Chapter 19
Nineteen
Oaklin spent the weeks leading up to the Midsummer Festival in hardcore prep mode.
Once they knew to listen for it, they suddenly started hearing about it everywhere, from everyone, almost constantly.
It was kind of a big deal. Crowds would be out in force, coin purses would be open, and every market stall would be expected to put on a display.
Not just a bountiful harvest, baskets overflowing with their best produce, but a literal display as well.
Vendors were expected to go all out decorating their booths for the festival—no half-assing accepted.
The work on the farm quadrupled. Granny’s lessons were largely suspended as Oaklin harvested cucumbers and made pickles.
They picked so many green beans they feared they’d drown in them.
They foraged for magical herbs and mushrooms like their life depended on it—because it did.
They cut bundles of basil and lavender and filled buckets with wildflowers grown from Sibling Kell’s seeds.
It was the perfect opportunity to solidify their reputation as the new farmer, but what did they want that reputation to be?
Now that they had a bit more to offer from the farm, they had options.
On the one hand, they could go with a wide variety, a little of everything.
There was just so much now that choosing felt impossible.
Variety would help them capture every customer who approached, making sure that no matter who came to the booth they were sure to find something to catch their interest.
But did they want to be the one-stop shop, the farm that has everything?
On the other hand, they could stay more focused and do just a few things really well.
They had been developing a clear niche over the past several weeks: magical reagents and enchanted crops.
Those could be the stars of the show, arranged front and center for the festival crowds.
To fill the rest of the display, they had some exceptional performers in the fields that certainly deserved to be shown off.
The sweet peppers had been ripening early at a truly ridiculous rate, and the last broccoli of the season was making an impressive showing, buffered from the blazing summer heat by Oaklin’s carefully tended shading spellwork.
Bountiful, specialized, exceptional quality—that sounded like a smart business move.
Granny only nodded, never clarifying whether it was a nod of approval or simply acknowledgment.
That was just as well; one day soon, Oaklin would need to get used to making decisions completely on their own. Granny wouldn’t be around forever.
Oaklin wrenched away from that thought and refused to consider it further.
In the end, they landed somewhere in the middle.
Anything that was liable to go bad before the next market had to be sold or eaten at home.
Beyond those items, though, Oaklin carefully curated a collection of products both magical and mundane during the day, and spent the evenings sketching out plans for the decorations, gathering supplies, and badly painting a new sign for the booth with “Nettlewood Farms” and a rough rendition of purple dead nettle around the edges.
The name didn’t feel right—didn’t feel like enough—but it was all Oaklin could come up with, and they had the sense that if they didn’t brand the farm themself soon, the village would end up doing it for them.
Oaklin shuddered at the thought.
Finally, the day of the festival arrived, and Oaklin found themself as nervous as their first market day…though not only because of the booth decor.
“Okay, be honest,” Oaklin said. “How does it look?” They took a step back from their market stall and bit their lip, studying it with a critical eye.
“That is…so many eggs,” Lior said weakly.
“And I even bought a weeks’ worth for the bakery!” Ryn said, eyes wide.
Oaklin grimaced. “Yeah, my chickens have gone from ‘too stressed to lay’ to ‘popping out eggs like they’re cursed.’”
Jules smirked. “‘Too stressed to lay’ is Ryn’s middle name.”
“OKAY NOW,” Ryn yelped, face visibly flushing. Lior clutched the front of the booth to keep from falling to the ground with laughter.
“I joke, I joke!” Jules said, holding his hands up in defense.
Ryn scowled. “You should go sing your nonsense for someone who wants to hear it.”
“I know you don’t mean that,” Jules said, throwing an arm around Ryn’s shoulders with his lip stuck out in a pout.
Ryn rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway.
“Only a little. Seriously though, we should probably all go do our actual jobs. The festival is starting.” He gestured over Oaklin’s shoulder, and they spun around to see a robed elder climbing the steps to a low makeshift stage.
Lior leaned in, voice lowered, as Jules and Ryn slipped away to their places.
“That’s Elder Varron,” Lior murmured. “He’s the only person in the church who doesn’t think I’m a disgrace.”
