A Sudden Glut of Gluttons

[Treadwell]

Morning of the fourth day of the second month, 212.

Around a week past, Porcus, the Mother Pig, experienced at long last what she's wanted for the entirety of her existence; she finally sufficently aroused Hoggum, her would-be mate prone to utter laziness, who promptly quite excitedly impregnated the both eternally ready and eternally expecting sow. To Porcus, growing along with her pregnant, earthly children and delivering their spirits from her womb to their mortal bodies for their ultimate birthing is certainly splendid, but becoming a mother to her own litter, her own children, who would stay and grow alongside their parents--this is most important!

However, the Glutton is a threefold god. While he, the source of the three forms, is above the interactions of the others, unaffected by them and lost to his own raging voracity, the Mother Pig's immense fecundity has a long-reaching impact on someone else.

Tubbius, dozing in his plain, awaiting the natural seasonal changes, begins to mirror his porcine counterpart's gradual growth in his own way without being fully aware of it. Roots slowly dig not only deep but wide, pulsing and pushing and growing in girth as they spread through moist, soft ground. In his world, this will have a single result that is to be expected: his own roundness expanding even more, causing the Great One to take up even more acreage both above and below the ground. But in other places?

Across the continent, the land belonging to each church of Tubbian faithful has begun to experience, as of the first of this month, what looks to be an early spring, with plants and ground both beginning a revival despite frost and cold and plague and the natural rhythms of seasons. In most regions, this change is relatively minor, since many of the Tubbian churches sit on relatively small plots by comparison to the estates of lords from the surrounding areas, and many of the churches hold few members to be the focus of such divine blessings.

The church in Myrken Wood is the most significantly affected. For going on three days now, the lands at the church--and, notably, nowhere else in the Wood!--have begun a rapid blossoming regardless of it being the middle of winter, quickly coming into rampant regrowth.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the seventeenth day of the second month, 212.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell is awake well before dawn on a snow-blanketed Myrken Wood, lying in bed in the dark beside his dear Alice. One hand rests on his belly and one on hers while she snores mightily and asleep.

A few nights ago at the toy shop, he had a most unsettling, though short, sudden awareness of pregnancies all over Myrken Wood. This would be normal for him were they all porcine in nature, but these were mortal, human pregnancies.

The knowledge quickly faded, leaving Treadwell his normal, old self, but the fact that he knew this much, however briefly, has left him puzzled and largely unable to sleep at night since. Thus, he finally sinks back into cushiony covers and cushiony pillows (and cushiony wife!) from being completely tuckered out.

As Tubbius, he hopes to find some answers. The Glutton is caught in his own shoveling of food and drink, and Porcus delights in her feasting on slop and awaiting the eventual birth of her children, but Tubbius is more patient and more observant. As Treadwell again feels himself nudged into the increasingly bloated body of the Great God with roots spread far below, he gives a low, rumbling call for his beloved portly, elderly, gravid counterpart.

"Marrrrta?"

"Marta's ill, Pop Pop," comes the familiar squeak of the rotund, white-bearded scholar, Libri, from Tubbius's right side. "In fact, in a sense, you could say that she's ill because it's your fault simply for being what you are. You're getting so big among your followers that she's quite nearly dwindling away to nothing."

Libri's fleshy, sweaty palm pats lightly at his father's middle while Tubbius peers down.

"She's officially only revered as her own deity by a very few now. Most mortals who know about her nowadays. . . well, they're your own faithful, dearest Poppa, Great Belly! And with word of your miraculous deliveries and upcoming holy litter as Porcus spreading as wide as your fat belly itself--!"

Libri chuckles merrily.

"Divinity fades, and time in the sun passes, but little mortal lives have to go on! Have you not noticed you've been as enamored by babies and birthing and the like as of late as you have been about feeding your own precious middles, in all your forms?"

There's a pause from the Scholar, who gives a fat, face-stretching grin as he pokes a finger deep into Tubbius's fleshy side.

"You're in a slow, steady period of transition, Pop Pop! It will take some time, but soon, by our standards if not those of the little folks, in terms of mortal generations down the road, unless much changes 'tween now and then, dear old Marta will be gone completely, and dear old Tubbius will know a bit more about. . . well, a bit more!"

[Treadwell]

Afternoon of the twenty-first day of the second month, 212.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell snores mightily in his pink pajamas in his bed at the toy shop, having finally nodded off from a heavy drowsiness brought on by a belly too full.

