The Harvest Bringer

Every year, the Lady chooses one of us to commune with. If this unfortunate person succeeds at pleasing her, she blesses the harvest. If they fail to please her, she curses the harvest and we starve.

My heart thuds in my chest. I find it hard to breathe, as if there is a stone lodged in my throat and I cannot force air past it. I feel as if my entire body has turned to stone. Hunger gnaws in my stomach, burns up through my chest, flows down my arms and legs, grates over my throat. I cannot breathe. I feel as if the entire world is on my shoulders. I feel as if I am nothing. I feel as if I am everything. 

I kneel alongside the rows and rows of worshippers, the whole town gathered in the rolling square. The young and the old and the sick and the healthy alike. All together. All kneeling. All together for now. For now. For now. And us being together gives me a sense of strength. It gives me the ability to face this horror that we are all faced with. 

On everyone's face is etched the same mask of reverence and worship. Everyone's mask is perfect, is flawless, is impenetrable. But I can see beyond their masks. Because I really look at their eyes. I really look into their eyes and deep, deep inside those dark pools is terror. Each and every time, it's terror. And a cascade of other emotions, too many and too complicated to be named. 

Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to leave the group. Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to shoulder the burdens of the whole town in their fragile, thin arms. They will carry the stress of having to carry us all, they will bear the responsibility of all of our fortunes and fates. All of our fortunes and fates. That is too much for anyone to handle. But handle it, we must. And we must handle it with dignity and grace, no matter how fake the dignity and the grace is. 

Time seems to still all around me as I kneel in my place, in my carefully-positioned place in the straight row that is part of the dozens upon dozens of rows all stretching out before us. I feel as if I have been kneeling here forever. I feel as if I will be kneeling here forever. But still, I'd rather kneel here forever than be chosen. 

�"�"�"

"We have to make do with what we have," Marsita is telling us through her all-consuming tiredness. I can see her exhaustion in her voice, in her eyes, in her face, in her posture, in her body language, in everything. She is trying to hold on, to her life, to her fight, to her will. She's trying for all of us. But last week her husband died. It's hard to be strong. 

I am sitting in the clay hut of Marsita, a few huts over from my own hut. There is a ragged collection of people from the community here. We're all leaning against the walls, barely able to stay sitting up, letting all of our energy go. Scattered across the laps of the older ones, there are young children. Shajira, Baira, Namaro, and Kyare. They are almost limp as they lean against their adults. I have little baby Alara on my lap. She is sweet and soft and thin and limp. But she's breathing. She is still breathing. I feel her breath against me, and for this I am beyond grateful, 

Normally, someone would be cooking on the clay stove at the end of the little room. But right now there is nothing to cook. 

"We should have more," Shajira says, looking out into the sky with her dark eyes. She holds an anger within her. I can tell that she holds an anger within her. That is not good. 

"Now, don't blame anyone," Ereeth says in an exhausted, calm sort of way, the candlelight reflecting on his silvery gray hair. "We don't need to cause unneeded rifts."

"I'm not blaming anyone," Shajira replies, blowing a tuft of black curls away from her eyes. "I'm just saying, it's not fair."

Beside us, Jasey is sleeping. I watch his breathing, slow and shallow, rising and falling almost imperceptibly. There is something foreboding about the way the candlelight of the dark room settled over his peat-dark skin. 

"Are you blaming the great and powerful Lady?" Marsita's voice carries alarm within it. And I totally understand why. No-one can blame the Lady about anything. Lest she hear and curse us. But still, she cursed us already, with our harvests failing and our year spent hungry. She cursed us already and I do not know how she could curse us any more. 

"I'm not," Shajira replies, I'm not blaming her. I'm just blaming the situation."

"Do not even say what can be thought of as blame. For if she hears us, I know not what she'll do." There is protective alarm in my exhausted voice. I have to make sure that she stays safe. That she keeps all of us safe. Or, as safe as possible in a time like this. 

"And, remember," Alaro adds in, "we cannot blame Darjo either. He's young. He's very young. And he had a great burden placed upon him those many months ago. He did the best that he could. He did the best that he could to please the Lady. And we should not place blame upon his young shoulders." Alaro's clay-red skin shines bright in the candlelight, almost like blood. and there is something slightly haunting to him. 

"I'm not blaming him. I'm just blaming the situation." She presses on, sweetly, the young child, more oblivious than she should be of the danger that's all around her. Of the danger that's absolutely everywhere. 

"Be careful," I warn her. "You should not be blaming anything. You should not be making it harder for us."

I keep my eyes on Jasey. He is still breathing in the smoke-tinted air. He is still lying on the hard clay floor of the hut. He's still sleeping, oblivious to the hunger and the hurting and the need and the death of the waking world. I almost wish that he stays asleep forever. Sleep is the only place where it doesn't hurt. It's the only place where nothing hurts. But no, no I do not wish that at all. We need him. Everyone needs him. We cannot do without him. I don't know why, but we cannot do without him. We need him to stay alive. 

"Why can't we talk about how sad we are? Kyare asks. 

"Because," I answer, "it's not safe."

"Because of the Lady?" They ask. 

"Yes, sweetheart, because of the Lady," I respond. Hunger gnaws at my gut and twists apart my insides. I feel as if I have been scraped hollow, scraped raw, left bleeding. But I feel like this all the time. This past few months I have been feeling like this all the time. 

"Why does the Lady listen to us?" They ask with their tired, youthful voice. 

"The Lady does not listen to us all of the time," Alaro explains. "But you never know when she might be listening. You never know when she might be looking in. If we want to have a good harvest next year, if we want to eat next year, we must make sure that we do not displease her. And that means that we must be grateful for everything that she gives us." Alaro's words come out slowly, with many breaks in between. I understand why. In this stretch of time, they really sink in, true and necessary and terrible. 

