The first moon, Forte, hung in the black sky. Its light shifted under the large branches blowing in the wind. Shadows danced like a thousand little things, shifting so quick it was impossible to imagine what they were hiding. The darkness was significant but Forte was brilliant in full bloom. The white light seeped down to the ground through the cracks of the trees. A scattering of light-caps grew in tight circles, their glow was enough to cast orange leaves in a purplish shade. Night-stalks flitted from tree to tree, whistling their haunted tune between bouts of flight. A couple had picked up a peculiar scent, and the passive scavengers ventured to see if a meal could come of it. Life seemed to explode in the weeks before winter, and on the eve of death anything seemed possible.

           Hal stood in the thick of Queenwood.  He absorbed the world around him, the sounds filling with memories that flushed through his mind as quick as they came. He was alive in the woods, the trees rustled in the wind; leaves and branches talking in hushed whispers. The Night-stalks whistled softly from a branch positioned somewhere behind him. They had caught his trail an hour ago, and managed to follow him into the heart of the Queenwood. Were they like the Harvesters, clinging on to the hopes of being fed? Or did they know from experience that nothing came this way and stayed alive for long.

            Hallen brushed aside the fear, finding it harder to do than he expected. This was the Queenwood after all and whether you believed in stories or not, this was an unnatural place. The cluster of trees were nestled in a narrow valley that shot deep into the western Mountain. The valley was narrow at the mouth where it met with Harvesthome, but the deeper you traversed the more complicated and ominous it became. Trees twisted out of rocks at odd angles, the wind would blow from two different sides at once, even sounds behaved strangely. The wind would gust and cause a storm of leaves rustling, trees groaning, and grass clattering. Then there would be silence. Dead wind always left silence, and the silence was wrong. It wasn’t the active silence one expected to hear in nature, it was like the bottom of a crowded cellar with your breath held.

            Hal had been in the Woods many times throughout his life. He would charge in bravely with his friends from his childhood. The early years of his life had been spent playing Justices and criminals, clacking sticks together in a competition of strength and imagination. They never ventured out of sight of the entrance, and even if they did the woods were often safest during the daylight hours of spring. Parents would frown at the dangerous games, but it was play in the Queenwood or climb the Kingwood. Even in Harvesthome all of life’s troubles seemed to be cause by royalty, yet many more children had died from falling than from ghost stories. Besides, the parents were the ones who made those stories so they obviously didn’t believe them to be real.

            But Hallen knew better. The Woods he had known as a child had evolved into a creature of unknowable danger. People disappeared near the woods, Joleb Makus, Nor Makus, all three of the Hobbin girls, even Donel Jungaree’s Hart had vanished. Search parties were formed, and the groups would comb the woods by day. Once the sun started to sink under the horizon, the search would inevitably be called off. Staying in the Woods overnight was foolishness, and those who refused to give up the search would become missing the next day. That’s how Nor Makus was lost.

            So many lives. Everet Lanson, Sana Lanson, Gather Lee, Gather Yon Yelso and Ulgin. Since Hal had become a Justice, he had searched these woods for missing people and never found a single one. Somewhere in the Justice’s Hall there was a record of all the missing people, but it was lost amidst other documents bought from Solstice. Hal could barely read, but he recognized names just fine. Ellis Tuln, Jore Jun, Jore Horpe. Ten dozen harvesters had disappeared over the past ten years, most of which vanished in the last seven. One of them was Harver Jun. These woods had claimed his life, perhaps they had decided to give it back now.

            But Hall knew better than that. He knew better than most, because unlike most he understood what actually happened in the Queenwood. Somehow, by some unforeseen grace, it appeared as though everyone forgot that Hal was present that night Harver Jun disappeared. If they should somehow remember that fact, what might change? Would they still think Jun was dead? Would Deon still trust him?

          Hal steeled his resolution and picked up his pace. He moved through the woods with ease, bounding over roots protruding from the dry Autumn ground, and whipping past fronds of orange stalks. The Night-stalks gave chase, their song becoming frantic in excitement. Their whistled became a series of repetitive cries, and Hal found himself thinking back to that night. The way the warm wind blew; the darkness of half-moon. He remembered the fear that drove him on, the cries rising all around him. He remembered the shifting shadows, the glint of steel, and the curses of the dying. But most of all he remembered the cries of the Night-stalks. Despite the death all around him, they followed him as he ran. He kept telling himself that he was already dead, why else would they be following him? How had it happened again? When did he start running?