What his consciousness experiences next is majestic and disturbing and odd.

The feeling of great-bellied pregnancy is one that the divinely based fellow is familiar with from his celestial times as Porcus. However, that is always in a pig's body. . .

. . . not a fat, elderly woman's.

Breasts are swollen and full, and belly is the same. Knowledge of the multitude of mortal baby spirits and bodies within is total . . . and surprising.

A gasp of breath and a rub of middle follow a few hesitant steps, and a soft, clear pool of water is enough of a mirror to confirm a familiar, maternal appearance: the long, flowing, white robe, the greatly rounded belly, the soft, fleshy jowls visible without Treadwell's and Tubbius's and the Glutton's usual beards, snowy hair up top.

One gently placed, fleshy, sweaty hand in a black sleeve is enough to make the mother-to-be jump a bit, turning to face Libri, the Scholar, who softly smiles.

"Father--or should I call you Mother, now? In your mortal, waking time, The Creator has decreed that with Marta's quickly fading health from the dispersal of her faithful and her churches, displaced by death and lack of belief and separation of one from the other, comes a most urgent need to rebuild, to grow, to redistribute heavenly bodies, Pop-Pop!"

A slow nod of the head is given, and Libri's hand goes from the side of an elbow to the side of the belly.

"Marta's consciousness, just as your own sea beast body, has faded. Her faithful are simply too few and too. . . too apathetic! She's gone, Pop-Pop." A moment is given to let that sink in. "But the mortals must have their Great Mother, whether they know it or not or whether they truly care."

The easy rubbing to the middle continues, thumb smushing about in the navel a moment.

"The Creator feels it is your job to make them care again! Her body is now your fourth in your divine shapes. In this frame, you are Marta, just as she was. You'll find it quite familiar, like a certain fat, pink pig we know so much about! The Tubbians grow fat and spread wide, and they're the natural source for any faith in Marta, not a church of her own, what with her being seen as Tubbius's counterpart, you dear old. . . girl! Hee hee!"

The bamboozled newly maternal goddess clears her throat and shudders. "Libri, what are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you, dear Tubb-Tubb, that you're going to learn a great deal, hee hee, very quickly, about what your dear wife has put up with for all her ages! You're taking her place, Pop-Pop, in addition to your other bodies! You'll take in the nourishment of her faithful--few though they currently are, as well as any to come--and yours together! And it's now your role to see that your new role is fulfilled--that your new body finds new followers! If it helps, look at it like this: pregnant mothers have to eat, too, hee hee! Start with your Tubbians! Encourage them to make little Tubbians, hee hee!" Thus the Scholar gives a playful bobble-bounce of his belly and thrust forward at the waist, bursting into an explosion of stomach-rolling laughter.

With that merry, giggly, belly-rolling announcement from his divine son, Aloisius Treadwell jerks awake in his bed, awash in sweat and trembling. A hand goes instinctively to his enormous middle, patting there as his back creaks and quietly squeaks.

"Merciful heavens, Old Glutton, what has the Creator--bless His name!--done to you, now?"

[Treadwell]

Nearly midnight of the twenty-third day of the second month, 212.

Aloisius Treadwell has been giving his new circumstances a great deal of thought today, leaving the toy shop locked tight while pondering long and heavy on the situation. He's spent most of the day between enjoying the warmth of his fireside bathtub and feasting at his usual mealtimes and, now, as it nears midnight, he has nodded off, focusing his energies into the new form pressed upon him by the Creator.

Libri had belly laughed and guffawed and nearly rolled about with hilarity on suggesting that this new Marta "Encourage the Tubbians to make little Tubbians!"

That wouldn't be quite a bad idea at all, the Great Mother had decided.

So, in a fashion like when Tubbius slipped away to visit one Alice Treadwell some time past, she eases into the drowsy, sleepy dreams of the Tubbian men of all ages who have taken wives--appearing, of course, to each in the form of his own beloved! It's a very simple matter to encourage and to arouse, leaving these men--all middle-aged or older and all quite rotund--to wake sleepily and ready.

Not every wife, of course, is equally enthusiastic!

However, by the morning, when Treadwell is tired and yawning as he wobbles about the toy store, a fair smattering of Tubbian babies are in the making, Marta is rubbing her belly with a smile and resting in a couch, and Tubbius is feeling roots gently spreading out in the dirt, finally reaching a new, wonderfully pleasant reservoir of water there as rain gently falls on the plump elder's body above.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the seventeenth day of the third month, 212.

