Once upon a time…

They call me Old Pike, and I saw the honey hills when bread grew on hedges and sausages dangled from trees. In those days we held the Butter-Tide, when a warm wind slid over the fields and everything tasted richer. The rule was simple: you never chased what came to your mouth. Let gifts come to you, or they turned sour.

One Butter-Tide, a boy named Reed asked me to guide him to the Ale-Falls. He said his mother was sick and only a cup from that foam could cure her. We set out along gravy streams and over custard bogs. Reed laughed at first, biting clouds of sugar. But the wind rose wrong. The hills groaned. He ran ahead, grabbed at a ham-bird mid-flight. Its song cracked. The meat turned to ash.

We reached the falls, but the beer rushed backward, fleeing his hands. He cried. I held him. We walked home empty, and his mother died quiet.

After the burial, I taught Reed the hard thing: to wait and to share. Years later the Butter-Tide returned, and Reed stood still. The wind brought him a small pear. He broke it in two. The flavor held.