The shifting breeze dragged his blond hair across his forehead, waking with a start. He scratched frantically at the spot, and tried to steady his heart; he had been dreaming again. He took a deep breath, taking in the fresh evening air flowing through the changing leaves. Corna set to a brilliant splash of colors across the autumn plains, leaving the more beautiful Tarna to chase it across the sky like a little brother. In another two hours the plains would be cast in darkness, yet Tarna’s faint light streaked colors across the sky were enough to make a rainbow seem dull. Orange stalks swayed under a pink sky like an ocean of grain. Bugs played their relentless songs, and a pair of birds clacked as they chased each other through the tree tops. All around him the canopy of leaves moved in the breeze, and he felt for a moment that he was swimming in an ocean of green, orange, yellow, and red waves. Hal stretched lazily to restore life into his aching limbs, and calmed his nerves upon the beautiful landscape. 
          He had fallen asleep in the Kingwood again, and he had dreamt that she had been there; the girl with no face.
          He shook the image from his mind, and the rest of the dream melted away like water soaking into the ground. He stood slowly, not trusting the strength of his tired legs but eager to start down before he ran out of light. While Tarna’s dusk was a time to enjoy the beautiful surroundings, being trapped in a downward climb in the pitch of night was never enjoyable. So he straightened the legs of his harvest pants, and started his journey down.
          It took him the better part of the trip to make his way carefully back to the massive gnarled trunk. The branches became thinner, the farther he went out from the base; but Hal knew that if you never ventured to the edge, you could never see the brilliant world beyond the dense canopy of leaves. Twice he mistrusted a branch and felt it fracture under his weight. The farther he traveled towards the trunk, the darker it got; which only made the going slower. But the Kingwood was familiar to him, and as a child he had spent his life exploring the twists of the branches. The bark was so rough that the deep cracks could grow big enough to swallow a man whole in some areas. Yet he always climbed with his feet bare, the warmth of the tree made his feel at home; like the skin of a lover.
          The thought made him laugh. If he spent half his time courting a woman that he did with this tree, he may have an actual lover by now. But he had given up that search a long time ago. Hal thought back to his youth, remembering the taste of innocence that grew increasingly bitter with age. He never knew how to appreciate life, and because of his naivety he now lived in the moment of each day. He was done holding on to the past, done mourning the days spent with his family. He covered those thoughts a long time ago; buried his feelings in labor. When the sprouts of memories grew, he would tend to them; nurture the memories until they flourished into something else. But they were never his; those memories were like his personal menagerie. He let the past fade when he was a child; he fully and utterly abolished the memory of his childhood. And when he remembered anything from his life, he experienced it as an outsider looking on.
          Love would break this balance, so he had determined seven years ago that he would be alone.
          He was Twenty-five now. Or was it twenty-six? Twenty-three? He chuckled to himself, acknowledging the fact that he just plain felt old.  He related to the tree, and would often get lost in thoughts of what something this massive would have had to experience in its life. What sort of things had this tree been through? Had it sheltered travelers, or hidden lovers? After particularly long days of work, Hal would sit on the outer branches and imagine the people who had crossed this path. He would create secret dialog, of two brothers walking down that branch.  He would give them stories, create their faces and voices. He would imagine them in dire situations, or just enjoying a stroll; but no matter what he imagined it would always lead to him dozing off.
          He had spent too much time dreaming today, and the descent down would be long and difficult. If this tree could talk, what would it say of me? Hal wondered. He pushed a sprig aside, careful not to crack the new growth. It bent easily, the new green leaves seemed out of place in the wash of autumn colors. Youth, it was pliable, flexible. There is strength in that ability to bend, strength that age seems to diminish. There was a lot to learn from this tree. Hal had to remind himself to be like the sprig, to bend instead of snap. He needed to maintain his quality of youth; something that was increasingly difficult to do when you were trying to forget your past.
          Once he reached the monstrous gnarled trunk he felt revitalized. The danger of falling was minimal at this point, since the massiveness of the tree created ledges and natural walkways that led safely to the ground. The only true danger remained in the possibility of stepping in a pocket of rot, or a nest of thrush-rays.  He used his left hand to guide himself along the trunk, and started his long spiral down. Gnarled branches that grew from the trunk had long intertwined and melded together, creating massive limbs that even three people couldn’t link arms around. Hal had come up a different way than usual, but going down was always the same. It’s what made climbing the tree so interesting, it was as if no matter where you were coming from you always ended going down to the same place.
