The village of Ecrin sat on a rise at the center of the fertile valley, safe from the temperamental river and central to the meadows surrounding it, carved up by fences for livestock and pastures. Beyond them, fields patterned the landscape like quiltblocks blanketing the rolling hills. Beyond that still, the forests capped the high peaks of foothills, the mountains looming like misty giants at their backs.
As dusk approached, the village was making preparations for the final day of planting. To outsiders, not all of the festival preparations were uncommon. Townsfolk hung garlands of dried flowers and herbs over their windows and doors. Children and unwed youths wore flower crowns as they searched for coins hidden around their homes and braided grass into bracelets to be traded for dances. Fires were lit and stalls were set up with food and drink. Benches, chairs, stools, and even logs had been set out for folk to laze about, but the sounds of a band practicing promised lively entertainment for the evening.
But Ecrin did not receive visitors often, and the oddness of the festival was revealed in one very inconvenient reality: every building in town had been cleansed with burning incense at noon and sealed. This, unfortunately, included the modest inn with its two rooms.
The rooms will be available at midnight, the innkeeper promised. After the Wind is caught.
For the uninitiated, the locals sprung at the chance to explain the festivities. Planting, cleansing, and then searching the valley for the Wind. An old superstition, they explained, of a bygone time when gods had lived in the valley beside mortals. Nowadays it was an excuse to celebrate after the hard work of planting their fields had ended. None of them really believed they could catch the Wind. The Lady was a myth the elders prattled on about to scare their grandchildren. Nothing more.
The last seed was planted in the field as the sun slipped behind the mountains. The iron lanterns were lit and the townsfolk would venture up the long hills toward the forest in search of a single bloom.
To Khehe, it was all the same. She watched from the forest on the slopes high above the village in the valley. Every year they planted for a week, each hour of daylight filled with sowing in shifts that never ceased. Every year they burned the stinky herbs and closed their homes to her. Every year they ventured into every corner of the valley and sought the Wind, her flower blooming somewhere in the light of a full moon.
They no longer caught her, as they once had. They no longer did many things.
Still, she wrapped herself tightly in glamour and ran deep into the woods when dusk fell. She had until midnight to avoid them as they crossed into her domain. It would be the longest night of her year.
As dusk approached, the village was making preparations for the final day of planting. To outsiders, not all of the festival preparations were uncommon. Townsfolk hung garlands of dried flowers and herbs over their windows and doors. Children and unwed youths wore flower crowns as they searched for coins hidden around their homes and braided grass into bracelets to be traded for dances. Fires were lit and stalls were set up with food and drink. Benches, chairs, stools, and even logs had been set out for folk to laze about, but the sounds of a band practicing promised lively entertainment for the evening.
But Ecrin did not receive visitors often, and the oddness of the festival was revealed in one very inconvenient reality: every building in town had been cleansed with burning incense at noon and sealed. This, unfortunately, included the modest inn with its two rooms.
The rooms will be available at midnight, the innkeeper promised. After the Wind is caught.
For the uninitiated, the locals sprung at the chance to explain the festivities. Planting, cleansing, and then searching the valley for the Wind. An old superstition, they explained, of a bygone time when gods had lived in the valley beside mortals. Nowadays it was an excuse to celebrate after the hard work of planting their fields had ended. None of them really believed they could catch the Wind. The Lady was a myth the elders prattled on about to scare their grandchildren. Nothing more.
The last seed was planted in the field as the sun slipped behind the mountains. The iron lanterns were lit and the townsfolk would venture up the long hills toward the forest in search of a single bloom.
To Khehe, it was all the same. She watched from the forest on the slopes high above the village in the valley. Every year they planted for a week, each hour of daylight filled with sowing in shifts that never ceased. Every year they burned the stinky herbs and closed their homes to her. Every year they ventured into every corner of the valley and sought the Wind, her flower blooming somewhere in the light of a full moon.
They no longer caught her, as they once had. They no longer did many things.
Still, she wrapped herself tightly in glamour and ran deep into the woods when dusk fell. She had until midnight to avoid them as they crossed into her domain. It would be the longest night of her year.
|| Vulpesen ||