It's cool and windy outside in Myrken Wood, with a touch of drizzling rain over the Church of Tubbius. That, however, is where Aloisius Treadwell is today, sprawled out at the usual dining hall table, being a great, bloated tub as his beady eyes squintily study the stacks of empty plates and mugs before him. Part of him wants to take a nap. The rest of him wants to go enjoy the warm, toasty bubbliness of the hot spring beneath the church.

"Why not do both, hmm hmm?" echoes his squeak of a voice in the great hall as he pauses to look at a stained glass image of Tubbius hanging from a chain above the center of the table.

Thus, he waggles a hand to get the attention of two of his faithful Tubbians, and with their offering of helping hands, Tready wobbles to his feet and takes his cane when they give it to him. Off to the warmth of the hot spring he goes, soon to slip out of his Tubbian robe and other garments and into the lovely heat of the water bubbling and popping there in its own little cave. Soon enough, his snores can be heard rolling loud and long.

It seems that Tready will have himself a very good day.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the twenty-first day of the fifth month, 212.

These last few days have seen a lazy, sluggish Treadwell, one caught up with indulging himself feasting at the table and spending hours each day napping in bed.

In fact, that readily sums up his last couple months.

Now, the Councilor of Revenue and Finance has paused in his end of the month tax collecting to stop off at the Church of Tubbius for an early lunch and a short soak in his hot spring below the sanctuary. However, as he toddles out of the water to the fluffy pink towel he means to dry himself with, he receives a sharp, breathtaking surprise.

With a disappointed grunt, his doctor, standing there in his own round-bellied glory, reaches out to give the naked Tubbian deity in the flesh a solid poke in the belly button.

"Holy Tubbius," the grumpy gent begins, "I've put off and put off our usual monthly meeting these four and a half, and a little more, months because you spoke to put my mind at ease about your ever-fattening frame. Rest assured, though, that I've surely been watching you all the while, feasting and stuffing yourself, laboring for breath after the shortest of walks, struggling and worming futilely to squeeze into your pajamas and your robes."

Treadwell merely snorts at that assessment, truthful as it all is.

"I don't need to measure anything right now; I can tell looking at you that you've just gotten bigger in the interim. So, I have a single question for you."

"Oh, Doctor? What is it, hmm hmm?" With that said, Treadwell, starting to shiver just a little away from the steamy warmth of the spring, turns and wobbles back down into the would-be tub, there to settle back in with wheezy huffs and a final, happy sigh as he slides into place amid the slick, muddy ground and the hot, bubbly water.

Doctor Jacobson merely grins wide. "I've come to a satisfactory conclusion, after much meditation and prayer and study of my scriptures! Yes, My Lord Tubbius, I know that I often seem as if I believe the least in your holy mission and commands, with my nagging you about your mortal body's girth. . . but I've come to understand that you simply will not allow anything untoward to happen to you as a result of your size and your weight! May you grow blessedly large forever! In fact, I come to you this morning with a renewed faith and a burning desire to help that along!"

Aloisius chuckles where he rests. He was expecting this, of course; as Tubbius, he has watched the doctor's struggles and heard his fervent prayers. The old fellow merely nods, listening. "Your question, Doctor?"

"Your birthday--your sixty-seventh in this glorious body!--is a mere eleven days distant! I want there to be a suitable feast, Holy One! I've already told the bakers who worship here to begin working all they can to assure ample supplies for it, but I've come to a troublesome question."

"Hmmmm?" Tready slides a little lower into the mud and the bubbly, warm water, very much enjoying this return to toasty peace and comfort.

The doctor takes the few steps over, bends down as far as his own belly will let him, and reaches to slap--then rub in hearty, happy circles--the tax collector's exposed gut.

"Dear and Holy Tubbius, our father, our source of all comfort and happiness, what kinds of cakes do you want on your birthday?"

[Treadwell]

The twenty-ninth day of the fifth month, 212, before a late lunch.

The Church of Tubbius is a bit warm and a little stuffy, and it is so thanks to good reason. A request from Treadwell sent out yesterday afternoon demanded total attendance at a special service, called on short notice. However, this time, all men were asked to bring their wives, for their spiritual leader had an important announcement. Now, with so many round-bellied men and women nearly overflowing their pews and seats, the yellow-robed, yellow-mitered fellow at the pulpit clears his throat and begins.

