The sun was bright and warm, pulling itself over the horizon quickly and beginning another late-summer day in the highlands. By seven thrity, it was a full round orange ball in the sky. By eight o'clock, it had wiped every last sparkling dewdrop from the earth and sent the humidity of early morning away on the playful winds around Breezegale.
By nine o'clock, the entire village was awake, dressed, and fed. The scent of toast and butter was brushed out of the village by the breeze, along with sounds of laughter and the clatter of reaper's scythes.
Today was the first day of the harvest.
Cheerful Phantomilians walked leisurely down the path to the fields, chatting and singing. Children chased eachother around the legs of their parents. Their shouts and squeals accented the heavy, sharp squeaks of the old harvest wagon. At the front of the wagon were the men of the Balalu family, towing the giant wooden cart as if it were a wicker basket on wheels. Only the Balalu's were strong enough to maneuver the cart, their original species being decended from bears.
The people of Breezegale were predominantly catlike species. These wore straw hats and kerchefs to protect against the sun in the fields, leaving holes as an allowance for their pointed ears. The Balalu men wore nothing at all atop the thick fur on their heads. Sunburn posed no threat to a bear, but heatstroke was a well-known enemy. A notable number of the citizens of Breezegale were rabbits, and a large family of foxes brought the vulpinian population to fifteen. Both wore hats similar to those employed by the feline species, but with wider brims or taller buckets to accommodate the shape of their heads.
The elder of the village, known to old and young simply as "Grandpa," was an ancient hound. He had donned a thin, short-sleeved robe and an extremely oversized fisherman's hat for the occasion of the harvest, seeking shade as often as possible to protect his wrinkled skin and thinning fur from the sun.
The first few people to reach the fields set up canopies on wooden poles, laid out blankets in the shade, and set out the rows of baskets to be filled with grain by the end of the day. As more workers arrived on the scene, the large, flat threshing stone was brushed free of dirt and the weeds were cleared from around it. Three people would stand here with reed switches and beat the seeds from the heads of the grain as it was brought from the fields, then sweep it into the baskets. People took turns in this position, as it wore one out quickly; those resting would sit and sing for the three on the stone, helping them keep time and enjoy the work.
The reapers sharpened their scythes and sickles with pieces of rose quartz, talking cheerfully and joking with their neighbors. Playful bets were made concerning who could cut the most wheat before the sun set. The rabbits tied back their long ears, the foxes bound their bristling tails with twine, and cats rolled up their tails into unobtrusive knots. The Balalu family did nothing - it wasn't worth trying to slick back all of their heavy fur to avoid burrs and the sharp ends of stalks. Grandpa lifted his hat long enough to tuck his heavy ears under the brim, then pulled it down tightly on his head.
In the end, all the grain from the harvest was shared equally among the citizens in accordance to how much there was. The fields had never failed to produce a surplus in all the years that Grandpa had been their elder - he was very wise and new exactly when to plant each type of seed in the spring, and exactly where they should fall in relation to one another. Even in drought years, Grandpa had somehow made the land yield more than enough for the winter.
Children ran timidly to the edge of the tall stalks, dared one another to walk in among them, then ran back to watch their parents prepare for the harvest. Though many such dares were set every year, no child would disobey the ancient taboo on walking in among the wheat before the elder blessed it. It was said that small spirit-creatures the size of children lived in the fields, guarding them in the name of the moon spirit. Anyone who distrubed them before the harvest was officially declared would be turned into a weed and left to be cut down by unknowing reapers. The youths of the village were terrified of the legend, but curious, as children usually are, to discover if it was true.
Finally all preparations were complete and the elder stepped forward to perform the ritual blessing. He stood on the threshing stone and faced the waving grain, his walking stick held slightly aloft in his left hand. A hush fell over everyone.
"Lupuru saja, spirit of the Moon. Lupuru mijaa, spirits of Wind, Water, and Trees. We, the people of Breezegale, are come before you in thanks for a summer of fine weather and a field rich with grain."
Here, the Phantomilians raised their tools and cheered as one. Their joyous voices echoed far out across the hills, down to the forest.
The cheering faded out, and Grandpa continued.
"We ask for your permission to take from the land the harvest that we sowed and you have made to grow so well over these many months. Please show us some sign of your answer."
And, as it did every year right on cue, the wind gusted undeniably stronger. The canopies erected at the edge of the field whipped in the wind, and a few baskets rolled around in the breeze. The people were all silent in awe of the spirits' immediate answer, no matter how many times each of them had seen it.
The strong winds died down to a cool flutter from the west, fanning the fields invitingly. Grandpa clicked his cane on the rock and bowed to the fields.
"Gatagou, spirits. We thank you."
Another mighty cheer, and the harvest began.
* * *
The work went quickly: the warm sun shone cheerfully over the laborers in the field, but the pleasant breeze whisked away any trace of unconfortable heat and humidity. Songs and laughter were as prevalent during the work as they had been on the walk from town.
There was much to be done, and not quite enough hands for each task. Cutting, binding, carrying, threshing, sweeping, and loading the full baskets into the wagon kept the adults on their toes for much of the day. Even children were brought into the work: anyone whose parents trusted him or her with a blade was allowed to cut in the fields, and the youngest children were very good at picking up tiny pieces of chaff from the threshing stone before they could be swept into baskets of grain. Everyone was occupied with one thing or another, and sometimes both at once.
The elder sat in the shade of a canopy, watching the work progress and keeping an eye on the village infants. There were quite a few to watch, and they all refused to sleep. There wasn't a moment when at least one wasn't crying for something or needing his diaper changed.
"Oi, Grandpa! When was the last time you cut in the fields?"
"Too long ago, Malin," Grandpa replied, smiling to the lady cat walking towards him. He recognised her as the mother of five of the babies he was tending to, specifically the five loudest.
"I'll take them off your hands, if you'd like, Grandpa. That is, if you want to swing a scythe through the grain for a while�"
Grandpa smiled appreciatively and got to his feet. Compared to babysitting, work in the fields was a holiday.
"Thank you, Malin. Thank you very much."
"Don' mention it, sah! You be careful, now."
They traded places and equipment: Malin took Grandpa's seat under the canopy and expertly began to bottle-feed three children at once - Grandpa hefted Malin's scythe on his old shoulders and walked to the fields with a smile.