“He must be a decent person, then,” Oaklin replied, barely suppressing their automatic shudder at the man’s regal attire, decked out in symbols of the Three Above.
While most followers and clergy tended to emphasize one aspect of the Three over the others, Elder Varron seemed to represent all three equally in his formal robe.
The entire garment was a pure, solid black, but a gradient of accents celebrated each member of the triad.
For Gael of the Daytime Sky, rays of golden threads reached up from the hem.
For Oshe of the Nighttime Dark, a splash of glittering, starlike silver accents circled his middle.
And for Niev of the Heavens, intricate scrollwork in brightest blue stretched up to the collar, which was lined with the translucent blue stones that represented connection to the heavens beyond.
Above it all, his graying locs were tied back so his wrinkled, deep brown face and gentle expression could be easily seen by all.
“He seems kind,” Oaklin said despite their wariness, put slightly at ease by the man’s warm eyes and air of benevolence.
Lior nodded, her gaze still fixed on the man. “He truly is. I mean that.”
The milling crowd fell silent as Elder Varron smiled and raised his arms in greeting.
“Good afternoon, all!” he called, his voice clear and strong.
“On behalf of the village council, I welcome you to this year’s Midsummer Festival!
This festival is a celebration of light in its most literal sense, yes—the sunshine of the longest day of the year.
But there’s more to it than that. More than anything, it is a celebration of the light of community.
Mossley’s Rest may be small, but it is bursting with the rarest gift of all: genuinely good people. ”
Elder Varron scanned the crowd, smiling like an indulgent grandfather delighting in his own family.
“So, as you peruse the festival today, buying from farmers, listening to musicians, sampling some of Ryn’s incredible festival rolls—save me one, I beg!
—please remember to pause and appreciate the people behind the products, and to buy them a drink once the market closes down.
While we appreciate their hard work, we must never forget that rest is in our name.
Mossley’s Rest is a place to be held up by your neighbors, to give of yourself and receive in turn, and above all, a place for souls to find peace. Happy Midsummer! Let the fires be lit!”
Flickering sparks danced between the elder’s fingers, then pooled bright in his hands before shooting out in every direction.
A cheer went up as torches and braziers were lit all around the square, illuminating faces both familiar and new, villagers and people from the surrounding areas who’d come to enjoy the festivities.
Other members of the council tipped the newly lit torches to the base of the bonfire set up in the village square, lighting the kindling inside.
It would take a while to really get going, but before long, the whole pyramid of logs would be ablaze.
The crowd burst into movement, some flocking to the market stalls, some to dance in the square where Jules had launched into a rollicking song, and some to the stage, where Elder Varron raised his hands and began to lead a communal prayer.
Sister Talla and the other clergy joined him onstage, their heads bowed.
Oaklin began to turn away reflexively, deeply uncomfortable with anything to do with the Three Above…
but their curiosity got the better of them.
It was the first time they’d seen an organized group of the Three’s followers doing anything other than raising a sword against them.
Elder Varron’s soothing voice washed over Oaklin as their eye caught on shining armor.
Lior. At some point, she’d stepped away to kneel before the stage, head bent and eyes squeezed shut.
Not on stage with the others, but bent in prayer with the common folk.
As Oaklin watched, a faint glow flickered to life, barely visible but definitely there, centered around Lior’s hands.
It spread until she seemed to wear a shimmering weave over her armor, shot through with silver and gold threads of light.
“I don’t know how anyone can give her a hard time when she so clearly has the favor of the Three,” a voice said at Oaklin’s side.
They jumped, glancing over to see their perpetually grumpy customer standing with his hands respectfully folded.
He gave an unexpected smile, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
“They’re all jealous, I suppose. I’m a follower of Ione, of course, so I don’t care what they get up to in that wasteful cavern they call a church.
Now then, tell me you haven’t forgotten my mushrooms among all… this.”
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at Oaklin’s elaborate market setup, eyeing the enormous basket of eggs with extra skepticism. Oaklin rolled their eyes, pulling out the mushrooms they’d set aside just for him and accepting his pre-counted payment.
And just like that, the busiest market of the year was underway.
All Oaklin could do was keep up.