"Dearest Tubbians, male and female both! I shall not keep the lot of you long here, hmm hmm, but I called you together to make an announcement!" Treadwell's head bobs up and down on the man's roly-poly neck. "It is something that a good many of you, particularly you women-folk, might know about already, but it merits awareness, either way! Just over three months ago, mmph mmph, every married man in this room and every woman married to him were visited and blessed."

Much quiet muttering and whispering fills the church sanctuary for a moment before Treadwell resumes.

"Marta, the mother goddess, beloved of Tubbius, saw fit to, in her divine wisdom and glory, bless every wedded man and woman here assembled with the precious gift, hmm hmm, of impending motherhood, despite age, despite weight, despite past history of having many children or none at all." Another nod sets Treadwell's nose and jowls a-quiver. "But our Marta is not cruel, nor is she heartless! She does not gift couples with such who are unable to see it through! All of you will be healthy and happy, and your infants the same, throughout the rest of these precious months and into their births! All that Marta asks, hmm hmm, is faith, dear families, that all will be well."

By this point, eyes are wide, bellies are being gently rubbed, and husbands are being squooshily hugged tight.

"Should you worry about your ability to feed yourselves or your new offspring, hmm hmm, know you that there is always food and drink here for the faithful when asked! Should you worry about your ability to deliver these children, for some of you, hmm hmm, are new mothers and others are a little older, worry not, for you will be provided for with all the best of care! Tubbius, hmm hmm, and Marta will see to your safety and your care for now and forever forward!"

With that all said, Treadwell turns to waddle away from the pulpit, offering a short benediction and a hearty, warm smile to all. The group dismisses from sanctuary to dining hall, the atmosphere one that is mostly a mix of merriment and delight. The men exchange tales of their own upbringing and, for many, past experiences as fathers; the women do much the same with their past times as mothers, with a frenzied, generally happy approach. And Treadwell, of course, is cornered and blocked into his chair as he eats, with endless questions--how many babies, when they will be born, hair color, eye color, how big they will be, their sexes, and so on. But, eyes twinkling, pointer finger waggling, and smile stretching enormously, the head Tubbian answers none of the sort--yet!--and heartily encourages giving praise to Tubbius and to Marta through feasting and singing.

The rest of the day is spent, for most, either napping or working at home. For Treadwell, it is a time of snoring quite soundly in the privacy of his hot spring below, happily drifting through divine bodies and feeling growth all around.

[Treadwell]

The first day of the sixth month, 212.

"Aloisius, you're sixty-seven years old, not some child being given a toy on his birthday! What is the point of celebrating another year added onto it all?"

"Dearest, I'm not the only one having a birthday today, mmph mmph! You're another year older, too, you know, so the least you can do is dress up, leave the children here with the maids and butler, and come to the church with me for a right proper feast, hmm hmm!"

That was this morning. Once Aloisius Treadwell convinced his Alice to come along to the Church of Tubbius, the rest of the day from breakfast through lunch was a wild flurry of Tubbian celebration: an unending feast of food, sweets, and, most importantly, cakes for all at the church. Alice, of course, has her fill long before her husband; she is merely a normal human being, unlike him with his endless voracity, and she toddles away to a bedroom next to Tready's church office soon enough. For Aloisius, though, the day is a body-plumping, tummy-stretching, drowsiness-inducing buffet that yields only to growing lethargy and buttons on his clothes tightening to insufferable levels. Soon enough, he joins his wife in bed, the two of them snoring quite soundly for the rest of the afternoon while his followers work merrily and hastily to clean up the dining hall before they sleep, as well.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the fifteenth day of the seventh month, 212.

Summer's heat hangs over Myrken Wood, just as it has for the last weeks.

While most of the town's residents find this a minor inconvenience, or even something preferable to winter's cold, an increasingly large selection of them see this as being horribly unbearable: the Tubbians.

