The Burning Season

The eastern winds brought the scents of dry chaff and dirt from the fields, heralding the end of the Golden Season for Zorith the Farmer. Zorith sniffed at the winds, so different from the cold, thin air of his native land, and stared into the setting sun. The winds brought the gritty dust of the empty fields to his teeth, where he could taste the earthy essence of Tarm. Sia, or Shien as the sun was known to the flatlanders was long past equinox, and the Season of Burning would soon bring its own bitter harvests of fire and rage.

The Farmer walked back to his house through forlorn fields already shorn of their wheat. The harvest had already been carted away to Shoum for sale, and there was little for a farmer to do but see to his supplies.

No one, not even Zorith himself knew why everyone called him Zorith the Farmer. Even other farmers called him so. Perhaps it was his exotic heritage, a former denizen of the Cursed Forest which brought his chosen profession into sharp relief. Despite all his admonishments, no one would call it the Ohlmir, as he did. But what everyone knew, beside his origin, was his uncanny sense of the weather. Farmers for spans around would ride by his farm to see what he was doing so that they could do it themselves. Of course, this made Zorith a little nervous. He couldn’t be right all the time, but he supposed the others thought it worthwhile that he was right more often than they were.

As he entered his low-ceilinged house Zorith saw Gerda stuffing chaff into the crevices in the stones. His two daughters were doing the same, and he knew that his son was out gathering more chaff. The Burning Season would end, and the cold winds of the Iron Seasons would bring their own fruits of iron-hard ground, and universal regrets, and the chaff was needed to keep out both the smoke of the Burning, and the cold of Iron.

And the Iron Seasons had been getting longer, or Zorith was a fool. He did not know what that meant, but he knew that change was in the air. The winds were shifting, the sun and moons looked different this year, and even the very ground of Tarm felt as it were in motion, a restless thing trying to find a new position. He had travelled to Shoum and visited the great library there to research the seasons in the past, but the astrological texts had left him even more confused. Perhaps an astrologer… but they only worked for the king.

“We are halfway done,” said Gerda brightly as she reached into a basket for more chaff. “Any fires yet?”

“No,” said Zorith. “No scent of ash yet, my love. Though it’s too early to say.”

“The fires came early last year, love.”

Zorith nodded, thoughtful as he absently pulled a handful of chaff from the basket and slowly plugged a crevice. His thoughts travelled back to Ohlmir, where the green leaves of the giant trees would give way to reds and browns. The Treefolk would have already done something similar to what he was doing, preparing for the titanic shifts of seasons that came every year. The Seasons swept across all of Tarm with equal vigor.

“I’m going to the river,” said Zorith, suddenly.

“Can I come?” squeaked little Rela, clumps of chaff in each of her hands. “I wanna pick reeds!”

“No, you can’t,” said Kineth. “You have to stay and help mother finish here.”

“You’re not father! You don’t tell me what to do!” said Rela, rounding on her older sister.

“I’m going alone,” said Zorith heading for the door.

“But why?”

Zorith was already outside. He never explained himself.

Shien had touched the distant Roen Mountains before the Farmer reached the narrow river which bordered his plot. Despite the Season’s suffocating heat, Zorith could feel the coolness of water that had traveled from the Roens. The water gurgled and splashed, the rising wind whistled through the reeds and Zorith found his favorite boulder and sat down. Like the water, the boulder was cool, and his thoughts slowed as he sat, falling away and leaving his mind in stillness. Zorith was not a particularly religious man, but he felt the blood of the land moving beneath him nonetheless. He respected it, for it coursed through the trees of the Ohlmir. His own blood remembered. And that was when he realized. When he knew. When he finally understood.

Blood was calling to blood across the years. Someone was coming, someone who shared the blood of the Ohlmir as Zorith did. The distant forest called to him in remembrance, the rough bark, the fleshy leaves, the thin air. Someone was coming, and the land lay in wait, for this person would be the change that the Seasons had been speaking of for years. Whoever this person was, their future was his own, and their destinies were entwined.

Zorith stood, his head whirling, and looked to the west. Shien sank below the mountains with an almost audible crimson sigh leaving the golden plains in purple shadows. It was the Season of Burning, and fire was the essence of change.

The Farmer carefully gathered an armful of reeds for Rela, then left the river and began walking back to his house.