A Time of Gathering

Malik stood in his grain field and wondered how fast the summer passed. Now, as the days shortened and the night bit with icy fingers, the time of gathering was at hand.

Lore spoke of this time with a sense of reverence, one that should be honored with festivals and celebrations.

Malik cared not for such things, only for the need to put up the harvest so hunger would stay at bay during the winter days to come.

Eighty years since first, he stood in the grain, swung the scythe, and toppled the golden heads of wheat—a younger man then with dreams of the future.

Today was like the rest. Cold mush for morning tea, then to the fields to plant, weed, or reap what thou has sown.

Ten years ago, his wife had passed, leaving him only the farm and no hope of a child to help his wearied bones. At first, his grief was all-consuming, leaving little room to think of the future.

Malik wonders if the sickness had spared his wife if a pair of young hands would now be beside him to gather the fallen stalks.

As the farmer rhythmically moved across the field, the wind brought relief from the warm autumn sun and the smell of hay being cut in the distance.

“It all flows in cycles, grandfather would say, and I fear now he may be all too correct as the time of gathering brings the season of darkness when the Dark One rides in search of a soul to harvest,” said the man to no one in particular.

After finishing the grain’s felling, the farmer gathered the stalks and bound them with others before carrying them to the barn, where thrashing would begin in the morning.

Malik longed for the winter so his mind may slumber like the land, forgetting about what might have been rather than what is now.

“I will sleep soon and see her standing in the sun’s radiance like so long ago when I wore a younger man’s clothes and still had dreams,” muttered the man as he shuttered the barn’s doors and headed for his home and evening meal.