"But how do we know when she's looking?" Kyare asks. There is something curious in their voice. Something dreading. And something just, lightly hopeful. 

"We don't know," Ereeth responds. "We don't know if she's looking in on us. We don't even know if she can look in on us. But her power is too great to rule it out as a possibility. She controls the harvest. Who knows what else she controls?"

"Anyways," Marsita cuts in, "this conversation is getting far too negative, my young ones. Why don't we move on to another more positive line of talking? 

"Like what?" Kyare asks. There is something hopeless in their tone. 

"I don't know," Ereeth replies, "maybe we could talk about next year when the harvest will be better. What are we going to do then?" 

"I'll make rice cakes," Namaro tells us. Sweet, little Namaro. Sweet little all of them. Each and every single one. "I love rice cakes."

"I love rice cakes too," Marsita tells him. "Rice cakes are so delicious. And they're so soft and fluffy and lovely. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice cakes. Enough to make up for all the hunger this year."

"I hope so too," Namaro agrees. "I hope we get lots and lots of food. I love food. I miss food." Sweet kid. I relate to him, I relate to him so much. I'm sure we all miss food. I'm sure we all miss it so much. Not that we don't have any food. No, the Lady is too merciful for that. But we don't have enough. We don't have nearly enough. 

"I miss food too," I tell him. "I miss it so much. But I'm holding on to hope. You have to hold on to hope too. You all have to hold on to hope. Hope is all that we have after all. Hope is all that keeps us going." The baby is my arms is still breathing. Still breathing. I am so glad that she is getting to rest. Sweet baby. 

"Do you think we'll have a good harvest next year? I hope we do." Namaro's young, dark voice has a hint of lightness in it. 

"I think we will," Alaro replies. "Just hold on hope." 

"Yes," Ereeth echoes, "hold on hope."

"We have more good years than bad years," Marsita tells everyone. 

"But we still have bad years, though," Baira tells us. And there is something imploring in her adorable little voice that does not pronounce everything properly. There is something amazing as well. 

"We do, Baira, we do," I tell her. "But we can't dwell on the bad years. We have to dwell on the good years."

"We have to dwell on whatever we have," Alaro adds in.

"And we have to be grateful," I finish. "We have to be grateful to the Lady for all that she blesses us with. Do you think you can be grateful?" 

"I think I can," Baira replies, voice thoughtful. "I think I'll try to be. But it's hard sometimes."

"Of course it's hard sometimes," Marsita acknowledges. "Of course it's hard sometimes. But it's okay. You're okay. You'll get through it. We all will. And you'll find your ways to be grateful and to count your blessings despite it all. You'll see that there's a lot that we have, a lot that the Lady gives us."

"Like what? What does she give us?" Baira asks. I can tell that she wants to listen to us. I can tell that she wants to be grateful. But she doesn't know how. And that's understandable, that's so understandable. A lot of us don't know how sometimes. 

"She gives us good harvests," Ereeth replies. "And she gives us all the things we need in order to have good harvests. She teaches us to be humble and grateful and thank her for all she gives us. You have to be grateful for that."

"I'll try my best to," Baira replies. There is something determined and resolute in her little voice. In her big, dark eyes. And I'm proud of her for trying her best. I'm really proud. 

"Good job," I tell her. "That's all you need to do. You just need to try your best. That's all we all do. We all try our best and we do what we can. And guess what? It's enough to keep the Lady happy, most of the times." My words come out slowly. I try not to put an emphasis on most of the times, but it happens anyways. Most of the times is the key phrase here. Our best is not enough to keep the Lady happy all of the times. We have too many years when it's not enough. Far too many. 

We keep talking, trying our best to ignore the hunger and the aching that's inside of us. The conversation is a good distraction. It's a good distraction from the pain. But it doesn't do enough, it doesn't go far enough, not nearly far enough to help us all. But still. Still I am very glad and grateful for the people around me. I am grateful for the words that flow on all around me and the words that flow into my ears and through my mind. I'm grateful for the words that flow from me. I'm grateful for the fact that the others listen to them, that they hear me, that we all hear each other. 

I'm grateful for the baby in my arms and I am so, so worried about her. She was born in the midst of a bad year, in the midst of famine and hunger and need. And she never got enough nourishment in her life. She never got enough. I hope so strongly, hope so hard, that she doesn't die. I hope with all my being that she lives to see better years, that she lives to see years that help her grow and thrive and bloom and flourish into the radiant individual that she is meant to be, that she already is. 

We keep talking, we all keep talking, until one by one we start to fall asleep. There is nothing else to do. It's too dry to raise crops and there's no food to preserve and prepare and cook. All we have to do is talk. Which in its own way is a strange sort of blessing. 

I look towards Jasey, as the night is pouring darkness in through the cracks of the shutters. And he's not breathing. He's not breathing. I move immediately to tell the others. 

"Jasey's not breathing." My voice comes out small and stilted. It comes out forced and squeaky. 

"What?" Marsita's voice is dreading and determined and purposeful. It's calm in a untraceable sort of, in a strong sort of way. 

"He's not breathing," I reply. I still find it hard to force the words out of my mouth. 

Marsita goes to kneel over Jasey. She puts one dark hand on his dark neck. And she feels for a pulse. 

"There's nothing there," she says all at once. 

�"�"�"

We are stone-silent here, kneeling, all of us terrified, all of us hiding it. We have been kneeling here for what feels like hours, feels like days, feels like years, though it probably only has been a few dozen minutes. The time flows in a trickle, and the breath flows heavy and ragged down my chest, like I am breathing in a collection of hard, sharp-edged stones instead of air. 

