Fire.

It cast a long shadow onto distraught hush of the feasting men and women. It was swirling. The emotion, Grim meant. Reluctance, sorrow, grief, and anger were mixed in the silent chaos. Whisper were exchanged and tear were shed. The hour still young. Sun just set two and half sandflow ago. Grim know, it was the fifth and sundown turning supposed to be his shift. But still, manager Liam must relegate his job to Gamel on the account of tonight.

A long table were spread. On it was heap and heap of Qeta and Kluushi. Meagre offering, a poor house table scrap for the pets in harvest season. However, today, tonight, is not a part of those bountiful harvest season. It hasn't been for a long time.

Between the silence and whisper, Grim could heard children crying on the border of the bonfire, pointing to the heap of Qeta and Kluushi. Unchosen children. Their parent will shook their head, explaining. Or if the child still cry, hit their palm lightly. Just a tap, without hurt, without pain, but with the thunder of a loud clap that will turn head, and give stare. A mix between pity and pressure; shushing them.

The tableau move. It was the young men circle. The unmarried who had start their apprenticing long ago and began to take the second lowest ladder of seniority after long years of busy work and learn by watching. Grim himself, hope to be promoted to Manager Liam's Assistant, overseeing harvest calendar and determining planting season. But still, fate always has it jokes. Edgard stood. He burst into a dance, then, with just a hearbeat of delay, a song. Erratic marriage between New Year Helebio and the Broken Heart Ballad of Travelling Giselle. Then, he leapt. He leapt onto the sky, onto himself with a twirl, a tuss, and backbared brash.

"Heart and Spring will always stay~

Leave me alone and I will go away~"

With his lumbering bod, he sung. The lyric doesn't make sense. Not one bit. Edgard is not a songwriter. Songwriting were gift of old, even among the travelling bard. It sparks or it don't. So most people just belt sad with sad song and happy with happy song.

Then, with same sudenness, Gerard collapses. Into a simpering of sob and restrained wail. Grim recoil. He felt disgust, a grown man should not cry. They may shout. They may get drunk. They may bellow with anger, and sometimes bellow and behoove with their fist clenched when the word of civilized failed. But not a cry. Never a cry. Crying is a weakness. At least that what Grim believed. Who will stood strong holding everyone together if the grown men cry? But still. He sigh. Who is he to judge the state of his fellow on the cursed night like this?

"Crunch."

"Crunch. Crunch. Crunch."

"Gulp."

He continue his methodical gobbling. Four bites of Qeta followed by a mouthful of water.

"Bah! Pah! Eurgh..."

"Those cook must add at least half husk-dust!"

Da El-halliah convenant dictates even in the direst hour of Sent-off Bonfire, only three handful of husk-dust were allowed to be mixed in the parting Qeta. It was meant as a last gift for those who'd be sent-off. Still, they'll be gone by tommorow morn, casted away to the expanding desert hoping for a miracle. How they would appeal if that was the case? They'll be gone by then! Onto the blazing sun and endless mire. Onto the expanding desert. Onto a miracle that never will!

Still. A miracle.

A miracle. Miracle? Well, it was true, a miracle had happened. Grim acknowledged that at least. It was the night of same disbelief and despair that ushered a miracle. He stood there as a living proof. The town. The little Da El-halliah. A glimmering oasis of the brook. The second oasis of the ever claiming expanding desert. It was found by the 35th generation of fellow sent-off. So technically. there's a chance.

But, a miracle were called a miracle because it was rare. Because by definition it defy common happenstance. It happened to the great people who has it name written on the history books. Because it occasion were monumental. It occasion not your everyday farm-tending or weekly market. It's a miracle. And Grim has no will to bet on that.

Curse. The miracle-seeking, Grim meant. It was a foretold of foretold. The first rambling when a soothsayer take apprentice. It stood with death and the King's Tax as constant in this ever changing world.

It began all the same. Every seventeen planting circle, the brook will dried up until it left the lumpy, red clay that desired by every masterpotter. Then the sorghum and the rye, the one that yet to be harvested, because of lacking of farm hand or plain old laziness will shrivel. Then the time pass, the smart one, with water-holding artifact will already left a month ago to Kernell, bringing only modicum of their wealth.

