section7mfu | Feast Days - 'Short Affair' Challenge

Prompts – Intake/Brown
Word Count (approx.) – 600

I’m not sure of the history of the name of the food item mentioned in this story (though the thing itself has been around for centuries), so I may be taking a hugely inaccurate liberty.

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To Illya Kuryakin, the way the Waverly home had been decorated for Christmas reminded him of something out of Dickens. His wonderment at the sumptuous opulence was at war with the outraged communist in him. However, the Russian’s respect and admiration for his boss allowed him to accept his surroundings.

Illya, along with Napoleon and the heads of the other sections within U.N.C.L.E., had been invited to Christmas lunch by Mrs Waverly. It was his first visit to the house and it was leaving him feeling a little overwhelmed.

“You okay, Tovarisch?” Solo asked.

“I’m fine,” came the prompt reply. “I’m just not used to this kind of thing.”

“What’s to worry about? You know everyone here, and you’ve met Mrs Waverly before”

Illya acknowledged the point. Besides, if he couldn’t get comfortable, he could fake it without even trying.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

A little while later, following a, very nice, salmon starter, Illya was feeling much more relaxed. Mrs Waverly had put a ban on shop talk, yet the conversation still steered itself to the political situations on the world. Out of deference to the Russian present, no-one mentioned the Soviet Union. For this, Illya was immensely grateful. He suspected that either Waverly or Napoleon had had a quiet word with everyone beforehand.

As the conversation progressed, and the drink flowed, a trolley bearing the main course was wheeled into the dining room. As the cloche was lifted from a large charger, there was a collective intake of breath. Illya was sure that the glistening, golden brown thing which was revealed was some sort of turkey, but it looked a bit deformed. Napoleon saw the confusion on his partner’s face and whispered to him that it was a turducken.

“A what?”

“It’s a chicken, inside a duck, inside a turkey,” Solo explained, before frowning at Illya’s look of disapproval. “What’s wrong with that?”

“All over the world, people are starving,” Illya stated, keeping his voice low. “Even in this city, there are people who are dying from lack of food. I know I eat more than is necessary, but isn’t it a little ostentatious to have three birds when one would be more than sufficient?”

“Of course it is,” Napoleon hissed back. “That’s the point. Did you not have feast days back in the motherland?”

“Well, yes. But. . .”

“But nothing,” Solo interrupted. “Are you telling me that there weren’t gatherings of people, all eating the best food that could be brought together in one place?”

Illya found he couldn’t deny it. As with most places in his homeland, food was often scarce, but there was always a concerted effort to gather plenty for feast days. They were days of thankfulness and togetherness, as well as joy and celebration. Those sorts of days deserved the best which could be provided.

“You are completely right my friend,” he conceded. “The only difference between there and here is that here you have better access to better produce.”

“Precisely.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Mr Waverly called down the table.

“We were just discussing this wonderful meal,” Solo told him.

The Old Man harrumphed as he stood up to make a toast. Everyone held up their glasses.

“Around this table we have many nationalities and cultures. We may have come from very different backgrounds, with different traditions and forms of belief, but we all share a common purpose. To peace and security.”

“To peace and security,” the gathering echoed.

“Now, let us start on this, quite unnecessary, assemblage of poultry.”

The End