We are waiting for the moment. For the moment in which she will come. The moment in which the Lady will come. The moment when everything will start, and we will have to start praying with everything we have for the unlucky person who gets chosen. Praying to soothe them. Praying to give them strength. Praying to give them victory. So that they might please the Lady. So that they might save our town and our harvest for one more year. 

I kneel here until my knees hurt. And I make sure to not show any of the hurt on my face.

All at once there is a bright flash of light all across the whole sky. It's too bright. Too painful. It hurts to see. But I keep my eyes open. I struggle and I fight to keep my eyes open anyways, through all the hurt, because she needs to see us looking at her. She needs to see our eyes upon her. Immediately, as quickly as the world got bright, it gets pitch-dark. And there's something dreadful in this darkness, darkness in the middle of the day. There is something deeply unnatural to it. Still I keep my face a mask of reverence. I don't let any of my fear and my trepidation show through. 

Standing in front of us, on the large, ornately-carved stone stage in the middle of the town, is the Lady. 

She wears a shimmering dress of bright, sparkling red. It's sleek and falls beautifully, falls perfectly on her. Clasped around her waist is an intricately-carved, flowing and swirling belt of gold. Hung from her neck is a fine golden chain adorned with a gold-framed pendant of a bright ruby. She has a youthful look to her and black hair as straight as a beam. She is beautiful. Far too beautiful. Far too beautiful for it to possibly be natural. There is something deeply uncanny about the way that she looks. There is something deeply uncanny about all of her. 

"Your reverence," old woman Marila, one of the town elders, speaks out in a voice that sounds so unafraid, in a voice that is hiding so much fear. "Welcome to our humble town. We thank you deeply and profusely from the bottom of our hearts for gracing us all with your magnificent presence. May we be able to show our deep and humble gratitude towards you for all that you have done for us and for all that you are. Your reverence."

"Indeed." The Lady's voice is clear and peaceful and supercilious, as it always is. There is so much highness and dignity in the way that she speaks. Her words flow out so smoothly, so loudly, as they always do. And there's something deeply unnatural about it. There's something deeply unnatural about it all. Like everything else about her, her voice is just too flawless, too beautiful, too perfect. But I try to not let my fear show in any way as I stay there, kneeling, listening to her words. 

"Our bright and radiant Lady," Marila begins, "for what purpose have you graced our village with your presence?"

"I come to have a communion with one chosen member of your town. I come to test how your town is keeping to its virtue and its honour."

"Thank you, my Lady, for blessing us with such a rare and treasured opportunity. It is my greatest hope that we do not let you down."

"My expectations for your town and its people are quite elevated. There is a lot for you all to live up to."

"But of course, my Lady. Your expectations are high and glorious and it is my deepest, sincerest hope that we are all able to live up to your lofty desires."

"Allow me to look through the crowd, now. I must select a fine and upstanding citizen of the town with whom to carry out my communion."

"But of course, my Lady. Take all the time that you need."

She scans over the crowd with here serene, impartial, menacing eyes. There is something too smooth about the way she looks over all of us. There is something too probing. 

I wonder, briefly, if I will be the one who gets chosen. I hope to the universe that I am not. I cannot handle that type of pressure. No-one can. But I pacify my racing heart with the knowledge that there are thousands of us here. There are thousands of us here in the town. The likelihood of me being picked is very slim. 

She looks through the crowd for what seems like an eternity. I wonder what is going on in her head. I don't think I'll ever be able to know what she thinks. I don't think I'll ever be able to even imagine it. She is so, so very different from all of us, from her unnatural beauty to her lack of fear to the calm, cool way in which she regards everything. There is an untouchability to her, as if all the cares that us humans have merely pass by her as interesting ideas. She looks through the crowd. 

She eventually settles on a person. And that person is me. Her gaze holds me longer than it has held anyone else up to this point. My heart stops in my chest. I feel as though I am about to throw up. This can't be. This can't be. This can't be. But it is. It is no matter how much I want it to not be. It is no matter what I want. 

"Calen Agua," she calls out, eyes dead set on me. 

I bow my head low. 

"Yes, my Lady?" I reply, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. Keeping my voice as meek and humble and submissive as I possibly can.

"I choose you to be my companion for the harvest ritual that we are about to undertake."

"Yes, my Lady," I reply. "I am deeply, overwhelmingly honoured and humbled that you have chosen to select me out of all the masses of people. It is a deep honour." My words, of course, are a lie. But I lie as convincingly as I can, extracting all my effort into making sure that she does not sense even the idea of a lie behind my words. 

"You may come join me now," her voice rings out clear and terrible. 

"Yes, my Lady. Of course." 

I rise. And my legs want to shake, my knees want to buckle, my breath wants to come out ragged and jagged and uneven. But I force everything to keep calm and collected and contained, to be smooth and fluid as I make up the distance between myself and the stage. 

I am more deeply, more entirely, more horrifically terrified than I ever have been at any point in my entire life. The profound, all-consuming dread cracks and crumbles everything inside of me, at the same time as turning my insides into stone. I feel like I am getting hit by lightning over and over and over again. I feel like I am crumbling to ashes. I feel like I want to throw up. I want so deeply, so badly, to throw up. But I can't. 

I force myself to the stage on my numb, rubbery legs. And I climb the stone steps, cold and harsh and piercing under my bare feet. And everything feels frozen, screaming cold and cloying, suffocating hot both at the same time. Everything feels completely unreal, as if I am moving through a nightmare. Yet everything feels overwhelmingly, undeniably real, more real than anything has ever felt before. 

Finally, after what seems like forever, my long and weighted walk is at its end. The Lady towers in front of me. And I force myself to look at her. I force myself to look at her and gulp down all the multitude of feelings that I am feeling. I force myself to hide. 