          The details slipped through the cracks, and Hal found himself gasping in the warm night air. He was getting close, he didn’t know how he could tell other than the feeling of fear was starting to overcome his resolve. Was this the place it had occurred? No it couldn’t be, he must have passed it. He was far deeper into the Woods than he had ever been before. Yet somehow the outcropping he found himself in seemed vaguely familiar. He leaned against a massive boulder protruding from the stone wall on his right. He clutched his side, which ached from the air he was taking in too fast. He hadn’t realized how far he had run, and what had seemed like a short amount of time had been hours.

When he caught his breath, Forte had already passed overhead; its small sister Morendo meekly giving chase in its Violet veil of light. The outcropping he stood in was made from the rough terrain. While some of the trees could grow through the rock, most plants took seed in the softer ground. This area had been the sight of a rockslide not a dozen years ago, the massive rocks that crashed into the outcropping left a baron patch in the woods. On a cloudless night like tonight, Forte would shine down with enough energy to illuminate the patch. In the patch the shadows seemed less sever, and the wind had less affect on the cold stone ground.

          A cramped bush growing from a crack in the boulder had the signs of Sol-Fruit. Hal grabbed one of the withered fruits and it turned to mush in his hands. The berry popped and black liquid ran down the rocks. The Sol-Fruit was rotten here, their season had passed two weeks ago. Hal noticed dozens of the other bushes just outside of the clearing. It wasn’t a bald patch of rock, it was a Sol-Fruit grove. This whole area could have fed the town of Harvesthome for a week. With enough Gatherers it would even be possible to clear this area in one trip. Never before had Hal ever seen so much Sol-Fruit. With the proper Justices as guards, maybe then they would have a chance at gathering from these plants.

          That is, if Hal ever made it back.  

          Hal forced himself to think of something else, and the Sol-Fruit seemed to fill that void. Ever since Hoyle Manso claimed the fruit to be edible, it had been gathered from the bushes in the cliff faces and rockslides. After the Blood Harvest, some Gatherers were even left in Harvest home. The Queenwood to the west of Harvesthome were even more abundant with Sol-Fruit than the meager yields they gathered around Solstice. If was rumored that Sol-Fruit was even considered a replacement trade item for the Autumn grass, but the Harvesters fought against it. Harvesthome never stopped harvesting Autumn grass, so Hal could only assume the Harvesters won out.  With the Autumn grass shipments the locals of Harvesthome could build homes and feed their families. When the Sol-Fruit was discovered in the Woods, it could have meant freedom. With the added income, education could be bought; teachers from the south. More buildings could fill the town, craftsmen could make home in the small town. When the Sol-Fruit was discovered in the Woods, Harvesthome became a good place to live.

Then the Woodmen murdered the Hobbin girls.

           When a searching party was sent out ten years ago, Hal remembered wanting to be a part of it. He was young, but old enough to be considered a man. He had grabbed his father’s pitchfork and joined the crowd outside of the Woods. Why he needed a pitchfork for a search party, he wasn’t sure. Everyone gave him appraising looks but he kept to himself. If something attacked them at night, having numbers may not be enough. He felt safer with the pitch-fork.

            The next year, when Hal became a Justice he was glad to find out his fear was well based. Justices had many duties, and the very first thing you were trained how to do was seem intimidating. Being a Justice had little benefit outside of Solstice, since the citizens of Harvesthome treat them with disdain.  But this didn’t distract from the first lesson, since the Justice system wasn’t afraid of another rebellion. The intimidation was honed in order to seem a particular threat to foreigners, Woodsmen in particular. Newly trained Justices were told to hold their staff in both hands, feet shoulder width apart, and with their back straight; their chin held high. Always move your eyes, Hal had been taught, even if you aren’t focusing you need to appear as though you are.

            Be observant, be aggressive with danger or threats.

