting up the decorations for the Valentine’s Day Party in the Biology Lab. He insists nothing’s wrong. But I know something’s wrong. He has such a moony look about him,” she spouted out in a breathless soprano.
“But I don’t see where I come into this!”
This objection met the same fate as the earlier one.
“You’ll do it won’t you?”
Of course I said yes. It was against my finer judgment, no doubt. A little voice in my head told me that nothing good would come out of it. Another one – I must’ve been borderline schizophrenic – told me I would be best served by keeping my fingers out of this particular pie. But when someone like Arabella looks up at you out of her earnest grey eyes, with her hands clasped in appeal and her cheeks aglow with excitement, you tend to say yes. It’s a law of nature.
“Right now, I mean,” she added.
“What? Now?” I protested, “I don’t even know where he is right now!”
“I mean after school, Jormund. You two can walk home together and share confidences!”
“Yes yes all right, I’ll do it,” I said, as the bell rang to announce the end of the lunch break and the commencement of Geography Class (for me) and English Literature (for her), and we walked our separate ways.
“The things a chap will do for a woman with a figure like that!” I muttered to myself as I entered the classroom.
“Did you say something?” asked Mrs. B., our Geography teacher, a fearsome woman with the face and build of a rhinoceros and ears sharper than a CIA bug.
“Nnnno, ma’m, nothing ma’m, I was just memorizing the figures for rainfall requirements for the kharif season, ma’m.”
“Good,” she said with a cruel smile, “then you can share with the class your observations thereon. Please take the floor, Mr. Elver…I think this will be very interesting.”
I threw up my hands and took my place at the centre of the platform. This was going to be a long 40 minutes.
* * * * *
The Saint Valentine, after whom the day in February is named, was a Priest in Rome, possibly a bishop. He was imprisoned for giving aid to martyrs in prison, and while there, converted the jailer by restoring sight to the jailer's daughter.
There are several theories about the origin of Valentine's Day celebrations. Some believe the Romans had a mid-February custom where boys drew girls' names in honour of the sex and fertility goddess, Februata Juno; pastors "baptised" this holiday, like some others, by substituting the names of saints such as Valentine to suppress the practice. Others maintain that the custom of sending Valentines on 14 February stems from the belief that birds begin to pair on that date. By 1477 the English associated lovers with the feast of Valentine because on that day "every bird chooses him a mate." The custom started of men and women writing love letters to their Valentine on this day. Other "romance" traditions have become attached to this feast, including pinning bay leaves to your pillow on Valentine's Eve so that you will see your future mate that night in your dreams.
But this isn’t a treatise on the origin of the Festival that has made billions of dollars for Greeting-Card companies. It’s just a Valentine Day story from the Midgard-Hebrides Chronicles.
Arabella Radeyevna was one of those girls it was impossible not to like – especially if you were a red-blooded male. She was friendly, intelligent, had no ‘airs’ whatsoever (though she well might have, given the adulation she excited), sensible – which is quite a different thing – and a delightful, if sometimes dangerous, disrespect for authority. Though I doubt most of her ardent devotees were much bothered about any of these sterling qualities – they rarely looked beyond that fact that she bore a striking resemblance, from head to toe, to Kylie Minogue. Add to this her uncanny ability to make anything she wore, including the drab, grey, school skirt, look like something out of a Valentino Catalogue, and you can see why it wasn’t unusual to find lovesick swains trying to scribble verses dedicated to her in the quiet nooks and crannies of Midgard-Hebrides High School. Besides, ever since she had, at the previous year’s Christmas Bash, kissed Apollonia Gogol, another acknowledged beauty, on two separate occasions, in full view of the school, her stock had risen to stratospheric heights among all right-thinking men.
Given all this it’s hardly surprising that a certain Elver named Jormund found himself quite ecstatic when ensconced on the picturesque hedge of the picturesque garden that bordered the picturesque heritage building where we had our classrooms.
What we spoke about for the first half-hour is…ahem…immaterial, and has no bearing on this story. Suffice to say that I had been on the verge of saying something devastatingly clever when she cut me off by saying,
“I’m worried about Joshhound. He seems to be terribly depressed these days.”
I thought this was a most unwelcome change of subject.
“This is a most unwelcome change of subject, Arabella,” I said accordingly.
Like legions of women were to do after her, Arabella ignored my objection and continued,
“I wish you’d talk to him.”
“Me?”
“You!”
“I hardly know the feller!” I protested.
“Yes you do. I saw you waking home with him after school last week.”
“Well he lives in the next lane. But I don’t really know him!”
“Nonsense. You must go and find out why he’s so down. He won’t talk to me so it must be a guy thing.”
“I don’t see why you’re SO concerned about a silly chimp like Joshhound anyway,” I muttered resentfully.
“He’s not a chimp. My best friend in the whole world, Rita Stringthing likes him very much. She can’t bear to see him like this. But the poor thing is so shy she won’t talk to him. And so she wants me to talk to him. But he won’t talk to me. I tried to talk to him when we were putting up the decorations for the Valentine’s Day Party in the Biology Lab. He insists nothing’s wrong. But I know something’s wrong. He has such a moony look about him,” she spouted out in a breathless soprano.
“But I don’t see where I come into this!”
This objection met the same fate as the earlier one.
“You’ll do it won’t you?”
Of course I said yes. It was against my finer judgment, no doubt. A little voice in my head told me that nothing good would come out of it. Another one – I must’ve been borderline schizophrenic – told me I would be best served by keeping my fingers out of this particular pie. But when someone like Arabella looks up at you out of her earnest grey eyes, with her hands clasped in appeal and her cheeks aglow with excitement, you tend to say yes. It’s a law of nature.
“Right now, I mean,” she added.
“What? Now?” I protested, “I don’t even know where he is right now!”
“I mean after school, Jormund. You two can walk home together and share confidences!”
“Yes yes all right, I’ll do it,” I said, as the bell rang to announce the end of the lunch break and the commencement of Geography Class (for me) and English Literature (for her), and we walked our separate ways.
“The things a chap will do for a woman with a figure like that!” I muttered to myself as I entered the classroom.
“Did you say something?” asked Mrs. B., our Geography teacher, a fearsome woman with the face and build of a rhinoceros and ears sharper than a CIA bug.
“Nnnno, ma’m, nothing ma’m, I was just memorizing the figures for rainfall requirements for the kharif season, ma’m.”
“Good,” she said with a cruel smile, “then you can share with the class your observations thereon. Please take the floor, Mr. Elver…I think this will be very interesting.”
I threw up my hands and took my place at the centre of the platform. This was going to be a long 40 minutes.
* * * * *
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