I twist my lips into as close to a perfectly realistic smile as I can possibly make. And I kneel down in front of her. 

Everything relies on me now. The town's fate relies on me. The harvest relies on me. The lives, health, and survival of innumerable people rely on me. And I can't take this. I can't take the pressure. But I have to. It's not my choice. It's my duty. I only hope that I am strong enough. That I can save them all. I have to save them all. 

�"�"�"

Darjo and I are washing clothes by the river. It's a Saturday, a day that is mostly not for work, a day that is mostly for rest. But both of us have washing to do and we thought that we might as well do it. We might as well get it out of the way. And so we're here, just the two of us, together on the sloping, silt-covered banks of the river. 

It's beautiful here. The water stretches out bright and calming and perfect as far as the eye can see in each direction. It reflects the sunlight in bright rippled waves. It soothes my soul and fills me with a sense of purpose. I love the river. It seems to talk to me every time I am near it, every time I come to it for help. The river feels like an older brother or sister or sibling. And I am so grateful to have some time now, here, beside the river. 

The universe knows that I need to soothe my soul. I need to find some solace and some peace and some way to ignore the hunger within me, some way to ignore the fear and the grief and the pain all around me. Some way to make this nightmare of a year just a little more palatable. Because we all know that I will have to gulp down this horror of a year no matter what. 

Not that I blame Darjo, not that I blame him at all. 

"But I blame myself," he says to me, as we are washing our clothes. "I'm the one who disappointed her. I'm the one who disappointed you all." 

"You tried your best, my soul's brother. You tried your best and you did what you could."

"It doesn't matter whether I tried my best or not because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to save you all." There is something profoundly haunted in his voice. And something profoundly haunting. 

"We all know that it's very difficult to please the Lady. Nobody is blaming you. None of us are blaming you. Not at all."

"You should be blaming me." The guilt in his tone is almost tangible. I can almost reach out and touch it with my fingers. I feel so bad for him. So bad. He must be feeling so bad himself, must be feeling so much worse than the rest of us are feeling. 

"We shouldn't be blaming you."

"Yes, you should. I'm the one who disappointed the Lady. I'm the one who displeased her. And because of this, the whole town has to suffer. The whole harvest has to die."

"We can get by. We are getting by. We can pick the berries and dig up the roots in the woods."

"But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. There are too many people and not enough woods to feed them all."

"We can get by."

"What about all the people dying? Can they get by? They're not getting by. What about all the families and neighbours and friends who are grieving. Can they get by?"

"I know. I understand. It's hard. But it's not your fault."

"How is it not my fault? The Lady chose me. She chose me to commune with her. And that meant that it was my responsibility to take care of you all and to please her so that she blesses the harvest."

"That's a lot of responsibility to take on. But you took it so well. You took it well and you did everything that you could. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you."

The water flows cool and clear against my hands, refreshing and rushing and altogether full of life. The sun shines warmly against my skin, warming me up from the inside. There is the lightest hint of a breeze and it flows in my hair. Today is beautiful. It's so beautiful. But inside my heart it is dark and wet and twisting. My emotions are not beautiful. Still, I am grateful for the beauty of this blessed day, and I'm grateful for all the ways that simple nature is trying to cheer us up. 

"I'm going to kill myself," Darjo declares out softly to the river and to the sunlight and to me. My heart thuds in sympathy and sorrow. 

"Please don't."

"I will. It's what I deserve. I've killed so many people. The blood of so many people is on my hands."

"Their blood is not on your hands. But if you kill yourself, your blood will be."

"My blood deserves to be. I've damned you all. I've hurt you all."

"Please don't." 

"There's nothing that you can say to stop me from doing it."

Tears trek their way down my cheeks. And I don't stop myself from crying. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to cry. And I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to express my emotions. But I'm not grateful for the fact that I can't help. I cannot help dear, sweet Darjo and I cannot stop the guilt that he feels inside of himself. I can only watch him go, and try to give him whatever comfort I can until he does. 

I feel so very helpless. So very, incredibly, unbearably helpless. 

But I understand what he's feeling. I really do. I think, perhaps, if I was in a similar situation as him I would feel the same way. 

We continue washing our clothes, the river's water cool against our hands. I think I can understand what he must be feeling. I can understand why he blames himself. I think he's carrying more perturbation this year than anyone else is. He's carrying more weight. He has been carrying this weight since the first moment that he got called to represent our town in front of the Lady. And we're all carrying weight in this awful, painful year. We're all carrying so much weight. And there's nothing we can do to lessen it. Nothing except for helping each other. 

�"�"�"

I am kneeling in front of the Lady. And, for the first time in my life, I am glad that my stomach is empty. Because if it wasn't, I don't know if I could keep myself from throwing up. Though I make sure to not let her know that. I have to act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm amazingly honoured to be in her magnificent and awe-striking presence. I have to make her believe it. 

And she does believe it. I truly believe that she believes me as she looks down her nose and unfolds her lips out into a haughty, satisfied smile. She looks as carefree and supercilious as she always does. She looks as calm and as serious. There is nothing in her face that warns of disapproval. And I internally sigh with relief, just a tiny bit. It seems that, so far, I am pleasing her. It seems that, so far, I am doing good. Let's just hope I can keep it up. 

She waves her clean, dainty, ivory hand, a motion through the air that is much too smooth to be natural. And the world around me goes white. I cannot see my people out of the corner of my eye anymore. I am cut off, alone. No-one can help me now. The fear in my heart spikes sharp, stabbing through me. But I make sure that I keep kneeling there, I keep kneeling there, through all the terror I keep kneeling there and not showing any signs of my inner longings. But I want my people. I want them to at least be beside me. 