            Hal didn’t understand at first, neither had Jun. Aggressive? With who? But being a Justice was exciting, there was responsibility. Even though there was little mention to what the danger was, the avoidance of the subject seemed to make the danger all the more present. Hal and Jun were good Justices; they were passionate, excited, and dared danger to show its ugly face. They were two young men filled with anger, and naive courage. They thirsted for revenge, for some closure for the injustices served to them in their life. And their first major assignment was given to them after seemingly endless seasons of training.

           Escort Sana Lanson and her Gatherers to said point on map. They were shown the map, drawn from a culmination of a thousand lost men, and were sent on their way. Harver Jun was in charge of direction, but he got them lost just as soon as they entered the Woods. Hal had to jibe to keep spirits up, but he felt the nervous tingle of fear on his first assignment. After a much delayed search for the area, Sana discovered the large grove of Sol-Fruit bushes. The Gatherers fell on the bushes like a pack of dogs on table scraps. They pulled satchels off their backs and packed the Sol-Fruit into tight pouches lining the inside. The work was delicate yet fast paced, experienced hands moved swiftly; Hal could almost sense urgency in the movements.

            But him and Jun stood at attention around the group, heat from late summer making sweat streak their brows. Hal remembered the itch on his forehead, and the distracting way he imagined what it would feel like to step out of attention and stretch. But with Jun there he dared not, their sense of honor was as competitive as it was necessary. So they stood like statues, always moving their eyes, always appearing vigilant. The light shining through green leaves shimmer against rocks and soil, creating shadows that shifted here and there. Whenever the wind would blow, the entire Woods swam with movement.

            Then the Night-stalk showed up. The sun was ready to set, and Hal’s eyes were exhausted from all the movement. He had given up trying to look aware, and actually focused on keeping watch. It turned out to be much more tiring, and he was paying the price for it now. When the Night-stalk swooped down and landed on his shoulder, he was too shocked to even move. It whistled silently in his ear, the air sent shivers down his spine. Jun laughed at him and called to the Gatherers to further mock Hal’s embarrassment.

             But when Sana Lanson saw the Night-stalk she immediately signaled that the Gatherers collect their last handfuls and pack up. The sudden change made Hal’s head swim, one moment they were plucking Sol-Fruit, the next they were packed and charging downhill. Hal whacked the heavy bird off his shoulder and ran after the small group, Harver Jun on his heels. He wanted to call out; he wanted to ask why they were running. There had been nothing all afternoon, no sign of life or movement. Hal had expected some action, but that was naïve. Would this be a task given to new recruits if it were truly dangerous? Perhaps young Justices were just scare-things to keep Thrush-Rays from attacking the Sol-Fruit.

             But the haste with which they ran soon had him guessing otherwise. Despite the fear that drove them, they made it back safe and all had a good laugh afterward. Later than night, the Night-stalk whistled outside of Hal’s window. He feared the worst, stories about the birds stealing your soul while you slept, but when he clapped his hands the stalk flew away with a caw.

             Hal took a deep breath and dispelled the memory.

             That point on the map from his very first assignment was this exact spot that he found himself in currently. Living in that memory had confirmed that fear. He glanced from shadow to shadow, seeing them shift from one shape into another, just outside the reach of the Forte’s light. How could it be? He had thought himself deeper into the Queenwood than ever before, but if this was indeed the same spot he wouldn’t even be a full mile from Harvesthome. He was lost. It was the only explanation, in his foolish hope to find answers in the Woods, he had charged ahead; carelessly facing his fears with overgrown courage. Had he known where he was going to whole time? Did his subconscious lead him here, or was he indeed lost? Hal calmed himself. Of course he was lost. He had meant to get lost.

            He had meant to draw the Woodsmen.

            And when he looked about the shadows just outside of the moonlight he realized that they very much looked like people. He tried to dispel the images, tried to believe that they were just a figment of his tired mind. They shapes were shifting when the wind blew, but they were something. Part of Hal wanted to believe they were people, less they were actually something much worse.  There was an unshakable fear crawling up his back, paralyzing him to the spot.

            The wind finally came to a halt, and the leaves stopped moving. The shadows lay as well, and the only thing Hal could focus on was how utterly quiet the grove had become. The silence lay about him like thick bread, soaking up the juice of life that was sound. The moment Hal thought about it he began to hear the ringing in his ears that he only noticed when he could hear nothing else.  It was deafening. He hated the helpless feeling he found himself immerged in.

