Nat bent over the figures on his desk. The Harvest Festival preparations were almost complete. He checked and double checked the numbers. As a major holiday in Nod, all celebrations originated in one of the four god cult temples. Nat sighed and stared out the window at the setting sun. It may be easier if some of the celebrations spilled into Qinten’s home.

From experience, Nat knew Cook, Baker, and their helpers in the kitchen were busier than ever, preparing foods to be delivered to the temple. Some were to be shared among the celebrants. Some of the sweet treats would be available for purchase, the money going into the coffers of the temple. No wonder Qinten desired to be High Priest. All that money under his control. What man with a greedy nature, like Qinten’s, would not crave that much money, and the power that it provided.

Providing grains and animals for the multiple sacrifices had fallen to Qinten and now Nat. The number of sacrifices for the Harvest Festival appeared to be greater than required for the Growing Festival. Fourteen bowls of grain and thirteen ewe lambs would be sacrificed each of the three days of the festival. Three young goats would also be sacrificed on each day of the festival.

Nat added up the actual numbers of needed sacrifices and compared it to those required for the past one day Growing Festival. Extra sacrifices and triple days of sacrifices added up to less than those sacrificed on the one-day festival, replicated in eleven private homes plus the one offered by the High Priest of Lorca in their temple.

He tried not to consider all the blood from the sacrifices. It sickened him. Such a waste of food needed by the masses of poor people who lived in Nod. Some of the food now being prepared by Cook and Baker would feed these poor, binding them to Lorca.

By law, all who resided in Nod were required to attend the celebration at one of the cult god’s temples, even slaves. Slaves anxiously waited for these few days of freedom. Many ate until their stomachs swelled and drank until they fell into oblivion. At the end of the festival, these slaves faced beatings or death if they did not return to the homes of their masters. Few tried to escape.

Nat had never followed the practice of overeating or drinking the strong drinks provided. He always stood on the edges of the crowd as required, listening to the shouts and smelling the pungent fragrance of incense and burning flesh. He willingly accepted the offered food, but he often saved some for later, and he never drank the wine or other strong drinks available during festivals.

Memories of earlier days, days with a loving Mama and Papa surfaced. He sat beside Mama, with baby sister in her arms, as Papa helped another recite sacred words and sacrifice one young bull. Only a part of the meat lay on the altar, a simple structure built of rock as tall as he was as a child of four, and wider and longer than him. He could easily lay any direction on the flat rock that topped it, though his mama expressed horror when he when he asked to lie on it. The sacredness of that altar reached out, even now, to fill him with respect. It touched his heart with warmth.

Not the cult gods of Nod. The offerings lay in ornate structures, at the feet or in the hands of the idol gods. Nat felt no holiness in these temples, no joy in the offerings. Only regret and disgust.

He dragged his eyes from the setting sun. The brightness left a shimmer of light, blinding him. He brushed his hands across his eyes and held them there for a breath, washing away the blinding brightness, before returning to his figures and lists. Qinten would soon return, demanding an accounting.

~ ~ ~

The afternoon of the Harvest Festival, Ziva and Tawna strolled through the crowd, nibbling on finger foods served by Nimm’s servants. They laughed at clowns and expressed delight in the skill of the jugglers. Everyone celebrated a good harvest.

Along the edges of the hall, tables were set up. Sweets, carvings of Nimm, and other trinkets made by the followers of Nimm filled the tables and were offered for sale to the festival attendees. Both Tawna and Ziva carried a few coppers in the pocket they wore at her waist to purchase a trinket or two.

“These beads remind me of the ones you wear, Ziva,” Tawna gushed. She lifted beads from the tray on the table.

Ziva bent to inspect them. Their size and color were similar. She glanced up at the merchant. “Where did you get these? Did you make them?”

“Oh, no, miss. We traded for them far to the west. My brother, he travels to distant lands, trading copper pans for interesting trinkets. Do you like these?”

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“I do.”

“How did you get beads from far in the west, Ziv?” Tawna held the beads to the sunlight.

Ziva fingered the beads around her neck. “I do not know. I have had these beads for as long as I can remember. These have been important to me for … forever.” Ziva turned from the table.

“I want some like yours. I’m buying three.”

“If you wish.” The sun seemed to have hid behind a cloud. She walked to the next table, her thoughts far away. She didn’t really want Tawna to have beads like hers, but what could she say to deter her? Her beads were special.