The whiteness all around me glows brighter and brighter, until it is absolutely blinding to look at. I keep my eyes open, though the light is searing my eyes. And I keep my head slightly bowed though my head is throbbing in sharp pain. The light seems to be cutting through my soul, through the very fabric of myself. Yet still, I fight with everything that I have in order to not react. 

Finally, the light dies down, and I find myself in the strangest place I have ever been in.

It's a large room, larger than I knew rooms could ever be, positively palatial. The floors are patterned in many colourful tiles, little flecks of darker colour dispersed through their light hues. The tiles are arranged in intricate patterns. The walls are covered in large paintings and fine tapestries everywhere I turn, except for the windows which are crystal clear and look out into an immaculately blooming garden. There are fine statues of heroic figures and regal animals, positioned stylishly around the room. And all the walls are lined with large tables of dark, rich, intricately-carved wood. There is a silver fountain in the middle of the room and the ceiling is a mirror. Beside the fountain is a small, sleek crystal table with chairs made of blue gems. In the middle is a China tea set. 

I take it all in but I force myself not to react, even to all the strangeness. This room does not do anything to calm my nerves. In fact, it makes me even more anxious that before. Because not only am I alone. Not only am I carrying the burden of my entire town. But also, I am in a place I don't recognize at all, as beautiful as it is. I am in a place that I can tell is not for me. 

"You may rise." The Lady's voice holds no affection within it, but no anger either. Hearing her makes my heart leap to my throat. But I force myself to get up as fluidly and as gracefully as I can. 

"Thank you, my Lady."

"First of all, what is your name, gender, and age?"

"My name is Calen and I am a man. I'm eighteen." I'm really a demiboy but I don't think she'd understand that. I don't want to risk it. Though lying is a risk too. But it's a risk I'll have to take often. 

"Take a seat. Let us drink some tea." She walks to the small table beside the fountain, her red dress swaying slightly as she moves. Everything seems completely unreal to me. Completely unreal and unbearably, unrealistically real both at the same time. I follow her to the table. 

"Thank you, my Lady. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to drink tea with you." I keep my voice even. 

"You may pour the tea now," she replies. 

"Yes, of course, my Lady." The China has patterns of all sorts of birds on it, and is ringed with geometrical patterns. I fill both our glasses with the light brown liquid. 

"And I will take two sugars," she tells me. I scoop her the sugars. I don't take any myself. 

"You may pass the sandwiches now," she commands, and I put one dainty sandwich on each of our plates. 

We eat in silence for a little bit, me keeping my head slightly bowed throughout the whole thing. It's so hard for me to force food down my throat. But I do so anyways. The food is surprisingly delicious, and that makes it easier to eat, at least. I have to be thankful for the little blessings.

"So, are you enjoying the tea?" she asks me in a serene voice. 

"Yes, my lady. It's the most delicious tea I have ever had." This is not a lie. "Thank you so much for your gracious generosity in sharing your meal with me." This part is a lie. 

"And what of the sandwiches? Are you enjoying those?" 

"Yes, my Lady. They are absolutely delicious. Thank you once again for your generosity in sharing them with me." 

"And now, I suppose, we will move onto the questions of more value. How is the town doing?"

"We are doing alright, my Lady," I lie. "Things have been pretty hard due to the harvest last year but we are getting by pretty well. Thank you for asking me of the town, and thank you for your everlasting concern towards us." I'm not telling the truth. Of course I'm not telling the truth. If I told the truth I would doom everyone. But I can only hope that she doesn't see through my lie. I can only hope that she doesn't have information to the contrary. 

"And the townspeople, what do they think of me?"

"They think very highly of you, my Lady. You are, after all, the one who blesses us with so many blessings. You are the one who gives to us all that we have and all that we need to live. You have blessed us with so many good harvests and bounty flows from within your hands. And for that we are grateful, deeply grateful. And we are humbled. Deeply humbled."

"And do they not believe that I am to blame for the years when the harvest is cursed?" There is a bit of an accusing edge to her voice. It makes my world go still for a moment. This is not good. This is really, really not good. But I hope I can save it.

"Not at all," I answer swiftly. "We do not blame you for a cursed harvest. For we know it is your choice. It is your choice whether to curse the harvest or whether to bless it. And it is your decision to make, not ours. You have a right and an entitlement to make the decision that you choose to make, and we are in understanding of that." I think up the answer to the question as lightning-fast as I can, and I hope that it's coherent. 

"And what of the children? What do they think of me?" 

"They are awestruck by your power and by your amazing abilities. They are grateful for your blessings. We are teaching them to be grateful for your blessings." The children in actuality do not like her at all, they're dead afraid. We try to stop them from expressing it, but we can't stop them every time. My mouth feels a little numb as I tell her the lie. I am dead afraid of being found out. But I do what I have to do and say what I have to say to keep my people safe. 

"And how about you?" she asks, a touch of concern in her voice. 

"What about me, my Lady?" 

"Are you happy, in the moment?"

"Of course I am, my Lady." I force the words out of my dry, grating throat as calmly as I can. "It's beyond an honour to be in your presence and to be able to dine with you. It's beyond an honour and I am beyond thrilled." I feel like my lung is full of rocks. Like I'm forcing the air through their hard, rough edges. "Are you happy?"

"I am always happy," she replies smoothly. Unsettlingly smoothly. "And the town, is the town happy?"

"Yes, we are. We count our blessings and are blessed by all that you give us." 

"What of the years when the harvest is cursed? Is the town still happy?"

"Why of course we are happy. Even if food is scarce, we have blessings. And we are used to years with meagre harvests. We have grown able to handle them. We know how to deal with years with limited food and how to still be happy despite it all."

"What of the people who die?"