So he stood with feet shoulder-length apart, with his staff clutched in two hands. He straightened his back, and lifted his chin and gazed deep into one of the shadows as if daring it to move.

            And then it did.

            The shadow flinched; Hal half thought it was a trick of the mind. But he had known all along hadn’t he? Talking to Deon in the Bounty certainly wasn’t proof, but something he said had stuck in Hal’s mind. Nell? Can only guess how she must be feeling about now.  Hal told Deon that Harver Nell had sent him to fin Jun, but of course that wasn’t the truth. Harver Nell blamed Hallen for Jun’s death, and hated him for it. When they held the passing for Jun, Nell attacked Hallen with her nails; trying with all her might to rip out his eyes. The woman seemed hysterical with grief, so the common folk didn’t take her accusations serious. But Hal knew better. She had the right of it; it was his fault that Jun was dead. She would never ask him for help.

             But how must she have felt, hearing that her only dead son was walking around town again?

             So Hal did something he hadn’t dare for years. He walked to Harver’s place and knocked on their door. There was no response, no one stirred inside, the eye-slot didn’t slide; nothing. Hal waited a long moment, wondering at the implications of his rejection and then decided to knock again. In the silence that followed, memories flocked across this vision like a flock of birds. Playing throw the ball in the lumber yard outback, chasing Nell’s fawn, wrestling with Jun over domination of the high ground; these thoughts shot through his mind as images. He was there again for a moment, and then the task of confronting Nell seemed more daunting. Perhaps it wasn’t his place to impose himself. Was he stepping out of line by asking a woman if she had any information on her dead son’s resurrection? Hal could almost hear her screaming ‘Why, do you want to kill him again?!’

            So he had quickly left Harver’s place, cutting through the lumber yard in embarrassment. He needed to reach some shelter before the pitch dark hour of Dal Niente. And that’s when he saw Harver Nell. Standing against a rack of lashed lumber. He approached her cautiously, in the dark he didn’t want to alarm her; but when he drew close he knew something was wrong. Where her eyes should have been there were only two dark holes. The front of her blouse was stained with dark red blood, the metallic smell made his head spin. Hal rushed to her, but came to a stop when he noticed there was nothing left to do.

          She wasn’t standing against the lumber, she was pinned to it by a round of arrows. Hal stared in disbelief, her head lolled to one side gave the illusion of her sleeping. In the darkness she almost looked peaceful, but the blood on her hands told him she had fought whoever had done this to her. Along the lashed lumber were the words: I FORGOT, written in blood. Her nails were cracked or ripped off from the struggle, her scalp bled from where someone dragged her by her hair, yet most telling were the arrows that pinned her to the wood behind.

Each of the arrows was fletched with the feathers of a Night-stalk.

Woodsmen.

          All around him the clearing came to life, but the wind was still. Hal clutched his staff tightly and watched the dark forms move about in the shadow. He couldn’t see them clearly, but his eyes had adjusted enough to see the glint of steel, and hear the rattle of bones. Whatever had happened before was useless up until this moment so he emptied his mind of all memories and focused on his task at hand. He was in the Woods, surrounded by thieves and savages that were known murders. They were foreigners who camped in the woods and raided the defenseless town of Harvesthome. No one quite knew why, and after a while it just became part of the dangers of everyday life.

          There was nothing to be done. Harvesthome had tried to stand up for itself before, and that resulted in the Blood Harvest. Who would risk resources or lives trying to defend this pathetic town? No one, which made Hal wonder if that was why the Woodsmen were so abundant recently.  Hal heightened his senses and focused on noticing the details of his opponents. Instantly, he realized the doom of the situation. If they charged him, he was dead; no matter what he did. There was too many, and probably even more hiding beyond sight. But he was bound by honor. He had to try. Hallen Alwice took a deep breath and steadied his shaking knees.

           “I know you’re there, Jun.” His voice sounded deep and powerful, but fear wracked his body. Hallen Alwice, a lone Justice of the pathetic town of Harvesthome facing down the Woodsmen in the dead of night. He had to be strong. “We need to speak.” He was surprised at how easy the words came; surprised at how hurt they sounded.

