Time's Up

A curtain, says Terence.

Why would Ivan go hunting with a curtain? asks Saint Roley. 

To hide behind, says Terence.

I don't think so, says Saint Roley. In my mind a kaftan is some sort of coat.

What's un coat? asks Baby-Glossy.

A jacket, says Saint Roley. So Ivan took off his jacket and covered the baby birds with it.

I don't think it's un jacket, says Baby-Glossy. That would not please the parents.

How do you know? asks Terence.

Baby-Glossy looks sad. 

I don't know, says Baby-Glossy. But I think un kaftan is soft, warm and woolly.

It probably is, says Saint Roley. 

Did he get it back? asks Terence.

That is not specified in the story, says Saint Roley. I suppose so. 

Good, says Terence. Was he wearing it when he got pushed out to sea in a boat?

That again is not specified, says Saint Roley. And you were told not to interrupt the story.

But it's finished, says Terence, And it's still not morning. Tell us another one.

I'll start one, says Saint Roley, but it spans nine hundred years, so you may not hear the ending.

We don't care, says Terence.

This is the story of the Children of Lir, says Saint Roley. They were turned into swans by a jealous stepmother. 

Were they boys? asks Terence. 

Three boys and a girl, says Saint Roley. The girl was the smartest. She asked the stepmother to set a limit.

If she was so smart, says Terence, why didn't she ask the stepmother not to do it?

That's not how curses work, says Saint Roley. The stepmother agreed to the limit.

What is un limit? asks Baby-Glossy.

When time's up, says Saint Roley. So the limits she set were: three hundred years on Loch Dairbhreach, three hundred years on Sruth na Maoilé, and three hundred years on Iorrus Domnann. Each place was more frigid than the last. Their feet stuck to the ice. It was awful. They prayed to be protected.

Who to? asks Terence.

The King of Heaven, says Saint Roley. I don't know who that was, at the time. But the upshot was, they were protected.

With a kaftan? asks Baby-Glossy.

No way, says Terence. What they needed was shoes.

Neither, says Saint Roley. They just didn't die of the cold.

Woop, says Terence.

After nine hundred years they went back to where they had come from, continues Saint Roley. But Lir was long dead. and the place was deserted.

Were they swans then, or children? asks Terence.

Still swans, says Saint Roley. 

But you said...., says Terence.

Times up, says Saint Roley, as the first sunbeam turns the sky rosy.