"The deaths, too, we have grown used to. We have learned how to work through our emotions and how to rationalize death so that we do not feel grief at losing someone. We must be grateful no matter what fate gives us." Talking about the dead people is even, somehow, much harder than talking about everything else. The grief pangs in my heart and I have nowhere to put it. I have to struggle and fight with strength I never knew I possessed in order to keep emotion out of my voice. But I manage to get through it. Somehow, miraculously, I manage to get through it. Maybe because I have to. I absolutely have to. 

"And the children," the Lady continues on, "are they happy?"

"Why of course they are," I answer as convincingly as I can, "you have blessed them with so much out of the kindness of your heart."

"The kindness of my heart, you say."

"Of course, my Lady. Your heart is so kind. You provide us with everything we have." I do not tell her that she does not give us the one thing that really matters, which is each other. 

The Lady smiles slightly. My heart stills, holds its breath. Is this a good sign? Am I pleasing her? I hope so. I allow myself to release a breath that I didn't know I was holding. 

"And what of my birthday?" Her voice is an overly-saccharine trill. "Do you celebrate my birthday?"

"Oh we do, my Lady. Of course we do. With much merriment and celebration, and with a big feast, just as we should. It is, after all, a deeply auspicious day."

"A feast? How do you pull off a feast on a year when the harvest has been cursed?" Her question sounds genuine, but still, I'm in treacherous waters. Still, I anticipated this. I practiced for this. I have an answer. 

"We fastidiously save every morsel of food that we have for the feast, of course. Because it's such a joyous day. Of course we have to celebrate it in a joyous way." 

"And what of the boy I had in here with me last year? How is he doing?" Darjo. She's talking about Darjo. Oh no. 

"He died, I'm afraid." I fight to keep the grief out of my voice, out of my expression. I fight to keep my voice even, keep my breathing even.

"Oh, how did he die?" Her words are cool and mildly curious. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a tragedy. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a death. 

"Well, you see, he died in an accident. He was scaling a tall tree with a knife and he got distracted." Got distracted. Sure, he got distracted. I won't say anything about how he willingly jumped off. 

"And was he loyal, this Darjo?" Loyal? She chooses to ask if he's loyal? She speaks no words on the tragedy of his death? I hide my exasperation.

"Yes, my Lady. He was loyal to you until his last breath." Hopefully this is the answer she is looking for. It's a false answer but hopefully it's the answer she's been looking for. 

"And how do you know that he was loyal till the end?" 

I think of an answer lightning fast and I tell her what she wants to hear. 

"Because, my Lady, he always talked about how glorious it was and what an honour it was to commune with you, my Lady."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. He was deeply grateful to the opportunity you gifted him with. But do not worry, he did not say anything that would give any details away about his interactions with you."

"I'm happy he didn't give any details away." There is something smirking hidden behind her voice. My whole body goes cold with dread. 

"He would never, my Lady."

"Oh, I know he would never." There is something sly and secretive to the way she says that. I am keenly aware of all the danger all around me. 

"So anyways," the Lady continues, "are your people learning the wisdom that I am imparting to you?"

"We are trying, my Lady. We are definitely trying very hard. It is difficult, though. All your lessons and all your wisdom are so high and refined and intricate and complicated. They are hard for us simple-minded, uneducated people to understand."

"That is to be expected, of course."

"But know, my Lady, that we are doing what we can to the best of our abilities."

"You must keep trying. The wisdom of my glorious race can help you build better lives and families."

"But of course, my Lady. Of course it can." 

"Speaking of families, are you properly worshipful of my family?" 

"But of course, my Lady." This isn't a total lie. We are worshipful of her family. But we are only worshipful because we have to be. Not for any other reason. "We may not know your family," I continue, "but we are of course worshipful to them. Anyone who is related to your grace and your glory must be equally graceful and glorious. Any background that you came from must be an amazing background. Your race has so much power and awesomeness. We would be remiss to not worship them."

"My family is quite marvellous," she agrees. 

"But of course they are. Anyone related to you must be marvellous." This interrogation seems to be going well. But I need to stay alert. I need to stay alert. And I need to do everything exactly right. I need to do everything exactly right until I am allowed to go home again.

"And do you all work hard in order to please me?" I know what this question is about. It's about the vestments. Every Wednesday there are bags full of the most fine and rich clothes that magically appear on our streets. They are the garments of the Lady herself. We fastidiously wash them in an elaborate ritual that takes days, and return them to the Lady through the special gift fire at the church. 

"Yes, of course, my Lady. We meticulously purify all your vestments according to the proper rituals. It is a very high honour for us." I tell the truth. I have to tell the truth. But of course I don't tell her about how difficult and worrying and frustrating the whole process is. 

"And are you all grateful for the opportunity to work and please me with your work?"

"We are very thankful. We are always thankful. The opportunity to work for you and your greatness and your glory, to be of service to you and to show our gratitude, to do anything at all for you, it is the best opportunity of all. We are very grateful to be able to be of service to you. We truly love being able to be of service to you. We are grateful to be able to earn even a fraction of the many gifts that you give us."

I think I am navigating these swirling, rocky waters alright. I think I am doing well. This does not, of course, take away more than the barest edge of the all-consuming terror that I feel. Terror that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to exist. I've been feeling this terror since the moment she first called my name and I am still feeling it now. I hope I'm doing well. I hope I'm pleasing her. I have to do well. I have to please her. 

"I have an important question, though." There is something dark inside her voice. My throat seizes up and I feel like vomiting. 

"Yes, my lady?" I fight hard, so very hard, to keep everything I'm feeling deep down under me. So deep that it will never be shown. 

"A relative of mine told me that your people lie to me and that you merely say anything to make me approve of you miserable lot."

