Summer rolled into Fennas on phoenix wings, scorching the land and turning the green hills to dust in a sudden burst of flame. The dry dust floated into homes and pastures alike to land as a grimy coating over sweating humans and cattle. Water was rationed, great yawning cisterns gasped for rain above the thatched roofs. Even the great forest’s leaves, turned yellowed, dropped early from the drooping trees. No relieving breeze blew from the nearby lands, though the windows were all thrown open in the hope of tempting any stray that might possibly pass their way. The only breeze that dared take flight that year was one of change, unnoticed by the townsfolk until too late. The summer heat rolled on, and the invisible winds shifted the land imperceptibly. Change had come to Fennas, simulacrum of the desired breeze.

In the somewhat cooler forest, Gilbert McHaggart was felling a tree. He stopped for a moment, leaning on his saw as he wiped the sweat from his eyes with a drenched rag. His son nearby followed his example, drinking from a small bottle of water, then dumping more over his head.

‘What’cha doing, you lazy lump! G’t back ta work!’ Scowled Gilbert.

‘But Da-’

‘Don’t you ‘but da’ me. You’re a good-for-nothing lad and not worth your food. G’back ta work!’

Scowling, Dagget heaved his axe again, flexing his shoulders to relieve the tension. Soon the steady chop of the tree sounded again through the dry wood, signaling the end of another proud oakcrest. With another scowl, Gilbert went back to work. An old codger of a man, he had seen five sons grown and was well known as a hard man to cross. Spiteful and hard on all, it was a wonder that he had turned out the easy-going sons he had. His old muscles, hardened and roped from years of hard labor, tightened as he swung his axe once more. The wood was to build another shed for the farm, and he wanted it to be done quickly – it was only a matter of time before the abrupt shift from heat to ice. With a snarl of victory, he felt the tall tree give way. A shudder shook the dry branches, a funeral march for the toppling oak.

As Old McHaggart watched in horror, some foul wind snatched the branches of the tree, turning them toward his youngest son. With a cry of warning he ran forward, but too late. Dagget disappeared with but a cry under the leafy tyrade.

‘Blast ye, ya bloody stump!’ Cried Gilbert, heaving in vain at the cairn; but what had gone down so easy was not to be budged, and eventually McHaggart admitted defeat. With one last look, he ran off toward the village for help.

McHaggart ran into the fields where the rest of the able-bodied men were working, trying to convince the aqueducts to shed water on their dying crops.

‘Me son’s been injured! Quick!’

‘Ah, Gilbert. Can’t ye see we’re buisy? Just take him down to Mistress Halwice yerself, why don’ ya.’ Shouted a red faced man farther down the field.

‘A great bloody tree’s felled him! I can’t lift it meself, I need help!’ Snapped McHaggart.

‘A tree! Why din’ ye say so? Ay, Lads! Time to test yer mettle at tree-huggin’ tonight! Show the way, Haggart.’

Off the men ran, until they came to the clearing.

‘I don’ think we can shift ‘er, Gil. Sides, I don’t like to think of yer lad’s condition under there.’

‘Oh, he’ll be alive.’ Growled Gilbert. ‘Jus’ get ‘im out.’

The men strained at the solid wall, and finally it began to move. Slowly at first, with much groaning and creaking, the prison lifted from Dagget’s body.

‘It doesn’ look good.’

‘Shut yer mouth.’ Gilbert lifted the crushed body and, walking as quickly as he was able, went down the path towards the healer’s cottage. It seemed to take forever, if only an instant, the cottage being on the near edge of the forest. Gilbert stumbled inside, praying for the best. If she wasn’t home… what if it was too late?

To his relief, Herbmistress Halwice opened her cottage when he entered. She took one look at the mangled body and motioned him in, her face serious. Though she was but a young woman, she had great authority in the realm of medicine.

‘I don’t know if I can save your son, McHaggart.’

‘Do it! Or-’

‘Or what?’ She questioned dryly. ‘He’s too far gone. You waited before sending for help, I know you did. Too proud to admit defeat, and this time your hubris might just have taken your son.’ She moved methodically, tying bandages and smoothing odd-coloured herbs.

‘Don’ talk ta me like that! Show more respect for yer elders, young lady. Ye save my son! Tis not my fault he’s injured! He… he… he got in front of the tree, that’s what happened. Not my fault! The stupid idiot-’

‘Don’t talk about your son that way, McHaggart.’ She broke in sharply. ‘He’s a better man than you ever were. All ye know how to do is blame others, how ye justify it to yerself I’ll ne’r know.’

‘Don’ try ta pin the blame on me! I’m not the scapegoat of the community… oh, everyone blames me and I take my share, but don’t go trying to find fault when you don’t want to help them that help you.’

‘Ye selfish braggart. I will try what I can. I ne’er fail my patients, no matter my opinion of their father, who insults me in my own house. Ye ought to be ashamed, Gilbert Haggart! Demeaning yer son fer yer own pride.’

‘You little - ’ Gilbert stuttered, the pain of his conscience adding to his wrath. ‘Save him, you hear me! I knows you can, and if’n you don’t, well, you will be sorry. I will not take this blame, for it isn’t mine. I went right to the men, that’s what I did!’ almost right away, his conscience amended. A few minutes, that’s all. It wouldn’t have mattered… more than a few, but still… He stormed out of the cottage.