The annual Autumn Festival arrived three days later, and Uyo continued to struggle. Uyo wanted to spend the day in bed but was persuaded by Tival and Ventis (and Odogo) to join the celebration. With little energy for conversation, Uyo walked deliberately around the perimeter of the festival, aided by the korhi staff. By now, it no longer held any sway over the sedra but was still valuable for its physical support. As Uyo paused to rest, Vol Patik crossed over to stand next to them.
“A korhi staff, I see,” said Vol Patik.
Startled from their earlier daze, Uyo turned to look at who had spoken. “Uh — yes, Vol Patik. Do you know of it?” asked Uyo.
“Oh, indeed. Though mine is no longer a staff,” replied Vol Patik, playfully poking Uyo in the belly.
When Uyo looked at the cane Vol Patik held, the honey-gold hue of the korhi wood was unmistakable, though there was no iron cap on the end and the carving at the top was of a different, though still unknown to Uyo, bird. “Wait — did you have the sedra, too?” Uyo asked.
“Years and years ago.”
“How did you get rid of it?” Uyo asked in a rush.
“Ah…that’s not a question easily answered, Uyo. But if you’ll permit an old storyteller a story?” Vol Patik asked, drawing the last word out into an expectant singsong.
Uyo nodded. With a smile, Vol Patik began:
Long ago, in the before times, lived three families of farmers: Sok, Lok, and Zoa.
The Sok family had farmed the land for generations. Sok the Younger learned the trade from Sok the Elder, growing in knowledge and skill with each harvest. When Sok the Elder pierced the veil between worlds, Sok the Younger, who was, by then, no longer young, donned the mantle of Elder and took on an apprentice who became Sok the Younger. And so, the cycle continued, as was their custom. Due to their skill, the Sok harvest was often abundant. They sold this excess for a profit, which they used to upgrade tools, expand holdings, and hire laborers. What excess they couldn’t sell to the community was composted for fertilizer to replenish the soil for the next harvest.
The Lok family was new to farming. Previously, they’d been merchants who had nearly come to ruin after an improbable chain of unfavorable weather, unsavory brigands, and an unscrupulous partner saw their entire inventory wiped out — thrice. They took what remained of their assets and acquired a small farm, even though, for them, farming didn’t have the same prestige as the mercantile life. However, while they had been adequate merchants, they were less than capable as farmers, despite their diligence. Each year their harvests were meager. It was too rainy one year. The next, too dry. One year, vermin ate their seeds. Another year, weeds choked their crop. And a blight struck more than once. Still, they shared what they could with the community, since they were no strangers to misfortune.
The Zoa family was neither new to farming nor a dynasty. Their harvests were neither abundant nor meager. When the harvest was good, they shared their small excess. When it was not, they did not. Looking back after each harvest, they could recognize some opportunities they had missed for a greater yield. But since their harvest was always enough for them to survive, albeit with occasional belt tightening, they only rarely acted on those observations for the next season. Change just didn’t seem necessary.
Uyo looked at Vol Patik. When the storyteller didn’t continue, Uyo asked, “That’s it? Vol Patik, I don’t understand. What does farming have to do with the sedra?”
“Farming? Nothing at all.”
“Wait — what? Why did you tell me this story? I thought you were going to help me get rid of the sedra.” Uyo said with increasing volume and decreasing patience.
Resting a hand on Uyo’s shoulder, Vol Patik said, “Uyo, what you seek is not in the story. It’s in you. The story is just a mirror. Well…and perhaps a key, too.”
“But how does it end?” Uyo asked.
“End?” asked Vol Patik. “It ends the way any living thing ends, Uyo. In death. Death exists in service to life. A more useful question is — how does it continue?”
“How should I know? It’s not my story,” Uyo protested.
“But what if it was, Uyo? What if it was? What choices can you see for them? What would those choices require? What changes must they initiate in themselves to even be capable of those choices? What would motivate them to try?”
“I — I don’t know, Vol Patik.”
“A wonderful beginning, Uyo. Seek to understand.”
With a final squeeze of Uyo’s shoulder, Vol Patik turned to rejoin the celebration. Uyo watched the storyteller’s departure and noticed how Vol Patik’s reentry rippled throughout the gathering, like a pebble dropped into water, quickly encompassing the whole. What Uyo found curious was that the celebration somehow seemed more — joyful? — than it had just a moment ago.
“Huh. How about that?” Uyo mused to themselves, the corners of their mouth upturned in faintest of smiles. “How about that.”
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