Copyright J.B. Norman
Lucia, Apolline, Petra, Alda, and Roland are celebrating the Spring Festival at Lucia’s parents’ farm in the small Natalian village of Galgano. Lucia has never really missed growing up in a town so small most people have never heard of it. She misses her parents as she goes trekking all over Realmgard with her friends, and Roland, so she’s always glad for the chance to come home. And coming back for the Spring Festival is always a big deal. The Spring Festival is one of the most important holidays in Natalis.
Roland and Petra have been helping Lucia’s father with the farmwork, making the most of their impressive physical prowess to help him with the lifting and chopping and the various other verbs that have been getting harder for him as he gets older.
Apolline has been helping Lucia’s mother with the Spring Festival cooking— and since they’re a Natalian family during a holiday, there’s a lot of cooking.
Alda has volunteered to help with the farm animals: feeding the chickens and the geese — then running away from the geese, because geese are vicious little mongrels — milking the cows, keeping an eye on the sheep and the goats in the field.
They’re all the jobs Lucia had as a kid growing up on the farm, though Alda seems to be enjoying them more than Lucia herself ever did. It’s been years since then, but it turns out you never really forget how to toss a handful of corn at chickens
So, Lucia has decided to default to helping Alda with the jobs she already knows how to do. Which as the handy benefit of allowing her to adopt at least appearance of making herself useful with having to swing a hoe or an axe, especially not anywhere near where Roland is also swinging a hoe or axe.
At least Petra’s skin is made of rocks when and if Roland does something stupid…
Alda has become especially taken with one the of goats, closing following him around the field as he grazes without paying much attention to, well, anything, really…
Lucia watches as her mother comes into the field housing the sheep and goats.
“Alright now, you two,” she says. “Lots of cooking to do, and we need your help now. Say goodbye to your friend and help us in the kitchen.”
Seeing Lucia’s mother look at the goat, Alda’s eyes go wide. “We’re not going to eat him, are we?”
She defensively claps her arounds around the goat’s neck. After a brief moment of bemusement, the goat goes right back to munching on the grass in the field.
“Oh, no,” Lucia’s mother says. “He’s a good boy. Not for eating. He keeps the grass nice and short.”
Lucia glowers at her mother. “That didn’t stop you from eating my favourite goat,” she mutters.
Tears start well in her eyes.
“Oh, Lucia!” Alda gasps. “That’s terrible!”
“And the worst part was,” Lucia whispers in a small, strained voice, “he tasted really good.”
So, that joke about eating Lucia’s favourite goat is probably one of the darkest things I have ever written. But, realistically, I feel like that when you grow up on a farm, you can’t really get too sentimental about the animals, because odds are they’re probably going to end up in the oven.
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