          Though that wasn’t entirely true, there were many different ways to get down. The Kingwood had throughways that created cave-like structures that would grow thick with vine and moss. How these narrow passageways had originally developed was a mystery to Hal, but he had a theory. He had been exploring a particularly untraveled part of the tree when he ended up on a cluster of limbs that had odd bark. He never would have noticed it, except for the feel of it under his bare feet. The bark was smoother, and of an entirely different texture that suggested it was a new growth of limb. Yet when he thought about it, it simply didn’t make sense. The sheer size of the limb suggested its age compared to its neighbor protrusions. So he gathered some leaves from the strange branches, and held them against his more familiar habitat. Sure enough, they were different; though in more subtle ways than shape.
          So this massive tree was somehow the combined growth of multiple trees that overtime twisted together to become one. Hal just knew this theory was the true origin of the tree; it explained the twisted trunk, the way the branches grew in haphazard directions with no sense of symmetry. It explained the different colors the leaves turned in autumn, and the way the branches seemed to grow together. But most importantly it explained the tunnels and caves inside the tree; whereas most people believed they were remnants from an old tree-dwelling civilization. If they were carvings into the tree, how could the tree possibly survived such construction?
          It would have rotted. Hal knew that this was a natural occurring phenomenon; he knew that his tree was special. And having discovered its ‘secret’ made the tree his somehow. It was his, despite the fact that hundreds of people have climbed it, or perhaps even lived in it. He chuckled to himself, as he jumped down to a lower branch. He had thought about making his home in the tree, but his social life suffered enough from lack of interaction. The last thing he needed was other people talking about him like some tree hermit. Yet Hal smiled anyway, playing the idea through his imagination. He could attack people as they climbed and charge a toll for their safe passage. The thought made him grin; then it would definitely be his tree.
           He came to the squeeze-point, which he named after the odd maneuver you had to do to continue downward. The entwined branches create a convenient set of oversized stairs that suddenly drop off, leaving a thirty foot drop for the next ‘step’. In the spring Hal had become familiar with the strong-vines and would climb his way down. However, in the dawn of autumn the strong vines became brittle and would snap if under enough weight.  Most people would cross then walk through the heart of the tree to continue the downward spiral on north side of the tree, but Hal was fond of finding his own way. The heart of the tree did have a sort of magic to it, and many people were fond of sitting in the shade of the colossal hollow. They would stare up into the intertwining boughs, lay out picnics in the soft moss, or play games in the cavernous off shoots. Many people were drawn to the heart, and it was believed that if a civilization had lived in the tree, that they would have claimed the heart as their center.
           Of course that wasn’t the case, but the heart was still enchanting. Thick rolls of soft moss carpeted the walls and ground, and small curious plants grew in the cool shade. Tiny mushrooms called Light-caps would sprout overnight, and children would sneak out of their homes to pluck the caps in a sort of game that require daring and courage. Light-bugs would flicker along the walls, and every other spring the Flying-flowers who hatch and fill the air with all the flickering colors known to man. But, the most interesting and eerie quality of the heart was the thumping sound it made when someone walked above the chamber. The rhythmic fall of footsteps echoed down below, and became muffled by the moss. Thum-thum, thum-thum, thum-thum. Thus the cross-through became known as the heart; and the odd noise became the heartbeat.
           Yet others believed the Kingwood was a living thing. Children and old mid-wives would tell stories of the souls that haunted the heart. Legend had it that a group of climbers had gotten lost in the trees, and died in the branches of the uppermost section. The thumping was the sound of their spirits living in the wood, trying to escape through the thick bark to snatch unwary climbers out of the heart. Of course this was an old folk-tale, but Hal had to admit that he used to believe it. Of course he was a child then, eager for adventure and the unexplainable. But that had been so long ago, and the magic of the world had been bled by rationalism. There were no spirits of course, and he had proven it the day he found the passageway above the heart. He called down to some poor people having a picnic in the moss, and laughed loudly as they ran out of the heart in pure terror. But he was young then, and that boy had died a long time ago.
           So Hal avoided the heart when he could; he wanted his climb to be a personal voyage, a way for him to escape the usual world. And there were always people around the heart, some even in the dead of winter. So he had discovered a way underneath the entwined braches; a passage that skirted around the outside of the trunk instead of having to pass through. A short step down to a massive knot in the bark created a safe spot to stand and turn back. Under the massive entwined branch, there was a gap just large enough to squeeze through. Which he properly named ‘the squeeze-point’, since he had to remove his pack to fit through. Once through the gap there was a short slide down a tunnel that ended at the top of another branch protrusion underneath the one above it. The two were so close that from underneath they looked like one massive branch, but there was room to walk comfortably between the two natural platforms.
