Black Harvest

“I am Smithy - Jon Smithy - from down yon.” He pointed to the valley in the distance where the village of the Haverlock shouldered. He had stayed the night by the well, having no particular direction to travel.

“I am Fatima.” she hesitated, biting her lip and crinkling her brow, she went on “Sir, you have come into to the district of the Black Harvest. The people who live here, have come here, to die. We are, well, we are … kept separate from the healthy - and have been banned from normal life. Some say that we are cursed. If you are not one of us, you should probably leave."

Jon was unafraid of such things. He had heard of these communities, but had never before come upon one let alone ventured in.

“Should you not have a signpost of warning?” he asked, still mumbling from tiredness.

“Yes, Sir, there are many”, she said pointing to one, just yards away from them. It was a single stick with a scull and crossbones burnt within the wood.

He started to weep. Jonathon had never really cried like this - not even when his Ma had been buried, nor, throughout the passage of the last few days, when he had lost his father, his income, his tools, and his way. But now, in a rush, the sadness came upon him, and he wept like one who can hold the tides no more.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Finding Self - Second Guesses- Azlander Series