The Final Harvest

Lila trudged wearily to her dilapidated stone cottage, nestled at the edge of the forest. Her calloused hands clutched a rusted sickle and a woven basket filled with wild herbs. Another bundle awaited her at the door—this time, it was golden pears. They shimmered under the fading sunlight, looking ripe and delicious. The person who left them knew her tastes well. She could almost taste their sweet, honeyed juice, but she ignored them and entered her home. She had already refused numerous times and wouldn’t be swayed by gifts.

Once inside, the wind howled through the trees, making her smile.

A few moments later, there was a knock on the door.

“Lila? You in there?” She recognized that voice.

Annoyed, she didn’t bother asking who it was. It was obvious.

“Miss Lila, can I come in?”

She sighed and shuffled to the door. Her feet ached from a long day, and she moved with a slow, painful gait. When she opened the door, she saw the eager face of her youngest nephew.

“Good evening, Miss Lila.” The young man looked down when he received no reply. “How’s your back today?”

“It aches.”

“Yes, how’s your back, Aunt Lila?”

“Come in, Finn.” She turned and made her way to her worn chair, gesturing for him to sit.

Finn had left the village years ago to work in the bustling city. Lila adored her nephew. This visit was a cunning attempt, even for her brother.

“You staying long, Finn?”

“I hoped to be here for the harvest.”

“Hmmm…” Straight to the point, just like his mother. Lila admired that.

“Eighty years of perfect harvests since 1944. Something’s off, Aunt Lila. The wheat should be taller and ready. Flowers should be blooming by now.”

“Yes, it’s weeks late.”

“Exactly! And the rains are coming soon. People are anxious, Aunt Lila. Wheat is all the farmers have. The landowners…”

“The landowners are rich city folks!” Lila interrupted, scowling.

“Maybe so, Aunt Lila. But they provide jobs. And there’s not enough vegetables, fruits, or honey to fill Dad’s cart.” Finn’s eyes pleaded. Lila turned away.

“Who tilled the fields when Caleb died? Huh?” Her voice quivered with anger and sorrow; her eyes darted, searching for calm. “I paid a heavy price for the village already. My boy died in the great war. And I’m here alone.” Her voice broke.

“I know, Aunt Lila.” Finn's whisper carried collective regret.

Every village had sent men to the war. Other people’s war, Lila would say. The few who returned were scarred but rejoined society. Lila’s grief was too raw, too consuming, so people avoided her, postponing visits until they ceased altogether.

“Every village from here to the coast has enough vegetables to eat. The farmers won’t starve,” the aunt spat bitterly.

“Children need books and clothes too, Aunt Lila.” Finn pleaded.

Lila paused.

Indeed, the village’s crops had nourished Finn, but his city life had made him refined and successful. Could she deny other children that chance? Was it fair that they suffer for their parents’ actions? But also… what of the price? She remained silent for a moment, exhaling deeply, then turned to her nephew.

“Nephew… today is Monday. A good day to seek the spirits. And ten days until the midsummer eve.” Finn straightened, eager for what was coming next. “By dusk tonight, I want to see a candle and a loaf of bread at every door. It must be done each day.”

“Yes, Aunt Lila. I’ll tell Dad.” He stood.

“Child… We’re asking for a lot. The cost is high.” Finn sat back, understanding dawning. “Thursday, at dusk, we sacrifice one lamb and one dove. We do it each evening for a week.”

Finn hesitated, forming silent words for a moment.

“Sacrifices are usually in threes, Aunt. No… fish?” Finn asked.

“No!” Lila replied sharply. “Lamb and dove.” She turned to the window and spoke louder. “I don’t care where they come from. They must be ready by the old well before dusk.”

Footsteps hurried away from her door and under her window.

Lila continued. “We’re demanding a lot, Finn. We must give a lot.” Her eyes were heavy with sorrow.

“The people are poor, but they can make this offering, Aunt Lila.” The old woman did not reply and began to unpack her basket.

Word spread swiftly. Lila was going to perform the ritual after all. She showed mercy despite the villagers’ past neglect. Every evening from the following Thursday, villagers brought the lamb and dove, heads hung low in shame. A knife was drawn, and blood was collected in seven bowls. Adults held lanterns to light the way, and children dipped their fingers into the warm liquid to sprinkle the fields. At dawn, one person from each household collected the candle and bread, offered them to the sky, and placed them by the door. The sacrificed meat was seasoned, grilled, stewed, and shared. The best portions were set aside for the spirits and for Lila.

Alone, the elder knelt at the village center at high noon, drawing symbols in the dirt and muttering words no one could hear. But each evening, during the bloody rituals, they noticed the wheat stalks growing taller and fuller.

During the week of ceremonies, Finn cared for his aunt’s house and managed the gifts left daily at the door. Lila barely ate and spoke even less. It took more from her than expected. Were it not for these extraordinary circumstances, Finn might have suspected something sinister.

On the morning of the midsummer eve, after the final offerings at dawn, the villagers rushed to the fields to find vibrant flowers blooming above the tall wheat. They fluttered like bright banners in the breeze. The crop was ready. Everyone began to harvest, bundle, and load.

Finn brought the celebration to Lila, with a fresh platter of berry tarts and cool spring water he knew she would appreciate.

“Lila? You in there?” His cheerful voice was filled with excitement. “Aunt Lila?” Knocking was merely polite, as there were no locks in the village. Finn pushed the door open to find his aunt slumped in her chair, eyes closed. Her lantern still glowed softly, and her face was serene, as if she had simply drifted off while remembering the sweet taste of golden pears.

Indeed, as any wise elder or villager knew, sacrifices always come in threes.