            Once on the other side, the massive natural staircase continued downward with the trunk on your right-hand side. There was a bit of a drop off at the end, but it was safe enough to fall. When Hal first found the gap under the entwined branch, he knew he was the only one to use it. First of all, most people wouldn’t be able to fit through; Hal was wiry thin, with only the slightest bit of lean muscle. And secondly, no one would be crazy enough to try and get lost in a crack in the tree. The first time he passed through, the gap was tight enough to rip his shirt. Since then he had always descended the tree shirtless; and the light shining through the canopy had eventually darkened his skin to a healthy tan. He wasn’t tan like the harvesters, but it was apparent that Hal knew the outdoors; it read in his skin and muscles. He was at home in the trees.
            When he reached the squeeze this night the heart was dark as pitch, with only the slightest of Tarna’s light spilling in from the other side. Even in the dark he could see movement, probably children doing some early searching for mushrooms to gather and show to their friends as bragging rights. He smiled and considered playing a trick on the unlucky wanderers, but if he delayed much longer it would be too dark to descend safely. Hal didn’t ever want to spend another night in the tree; not since that one night as a child. The images flickered through his mind, and a restless wind blew the blonde hair in front of his eyes. He thoughtlessly brushed it aside and stepped to the knot. It was time to go.
            He fluidly turned on the protrusion and flung his pack through the gap and heard it slide down the tunnel. He followed quickly, using a handhold in the entwined branch to swing feet first into the gap. It took a moment of shimmying before he slid down the tunnel after his pack and landed under the thick branch. This is where he felt most at home. The familiar sight made him smile. The pile of brown leaves he strategically gathered at the bottom of the slide rustled noisily as he climbed out. Memories rushed before him, but they were ones from after his childhood. They were the clearness of recent memories, the ones he welcomed as part of his new self. With the thick bark above and below him, he would lie on his back and imagine the ceiling was the ground, and that he was a spider waiting for prey to pass in front of him.
He would eat meals here, and listen to the voices of passer-bys overhead. People would say the strangest things when they thought no one was around, and Hal had learned a great deal about the townspeople from this place. Some things were better left unsaid but once they were heard, you couldn’t un-hear them. He would often rest here, and for a time he had thought to inhabit the place with some of his possessions. But the blanket he had left had been eaten to shreds by some rodent, and a fire was simply out of the question. On a later day, he remembered seeing the fabric of his blanket entwined in a bird’s nest; a thought that always made Hal smile. It was as if he was the keeper of the tree, and yet the tree was his protector too. He felt like an animal living off the tree, and sometimes he imagined what it would be like to live here.
          But that was a foolish fantasy. He had to work, he had to earn payment, and feed himself. He didn’t have the knowledge to hunt, and the tree was devoid of edible fauna. There was always a flock of birds passing through, but Hal didn’t want to eat birds. Fruit would ripen in the last summer months, but gathering them was a dangerous task. Preparing the Kingsfruit was even more difficult, and Hal lacked in the more subtle art of cooking. He loved nature, but he wasn’t part of it; he didn’t think any human possibly could be. He sighed to himself, slung on his pack and walked to the far end of his hidden branch. He looked back before jumping down, and continuing toward the ground and ultimately reality.
          He had responsibility. He was human, and humans weren’t part of nature. That was an interesting thought. Had they ever been? Somehow Hal doubted it; another reason why he didn’t believe in an ancient civilization living in the tree. It was too impractical, and humans were too bent on making life easier. Sure, the tree would provide shelter but bringing resources up to the heart to feed a tribe of even ten people would be an all day task. Somehow it didn’t make sense. Humans were meant to live off the soil, they were meant to travel in groups, to work together; to gather, and hunt, and plant.
          They didn’t live with nature, they lived off of it. Hal shook his head, and the thought fled his mind. What did it matter? He had responsibility; he had a role in society just like everyone else. He had an important task in Harvesthome, maybe he should have been happy with that role. Part of me will never grow up. The thought crossed his mind, part of my childhood will never die.
          It took the better part of an hour to reach the ground; Tarna had nearly sunk below the horizon by then. The sky was still lit by the lasting reach of the light, but it would soon be Dal Neinte: the darkest time of night. If he got stuck in the fields during the lightless hour he would have to wait for Forte to rise. Once the large pale moon broke the horizon it would give off enough light to lead him home. So he hurried on his way and reached the bottom of the tree quickly. He pulled his boots from his pack, pulled them on, and laced them over the bottom of his tan harvest pants. The boots were heavy, and made his feet sweat, but they were durable and protected from the sharpness of the Autumn-grain. He had learned that no matter how callused your feet were, the grain could slice if it slid across you the wrong way. The pants were designed to ward off the grain as well. The thick material was hot and didn’t breathe well; but it was better than living with blade-scars.
