For Love or Money by Lady MSM

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The Harvest Festival gets Prepared For

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Chapter 7: The Harvest Festival Gets Prepared For

 

            Harma and Mahtan eye the bruise on my jaw and Nerdanel’s red face curiously the next time we’re all in the same room, but since neither of us is willing to discuss what happened they refrain from asking questions (although Mahtan manages to ascertain that Nerdanel did not punch me because I wasn’t keeping my hands off her. He sure cares about that a lot). Meanwhile, Nerdanel and I avoid each other like crazy, and when we’re forced to be in the same room—like when we’re doing chores—we don’t speak or even look at each other.

             I know she wants me to apologize. I’m not going to. She’s just as much at fault as I am. And I have more important things to worry about than what some plain, stubborn country girl thinks of me.

            Life here has gotten a good deal busier in the last few days, due to the fact that everyone in the village is spending all their time getting ready for the Harvest Festival next week. It’s been practically all that’s on anyone’s mind—except the ever-practical Mahtan’s.

            “Dancing and drinking!” he snorts whenever the subject’s mentioned. “That’s all folks in this town have been thinking about lately. Especially the young people,” he adds, looking significantly at Nerdanel and I. “I’ll do me bit, sure, but ye won’t catch me bein’ distracted from me real job.” This philosophy seems to apply to anyone who works with him, as well, since he’s been keeping me so busy that I would be too exhausted to do any running around even if I had time to.

Mahtan does, however, let me in on the details of the festival. Apparently it’s spread out over a period of three days, with the usual array of food, music, drinking, games, and all the rest. Honestly, I’m not that impressed. We’ve got a Harvest Festival back in the city, too, and the finest musicians and actors in Valinor are there, and it goes on for a week and the Valar themselves come. After that, anything else is probably going to seem a little…pathetic.

But on the other hand, I’ve always gone to things like this as the son of the king of the Noldor, not as a normal kid. I suppose the Fana’s Crossing festival will give me a chance to see what it’s like for ordinary people. I only hope it’s not too boring.

The most important part of the whole deal is the Hill Race on the third day. See, the village is divided into eight sections called “wards” (Mahtan’s family is in Ward Seven), and everyone in each ward works together to build an elaborately decorated cart (apparently the bigger and gaudier it is, the better). Then, on the last night of the festival, the men of each ward compete to see which group can get their cart to the top of the hill behind town first—and then burn it. It sounds easy, but Mahtan tells me that since the hill’s heavily wooded and everyone’s trying to sabotage each other it’s actually very difficult. The winning ward gets all the beer they can drink free of charge at the inn. Apparently Ward Seven lost last year after a three-year winning streak, and the ward’s pride has never recovered from the blow.

On the first weekend before the festival, Mahtan and I meet up with the rest of the men from our ward at Ararast’s house—he owns the bookshop and is sort of the head of Ward Seven. He’s also Regiel’s brother, though he makes sure to tell us that his sister isn’t going to assist us in any way.

“Sure and it’s the same way every year,” he says mournfully. “I says to her, I says, ‘Regiel, me dear sis, won’t ye help yer poor brother’s team just a bit?’ But no, she says she’s got to be neutral. Sure, family doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“And what would Regiel be able to do for us, then? Besides get us even drunker than we already are,” jokes Angaring, Bril’s cousin. He’s a few years older than me and quite the rascal. I like him a lot better than his cousin.

“Enough joking, lads,” says Mahtan sternly. “Haven’t we got work to do? We’ve got a duty here, ye know. If we lose again this year our shops will go bankrupt, our wives will never speak to us again, and our children will disown us!”

“Oh, come on,” I say incredulously. “It can’t be that important, can it?”

They all turn and look daggers at me. Ararast shakes his head.

“It’s been the only…ah, yer from the city, ye wouldn’t understand,” he says disapprovingly. “Mahtan, I assume ye’ll be in charge of the blueprints this year again?”

“Aye, that I will. And Ernil will be helping me,” Mahtan replies.

