Charyou Tree. Come Reap.
Life for you, life for your crop.
It was night, and the moon had come up as Alain walked back to New Gilead, whistling Careless Love in a strangely melancholy key. The Demon Moon hung there full in the sky, and as had been his habit as a boy, he did not look up at it, superstitious of ghosts, demons, and all thing other worldly. And small wonder too, with the events of the last few days, that he would be thinking on it at all. In truth though, Reaptide had once been one of his favorite festivals, but he could not longer remember it with the same joy that had turned every adult in Gilead to children. In Mejis, they'd called it fin de ano, the closing of the year, and although not the true Year's End, every crofter knew that in a way it was, and celebrated with abandon before the first day of winter came.
Life for you, life for your crop.
But here on the island, Reaptide did not come. The eternal summer would not let it come. There was no Reap Fair, no Reaping Girl and Lad, no Reap charms tucked into collars, no stolen Reapday kisses, and no final harvest to call a close to the growing year.
Come reap.
The suited Alain fine. He didn't care to remember Reap. And yet he did remember it very well. Mount up. Reaping's come, Roland had said. And it had with a vengeance.
Come Reap. Charyou tree.
He'd never been able to erase the memories of that time, of all that had gone wrong, and who they had left behind. Sweet Susan. He'd called her an angel, and then he'd called her nothing at all. He and his tet had ridden away from her fate, leaving her to burn as they had been meant to, red handed and screaming.
Death. Death for you, life for my crop.
So caught in his thoughts was Alain that he did not register the light until he was almost on top of it. Their camp blazed, and small wonder for there was a bonfire where their normally sedate campfire sat. Alain stood there staring at it, unnerved and shaking although he didn't know it. Why would Cuthbert have done this? was his first thought, for Bert was a firebug at heart, and yet they had agreed without having to say anything at all that Reap was one celebration they would not honor.
And then he saw them and the color drained from his face.
Death. Death for you, life for my crop. Charyou tree.
Stuffy-guys with their hands panted red burning as if they had just been thrown there, some tied to stakes and still untouched by the licking flames, those faces remarkable even as they began to burn. He recognized them, and how could he not? For one of them was his own.
Come Reap.
The bonfire is in control, however one thing to note is that three of the stuffy-guys/straw men that are burning are recognizably fashioned and dressed to look like Alain, Cuthbert, Roland.
It was night, and the moon had come up as Alain walked back to New Gilead, whistling Careless Love in a strangely melancholy key. The Demon Moon hung there full in the sky, and as had been his habit as a boy, he did not look up at it, superstitious of ghosts, demons, and all thing other worldly. And small wonder too, with the events of the last few days, that he would be thinking on it at all. In truth though, Reaptide had once been one of his favorite festivals, but he could not longer remember it with the same joy that had turned every adult in Gilead to children. In Mejis, they'd called it fin de ano, the closing of the year, and although not the true Year's End, every crofter knew that in a way it was, and celebrated with abandon before the first day of winter came.
Life for you, life for your crop.
But here on the island, Reaptide did not come. The eternal summer would not let it come. There was no Reap Fair, no Reaping Girl and Lad, no Reap charms tucked into collars, no stolen Reapday kisses, and no final harvest to call a close to the growing year.
Come reap.
The suited Alain fine. He didn't care to remember Reap. And yet he did remember it very well. Mount up. Reaping's come, Roland had said. And it had with a vengeance.
Come Reap. Charyou tree.
He'd never been able to erase the memories of that time, of all that had gone wrong, and who they had left behind. Sweet Susan. He'd called her an angel, and then he'd called her nothing at all. He and his tet had ridden away from her fate, leaving her to burn as they had been meant to, red handed and screaming.
Death. Death for you, life for my crop.
So caught in his thoughts was Alain that he did not register the light until he was almost on top of it. Their camp blazed, and small wonder for there was a bonfire where their normally sedate campfire sat. Alain stood there staring at it, unnerved and shaking although he didn't know it. Why would Cuthbert have done this? was his first thought, for Bert was a firebug at heart, and yet they had agreed without having to say anything at all that Reap was one celebration they would not honor.
And then he saw them and the color drained from his face.
Death. Death for you, life for my crop. Charyou tree.
Stuffy-guys with their hands panted red burning as if they had just been thrown there, some tied to stakes and still untouched by the licking flames, those faces remarkable even as they began to burn. He recognized them, and how could he not? For one of them was his own.
Come Reap.
The bonfire is in control, however one thing to note is that three of the stuffy-guys/straw men that are burning are recognizably fashioned and dressed to look like Alain, Cuthbert, Roland.