Thus it is that on this morning, as the church members' breakfasts are being laid out on their dining hall's table, that Aloisius Treadwell wobbles into his church's sanctuary wearing simply his bright yellow, one-piece pajama jumper and a visible layer of sweat, compared to the multi-layered outfits of all the other Tubbians. To the astonished gasps and blushes of all attending, the mortal embodiment of Tubbius makes a new decree: on days like today, all Tubbians may thus go about similarly attired, since, given the "Mmph mmph! Naturally and blessedly large shapes of all us right butterballs here, hmm hmm!", it is the safest thing to do for everyone's health rather than to risk all of them getting far, far too hot for their own goods. So, with a short break for the great relief of disrobing down to pajamas and gowns, the portly, round-bodied men and women of Tubbius waddle off gratefully as Treadwell slips into quiet meditation at the head of the dining room table. As Tubbius, he reaches out to his other children across Amasynia, putting sudden stops to Tubbian services everywhere to deliver mental peeks at the scene and a divine command to all Tubbians to do the same!

[Treadwell]

Morning of the twenty-fourth day of the eighth month, 212.

It's after breakfast, midway toward lunch, and Aloisius Treadwell, wearing only his yellow pajamas, snores heavily where he lies in his bed. Today is a lazy, slow day. Thus, he has dreamily slipped into the blissful comfort of the Glutton's divine bodies. Given the growing (in size and number!) multitude of mothers-to-be in Myrken Wood, especially among the Tubbian women, his first coming to consciousness is in the ever-gravid, ever-swollen shape of Marta, the Great Mother.

As Aloisius Treadwell drifts off to sleep, his body finding time to settle and renew from its host of mortal infirmities, Marta gently eases awake with a yawn on her lips, a smile on her face, and a child's expectant bump in her womb. Like Tready, she, too, is dressed down for comfort and rest--as she always is, for her times of delivery are many and often. A slow stretch of her portly, elderly self sees her to her feet, walking on a fluffy, soft, cloudlike floor. Her first visit, though, is not from one of her numerous attendants used to seeing her for the many, many years of her existence. It's from a certain plump-bellied visitor in a long, black robe with wispy, white hair on a mostly bald head.

"Mother!" is soft, but with a squeak of old age, as pudgy arms go up and billowy sleeves flow around. The scholar carefully squooshes up in a gentle hug, giving Marta a pleasant rub to her middle after a moment. "Well, old Tubb-Tubb, I see you've adjusted to this all quite, quite well these last few months! You look splendid!"

At that, Marta nods her head and smiles. Of course, the Scholar is right; the early fear and trepidation and hesitance has given way to a natural acceptance of the role, with Marta slipping right into her natural order with less and less focus on that of Tubbius or Porcus or even of the Glutton. It's been a most successful transition: seamless to mortal followers, enjoyable to the Glutton as His expanse and influence grow.

"Now, Mother, why don't we go find something to eat, hmm? I, for one, am ravenous, and you, for another, are eating for quite a few! Hee hee!" So, with a giggle of her own, Marta slips her feet into fluffy, comfy slippers, and down the halls of her home they wobble, side by side, the Scholar's arm around her waist.

And in Myrken Wood, Aloisius H. Treadwell continues to snore along, peacefully dreaming in a good morning's nap.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the twenty-fourth day of the second month, 212

A look back, before a look present.

It is the lunch hour for Aloisius H. Treadwell and family, the lot of them sprawled out, stuffed and full, around the dining table being cleared by servants. One particular servant, at a whispered request from Mrs. Treadwell, nods her old head and merrily sends the older children scurrying off to other rooms, turning to lock all of the doors to the dining room before politely excusing herself with their youngest in her own plump arms.

It is at this that Myrken's heftiest old gentleman gives a bleary, sleepy-eyed squint at his beloved, who has taken to her feet and toddled over the short distance to his chair, her hands on her happily burbling middle.

"Alice, my love, mmph mmph. . . What's the meaning of all this? Why did old Barbara just shush our children out the door, hmm hmm, and lock up the two of us in here by ourselves?"

"Why? Why indeed, Aloisius? Does your wife have to give a more direct hint that she wishes to spend some time with you?"

Treadwell scratches lazily at his overfed, gurgly belly, shrugging his shoulders.

"I suppose not, but you didn't have to run the children away. I quite enjoy their company, beloved, ahem!"

"Then why don't we--" a giggle escapes the rotund matron's lips--"fashion them another sibling or two to match them?"

The old butterball's eyes flit and flap behind their owner's massive glasses. "You can't be serious, darling! At our ages! At our sizes! Why--"

"Why not? You've prattled all morning about how you visited every Tubbian wife in the province as Marta last night, arousing them and their husbands and prompting, ahem, marital relations among your believers!" A hand slips from her stomach to his, resting there on his navel. "Every Tubbian wife in the province but one, Aloisius!"

