Across the Face of the World by Russell Kirkpatrick Page B

northerners took otherwise unconscionable risks with the weather in order to be with their friends for Midwinter. And each year a few never made it back home.
    Well before dawn the inhabitants of the Vale began gathering at Falthwaite End. Men and women bustled about under the canvas readying soup while children played, huddling together in little groups or running about between the tent posts. Finally, as the sun came up on another ice-blue morning, children served the nourishing broth to their parents and elders, then took some for themselves. The whole group moved outside and acknowledged the life-giving power of the sun as it began its brief Midwinter journey' through the sky. A cold wind whipped down the valley from the north, its chill making the simple ceremony an act of faith.
    For the three hours between the sun's rise and its zenith, the villagers were occupied in preparing the food. Everyone was supposed to be involved in slicing, spicing, stuffing, plucking, stoking, cooking and table-setting. One or two of the younger villagers, of course, managed to find ways of escaping the work and also escaping detection, while others had to be restrained from throwing food or hitting each other with pots and pans. Eventually, but not soon enough for their appetites, midday arrived and everyone was seated under canvas either side of three huge tables, gazing upon a sea of food of every description, waiting with gath¬ering impatience for the headman of Loulea to bid them begin.
    The Haufuth stood to speak. The villagers relaxed a little in the knowledge that their leader would give them a head start on most of the other Midwinter gatherings in the north: they could see him trembling with eagerness to do battle at the table, and knew that once again the speech would be mercifully short.
    'Thank you all for coming,' he began. 'We stand at the turning of another year, with this feast the evidence of all we have been given, all we have worked for. Let us rise and acknowledge our blessing.' Chairs scraped and feet scuffled as all present rose to their feet. 'We give thanks!' the Haufuth boomed. 'We give thanks,' came the hurriedly intoned echo, then more scraping and shuffling, followed by the earnest clinking of table weapons and muttered requests for food to be passed round. The people were very satisfied. Crazy old Kurr had provided mutton after all, and the speech was the shortest ever.
    The villagers sang and danced and ate and drank their way through the afternoon and evening.
    It was the time of year when grievances were forgotten and feuds were settled early on, as spending a day in close proximity to an enemy did not make for enjoyment of the celebrations. The festival brought together people who worked side by side every day, as well as farmers from the downs and hunters from the borders of the woods who maybe never saw their fellow northerners from one year to the next. Old friend¬ships were renewed and new friendships were made. There were a few quiet corners in the vast marquee, away from the smell of the food and the noise of the musicians, and small groups of people drifted in and out of them, talking, laughing, planning, bartering or courting. It was a scene of delight to warm the heart, as villagers wearing their brightest festive garments enjoyed themselves together.
    A light snow began falling late in the evening. By now things had slowed down, the bulk of the food was eaten and the sides of the tent were littered with the bodies of those sleeping it off. The cooking fires had gone out, but the warmth given off by the people under the canvas was enough to ward off the cold. The musicians now began playing a number of slow, sentimental northern ballads, and people began dancing in the heavy atmosphere. More and more joined in, moving together in time to the gentle blandish¬ments of the balladeers, singing of life and death in the legendary days of the First Men.
    Midnight drew near, the zenith of darkness and