Chapter 85: The Last Stalk of Wheat

The rest of the summer sped by. As he put on his robes to celebrate the cutting of the first stalks of the fall harvest, it seemed to Herrwn that he’d just watched Moelwyn dance nervously off with one of the mischievous twins at the close of the Summer Solstice Ceremony.

Llwdd, head of the village delegation to the Low Council, had urged them to hold the ritual early, citing the throbbing of his arthritic knee, the shift in the direction of the winds, and the fact that droves of wild ducks and geese were already taking off from the lake and winging over the crest of the southern ridges.

“When a farmer of Llwdd’s knowledge and experience says it’s going to rain, we need to listen.” Rhonnon spoke up on Herrwn’s right while Ossiam sniffed dismissively on his left.

Sensing a dispute about to break out, Herrwn, who had strong feelings about members of their rank arguing in front of the village delegation, intervened, saying, “Our chief midwife speaks for all of us, as do I in giving my thanks to you, Llwdd, Honored Overseer of the Goddess’s crops, for bringing this matter to our attention. Understanding the need for urgency, I will dismiss this council now so that our oracle may conduct his augury and discern what the omens presage.”

With that he rose, bowed to the village delegation, and stood at attention as they trooped out of the room, muttering amongst themselves.

As soon as the last of the villagers was gone, Herrwn turned to Ossiam, ready to soothe any injured feelings he might have.

There were, apparently, none. Ossiam simply took up his staff and announced, “I will make the necessary sacrifices and discern what the omens presage.”

“Do that.” Rhonnon’s voice was quite even for someone speaking through gritted teeth.

Ossiam responded with a deep bow and swept out of the room.

Ossiam skipped the midday meal and withdrew to his chamber. All that day and through the night, the sounds of his droning chants could be heard from the tower’s highest window and the fumes of burning herbs flowed under the edge of the barred doorway and down the stone stairs, spreading through the halls of the priests’ quarters. He didn’t appear at the Sacred Sunrise Ritual or at breakfast, but his assistants brought the message at the end of the meal that he would be conducting a sacrifice at the main altar at noon.

Gathered in the Sacred Grove, they watched the sacrificial sheep being led to the altar.

While Herrwn knew that Olyrrwd had set great store by Llwdd’s judgment, there seemed little to support the alarm the farmer had sounded the day before, just the faintest wisp of clouds over the northern ridge and a bit of a restless breeze stirring the leaves overhead—leaves that had only the beginning touches of yellow at their outermost edges.

The sheep itself seemed calm and unconcerned—more curious than distressed even when it was hoisted onto the altar and rolled over on its back, and only mildly surprised when the sacred dagger struck home.

But as Ossiam stood staring down into the scattered entrails, a tremor passed over him. His knees began to buckle but straightened almost at once. He raised his face, his eyes turned to slits of white under half-drooped lids, and Herrwn braced himself to hear the voice of the oracle’s female spirit, whose eerie messages never brought good news.

“A storm gathers in the north!” The words rolled from Ossiam’s barely parted lips. “The spirits of ancient armies awake to clash again! The birds of the air flee in terror, calling out their warning as they go! Let those who cannot fly as the birds do gather their winter stores while there is still time!”

With a final, despairing wail, Ossiam collapsed into his assistants’ arms.

Herrwn let out a sigh of relief. Stripped of its mystical imagery, the spirit’s warning was the same as Llwdd’s, so there need be no further time spent in debate. He looked to where the high priestesses were standing, and he saw Rhonnon whisper something in Feywn’s ear and slip a small golden sickle into her hand.

Feywn nodded, stepped forward, and led the procession out of the grove, through the shrine’s gates, and down the path through the village to the edge of the field, where a throng of villagers with full-size iron sickles were waiting.

Feywn knelt down, cut a single stalk, stood up, and laid it in Herrwn’s palm. He bowed his thanks and spoke his lines, declaring the harvest begun.

And none too soon.

Even as they made their way back to the shrine, Herrwn felt a brush of cold wind on the back of his neck and looked up to see clouds spreading out from the north.

The rains didn’t start for another two days, so as Herrwn commented in an afternoon conversation with Olyrrwd’s empty chair, the villagers managed to get the last of the grain gathered as the first drops of what was to be a torrential downpour began.

“And what do you make of her cutting just a single stalk of wheat?” he imagined Olyrrwd asking.

He hadn’t had an answer, but he later wondered if she had known that this would be their last harvest.