The corpulent councilor just sits there, flabby and silent.

"Aloisius, I will be as plain and as blunt as a wife ought not to be! I want another baby--yes, in my old age, yes, in my fat body, and yes, I know that you and I can manage it just fine! If you could put our last bun in the oven from a half a countryside away just because I was a-praying and lamenting in the middle of my very late change of life, I'm quite sure you can undo that change and do more than that when you're in the same bedroom!"

"B-but dearest! We've still an infant barely a year old cooing and crying about, yet!"

"And what's wrong with another, Allie, or another two? We've enough staff here to help care for them, I've not a thing to do all day other than be a dutiful mother, and you?"

Alice gives a mischievous, wicked smile as she traces a fat finger back and forth and up across the curve of her husband's gut, finally poking him deep between his flabby bosom.

"You've said time and again as of late--this week!--that you've had to accept being the Great Mother Herself in body! That confuses me, Allie, and dearly, but if you're secretly the Great Mother Herself in some of your night's dreams. . . ." Down comes the finger to jab soundly into his belly button. "Then I know that She is a most elderly, most pregnant old mother, too, the model for all of us--" a hand to her own breast, dramatically. "I refuse to be the only Tubbian wife without a baby-to-be in her belly, and besides. . . . If you truly are Marta?"

Treadwell nods shakily, quivering out a "Y-yes?"

"Then you are going to enjoy and know every waking moment of it all, too!"

Night of the ninth day of the tenth month, 212.

It is the supper hour for Aloisius H. Treadwell and family, the lot of them sprawled out, stuffed and full, around the dining table being cleared by servants. One particular servant, at a whispered request from Mrs. Treadwell, nods her old head and merrily sends the older children scurrying off to other rooms, turning to lock all of the doors to the dining room before politely excusing herself with their youngest in her own plump arms.

"Aloisius?"

"Mmmmmmm?"

"Why, by all the gods involved, did I ever have you put another baby in me?"

Miserable. Burning up. Swollen heavier than her usual size that would match her husband under normal circumstances. About to pop, and wincing at the reasonably regular fidgets and motions within in the womb hidden by fleshy rolls and a light pink gown, stained in sweat.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell can't resist a hearty, merry chortle where he sits. He is similarly dressed, after a fashion: a matching pink pajama jumper, one-piece, with an equally rose-tinted, fluffy robe tied very loosely around his stomach.

"Another two, Love. I've told you many, many times you've a baby boy and girl in there, and both of them are destined to be leaders in the Church of Tubbius, being blessed by all of the forms of the Glutton, both!"

"Aloisius! I never thought you would take me seriously--and-and-and use divine influences to see this through! We--we're sixty-seven years of age! What right have I trying to--"

"Nuh-unh-unnnh, Darling!" A fat finger wags sternly at the mother so nearly to be. "It's far too late for any of that. These children are miracles in their own right, and you will make it well enough through their births--our last, Love--and they will be healthy and fat and long of life, both! In fact, starting tomorrow morning, I'm having Bill come and spend his time here, mmph mmph."

"Bill Jacobson lets you grow fatter and older without even trying to stop you. What does he know about a woman's needs?"

"He's helped push out enough babies in his time, Dearest, and he's a wonderful doctor!" A snort quivers the old Tubbian's belly. "Now, let's get you off to bed for the night, hmm hmm? I've a bit to do in town, I think. Up! Carefully!"

So standing after much labor, Treadwell shuffles the few feet to Alice's chair, helping her upright herself. A warm, gentle, squooshy hug, with loving rub of the middle, is given, a warm smiling glowing on the old man's jowly face.

"This way, Alice. You need your rest, and I need to be out in the carriage!"

"Not in that clothing, you're not! You go put yourself on something proper--at least something the same shade!--before you go, old rascal!"

[Treadwell]

Morning of the seventeenth day of the eleventh month, 212.

Above ground, outside, the sun shines over Myrken Wood. Below, in the caves of New Hibera, the glowing lights of fairy bodies are generally bright enough to serve as lamps on their own, especially when the fairies are well fed. Given the seemingly incessant devotion of the fairies to Tubbius over the last couple of years, all of them are glowing very, very brightly, especially their king and his physician.

