While J?kob sought solace in the land, the rest of the valley was a hive of frantic, quiet meddling. Matáo and Nìa had been weaving this web of secrecy for a week, and so far, the threads were holding. They had chosen a meadow just beyond the town’s edge, a flat stretch of green near the river’s bend where the tall grass whispered in the breeze. It was far enough from the farmhouse that the clatter of hammers and the scent of roasting fat wouldn't reach J?kob’s unnaturally sensitive nose, yet close enough for the whole village to gather.
Nìa had spent the better part of the day submerged in flour and heat. To keep the secret from their own hearth, she had “borrowed” a neighbor’s kitchen, rising before the sun to prepare the dough for the dinner loaves. While the dough sat to rise in a wooden bowl that had been carved by Matáo’s hands, she turned her attention to the confections. There was a staggering array of cakes cooling on every flat surface: chocolate cakes dark as tilled soil, white cakes cloaked in snowy frosting, short cakes, round cakes, and square cakes. She baked fat cakes that smelled of nutmeg and upside-down cakes dripping with caramelized fruit. At the center of the display sat her masterpiece: a cake painstakingly shaped and colored to look like a dragon, a tribute to the winged beasts that lived in her brother's quietest dreams.
Across the lane, the air was thick with the scent of savory smoke. Mrs. Kiltzka had taken charge of the meat, though she had fretted over the responsibility for days. Her oldest son, Jonah, had been dispatched to the high market two days prior to scavenge for the specific herbs and spices needed for the rub. The village had been generous; Mr. Kiltzka himself had butchered two of the previous year’s calves, two spring hogs, and nine chickens. "One life for every year he’s walked this world," the man had muttered to himself, his tally matching the boy’s age.
By mid-morning, six great roasting pits were roaring. Mrs. Kiltzka’s twins, Jessie and Joel, were tasked with the never-ending labor of feeding the fires. They were identical in every feature save their gender, two red-haired shadows darting between the woodpiles. An hour before the festivities were set to begin, Nìa made her rounds, checking the progress of the pits. The meat was not yet tender enough to pull from the bone, but she judged that by the time the sun laid down to rest, the feast would be perfect.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
While the women managed the fire and flour, Matáo had transformed into a foreman of the fields. He and a crew of the village men had spent the previous days clearing brush and hauling away fallen branches to make room for the games. Matáo had dug the horseshoe pits himself, making several trips to the riverbank to haul heavy buckets of sand-colored gravel to line them. They had hammered together long trestle tables from rough-hewn timber and even constructed a small, sturdy corral for a greased-pig run. By the time the moon had set the night before, the festival grounds were complete.
As midday approached, the village reached a fever pitch of excitement. It was a rare thing for a boy to reach his thirteenth name-day, especially one who had looked into the eyes of the Great Sickness and lived to tell of it. Hanging lanterns were being strung between the trees, their glass panes catching the sunlight.
But as the first casks were tapped, the plan hit a snag. Matáo had gone to the farmhouse to fetch J?kob, expecting to find him brooding over his cold breakfast, but the house was as silent as an empty tomb. He checked the barn, the cellar, and the village square. Panic began to replace his earlier triumph. He enlisted the townsfolk, turning the surprise party into a search party. It was only after an hour of frantic questioning that a woodcutter recalled seeing a small, solitary figure trekking toward the high falls nearly two hours before noon.
Matáo looked toward the jagged faces of the cliffs, his heart sinking. The party was ready, the fires were burning, and the cakes were frosted. However, the guest of honor had vanished into the mist of the falls. Without a word to the crowd, Matáo set out at a run. He was the fastest climber in the valley, and if J?kob was up there, he would find him before the candles on the tables burned down to nothing.
