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 A
man labored in a large bare field, chopping and
turning the earth with a crude metal blade attached
to a long stick. He wore a simple tunic, with a
cord around the waist. The sweat dripped from his
brow, and the Sun moved steadily westward as he
worked. Evening was at hand, and he was exhausted,
hungry and thirsty, but he labored on, hoeing the
hard earth until it was too dark to see.
The man's name was Halekern,
and he had worked this field for many years. This
year, though, things were different. It had begun
late last autumn, when sickness had taken four of
the other villagers. Then came a strange winter,
wet and mild. The stores of grain the village had
kept for the winter became moldy and foul, and much
of it was lost. It would be a cruel season, with
little bread to eat and with memories of the
untimely deaths shrouding the village like an
overcast sky. Halekern came to understand that with
less grain to plant in the spring, and fewer
able-bodied men and women to work the fields, the
village might not survive another year.
Urged on by a sense of great
need, he worked through the wet, dull days of
winter, clearing small trees and brush from his
land, expanding the size of his grain field
threefold. His muscles became tight, and his body
grew lean from the hard work. His own field had
always been one of the most productive of the
village, and by enlarging it he hoped to grow
enough grain to fend off the starvation of his
fellow villagers the coming year.
Now at last, spring had
come, and he was preparing to plant the last of the
seed grain. He read all the omens and consulted the
wise women, he studied the phases of the Moon and
he tested the wind each morning, until he knew the
planting time had come. Everything must be perfect
this year. Too much depended on it.
With the aid of his sister
and her sons, the tilling was complete and the
grain was planted. Restlessness now, with no task
to fill his waking hours, Halekern waited
anxiously.
Days passed slowly, and at
last the grain began to sprout - green shoots
dotted the field. They were beautiful, the clearest
green he had ever seen, strong and
vibrant.
Then it came. A great storm
blew across the land, out of season. The dark
clouds churned like smoke. Then came the lightning
and the deafening peals of thunder. Rain would be
welcome, thought Halekern, but something about this
storm frightened him. The rains came heavy and
hard, as though an ocean were being drained onto
the land from on high. The waters came rushing over
his newly cleared field, where no brush now stood
to slow its passage or channel it away. The waters
raged, dark with mud, sweeping up sticks and small
stones and carrying them away in the flow. Halekern
took shelter in his small cottage and watched all
his work drowned as swept away in the flood. His
face fell into a countenance of deep sorrow, pain
mingling with hopelessness.
After that, he seldom left
his house, and he spoke with no one but his sister.
He ate little, and became frail. They would all die
soon, he knew. He had failed. His family and
neighbors had put their trust in him, given him
their hopes. And now, all was in ruin.
The seasons wore on, the
chill winds of spring giving way to summer's still
heat. The field lay cracked and bleached, a
reminder of the tragedy of the great
storm.
Halekern lie in bed one
morning, drifting in and out of sleep, when a knock
came on his door. That was unusual; the villagers
had long since learned to leave him alone. "Go
away, please," he said, trying to sound forceful,
put the words came out sounding very sad and
distant.
"Forgive me," came a woman's
voice in answer - a voice Halekern did not
recognize. What was the meaning of this? At
that moment, something brought a small surge of
life back into his body and spirit. The newness of
her voice took his mind away from his village, his
field, and his grief. It reminded him instead of
his youth, and the simple optimism with which he
had approached each day.
Halekern lifted himself out
of bed, donned his tunic, and ran his shaking hands
through his tangled hair. One step at a time, he
approached the door. "Are you there?" the
voice called from outside.
"Yes, I'm here," he said,
opening the door slowly. At the doorstep stood a
full-bodied woman in a gown of green and brown. Her
hair was long and brown. Her face was neither young
nor old, but had the beauty of playful joy and
somber wisdom, mingled together.
"I came to ask, good sir,
whether you will be harvesting the grain by the
lake soon - if indeed that is your
grain."
"By the lake? That's a
wild patch of earth, lady - nothing there but
rushes and bullfrogs."
"I'd best show you where
I mean, then." She took Halekern by the
arm and led him from his dark cottage. The two
waked together, over the cracked earth where his
field had been, and through the hedge at its
boundary. Although his legs were weak, he felt
strong and healthy with her arm around his. There
was something very settling about her presence,
like the warmth of a smoldering hearth on a cloudy
day.
When they passed through the
hedge, Halekern saw a waving field of yellow grain,
stretching all around the small lake that he had
seldom visited since his boyhood days. The grain
was full and indeed ready for harvest. "I don't
know how this came to be here," he said. I
planted my fields this spring, but they were washed
out in a terrible flood."
"Water does flow
downhill," said the woman with a smile. "And
from everything we do comes a harvest, even if it
is not in the place we expect to find
it."
Together, the two walked to
the village and spread the word. Soon all the
villagers were working to harves the grain, and by
nightfall the warm, sweet fragrance of freshly
baked loaves filled the air.
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