Harvest is Done

Feastday of Saint Honorius of Canterbury in the eighth year of the reign of King Richard

I can’t help but note the changing seasons, how one falls upon the other to be bound into a great Book of Life. The harvest is done for this season. The workers in the fields have reaped their rewards. The bonfires smudge the sky with their black clouds, and pigs are trotted down the lanes to the slaughterhouse.

In the shadows, I observe it all. Though the seasons may change, some things change not at all. The thief still cuts his purses in the square. The husband still beats his wife. The apprentice still steals from his master and his master cheats his apprentice.

And there is still murder in the parishes. There is no season set aside for murder. It is a perennial event, to be achieved not in the company of others amid bonfires and celebrations, but instead savored in the shadows and darkness of anonymity.

Where are the workers in those bloody fields? Surely I must find them. For a fee, of course.