           Hal had heard of farmers who would work in shorts. The thought made him cringe.
           He pulled the shirt from his pack and threw it over his head. The warmth radiating off his skin forebode the burn he would suffer in the morning, but for the moment the warmth was welcoming. He took a moment to relish a deep stretch, slung the pack over his shoulders and took one last look back at the Kingwood. It loomed over head like a sleeping giant, blocking out the sky as high as he could look. He was lost in its shadow, a mere insect in its presence. In that moment he understood just how insignificant a man could be. But Hal wasn’t even one of those men who felt significant, and because of this he was further entrenched in the tree’s presence. He couldn’t return here, not if he was truly going to forget. He absorbed the image of the tree one final time, letting the sounds of its life fill his soul.
With resolution, he turned his back on the tree and started for Harvesthome.
           The walk was a lonely venture this late at night, with the sun down there was no one on the road. Though as of recent the traffic has become increasingly less, Harvesthome was an agricultural town with a small local population. Traders came and went with food and stock. Some to buy wares, and others peddled their products; but the village was a haven for the worker, and a dream for the travelling trader. Harvesthome lay in a valley of rich pastures nestled between the Columns; two large mountains to the east and west. The village was self sustainable for part of the year, but during Autumn it became the main source of grain-food for the entire Northern Region. The most abundant grain-food was the Autumn grass, a long reed-like blade of grass that had the strength and flexibility to withstand the Northern winds. Each blade was a hollow tube that grew a long strand of pod-grain. The pod-grain pushed against the inside of the stalk like a pregnant belly, the small bumps were the indicator of fertile batch of Autumn-grass.
          So being a Harvester was the most common trade in Harvesthome. The dangerous nature of the blades, and the sheer overwhelming quantities of the plant made sure there was enough work to be done all year round. In the spring, the fields were tilled and sown. In the summer, the growing blades were brushed with giant wicker brooms. Hal had heard it said that this stimulated a quicker growth, and separated the stalks for easier harvesting. In the Autumn, the grass was threshed every week: rolled, baled, drawn, and sold in raw bushels to the granaries.  As Hal understood it, this was the first line of trade. The village of Harvesthome was just north of the granaries in Solstice; a town that ground the pod-grain into meal and transformed it into a thousand different products.
          Oddly the Autumn-grass was only edible when processed in the granaries to the south.
          With winter’s cold wrath on approach, and Harvest nearing its last stretch, the town was threatening to seal up. The most ironic feature of Harvesthome was that they never got to see the results of their own harvest. In Autumn the grass was threshed and transported to Solstice, yet by the time it was ground, kneaded, baked, packaged, preserved, then shipped, winter would have already fallen. Once it snowed, there would be no crossing the Knife: the southern pass that cut through the two mountains. The weather blowing around the East twin would dump enough snow to seal the small path between Solstice and Harvesthome, and given enough inclement weather even the more broad ‘Plate’ to the north would be a dangerous trek.
           Knife and Plate and Harvest; it was as if the entire region was a meal. A meal that Harvesthome worked all its life to prepare, and never got to taste. Hal didn’t know much of history, but even the smallest child in Harvesthome knew the story of the Blood-Harvest. A lesson that had been passed down by every Harvester, less they grew too bitter to continue trade. Besides, Harvesthome was a treasure in itself. To be able to live in the peace of seclusion was reason enough to tend the fields, or so Hal thought. He paused for a moment to wonder if the Harvesters felt the same. After all he wasn’t one. But most traders were generous to the locals in Harvesthome, and Solstice all but gave away its wares for free. But Hal knew the truth, the Harvesters felt cheated; they felt entitled to Solstice’s wares. 
           The truth was that Harvesthome was a perfect village built on a grudge. With winter approaching, it didn’t take an informant to notice the cold stares foreigners got when they strode into the Bounty. Locals drank their sorrows away at the small Inn, and it was fortunate that Autumn-grass didn’t need to be processed for it to ferment. Autumn-ale was a strong drink, and from what most foreigners told him, an acquired taste. It was light in color, but dark in taste; bitter to the scent and devastating to the sobriety. Most Harvesters fermented the grain over the winter, and ran a brewery in the spring while they waited for their crops to grow. If it weren’t for the strong drink Hal was certain Harvesthome wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant place to live. Even with the Autumn-ale flowing, there was a deep distrust toward strangers. Even the children drank; Harvesthome was far enough from the laws and social restrictions of greater towns.