          “You should have listened to Deon, Hal.” The voice was foreign, yet Hal knew it was him. There was a rasp that was inherent in Diggers, and the pitch was deeper than the boyish sound he had remembered fondly. How could it be? “He said that some things are better left unknown, right? He said I was better left unknown. But you knew better, didn’t you?” The voice spat, Hallen was able to pinpoint which shadow was speaking now. Yet in the shadows he couldn’t get a good look, it could have been anyone. “You should of left alone. Some things are better left unknown.”

          “That’s not how you feel, Jun.” The pause was brief, Hal fought to keep his courage. “Why else come to town?” There was no response again, and Hal found himself speaking. “I found your Mother, Jun. I saw what you did to her. Don’t you think she would have been better off not knowing?” pain crept into his voice, but Jun jumped into the light cutting him off.

          “You shut your self-righteous, shit spewing mouth!” The smooth black hair gleamed in the full moon, but a thin beard covered the clean shaven face that Hal had known. Jun’s piercing blue eyes glowed with fury, tears stung his cheeks; his fist shook as he spoke. “She thanked me.” Hal couldn’t believe it. Where was the child he had known? What had happened to the boy that he had grown with? What happened to the boy who swore aside his selfish pursuits for the betterment of Harvesthome? That boy was dead, just as Hal’s youth had died. This was life, and this is what happens to the bitter soul. “When I finally decided to kill her, she thanked me for my mercy. I yelled at her, cursed her for her forgiveness. And she just looked at me and said: I’ve been dying each day they told me my baby was gone, I’ll get to see him soon.”

          Sweat beaded between Hal’s shoulder blades. Things were not good. “She didn’t recognize you?” Jun laughed and looked at Hal with eyes growing darker by the second.

          “ ‘I forgot’.” The silence that followed was thick, the wind blew but the leaves seemed to rustle an eternity away. “Seems as if everyone forgot about me. When I walked into the Bounty not a single person confronted me. I looked at them, I waved, I drank with them…and not a single person recognized me.”

           “Deon knew who you were.”

           “Deon?! That crazy wretch hated me. He only recognized me because he thought I was a ghost come back from the dead to haunt his pathetic life.  Deon is an ass, a fool, yet the most brilliant man I have ever known. Deon was the only one smart enough to send for you. Everyone saw me and assumed I was a foreigner, a poor reminder of a time better than now. Well, I’m real! And I’m alive! And as you have seemed to already have guessed, I was never dead.”

            “Why?” Hal had to know. Jun laughed loudly, startling a few of the shadows behind them. Hallen wondered what they must be thinking.

            “Why?” Jun threw his hands up, laughing. “Why what? Why didn’t I return? Why did I kill my mother? Why didn’t I tell you I was alive? Why what?!” Jun was losing control of his emotions, his hands were shaking again. Hal stood his ground, he couldn’t be thrown; he wouldn’t let himself be intimidated. “I’ll tell you why, Hal. But it’s going to take a while. I need you to do something that you’ve never been good at. I need you to stay. I need you to listen.” There was menace in his words, hatred, anger. “I need you to not run away.”

            “I’m not going anywhere, Jun.” Hal tried to sound sincere, but felt pathetic.

            “No. You not.” The seriousness in the other’s voice shot icy water through Hallen’s veins. I’m going to die tonight. Like I should have all those nights ago. “I knew you would come though. It’s odd isn’t it? When you think you know someone, and they surprise you to an extent that you would have never thought possible.  Yet what’s even odder is when you spend seven years away from the world you grew up in…and you can still rely on the very basic character flaws of those close to you.” Hal watched the man pace; all of his boyish charm had drained from being in the wild.  “You see, unlike you and mother; I never forgot. But I guess I should start from a place that would make more sense for you. Hal, do you remember the time we signed up to be Justices? Do you remember the things we used to talk about? How amazing it would be, to carry a staff and right the wrongs of the world. Do you remember how I used to plan on using my uniforms to pick up Deon’s serving wenches? You would scold me, but you never stopped me. You were so honorable, yet you kept pretty shady company in me. We were naïve, Hal. We were young fools looking to take on the world, full force! We should have joined an army! But we were Harvester’s sons, and Harvesting was our life.