“Ye sure he’s up to it?” asks Marnil, who is someone’s relative, I just can’t remember whose. “Sure and I wouldn’t think he’d have much experience in the matter. Maybe we should just put him with the rest of the girls.”

They all roar with laughter, and I look down, my face burning. What right do they think they have to tease me? If they knew who I really was…

If they knew who I really was then my cover would be blown and I’d have to go home. No thank you.

“Ernil’s been me apprentice for longer than any of ye,” says Mahtan, frowning at everyone. “So I think he’s up to it.”

“Aye, I suppose,” says Ararast. “Now, in more important business, how are we going to keep Ward Two from sabotagin’ us again like they did last year?”

“Maybe by not bein’ so easily distracted, eh, Angaring?” shouts one of the men. Angaring calls him a couple of things I’ve never even heard before and looks angrily at his feet.

“What happened?” I whisper to Mahtan.

“Last year one of the lads from Ward Two got his sweetheart to flirt with Angaring and distract him, and since Angaring’s unable to resist a pretty girl the plan worked and Ward Two won the race. Needless to say, no one’s letting him live it down.”

I shake my head. I would really hate to make a mistake in this town.

“Maybe we could pull the same trick on them,” Angaring finally manages to suggest. “Have one of the Ward Seven girls distract them.”

“Nah, that wouldn’t work,” says Marnil. “I doubt any of our daughters or sweethearts would be willin’—or capable, really.”

“What about me Nerdanel?” asks Mahtan, looking offended.

Ararast laughs. “I think she’d be more likely to punch ‘em!”

“I can confirm that,” I say. “Last time I talked to her she punched me in the jaw. It still hurts to talk.”

“And what were ye doin’ that made her do that?” asks a guy whose name I forgot. I shake my head and don’t reply.

The rest of the meeting consists of brainstorming ways to sabotage Ward Two, deciding that most of these ideas are stupid, someone getting offended over someone saying their idea is stupid, old jokes and insults being thrown around, the older men shouting at the younger ones to shut up, the younger men telling the older ones to shut up, and me occasionally trying to talk and usually getting ignored.

What fun!

“Why do I get the feeling that none of them trust me?” I ask Mahtan on our way home.

“Because they don’t,” he replies frankly.

“Why not? I’ve never done anything to them!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that yer an outsider. This is a small town, Ernil. Not many people from the outside world come here. And so naturally, we’re going to be a bit suspicious of the ones that do. Especially when they’re obviously from the city like yerself…and obviously don’t understand us.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

Mahtan sighs. “Listen, Ernil, yer a good lad, all right? It’s just that…sometimes ye don’t seem to have much respect for people that are different from ye. Like…what ye said about the race. Ernil, the cart race is one of this village’s most time-honored traditions. Ye may think it’s silly but I can assure ye it’s not. It’s important to us.”

I look down at my feet, a little ashamed. I trust Mahtan—if he’s saying I’m a disrespectful moron, I’m inclined to believe him.

            “I’m just suggestin’ that ye talk a little less and listen a little more, ye understand?” Mahtan continues. “I know things are different here. I know Fana’s Crossing takes a little getting used to. But I think people would be a lot more likely to accept ye if ye tried to understand the way we think up here.”

            As he’s saying this, we’re walking up the path to the house, and Nerdanel is outside hanging some clothes up on the line. I meet her eyes for a brief moment, and then she quickly looks away.

            “Fine,” I say. “If that’s what it takes.”

 

            “Wake up, darling.”

            I open my eyes to see Nerdanel sitting on my bed. Her red hair is blowing around her face (which is odd, since there’s no wind in the room) and she’s wearing a filmy white nightgown that leaves very little to the imagination.

            “I thought you hated me,” I whisper.

            Nerdanel giggles. “I could never hate you, Feanor.” She leans forward (giving me an excellent view down her neckline, by the way) and runs her fingers through my hair. I’m about to put my arms around her, but then I pause.

            “Wait,” I say. “What did you call me?”

            She giggles again. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to know that, was I? Looks like the spell’s broken, sweetheart.”

            And then I wake up.

            Needless to say, I’m relieved.