          Once the storms started, there would be little to do than batten down the hatches, drink, and wait for spring. And work. There was always work to be done, no matter who you were. For Hal it meant a cold long winter. He pondered the delicate situation of the village, and hoped that there would be enough ale to keep spirits warm.  How must the tree feel during the cold winter winds? How did it look with all its leaves striped from its massive frame? Would it still seem as beautiful then? As he descended into the valley of Harvesthome, he knew he wouldn’t be able to return until the snow thawed. The climb was too dangerous as the rocks winding their way up to the tree would become slick with ice. No, he would have to wait until spring to see the tree again.
           Hal flinched. I already forgot my resolution. He had to remind himself he may never see it again.
           He shook the thought from his mind and continued downward into the valley.

The hinges complained noisily on the old swinging doors of the Bounty.  The room within was sparsely filled, small couplings of Harvesters slouched over ale talking in muttered voices. The smell of sweat, booze, and the cracking fireplace mingled in the dim light. Floor boards creaked, the ceiling leaked, and the floor was always covered in a fine layer of dirt or sand or sawdust. The Bounty was the heart of the small village; where the rare stranger would stay and the lonely local would gripe. To many, the Bounty was refuge from a long day of work. For Hal, it was work.
           Or at least, it was where he spent most of his time when he was working.
When the door creaked closed behind him, heads lifted from their cups. Whispers ran dry, and eyes glanced only to glance away quickly. He was aware of the glares of some men, and the calls of others he may have once considered friends; but he ignored them all. Hal the villager would have pulled up a chair, and ordered an Autumn-Ale. Hal the boy would have told stories of his exploits in The Queenwood, twisting the details in a way that would shine light on his courage and rashness. But he was neither of those anymore, and the faint memory of those days seemed murky in his mind.
          No. He was Hallen Alwice, and he was a town Justice. 
He made a straight line for the bar, his chin held high and steps covering the space quickly. He must have made an imposing figure in his dyed green jerkin. The seams were sewn with the same white thread that embroidered the insignia. The white tree of Harvesthome, the Tree of Justice, The White-wood; it had many names, and not all were flattering. But Hallen had no shame for his job. His title was Justice, and the white tree embroidered on the right sleeve and matching gloves seemed to glow in a full Forte.  The truth was he did make an imposing figure in his uniform; and despite the glares and muttered comments, Hallen had earned his respect.
           Once winter came he would have to wear the cloak again. It was made of uncomfortable and scratchy green wool, weaved in a way to keep the wind from blowing through it. It was said to be a Justice’s best friend, but Hallen had always hated the feel of it draped across his shoulders. When you added wet snow to the mix, it was enough to make wearing a heavy cloak a miserable experience. But it was warm, and large enough to sleep under; so he bit his tongue whenever he was forced to wear it.
           The boy would have complained, and he wasn’t that boy anymore.
           And it was still Autumn. This was probably nothing.
           He leaned against the bar, and the barman moved close.
           “Evening, Justice”, Deon mumbled over the returning din.
           “Have you seen, Harver?” Hal almost cringed at being called by title; how much longer would that last? Deon had been a friend; a well natured, mildly perverted, bald man. He used to be so alive with the fire of life. He used to sing as he pour, then turn around and throw you on your ass in a heartbeat. He would threaten and charm, lie and swear, and had even been seen to laugh on two occasions. But that man had also died; his memory born of some childish understanding of life. Deon was dark, glum. Now he went about serving without a word; his passion had become a task. And he faced that task with an overwhelming attitude of defeat.
           “That depends on which Harver you mean.” The Barman’s words seemed empty. Hal knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t assume the worst. It was his job to gather information before jumping to conclusions. People were unsettled, this was a potentially dangerous time. With Winter on approach it was vital that the Justice system remain vigilant, and present. When the cold came, people would get desperate; they did every year. Desperation drove people to fear, and fear led to break-ins and false accusations. And murders.
          “Jun.” Hal spoke the word softly, but he didn’t doubt everyone in the Bounty leaning forward to hear. Why was he even doing this? Hadn’t his passion become a task? Hallen let the thought pass. He needed to know, he needed to remain focused on this. There would be time to speculate afterward, but solving this would help a great many people sleep tonight. But there was a long pause that made Hal’s haste to seem childish. As he waited for Deon to respond, he had to fight embarrassment. He wasn’t being mocked; Deon wouldn’t care to mock him anymore. After all, the lively barman had lost his passion too. In the silence Hal wondered if he really should just give up.
          “You missed him, by an hour or so.” Deon gazed into nothing, clasping a goblet.
          “Deon!” The man flinched, as if struck.