           “Some life, Hal. You know the story of the Blood Harvest?”

           There was a long pause before Hal realized he was supposed to answer, but his throat was too dry to speak. “No, no it’s okay. Everyone knows that story. The Justices that came to town to inflict retribution on the rebels that withheld their own Harvest from a town of thieves and lawyers and bakers. Those glorious Justices! They liberated Solstice, rebuilt it from ruins, and then chased the rebels out of Harvesthome. But, and here’s that thing I mentioned earlier, people forget. You see, that’s the legend of the Blood Harvest. The lesson, as we are taught, is to teach us from being greedy. But the legend and the reality are not always the same. But the events are too horrific to second guess and it happened so long ago that the details have become obscured. Now I know what you are thinking, I know that you aren’t going to believe the things I tell you next. And that’s okay, because after I kill you it won’t really matter.” Jun laughed and this finally got a reaction from the shadows behind him. Some laughed as well, voices jeering at Hal’s situation. But much to Hal’s surprise not all of the voices were men. There were Woodswomen too?

            “When the Justices came to Solstice on the year before the Blood Harvest, they were known as something else. When they came into town the natives of Solstice called them the Dark-cloud. Do you know why?” Hal held his ground. He wasn’t going to play along. “Because there were so many men, that they moved across the land like the shadow of a monstrous dark cloud.” Jun paused, feigning confusion. “But that can’t be right! Why would the Southern Cities send an army to investigate the missing orders of a couple fucking pastries? That is what we were taught remember? We were taught that without the Autumn Grass, Solstice couldn’t make the pastries that the Southern cities loved so much. And we believe it, because it’s just ridiculous enough to be true. But it’s not.

           “The Southern cities sent an army of mercenaries into Solstice for politics. A particular landlord had struck it rich in Solstice and after a few years of political maneuvering, managed to put himself before his entire population. He maneuvered Millers to gain control of all the granaries in the town. So when one man owns all the tools, who has to pay to use them? This particular noble decided that he wasn’t wealthy enough, so he imposed a tax on all products coming to and from his mills and granaries. The tax was high enough to cut the value of Autumn grass in half, which forced Harvesters to work twice as hard to maintain their already meager trading rights.

           “And then the tax on exports made Solstice’s products literally twice as expensive. One dozen pre-threshed bales of fertile Autumn grass was the trade value for a single piece of paper. Harvesters couldn’t even afford to buy new pages for their ledgers so they could keep track of how badly fucked they were getting. But what options did we have? If we withheld our Harvest then we wouldn’t be able to trade the Autumn grass for food, after all, we need Solstice mills to process our crop right?

          “Wrong. Autumn grass is edible in its raw form, when cooked a certain way. Which leads me to the next detail left out of the Blood Harvest legend: Hoyle Manso never existed. Don’t you think it’s odd that some foreigner from a city leagues away would be able to identify and introduce a brand new crop to a population of Harvesters? A crop that grows thicker in the Queenwood than it ever grew around Solstice. And to name the crop after the city that fucked us over. Sol-Fruit?! Do you know what the natives of Harvesthome called Sol-Fruit before Blood-Harvest? Grass-kin. Because the Autumn grass and ‘Sol-fruit’ were meant to be together.

          “Think for a moment what this means.”

           Hal waited for Jun to continue but the silence dragged on. His hands were sweaty from where he clutched the staff. He couldn’t play along, but much of what Jun said made partial sense. Hal resigned himself to the inevitability of his death, what did it matter how he looked before he was killed. Jun was insane, beyond saving.

          “It means that you expect me to believe that Harvesthome never needed Solstice to begin with. With the ‘Grass-kin’ and Autumn grass combined, we would have enough crop to last us through winter. We wouldn’t rely on Solstice for food.” Jun made a move to interrupt but Hal ignored it. “But that cannot be true by nature. If that were the case, trade with Solstice would have never occurred. If Harvesthome was capable of self-sustainment—“

          “What, it wouldn’t trade? Hal, come now. Do you really think Harvesthome was always this bitter? The town used to be the largest producer of raw material and foodstuff for the entire North region. Harvesthome used to trade with Solstice, not out of necessity; but for profit.” Hal paused for a moment considering what was said. Again, Jun had a point. Hal had assumed that Harvesthome would be more interested in self-sustainment because of its bitter outlook toward foreigners. But what if this event is what caused that bitter outlook in the first place.