This morning, Richard Aengus lies abed, wearing only his pink, one-piece pajama jumper, with his flabby little arms resting on his enormous middle. He barely leaves his palace much any more, but his tubby little greenwing guards still go about as his messengers, providing the occasional glimpse around and above. A couple of weeks ago, his doctor accompanied them, peeking invisibly through Myrken Wood, their first and only destination being the house of Aloisius Treadwell, a man whom the fairies revere as much as the Tubbius he embodies.

"I tell you, Richard," the doctor currently warbles as he lazily scratches at his own fleshy side, identically dressed while lying there by his brother the king, "you and I. . . we simply must stop allowing ourselves to feast and grow and fatten so! We ought to maintain where we are, so pleasing to Tubbius, but dear brother. . . ." A sad glance goes to his right, where the king lies gently wheezing, "Tubbius might just call the both of us home if these old bodies can't handle the strain we're putting on them. We ought to be careful. We've grown too much these last two years."

Richard snorts and snuffs, massaging up and down his sides. "I feel perfectly fine, Orin, and I'm starving to boot!"

"Oooooh, don't you take so grumpy a tone with me, dear brother! We both know I've always been the sensible one, here, and we both know that neither one of us has any children! If we were to pass on right here just in the act of breathing, or when eating. . . why, the kingdom would be in chaos! Why, we're both about the same proportions as the blessed Lord Treadwell, but he--Tubbius be praised!--seems protected from the worst of crises we face at our ages and girths!"

"I'm surprised your wings could carry you all over Myrken, dear fellow. I can barely flit and flutter a tidbit above the floor, nowadays."

"It wasn't easy. Two guards were helping keep me aloft with an arm each. None of us did much other than bob and bobble just above the grass. It was dreadfully undignified."

"Now, what's this you were saying--children? Ha! I've no wife left alive, nor do you, and we can't just pull in women from the streets! Colors must be maintained! Whitewings are a bit more populous here, so you can find a suitable mate easily enough, but I'm the only pinkwing here left! There isn't another pinkwing, much less a pinkwing woman, here, and I can't make the trip to Old Hibera to exhume my late wife, restore her to breath and body, and impregnate her!"

Dr. Barrin pats a hand on his brother's belly. "Richard. . . . We'll find you someone. Somewhere! Why, tomorrow morning, we'll send out a call to all the fairy realms! A pinkwing queen for our Richard, and soon!"

[Treadwell]

Midnight of the twenty-second day of the eleventh month, going into the twenty-third, 212.

Mothers-to-be all over Myrken Wood and Amasynia, all married to their Tubbian husbands, all in decidedly plump or much larger stages of portliness themselves just like the husbands to whom they are wed. . .

Tonight, they all begin to feel the aches, the thumps, the pains, and the pangs of oncoming labor. It has been nine months, nearly to the day, since Marta, the great mother goddess, oversaw the creation of many, many new "little Tubbians" at her son's joking suggestion.

Midwives are summoned--the ones who aren't busy lying in bed waiting to deliver, themselves!--and various doctors are hastily tugged from sleep all over town, including Councilor Treadwell's personal physician and Tubbian follower, Dr. Bill Jacobson, who attends to the Councilor's beloved wife in the birth of her twin children.

In her own distant, divine realm, Marta, too, knows of this blissful agony of birth, as she herself feels the same throbs and thumps of infants ready to be born. She is, as she always is, being cared for by her own attendants and, this time, by her gleeful, jolly son, Libri the Scholar, who putters and toddles about in merriment, hoo-hahing and ho-hoing and largely staying in the way purely by accident wherever he goes.

[Treadwell]

Some time during the night of the first day of the twelfth month, 212.

Aloisius Treadwell has spent much of the last week and a half or so since returning home from Westenford dreadfully ill--partly due to the climate changes between the two places, and partly due to the after-effects of dealing with mass births by Porcus and Marta. The Glutton has done little but feast in his own realm, and Tubbius, of course, has done as little as possible. . . until tonight.

Tready had had the home and tailor shop of the late Regis Drivel teleported from Westenford to some bare land by the Tubbian church in Myrken Wood. It was costly for Treadwell and a bit upsetting for the Tubbians, but all adjusted nicely enough. Treadwell had mainly brought it all home to Myrken Wood so as not to lose the new belongings in the house; the shop was to be secondary.

However, the more he spent in the house, trying on an endlessly splendid variety of highly fashionable, fitting clothes, the more he wanted to do something about it all.

The night of the first is when Tubbius finally rouses from his lazy slumbers long enough to peer at the equally lazy spirit of Regis Drivel, devoted Tubbian in life, floating about near the Great Belly.