          Hal stared into the man’s scared eyes.
          “Don’t fuck with me.”
          The silence that followed was long.
          Deon grew a little, his fire came back for a moment before he fell into his hollow stare. Hal held firm his superiority; he was the law, he was hated, but he must be respected. One could feel the tension shoot throughout the room. Some men stood, Hal half expected it to come to blows. But when Deon folded, the tension relented. The Barman put the goblet on the counter and sighed. He talked about the man who had just drunk at that very bar. The same man that had supposed died seven years ago.
But that was old news.
          Everyone in Hearthome was at the sending.
          Harver Jun was Dead.
          “Hal. He drank right where you are standing.”  Deon turned and looked back to the corner, his eyes searching. “It was Him. Just sitting there, by hisself. He ordered, and drank, and left. And the strangest thing is I just stared at him and thought; ‘that can’t be him’.” Deon grabbed the goblet and shoved a rag in to dry it. “I didn’t even ask him who he was. It’s not right to ask someone, ‘hey aren’t you dead?’.” Deon seemed regretful, like he had just missed an opportunity of a lifetime.
           Hal had that feeling before, but Deon was most likely drunk. He needed more; he needed proof. He turned to see that half of the bar had cleared out when he heard them stand. Even the angry mob seemed subdued. Hal turned away from Deon, and glanced along the room. Word would spread, and his image may be affected, but Hal couldn’t give up on this. He was a Justice. He was a part of this town.
           “Harver Jun is dead, Deon. You know this.”
           “I ain’t senile, boy. I’ve seen more people than you can count walk through that door, and I’ve heard my share of stories. But I’ve never seen a dead man walk until today.” Deon put the goblet down again, and picked it up again once he noticed there was nothing else to do. He was rattled, the man would have made a funny sight under other circumstances. “And I didn’t mistake him for someone else, neither! The bar was damn half full when he strolled on in. Not everyone took notice, but Malen Horpe and Donel Jungaree did. They just sat with their hands on their pitchers, staring. I’ve never see those two sit for five seconds without their faces in their drinks. And they just sat there. Staring, neither of them said anything until he walked out. That’s how you know something’s wrong.”
          Hal had never seen Malen Horpe or Donel Jungaree sober for five seconds of his life. Prior to this moment, Hal had expected this entire event to be some sort of jibe pulled over by the two drunkards. But even this would have been a poor joke. Impersonating a dead man seemed to be more of a revenge tactic. Did Harver Jun have an enemy? Hal feared the obvious answer.
Deon continued, quick hands working over the goblet. “Besides, if you knew this much to come here then you must have heard something from somewhere. If you think I’m crazy, you won’t be the first; but the truth is something un-right is going on here. It’s going to be a dark winter, Hal. Just like the year of the Blood Harvest—”
          “That’s enough. I have enough rumors to manage with a dead man walking around. I don’t need wide spread panic.” Besides Hallen didn’t believe it. The Blood Harvest was a lesson that was still fresh in the Harvester’s minds. In order to start a revolution, you had to have hope; the Blood Harvest put that hope to rest. Harvesthome had a job in this world, and that job was to provide food for half the region. Perhaps it always would be. “I heard the tale from Jesna Maen, who said she heard from Mr. Horpes wife. I don’t think you’re crazy, I just need proof before I can pursue this further.”
          Recognition flitted through Deon’s eyes, the wry man almost smiled. Almost. “So you believe me then?”
          No. “I believe you, Deon.”
          The barman rubbed the goblet idly, his nervous tension bleeding away. He seemed content with what little room Hal was giving him. The man needed coaxing. Hal needed any lead he could get. “Listen Hal, I may not have proof, but I know this was him. He had the same dark hair, only it was longer. He didn’t look like a dead man, he looked like he did seven years ago. Older, but still the same. I didn’t know him much in life, sure; but everyone knew what he looked like. My barmaids couldn’t get enough of his eyes, but from what I hear he couldn’t get enough of their attention.” The man gave a knowing look, and Hal nodded for him to continue.  “I used to chase him out of here every forte night, half the time drunk, half the time naked. He was always causing trouble for me in life.” Deon left out what trouble a dead man may cause.
           “Do you have any idea where he may have gone?”
           “None. He didn’t say a word, just drank his fill, and left. I should have asked him. It just didn’t feel right. Everyone could feel it, even now they know it’s true.” Deon glanced around the nearly empty bar. “Were I not the owner of this place, I would have packed up and left too. May still, by next Harvest.” Deon, always complaining, always planning on leaving town. “Your kind is bad for business Hal, but I think tonight you may have been a welcome sight.”