She bumped into someone. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

She glanced up. A young man stepped back.

“It is no trouble, miss. Do I know you?” His eyes took in her hair, her pale skin, her pale pink dress, cinched at the waist with a wide magenta sash, and the soft silk magenta slippers. Memory crossed his face. “You are that girl! I looked for you to dance with at Roven’s party.”

Ziva blushed. “Crites? Is it you?”

He nodded. “What happened to you?”

“My father needed to leave. He called me away.”

“I thought I saw the back of your dress slip out the door.”

Ziva dropped her eyes. “I am sorry. I wanted to dance again with you. Only my father …”

Crites touched her arm. “I understand. But today, you owe me a dance or three because you left without dancing with me.”

Ziva allowed her eyes to climb into his eyes, and saw they twinkled with humor. “You are right,” she laughed. “I owe you three dances today for leaving before I danced with you again.”

“Let’s begin now, then.” He took her hand and whirled her onto the dance floor.

Few couples danced at this time of day, and they had most of the floor to spin and turn.

Ziva laughed at Crites’ jokes. His humor and kindness drew him to her. She understood the whispers she overheard from the other girls. His eyes danced and twinkled as they laughed together. His dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, one lock drooped over his left eye as they spun about the room.

The music ended and they bowed toward each other, smiling.

“You need a drink, Ziva, after all that dancing.” Crites’ eyes glowed.

“But my friend—”

“She is dancing now, see.” He pointed to the floor where Tawna danced.

“You are right. I do need a drink.” Ziva put her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her to the refreshment table.

“What would you like to drink? Wine, ale, juice?” Crites asked, sweeping his hand toward the drinks.

Ziva considered the table of drinks. “Apple juice, please.”

Crites handed her a glass of apple juice and chose one for himself.

She lifted her eyebrows. “No wine for you?”

“I don’t like the flavor or the way it makes me feel the next morning. I’ll stick to juice.”

Ziva’s approval for him rose.

The dance ended and Tawna found them. She smiled knowingly at Ziva. She smiled back.

“Join me at the table. It is time for food.” Tawna waltzed toward the tables.

Ziva followed her with Crites hand at her back, warm and protective. The three young people joined Tawna’s family. Orak joined them, sitting across from Ziva and Crites.

“I saw you dancing. You looked happy together.” Orak smiled at them.

“We had a good time, thank you,” Crites said. “Ziva left Roven’s party without dancing with me, again. She owes me three dances in return.”

“And dinner, as well, it would seem.” Ziva laughed.

Other men claimed a dance with her, separating the two, but she danced with Crites twice more and stood with him as the priests of Nimm made offerings to their god. She hid her questions and revulsion. Who could think a carved marble figure of a bull could answer the needs of men and women?

When the priests offered bits of the slaughtered goat to the worshipers, Ziva stepped back. She wanted no part of the offering. She did not follow the cult of Nimm any more than she followed Lorca, or Enid, or Balg. None of their teachings encouraged her worship. They were all created by men. How could she worship a cult god created by men?

Crites, too, melted to the back of the crowd. “You do not follow the cult of Nimm?”

“No. And you do not either?” Ziva leaned against the wall.

Crites leaned next to the wall beside her. “No. The cult of Nimm holds nothing for me. I came here because we must celebrate the Harvest Festival at some temple. This year, for this festival, I chose Nimm. Perhaps, next festival I will go to Enid, or Balg.”

“Not Lorca?” Ziva stared into the pecan-brown face that framed his dark brown eyes. A spark of hope filtered through her.

“Never Lorca. His priests are bloodthirsty. Every festival day, they sacrifice more animals. If they could, they would take all the animals to be sacrificed. Men would have no meat to eat, and little grain. No more animals would live to mate and provide for the next festival.”

Ziva nodded. Orak had made similar comments.

“Ziva,” Orak said. He had managed to move to her side without her noticing. “It is time we leave. We do not want to be forced to commit ourselves to Nimm.”

She nodded. “It is time.” She glanced at Crites. “Will you be leaving now, as well?”

“I will. Thank you for the dances and dinner. Maybe, … maybe another time.” Crites seemed to be suddenly shy.

“Perhaps. I enjoyed dancing with you.”

Orak took her by the elbow and led her toward the entrance. She glanced back at Crites, then followed her father.