The request from the corpulent deity was more than a request; it was a command. "Join me, forevermore," Tubbius's voice and stomach rumbled to this newly arrived spirit--newly arrived of less than a month, at least. "My mortal body requires your knowledge and your loves, your desires! I would have you attend me!" At that, the rooted god scooped a hand out, gently pulling the agreeable Drivel to his side. A gentle smushing and rubbing about found the deity massaging the ghost seemingly away to visible nothingness, absorbing him into his own roly-poly, flabby frame.

The result was instantly felt by Aloisius, who roused mid-snore at home, feeling the usual hunger in his great stomach, but not moving to eat. No! As Alice Treadwell rolled over away from her husband, mumbling something in her sleep, the yellow-pajama wearing elder toddled creakily to his feet, rubbing his gut and relishing the sudden knowledge pouring through him: knowledge of everything at all that Regis Drivel had ever done, and most especially in terms of his profession!

The night of the first, Aloisius Treadwell slept not. He hastily scurried to dress, throwing on his yellow Tubbian robes, and out the door he toddled, saddling up Arnold for a ride to the newly imported tailor shop. On arrival, he removed the horse's saddle and tethered him, shuffling inside, settling into a great, wide rocking chair wonderfully cushioned. . . and beginning to sew quite feverishly.

By morning, he had a new blouse finished for his beloved Alice and was working on a pair of trousers for himself. He was pausing in sewing to measure his enormous waist, drawing a measuring rope around his girth and giggling merrily before bursting into jelly-quaking laughter. Newly having all of Mr. Drivel's memories and skills meant that, for the briefest of moments, he was conflicted and confused about a simple fact: Tready is about twice the weight and size that his tailor cousin was, and that prompted great belly-shaking merriment until he came back to his present senses and, flumping back into his rocker, resumed his sewing up a good pair of pants big enough to house Aloisius Treadwell's enormous rump and globby legs.

It was one more hat to wear, one more thing for folks to marvel and scratch their heads at. . . but by the twenty-first of the month, Aloisius H. Treadwell's new shop--"Tready's Threads"--would be doing splendid business, considerably more than his toy shop, which would be open for business only on the weekends for the time being.

It seemed that the Councilor was quite enjoying his new occupation.

[Treadwell]

Morning of the twenty-second day of the twelfth month, 212.

All was going quite well and cozy for an overfed Aloisius as he toddled about his new tailor shop in his bright red pajama jumper. . . until he remembered, as he worked through the still oncoming flood of thoughts and memories from Regis Drivel, a simple request that had been tacked on as part of the inheritance of house and shop.

"To Aloisius Horatio Treadwell of Westenford and Myrken Wood, I leave all of my possessions, provided he takes very good care of my beloved wife, Lilah, for the rest of her days!"

He has thus been a horribly nervous and jittery fellow for these last weeks, a situation compounded by having to deal with confusing and confounding waves of genuine love and heartwrenching remorse for a woman who had been the wife of a departed cousin he'd met often enough in life. Lilah had been on vacation when Regis had passed of a heart attack (one brought on by the sudden banging at the front door of his lawyer, one old Briggim Bottenbrotham), and, unknown to Treadwell, she had been hurrying all over Amasynia and Myrken in search of her seemingly stolen home and land.

The lightly portly woman in her forties found Aloisius in the tailor shop last night, scaring him half to death with an outburst of an entry. He fell into a faint, and, on awakening, Tready spent the rest of the night a battle of wills and mentalities: dear old Tready or long-winded, clipped-spoken, wheezy, soft-hearted Regis, who deeply longed to comfort his wife and spend his time with her, even if it was with the tailor's spirit being in the wrong body. Aloisius quickly found that the more he gave in to thinking and acting and even sounding as Regis, the more that the tailor's own physical ailments seemed to overtake him: the tailor was dreadfully asthmatic (even more so than Tready himself!), and there was also the matter of any real activities that would have set Regis's heart a-fluttering in life affecting the much more rotund Aloisius much more heavily.

It was a delicate, careful line to walk, and now Mr. Treadwell wakes in the tailor shop's back bedroom, aching in his heart and terribly bamboozled with what all to do about this new fix he's in.

The first matter of the morning, though, is breakfast, and that means a leftover three-quarters of a pumpkin pie and warm milk: Regis's personal favorites that Treadwell could most certainly agree with!