Oh my universe. Oh my universe. Oh my universe. I'm damned. How can I salvage this?

"My lady," I start, lying, "I do not think that this is the case. You see, people like us are simple and uneducated and stupid. We are all very simple-minded. Too simple-minded to lie. Too simple-minded to create intricate lies snd stick with them. Not in a remotely convincing way at least."

"That does seem true," she agrees. 

"And besides," I choose my words very carefully, "we would never lie to you. We trust you. We trust you and all your great teachings and your benevolence and your grace. We have no reason for lying to you."

"That is what I thought as well. But my relative seemed really rather convinced. Are you saying that my own family member lied to me?" I hate the direction that this is going. I have no idea if I'll be able to salvage this. But still, I have to try. I have to try. 

"Lied to you? Why of course not. Of course they didn't lie to you. But perhaps they were fed false information from someone else. Maybe they were manipulated by someone else. Of course, of course they must be a very intelligent person and would not be misinformed easily. Perhaps the person who fed them this wrong information was a master manipulator and manipulated your relative very skillfully and very well." 

"That does seem to be a likely case," she concedes. Oh thank you. Thank you. Thank the universe. 

"Yes," I agree, "we are far too simple and small-minded to lie convincingly."

"And why should I believe your words over her's?" Damn. What do I do? Everything inside me is a strange, hollow, scraping feeling. Everything inside me is a distant, silent and muffled screaming. 

"My Lady." I do what I can to keep my words perfectly even. "My Lady, you can believe whomever you choose to believe, whomever you want to believe. Of course you can believe your relative if you choose to. But I am simply stating what I know. Our people do not have the complex mental capacity that your people have, that you have. Our people do not possess the mental capacities to lie very well." I lie as well as I possibly can. It's the only way to save my people. The only way. 

"And have you ever tried to keep anything a secret?" she asks, hopefully, thankfully changing the topic of conversation. Not that this is anything like any other conversation though. 

"Secrets? Between the people of this town? No, we love to gossip. We gossip about anything and everything. Any piece of information someone knows or thinks, everyone knows within a matter of weeks." And it's the truth I'm telling. It's really the truth this time. This time being the key words. 

"I see. So you are able to speak accurately on the thoughts and feelings of the whole town?" 

"I am. We share everything. There is nothing secret between us." I hope she bought my lie about us not lying. I so, so deeply and achingly hope that she bought it. 

"And are you teaching the children of the town to serve me?" I'm so beyond grateful that she seems to have put that topic of conversation behind us. 

"Yes, my Lady, I respond smoothly. And it's a fake smoothness. But it's necessary. "We are teaching the children to serve you and to worship you and to work hard purifying your clothes for you." The cleaning ritual has special roles that the children need to take. Special roles that the children hate doing. That any child would hate doing. 

"And what do the children think, of serving me?"

"They are deeply humbled and grateful for the opportunity to serve and worship you. They truly treasure it very much. They think you're absolutely amazing and very beautiful and they love working for you." I think my lie is convincing. I had put in a lot of practice towards learning how to lie properly. Everyone in the town has. Even the children. Though thankfully, they're never chosen. Only people who are adults, who have mastered the art of lying, are chosen.

"They think I'm beautiful?"

"Yes. Very much so, my Lady."

She smiles. And her smile is wide and prideful and seems to me to be very genuine. This is good. This is really good. 

"And what of you?" she asks. "Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"Do I think you're beautiful? My Lady, you are the most radiant and beautiful being I have ever seen. Your beauty is flawless and beyond compare. I have never witnessed anything at all as beautiful as you." I pour as much awe and humility into my voice as I can. 

"And do you think I am gracious?" she asks, small hints of mirth on her voice. 

"I think you're beyond gracious, my Lady. I think that the grace that you have is absolutely indescribable and far, far greater and more glorious than anything I have ever seen. I think everything about the way in which you conduct yourself inspires awe and worship." I keep taking occasional small bites out of my sandwich and small sips of my tea. This food is really much more delicious than anything I have ever tasted before. 

"And would you follow my orders?"

"But of course. Anything that you want me to do, I would do in a blink."

"Truly?" 

"Truly."

"Then prove it." She puts her hand flat against the belly of the teapot. Steam starts flowing out of the spout and I can tell that the tea is very hot. 

"Pour yourself a cup of tea," she instructs, "and drink it all in one sip."

I silently do as she asks, pouring the steaming tea into my teacup. I am afraid, but I know that I must do this. I know that I have no choice, I can only hope that I'm brave enough. Steeling myself against the pain, I move the cup to my lips and tilt it towards me. It burns my lips, my mouth, and my throat, but I force myself to swallow. It sears me all the way down. Then I force myself to take another painful gulp, then another, then another, until the tea is all gone and I can let my burned mouth and throat rest. 

"Impressive," the Lady comments impassively. 

"Thank you most graciously," I reply politely. 

"And what of the townspeople? Would they follow me just as well as you have?"

"They would without thinking, my Lady. I know for certain that they would also." I force myself to speak evenly through my abused throat. 

"I am done my meal," the Lady begins elegantly, "and I think we are done our conversation. I will send you back now. Come, kneel in front of me." 

I am immensely thankful that it's over and I am aching to see my people again, to run into their arms. I move to a kneeling position beside the Lady's chair. 

�"�"�"

I am lying on the floor along with everyone in the family, trying to fall asleep through my weary body and my aching gut. It's cold, but the body heat around me is keeping me warm. It's dark out, and the sky is clouded over, with no moon or stars. Beside me is my nine-year-old sister Anali, and she is so soft and sweet and warm against my body. I am so, so unimaginably thankful to the universe that I am having this opportunity to hold her and be with her. 

