A spirit approaches, humming a gentle tune as they walk through the forest. When they emerge from the trees, they set down the masked baby, an effigy made of bound corn husks and wheat stalks rather than something seemingly alive, and spread their petticoats and dress on the forest floor around them as they sit and collect the cloak, humming still all the while. They stroke the soft fabric, feeling with fingertips all the little details they do not appear capable of seeing, then drape it over their shoulders and retrieve the effigy, which they hold in front of them to face the two.
A breeze gusts from behind the spirit. The effigy crumbles to dust, and its particles are carried on the wind to be breathed in by Soldat and Pudding. It smells of a hot summer evening, of a place far from this dense forest where open fields of grain blanket the landscape from horizon to horizon. They yearn for that place, long gone, never to be seen again.
Because this is Beacon, where the forests and mountains and darkness obscure all. But here Rye-mother has found a place the little they remember of their home. She walks through the overgrown fields, sampling what is left of the corn, seeking out the flowers that grow between the rows.
Lights dance ahead - lanterns. Have they come to till and sow, to care for this forgotten plot of land? Or are they simply here to raid her treasured fields and leave without paying what she is owed for caring for this place? She hums her song as she walks, and her voice is joined by that of a dozen others - of Stubble-rooster and Grass-buck, of Clover-sow and all the many Cornwolves.
They are faster and keener than her. She hears shouting, a crackle of thunder, the swing of a sword through spirit-flesh. The wolves slip back into the fields to set their ambush; Rye-mother hears the snapping of stalks as they lie in wait.
The voices sound panicked. By the time she reaches the edge of the field, she can just make out their shapes in the dark. One of their number lies on the ground; the others drag the body into the farmhouse. She calls out to them in her flutelike tones, asking if they have brought payment, but one raises a staff, and electricity pops in the air, hot and sizzling, throwing her to the ground.
Some of the wolves leap forward; she does not count how many. She retreats, grasping her iron-tipped fingers to the burning hole in her side. One by one the wolves stop singing.
The lights search for Rye-mother but she has gone. The people of this iteration of Beacon are cruel and she is unwelcome, and it is far from the first time. She is tired of always trying. She limps the short distance to the pond to wash her wounds clean, then turns and begins the climb into the mountains, an exile yet again. Years, decades, unknown stretches of time pass, through cold snow and bitter winds.
Until now, perhaps. Rye-mother raises her iron-tipped fingers and the effigy re-forms. She speaks to it like she might to her own child, murmuring soft tones and melodies, then sings to Soldat and Pudding.
"It is harvest time, and nobody has come to plant. Little grows this year in this lifeless place. Come spring, will you care for the fields?"
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A breeze gusts from behind the spirit. The effigy crumbles to dust, and its particles are carried on the wind to be breathed in by Soldat and Pudding. It smells of a hot summer evening, of a place far from this dense forest where open fields of grain blanket the landscape from horizon to horizon. They yearn for that place, long gone, never to be seen again.
Because this is Beacon, where the forests and mountains and darkness obscure all. But here Rye-mother has found a place the little they remember of their home. She walks through the overgrown fields, sampling what is left of the corn, seeking out the flowers that grow between the rows.
Lights dance ahead - lanterns. Have they come to till and sow, to care for this forgotten plot of land? Or are they simply here to raid her treasured fields and leave without paying what she is owed for caring for this place? She hums her song as she walks, and her voice is joined by that of a dozen others - of Stubble-rooster and Grass-buck, of Clover-sow and all the many Cornwolves.
They are faster and keener than her. She hears shouting, a crackle of thunder, the swing of a sword through spirit-flesh. The wolves slip back into the fields to set their ambush; Rye-mother hears the snapping of stalks as they lie in wait.
The voices sound panicked. By the time she reaches the edge of the field, she can just make out their shapes in the dark. One of their number lies on the ground; the others drag the body into the farmhouse. She calls out to them in her flutelike tones, asking if they have brought payment, but one raises a staff, and electricity pops in the air, hot and sizzling, throwing her to the ground.
Some of the wolves leap forward; she does not count how many. She retreats, grasping her iron-tipped fingers to the burning hole in her side. One by one the wolves stop singing.
The lights search for Rye-mother but she has gone. The people of this iteration of Beacon are cruel and she is unwelcome, and it is far from the first time. She is tired of always trying. She limps the short distance to the pond to wash her wounds clean, then turns and begins the climb into the mountains, an exile yet again. Years, decades, unknown stretches of time pass, through cold snow and bitter winds.
Until now, perhaps. Rye-mother raises her iron-tipped fingers and the effigy re-forms. She speaks to it like she might to her own child, murmuring soft tones and melodies, then sings to Soldat and Pudding.
"It is harvest time, and nobody has come to plant. Little grows this year in this lifeless place. Come spring, will you care for the fields?"