          “Let me finish, I know you have questions.” Jun looked up to the sky and the light from forte shown on his white face. “Harvesthome was self sustaining, but when this wealthy landlord imposed the tax on exports and imports trade became unnecessary. Harvesthome was being manipulated by a more sophisticated social structure, and it didn’t like it. So they closed the trading route and decided to be a self sustaining town, like the legend says. However, it wasn’t done out of greed; it was done in defiance. The Harvesters were standing up for themselves the only way they knew how. Not having trade was difficult, but Harvesthome would survive because it was a town established by hard working individuals.

          “Solstice collapsed. Without the Autumn grass the landlord couldn’t use any of his mills or granaries. Without his product, he couldn’t hold onto his wealth. Without wealth he had no status, and that’s where the anarchy started. So it was Solstice that rebelled, not Harvesthome. When the working class was being forced to gather Grass-kin, many made escapes through the woods. After all, the working class was formed by slaves, and most weren’t even being fed properly without the supply of Autumn grass. So without the slaves to do the labor, it fell upon the shattered political hierarchy to sustain themselves. They failed miserably enough to attract attention from the Southern cities.

          “And while it pains me to say it, the Southern cities did enjoy their fucking pastries. So under the banner of a half-truth, an army of battle-worn mercenaries raided Solstice. Here’s where it gets tricky, because this is where we were all lied to our whole lives. The mercenaries didn’t rebuild the town, they didn’t inspire locals, they didn’t feed the hungry, and they certainly didn’t discover ‘Sol-Fruit’. In the last week of Autumn they marched on Solstice and tore the broken place into smaller pieces. All of the wealthy landowners were gathered up and executed, all the slaves, servants, workers, and traders were recruited to the ‘dark-cloud’. When winter hit, Harvesthome became unobtainable. The mercenaries were devastated by the weather, and since they had no knowledge of Harvesting many died.

           “This got the Southern cities in a panic, so massive teams of agriculturalists and even a few political members ventured north to Solstice. The Southern cities rebuilt Solstice, but they did it in their own design. Since there was no communication between Harvesthome and Solstice, the Harvesters would be none the wiser. So a few things changed, and a few things remained in place.

          “Here’s what changed, the taxes on importing and exporting all between Solstice and the Southern cities was abolished. The town of Solstice was physically restored, and the Mercenaries were recast as the Justice system. They were washed, shaven, and even outfitted to look the part. When spring came around the dark cloud, a little less imposing now, shot up the knife in order to investigate the town of Harvesthome. But what they found was a small population of very pleasant Harvesters. There was no revolt, no starvation. In fact, the town of Harvesthome seemed to be perfection. A simple, yet rewarding life that yielded a profitable trade and could sustain itself.

          “But the Southern cities didn’t want Harvesthome to sustain itself. Tell me why.”

          Hal swallowed hard, unable to wrap his head around everything he heard. He knew that as the story approached its end, that his death was becoming more and more imminent. It couldn’t be true, it just wasn’t possible. Somehow the truth would have been known. But Hal was going to see this through, he had promised himself he would make this right. He had his honor to restore.

           “If Harvesthome was self-sustained, then Solstice wouldn’t benefit from trade. No Autumn grass means no work for the restored mills and granaries. Which could lead to a second collapse.

           “More important than that. Harvesthome could become its own city!” Hal considered the statement for a moment before realizing it wasn’t only true, it was likely. If Harvesthome was indeed self-sustaining, if Grass-kin could make Autumn grass edible, if any of this were true. And that’s when Hal realized he still didn’t believe it. Some piece was still missing. “Have you figured it out yet? Do you know why the Justices are here if there was no rebellion in Harvesthome?” The question didn’t deserve an answer. To answer would be to admit the thing that Hal had feared was true all along. He couldn’t answer, his honor refused it. He wouldn’t play this game anymore. When he didn’t respond Jun moved closer. Morendo risen to a spot in the sky where its light glinted at an angle through the trees casting violet shadows on the boy’s face. This couldn’t be the same boy he had loved as a child. They were so young. They still were.

