Page 140 of Circle of Days
“I have never known anything like this,” Bez said.
None of them had.
“The balance is not just upset, it has been destroyed.”
Omun said: “Where there is murder, there must be killing.”
Gida said: “But who should die? The hammer of the gods must fall upon the guilty.”
Several people in the crowd repeated the familiar phrase: “The hammer of the gods must fall upon the guilty.”
Bez said: “The herders are guilty, because they burned our wood.”
Many people nodded. Bez waited for someone to disagree, but no one did.
“The farmers are guilty, because they murdered our children and old people.”
The crowd agreed.
“To restore the balance, we must kill herders and farmers.”
Several people shouted: “Yes!”
Bez said: “And they will all be at the Monument for the Midwinter Rite.”
The High Priestess, Ello, was ill, too ill to get up. Joia had been doing Ello’s job for some weeks. It was Joia who had proposed painting all the crossbars with red ocher. The priestesses had enjoyed the work, and the color enhanced the Monument.
Today she rehearsed the priestesses for the Midwinter Rite. This was an evening ceremony, so the practice took place in the morning. Outside the circular bank, trading was in noisy progress.
Joia tried not to think about Ello dying. It would be wicked to hope for such a thing. But she knew she would be the next High Priestess, and then she would be free to pursue the tremendousproject of a stone Monument. Still, she must leave everything in the hands of the gods.
That autumn it had rained as it used to, before the terrible years of the drought. The cattle were healthier, though not fatter: the grass would not grow again until spring. Supplies of fodder were low, and many beasts would be slaughtered at midwinter and turned into smoked beef, because they could not be kept alive until spring. The famine was not over, but perhaps its end was in sight.
Optimism was in the air as people gathered for the Midwinter Rite at the Monument. Many farmers were there, though men only.
Herders from distant regions to the north, which had escaped the worst of the drought, brought fat sheep and cattle to trade for flints and pottery.
The gossip was about a rumor that had spread all over the plain and even farther. Terrible evil had been done, people said. No one had seen it, but everyone spoke of it. Children and old people of Bez’s tribe had been slaughtered. Farmers said they knew nothing about it, but rumor said the Young Dogs had done it on Troon’s instructions.
The thefts had stopped abruptly. Cattle no longer vanished from the herd at night, and there were no more raids on farmers’ stores. Some woodlanders left Bez’s tribe and wandered on the plain. Joia saw a couple grubbing for roots in the grass, and Seft said he saw one trying to catch fish in a stream that had been refreshed by the storm. It was unusual to see woodlanders outside their territories, but the reason was obvious to Joia: Bez’s tribe had lost their territory.
Today was the shortest day of the year, and people began to gather inside the circular bank as soon as the sky darkened. The ceremony celebrated the setting of the sun on Midwinter Day, but more often than not the sun was behind clouds in winter, so its setting had to be assumed. Today, however, the cloud cover broke in the west, and the crowd looking southwest watched, mesmerized, as a huge red sun, seen against bloodred and flint-grey clouds, slowly sank beyond the Monument and disappeared over the edge of the world.
Going from the Monument to Riverbend for the feast, Joia found herself walking next to a farmer called Duff, an amiable young man she had met before. She asked him about the rumored massacre. “It was a tragedy,” he said.
“But who did it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his amiability diminishing.
“But you must have your suspicions,” she persisted.
“It’s best not to discuss suspicions.”
“Of course,” she said, backing off. “I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”
With a sudden access of candor, he said: “Thank you for not forcing me to lie.”
That was a complex remark, and she moved away from him to think about it. He was intelligent and honest, she thought, and he knew who had committed the massacre, but if he said it he would be putting himself in some kind of danger. And what danger could a young farmer fear? It could only be some threat from Troon.