           “Really? Seems I’ve cleared the place.”
           “And where do you think they’ll go? Home I’d bet. To tell their wives that there’s a Justice on the case.” Deon forced himself to put the goblet down of the polished pockmarked bar, “Most everyone has heard already. Seems like the Justices are always the last to know.” He put his hand up defensively, “no offense, boy. It’s true.  Whenever I get swindled, your kind always shows up the next day. What good does that do me? You ask questions, and then investigate; but I never get my money back. You may find the man, but I still lose my business. This town is used to disappointment Hal.”
          “Deon—“
           “It all started because of Solstice! They own us, everyone knows that—”
           “Enough.” The Barman closed his mouth, his eyes angry. Hal wanted to defend himself, but everything Deon had said was true. Investigation was the main purpose of the Justices; to ensure the rights and accuracy of every accusation. But that took time, you can’t arrest someone because they might be guilty. Seemed like no one else understood that.  People wanted action; Harvesthome Justices weren’t what they had in mind. Hal knew this, he had known from the start that his efforts to improve the life of a town raised on bitterness was an impossible task.
          But here he was again. Trying.
          “Harver Nell.” Deon fixed on him in confusion. “She asked me to find out what had happened to her son. She sent me personally.”
          That seemed to knock the fire out of Deon’s eyes. He drew out a barstool from under the bar and sat with a huff. “Nell? Can only guess how she must be feeling about now.” Deon almost seem worried.  His shock had wore off; having someone to confer with always seemed to have that affect. “She asked you personally? I find that hard to believe, considering…”
          Considering I’m a Justice? Considering we were Justices? Considering Harver Nell blames me for the death of her son?  Harver Nell had grown to be a cold woman since that nightmare years ago. Hallen Alwice tried not to think of those times, but they always leaked through the cracks of his subconscious. He saw himself propped behind Joleb’s storehouse; he remembered the heavy air, the way he struggled to catch his breath. He even heard the screaming, faint in the deep of night. It almost sounded of the wind, but Hal had known better. But as quick as the image cross him, he let it drift through his mind. He was on an act of justice, he was bound by honor.
           “Harver Jun was a Justice, Deon. And he was respected for his actions.” The words sounded hallow in his skull.
           “Huh, some justice,” The words hung in the air for a moment. “What happened to him was a crime, everyone knows it. Those Woodsmen are murderers; outlaws and thieves the lot of them.  The whole lot should have been executed on the spot. But even then they had trouble with you Justices!”
          “It is not just to kill in the name of peace.”
          “Well I don’t think the Woodsmen cared either way. They got to live, and apparently they managed to survive too. Not just survive either, no. They thrive in the Queenwood, they manage a more comfortable life than we Harvesters do, I reckon.” Deon spat in disgust, and leaned on the counter. “You know what I think? I think those first Harvesters, those ‘rebels’, I think they had the right idea. They were savages, but they also weren’t standing around hoping someone else would take care of the problem.” The way Deon said it suggested that standing around was all the Justices could manage. Gather information and sit on it; Hal had been told this by his training officer. Perhaps Deon was right. “When the Justices came to Harvesthome, it was just the start. Should of known that their justice would plague us forever.  But you already know that story, I should think I’ve sang it enough in my glory days.”
           The Blood Harvest. That was the day Deon spoke of.  The day Harvesthome paid the consequences of withholding from Solstice. Everyone knew the tale. The two towns relied on one another to start a chain of trade that reached leagues into the Southern Region. Autumn grass was a miracle crop, but the toils of maintaining it were vast. So one year the bitter harvesters had withheld their yields, and destroyed trade throughout the southern cities. Without the Autumn grass Solstice wasn’t able to mass feed their mill workers.  Without the mill workers, production of that town’s goods came to a standstill.  Solstice may have been a more convenient place to live, but when the trade ran dry, wealthy land-owners couldn’t afford the food required to sustain their staff. There are old horror stories about slaves murdering their masters in their beds, but the Harvesters always seemed to sympathize with the slaves.
           The next cities down the trade chain of Solstice had the unfortunate inconvenience of missing a simple luxury; the pastry. This was enough to fuel some fires, and during times of peace money was expendable. The southern cities rallied support into a fighting force, called the Justices. The force was sent to investigate; and when they found resistance in Solstice things took a turn for the worse. Justices bashed down doors, releasing the land owners and taking hostages from the rebel’s cause. Some of the slaves escaped to the north for the winter, and the knife became impassible in the ensuing storms. So the Justices rebuilt Solstice, more mill workers were sent in and food was gathered from the hills surrounding the town. Burnt down buildings were restored, but the cold brought sickness. The Autumn grass was soon consumed, but the surrounding hills were overgrown with peculiar fruit-bearing brush.  One of the learned Justices, Hoyle Manso, recognized the crop by the peculiar starburst pattern on its underside. So it became known as Sol-Fruit, a dark black fruit with little taste but thick black juice that could be fermented.
