Harvest

It was easy to miss the little wooden shrine in the town square, tucked behind the noticeboard and just next to the town hall like a minuscule house for fairies. Its roof was weathered and worn, the small effigy rubbed smooth with time and age. Someone came by weekly to lovingly clear the debris away, all the dirt and dried leaves that somehow always collected in the corners no matter the weather.

Sometimes it was cozy, a candle lit on cold nights and glowing merrily despite the wind, other times a jack-o’-lantern stood grinning from inside, long shadows flickering within its eyes. Sometimes it lay forgotten and forlorn, the candlestick lying on its side and covered with a fine layer of dust, though it always righted itself in a few days time with everyone swearing up and down that they hadn’t touched it.

They left offerings for her there. Sometimes with little thought, nothing more than a footnote to their day, a flower they plucked on the way there, or even just a muttered thanks as they passed. Sometimes it was meaningful, a child’s prized button, or an extravagant gem from a merchant seeking safe passage through the swamp. Sometimes it was weeks before anyone paid it any mind, the days long and bright and the nights calm and short. But always when the bite of winter hung in the early morning air, the shadows lengthening and the leaves turning red and brittle, they came back to her.

Sometimes, Harvest looked at the effigy standing so rigidly in the center of the shrine, tilted her head and tried to make something out of it. She could almost see a face, if she squinted at it just so, but whether the depiction was meant to be male or female, dragon or not, she couldn’t tell. Whatever the case, it was whatever Harvest wanted it to be, and sometimes, if she imagined it, perhaps it could look just like her.

She wasn’t some magic genie who could grant wishes, wasn’t some wayward spirit to be guided home—nor even to guide others home—but Harvest appreciated their sentiment how she could, and did small things when she felt like it.

It was always fun to accidentally drop a pumpkin on a bully’s head, the shelf obviously loose and the screw rusted despite having been installed just a few days prior. It was fun switching apple cider for apple cider vinegar, watching the con artist splutter and cough, the barman hurriedly apologizing and swearing that he hadn’t meant to mix up the bottles. And if a nicer trinket found their way into her shrine from a grateful few, well, that was just coincidence, wasn’t it?

Harvest might not be a pixie, a fairy godmother, nor even anything holy of the sort. She might not take any interest in the townsfolks’ lives aside from those favored ones who frequented her perch. But come the tide of autumn, the air crisp and the whisper of dried leaves on the ground, pumpkins cropping up in windowsills and store fronts, Harvest would be there.

From inside the shrine, a jack-o’-lantern grinned toothily at passersby, a candle glowing cheerfully in the cool, night air. And for a brief moment, the shadows flickered and lengthened, and it looked as if it winked.

By: Rosoidela