"Calen," she whispers, careful not to wake the others all around us, "are you awake?" 

"I am. How about you?"

"I'm awake. I just can't sleep."

"Aww, sweetheart, why not?" 

"Because, Calen, I'm so hungry."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry." I keep my voice low and soft and compassionate in the blanketing darkness of the night. 

"It's not fair."

"You're right, it's not." In the silence and the secrecy of this moment, I feel like I'm able to agree with her. I feel like it's safe to agree with her. 

"Why does the Lady curse the harvest?" 

"It's because the town displeases her. The representative of the town that she chooses and speaks with displeases her."

"That's not fair."

"It's really not. But you can't blame the representatives. They try their very best."

"It must be so very scary talking to the Lady."

"It really must be scary, you're right. She holds so much power. So much power over all of our lives."

"Why does she want us to be hungry?"

"Because we didn't respect her enough. We didn't listen to her enough."

"That's not fair, Calen."

"It's really not." I hug her slightly tighter near me. I feel her breathing against me. I feel the warmth that signifies that she has life. "Anali," I start, "I never want you to be hungry. Never, ever, no matter what. But I don't have any power. I don't have any power and I wish I had power and I wish I could help you."

"I wish I could help you too, Calen. I don't want you to be hungry no matter what. I don't want anyone to be hungry."

"I don't want anyone to be hungry either sweetheart." She's so soft and young and sweet. She's so fragile and delicate. She's so kind. So, so very kind. I wish she had power. But she doesn't.

"If I was the Lady I would bless every harvest no matter what."

"Just as you should, my girl. Just as you should. But you're not the Lady. So please try to focus on doing what you can."

"What can I do?"

"Try your best to be kind to everyone. Try your best to love everyone. Just like you're already doing."

"But that's not enough." There is a slight, heart-wrenching whine in her voice. 

"You're right, sweetheart." I try to soothe her. "It's not enough. It's not enough. But it's something that we can do." 

"Do you think the harvest next year will be blessed?" There's something slightly hopeful about the way that she speaks. 

"I hope so. I really do hope so."

"I miss feeling full."

"I really miss it too."

"I really miss not being worried about everyone." She stresses the 'worried.' I understand so well how she feels. 

"I miss it too. I miss knowing that everyone is safe."

"It hurts me more, knowing that my family and my friends and my community isn't safe. It hurts me more than my own hunger does."

"That's understandable. I feel exactly the same way. You're such a good soul."

"You too."

"Thanks."

"You don't deserve any of this."

"You don't either. You don't deserve all this need and this hurt and this grief."

"Neither do you." 

"Thanks."

"Do you think the Lady will show mercy?"

"It depends. I don't know. I hope so."

"Have there ever been multiple years with no harvest, all together?"

"There have, but it was before you were born."

"I don't think I could stand another year like this. Another year right on top of this one."

"I don't think I could either. We just have to hold onto hope."

"And what if our hope is misplaced?"

"Then we just have to stay strong and get through it."

"What if I lose you? I don't want to lose you." She sounds like she's crying. Well, there are tears in my own eyes too. We can cry together. We can be together. We can take these infinitely precious moments that we have together, because who knows if we'll have any more. 

"I don't want to lose you either. But hold on to hope. Please hold on to hope. It's all we have."

My sister takes my hand that's on her chest into her own hand. And we just stay like that for a little while. 

"Are you asleep?" she finally asks me. 

"Not yet. How about you?"

"Obviously not."

"I'd there anything else you want to talk about?"

"Who do you think will get picked by the Lady next year?"

"I don't know."

"I'm worried."

"Why are you worried? You're far too young to get picked. You know you're far too young to get picked."

"I know, but what if the person who gets picked fails?"

"Then it wouldn't be their fault. It wouldn't be their fault at all."

"But I hope they succeed."

"Me too."

"They've got a really big job in front of them."

"They do in fact have a really, really big job." 

"I hope they succeed. I can't stand another year like this. I can't stand another year of hungry babies and dying." 

I stroke her hair, and sing her a soft lullaby to help her get to sleep. The night is still and cool around us. 

�"�"�"

I kneel in front of the Lady, on the oddly warm, unnaturally warm tile floors. I keep my eyes down and my thudding heart under wraps. I keep myself as calm as I can be, outwardly. Inside, joy and dread and hope and apprehension all twist together in an unholy, delirious, indescribable mix. I don't know if I succeeded or not. I don't know if I succeeded. I don't know if I failed. 

The world around me gets brighter and brighter. Once again, I fight to keep my eyes open through it all. But the pain in my eyes is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I keep myself staring towards the ground even though I can see nothing but pain. I force myself to keep going. 

Just a few moments longer, and I should be clear and free. 

The light does fade in time, though I have no idea how much time, and I am met with the soft, clouded gray skies around the field of the town. Already memory is rapidly leaving me, my memory of the events that had just passed, just as I knew it would. But the feelings are not leaving me. The feelings are not leaving me at all. I sigh in the slight relief that comes with the ordeal being over, and force myself to stand up. I look around, and see Klaro walking towards me. 

"Calen!" He exclaims, "You're back!" 

"I am," I reply, giving him a bright, shining smile. I am so, so very relieved to be home again. 

I can't help myself, I bolt towards him. He opens up his arms and catches me in a strong, tight hug. And it is at this moment that I finally allow myself to fall apart. I finally allow myself to fall apart like I've been longing to do ever since the fateful moment my name was called. I break out into sobs, ugly-crying with tears streaming from my eyes and my whole body trembling violently. 

"There, there," Klaro soothes me. He holds me tightly in his strong arms. Provides a rock for me to cling to in my sea of infinite, swirling emotions. "There, there. You're home now. You're home now and I have you. We all have you." 

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