          “Answer the question or I’ll kill you where you stand.” Hal noticed the dull glint of metal in Jun’s hand. “I need to hear you say it. I need to know I’m not crazy.”

          “It’s too late for that, Jun.”

          The silence that followed was not empty. The tension that filled the grove seemed to be bursting. The shadows behind Jun all stepped forward into the fading moonlight of Forte. Leaves scattered features and he couldn’t recognize anyone, but he feared that in better lighting he might. Everything was spinning; Hallen’s entire life was thrown upside down. None the less the silence dragged on.

          He hadn’t lost his passion. Not yet. He remained silent.

          “If the Justices still remain in Harvesthome, it’s because the Southern cities are controlling us. They are forcing us to continue trade by making us all believe that the Harvesters were wrong to withhold their crop from Solstice. And that isn’t the truth. It’s not justice!” Jun was yelling in his face now, fists shaking once more. Hal tried not to acknowledge his threatening gestures. “The Harvesters were massacred by the Justices. That part of the legend is true, the only detail they left out is that all of the Harvesters were innocent. Your Justice system; our justice system was responsible for the slaughtering of hundreds of innocent workers. Hardworking, honest people! All because of a profit.”

          “It’s not true.”

          “It is.” Jun was oddly calm, as if all his rage had dissolved. “It is true, and you know it. But I’ll finish my story anyway. After the Justices marched on Harvesthome and realized how perfect it was, they returned to Solstice. That’s right. They left for the entire spring and summer seasons, and during this time Harvesthome had not moved to make trade with Solstice. After all they didn't know the taxes had been relieved, why suffer injustice? But when the Harvesters were in the field during Autumn the Justices marched on the town again and murdered the Harvesters in the fields. By the time word had reached town, the women and children were already being rounded up. Any who resisted Justice were sent to Solstice as slaves, or to the Southern cities as whores. Harvesthome wasn’t damaged, the buildings weren’t burnt because Solstice needed the crops.

          “But what the Justices didn’t realize is that they failed to eliminate one final threat—”

          “The Woodsmen.” Jun fell silent, stillness filled the grove again as the wind died down. Realization slammed Hal straight in the face, and before he could think otherwise, “the Gatherers.”

          “And that’s the truth.”

          Hal thought.

          And Jun seemed honestly sympathetic, as if he had just shown Hal another point of life. It was at this exact moment that Hal had to decide if he was going to try and kill his dead best-friend. He could kill Jun, and in result be following Deon’s advice of not knowing. He could attack his past as he had done his entire life, trying to force it from his mind. He would die in the process, but he may die anyway. Why suffer the knowledge of what happened in his greatest moment of failure?

          Or he could discover what truly happened at that moment in life, when he ran for his life and left his best friend to die. Maybe then he could beg. Maybe then he could break down and ask forgiveness. Hal wondered what he believed. Jun’s gaze was starting to go cold, as if expecting him to say something he hadn’t. Hal had to choose, it was this second or never.

          End it here, or find the truth.

          A young sprig was flexible, bending in the wind. But Hal’s youth was dead.

          Hallen Alwice swung his staff with such a force he never knew he had. It cracked a against Jun’s wrist as it rose in self defense; snapping it easily. It swung again and connected with the raised knife, but that just ended up stabbing Jun’s face. Hal even managed to block the first hit from the woodsmen charging him, before finally getting cracked across the skull with something heavy. In the violet light of Morendo, Hal struggled to get off the ground. When had he fallen? His head spun, his hands scrambled for support on the rocky ground. But something slammed into his ribs, shoving the air from his body.

          Hal rolled a couple feet and ended on his back, staring up at the figure looming in the moonlight above him. Her light blonde hair shown in the ghostly light. She stalked over to him calmly, her silhouette cast in the purple hues of Morenda. She was the spirit of death. In her arms was the black scythe of a Harvester. Hal squinted, trying to see past the blood in his eyes, but failing. The ground spun as he tried to crawl. His throat was drying, his stomach roiled. There was commotion behind the woman, but she ignored it. She stood over Hal for a moment before lifting her scythe high overhead; Forte’s last light caught her face.

          And the plain white mask covered her features.

          Hallen Alwice watched helplessly

          As the girl with no face split his head between the eyes.