Bezpłatny fragment - A Little Tale for Bigger Children

In a world unlike your own, where the Earth is a disc upheld by the plump and tireless sons of Gaia, and the Sun circles around it, sages study magic in the kingdom of a kind lady — using it for the good of the queen and her subjects, and sometimes for their own carefully concealed ambitions.

On the land ruled by the crown, in a small village — neither rich nor poor — life unfolded in the rhythm of sowing, growth, harvest, and waiting for spring to bloom. The people there began preparing for the hardships of their sustaining, cyclical work as the remnants of glassy snow, pierced by brightness and warmth, gave way to flowers with petals the luscious color of icing boldly poured over sweet pastries or rock salt used as seasoning for meat dishes served on the tables of wealthy lords.

At that time, the thick yet soft down that blanketed the earth like a smooth, delicate, enduring and costly velvet — sometimes wrinkled by the passing of a field mouse — vanished from fields and forests, village paths and the slanted roofs of multi-generational homes. Farmers returned to the land, plowing fertile soil and casting seeds far and wide — seeds that sprouted into slender, upright, and strong stalks, like bowstrings, dancing in the spring wind, jealous of the life-giving color of the sun, as if imitating its flawless brilliance.

Women and men tended to the crops, irrigating them when needed and guarding against repulsively greedy pests. Each day, they stepped onto the fertile fields with patient — though not silent — anticipation, more rhythmic and songful than still. And when the methodical sun disk settled high above the friendly blue sky, it was time — sickle and scythe in hand — to gather the harvest meant to feed rowdy children, tired, age-bent but cheerful elders, themselves, and the especially grumbling townsfolk nearby.

After the exhausting but fruitful harvest, after days of work from dawn until dusk, once strength had been drained from weary bodies, a joyful season of blissful idleness began. Leaves dropped from trees, but first changed color. Some turned yellow, hoping that a lemony glow would brighten the forest slipping into a sleepy trance. Others browned, hiding away and blending into the background to avoid the inevitable. A few, envious of their prettier neighbors, blushed red and cloaked themselves in rusty hues to stand out among the foliage and avoid being merely average. Only pine needles laughed joyfully at the coming winter, waiting for soft white snow to cool their tiny green hearts, warmed by the summer sun.