It's happiness, they say, that fights off the gloom.
So word spreads like an uncontrolled fire in Myrkentown proper, from the cobbler to the candlemaker, from the cooper to the brewmaster on the corner of Dyer Avenue. The brewmaster, he's fabricated a fine seasonal, and the cooper's got barrels to spare. And the wagonner? He doesn't mind lending his cart to the cause. Myrna Whistler, the wrinkle-faced widow of some long-lost mariner,
she starts hearing the murmured bustle of a possible gathering, and being no prude, she's quite inspired for a bit of a party. She asks the families on her street for temporary donations of lanterns, lamps, anything which brings light. A few tenements away, lamplighter Evans, with a nose like a fishing-hook and eyes blunted almost to stone by cataracts, catches word of it. He quits his apartment, beguiles the candlemaker with talk of
charity! and
good will! and
light, light, damn you, and gathers a whole rucksack full of clean, white tapers.
And that is how Myrkentown, being far too stubborn to suffer the contagion of sadness, loss, and melancholy brought on by the shifting of seasons, demands its Harvest Festival. The muddy streets and its muddy people wait not for a government to bestow upon the town good cheer and hospitality, but rather, they conspire to bring it themselves.
A whisper of coolness lingers in the crisp air. Night falls earlier and earlier. Woodsmoke dances in the evening, daring travelers and townies to drink greatly of the barrels, eat heartily the fruits of the crops, be merry, be happy, sing loudly. The night of the festival, a brightness comes to the lawn of the Broken Dagger unlike anything many of the town's denizens have ever witnessed: tin and wooden lanterns hang from long lengths of hemp, peppering the air with a thousand dangling pinpoints of firelight; carts manned by men in fine hats and girls in burnt-brown skirts overflow with fruits, meats, and confections at absurd discounts. Fiddlers fiddle, their songs clashing in the air above the festival's grounds; drummers beat the rhythm back into their summer-stretched skins and sweep timid passers-by into clumsy dances.
Tonight, parents presume it's safe and well for their children to frolic and play. Men play here, too, drinking and laughing; ladies and girls, they do the same, willing to let loose their bonnets and hair, unafraid of whatever foolhardy danger might still linger in the distant woods. Even some of the Crown's soldiers, curious of the event, saunter among the crowds, their very presence an encouragement of peace. A few of the farm-children even bring painted signposts to the entrances to the festival, a clear message scrawled across the woodface:
Within, Come Apart From Your Grudges
On occasion, even Myrken Wood earns itself a respite. By this alone it dares to fight off the sicknesses, the challenges, and the obstacles of what blind prophets and tired old men all agree, as they always do, will be an unforgiving winter.