The rest, who poor, who above poor but will be poor if a hiccup struck, and the rest of middle-class will stuck here, without water-holding artifact, crossing Kernell and Da Elhalliah were impossibility, there are no waterhole in between. It just a dry, expanding desert.

Then the time pass still. Everyone will know. It's the famine. Yet everyone will be in denial. They are the one who were left out. There's no point in wallowing in grief. So they get to work. Seeking new water hole, collecting damp soil, and peeling treebark with a hope that they could, they could endure.

The time pass. The livestock dried, leaving nothing even bones. The able-bodied who had claimed parentage will lie more often, telling their children and their old parent that they had eaten, that they had their fill. But still, the time ravages.

It was a tradition, a horrifying tradition. One day, after another fruitless excursion. The able-bodied will found a wooden box with dried yellow straw. Their children would sat right there still, told by their grandparent to oversee the box. Then, all break loose. Some will collapse and cry, other will run into their storeroom, into the basement, into the street, into their grandparent frequented teahouse, even to the ever expanding desert.

Denial will be useless then. As it had been for season and season pass. The elderly had commit suicide. The more practical one even leave a paper that says the able-bodied to eat their meat and bones. It never practiced.

Then, without any group meeting, without counsel of council, without talk over dinner, one by one the able-bodied rose. They will carry in them a dun colored bag made from last straw of bad harvest. Then each of them will knock two house, one of a friend and one of a family, each filling the bag with a third of grain. It'll continue until the street upon street were filled; thirty bag-carrying folk of thirty houses.

They'll meet at the south gates, in three row, and ten lines.

Then...they'll march.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

On the town center, an old drum beater will meet them. The drum will be hanged on his neck, silent. He will stood there, unmoving. With his gaze, he pierce the heart of the thirty of thirty houses. For he is the first gatekeeper and he demand but one price. The three of front rows to look upon his eyes.

Not long, just a minute pass. But in those count of seconds, a lifetime of faces is shown. Their friend, their neighbor, their co-worker that they work with for years, the next door children that their own children play with, the gossiping auntie, the rowdy uncles, and the nice, agreeable grandparents who regale themselves with desert and stories. The gatekeeper stood. He ask for his price. For the thirty of the thirty houses ask of the most terrible; the death of their fellow.

The drum beat.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM. BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM

They'll continue their march. Then standing just outside the chief house. A pair stood. The grain-keeper of the west and the grain-keeper of the east. With a sigh, then a duty. They'll take and count each of the dun-colored bag. Weight manipulation will not be tolerated. Filling it with hust-dusk also will not be tolerated. Any dereliction then they'll be expulsed.

But it held true. No one skimp. Many give more then they ought to. Not much. Just by one of the tenth. But still. It more not less.

So the march continue.

Then the three of the front rows will knock the door. The chief will beckon them into the hall. Then he'll drew thirty names of three hundred family. The calendar will be consulted. The day will be deemed.

Sent-off Bonfire. The night when all it's lost.

So Grim tighten. Tighten his grip. Ah. No. His hug. His hug to the Alan shivering hands. One of the cruelty, or maybe, un-cruelty of the Sent-off Bonfire is that they don't break a family. They just make all of your family goes with you. So here he is, gripping his younger brother. Munching Qeta and water, storing energy for at least two day, their provision will last two week at most, even if they travel at night. It's horrible. Grim winced. Alan just ten calendars old! And he'll die! Die! DIE! Like the rest of them! Somewhere stranded on the desert for scavenging dog to feast on!

"Grim."

"Ah. Alan!"

"You're crying..."

Grim touched his cheek. Ah. He has wept. What a joke. What a hypocrite is he.

"...Yeah. I'm sorry. Here, eat some Qeta." He'll not lie to his brother.

"Don't wanna."

"Eat it Alan..."

"It's awful."

"I know. But you'll need it. For... for... for tommorow."

"Okay."

"Grim..."

"Yes Alan?"

"I don't wanna go."

"I know Alan...."

"I know."