            The fruit cured hunger, and the spirits brewed from the berry bolstered spirits. Despite the relentless winter, the Justices restored Solstice. Hoyle Manso created the Gatherers, a system of workers that explored the treacherous hillsides for Sol-fruit. The looming shadow of starvation was abated due to the effort of those Gatherers; as Winter passed, the snow began to thaw.
            So the Justices reassembled, their numbers bolstered by devote militia who had toiled through the difficult winter to restore Solstice. They armed themselves with staffs and other impromptu weaponry; they set out to kill any rebels that had caused the break in trade. Triggered by the pastry, but created by the greed of the Harvesters. But what they found was a waking town of families, and snowed in Harvesters. The rebels were routed, but sides became blurred. Wives were questioned for information about their husbands, children were rounded as hostages, and Harvesters were cut down in their crops. The year was named the Blood Harvest; because not a single blade of Autumn grass had been cut.  That day served as a lesson for the bitter locals of Harvesthome, work or be killed.
             It had been generations since then but Deon still had the sour taste in his mouth, and Hal knew he was not the only one. The Harvesters felt like slaves, forced to work in the fields to produce a large amount of crop that would ultimately be traded to a town that gave little wealth in return. Many Harvesters had increased the price of their grain, but that just forced Solstice to respond indignantly. Any Harvester caught increasing his product past particular cost thresholds was placed on a misconduct form that warned other traders against buying from him. Originally the form had been a way to evaluate product quality, but after the Blood Harvest it seemed that the Misconduct form was legal blackmail. So Harvesters worked a hard life, and were given the necessities to maintain what Solstice called a ‘comfortable lifestyle’.
              But even though there was constant unrest between Solstice and Harvesthome; the two have managed to uphold their business relationship. What choice was there? Only blood seemed to come from anything that didn’t require Harvesting Autumn grass. Besides, since then the Justices have maintained a presence in Harvesthome. That presence had dwindled over the years, but support from passionate volunteers had kept peace in the Valley for two generations. Until the Woodsmen raids started. The raids had started ten years ago and increasingly gotten worse and worse every following year. They took place at the Turn of Autumn, normally before or after Harvest week. The unpredictable patterns of attack had caused the Harvesters to panic, and the last couple years had been particularly harrowing.
The coming weeks were supposed to be the most profitable, but the looming danger of Woodsmen combined with the reappearance of a dead man was causing panic among the locals. Hallen Alwice cleared his mind and let the disgruntled barman have his rant. If Hallen was a typical Justice, chances are Deon would have kept his mouth shut. But Hallen wasn’t typical, he was rational and forgiving where others may have been quick to violence. He had his pride, but it was checked behind his patience. “…everyone knows how we’re taught! The greed caused the famine, the famine caused the riots, the riots caused the Justices, which all caused us a pain in the ass!” He thumped down another goblet from a shelf and polished its already clean surfaces.
          “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Deon.”
          "Well, that’s what I was afraid of.” The crotchety man seemed to deflate. “Some things are better left unknown, boy. I think Harver Jun should be one of them.” He stared away into nothing again, mumbling to himself about justice.
          “Evening, Deon.” Hal nodded and turned his back to the bar. The room was empty; the fading light had surrendered to shadows outside.  Night had fallen on the small town of Harvesthome, and Hallen’s work had just begun.  Hal made for the door, but Deon called after him. There was a moment’s pause before the man seemed capable of summoning the courage to say what came next.
          “I trust you.” The silence that followed was thick, with no one to hear the words Hal would always wonder if they had ever been said. “You’re not like the others, Hal.” The man stared into space for a moment, “and that’s why you should have never become a Justice from the first.” Hal smiled at that and nodded to the sinewy old coot one last time. He turned for the door, and passed through into night. The full moon above made the white tree on his jerkin seem to glow.  He felt like a beacon in the darkness, but he knew he was just the tallest tree in the storm. People had lost faith in Justice, turned their back on each other out of distrust. They were tired of being abused; Deon, Malen Horpe, Donel Jungaree, Harver Nell…They were all victims to their own fear.
           They needed him. They hated him.
           Inside Hal steeled himself for what he was about to do.
           He had to win the faith of the Harvesters.
           He had to prove that goodness could overcome injustice.
           He had to find Harver Jun.
           And bring him back to life.