#tesfest22

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The day of the festival dawned hot and bright; if not for the nip in the breeze one might have thought it the height of summer!

Gay pennants of yellow hues, strung between the houses, flapped in the breeze. Arrayed on the village green were tables ladened with cakes and candles, mead and medicines, and all manner of other related items for sale. Children wearing crowns of columbine and yellow flax, or wings of leaf and twig, chased each other in some game with shrieks of glee.

Eyja tugged on my arm, pulling me from my awed reverie, and I followed her to the competition table so she could submit her entry. Casting my gaze over the magnificent entries in all the disparate categories, I envied not the judges; for I did not know how they would choose amongst such prestigious submissions!

We took some time then to amble along the items for sale – I filling my bag to bulging with knick knacks and gifts, Eyja chattering to those she knew – before a particular stall caught her eye, and she with a squeal, dragged me over. "These," she informed me, as she paid for two waxed bags, "are the best part of the festival." Eyja handed me one bag, and from her own plucked a golden lump, hard but filled with bubble-holes and lightly crumbling. She held it triumphantly, announcing, "Honeycomb toffee!" before proceeding to crunch off a corner with a grin. I smiled, and selected a small part for myself. It was sweet and crunchy with a slight metallic tang – a most enjoyable sweet.

Then, from the center of the green, came the rumble of a drum. We drifted over to join the crowd, as a stout, tanned gentleman – evidently the provost of this little commune – gave a speech, welcoming all to the festival. He then gave the floor to a small band and a collection of children who moved in an impressively elaborate dance – ducking and swerving and wiggling and jumping! Eyja commented to me that it was known as the Waggle Dance, meant to imitate the movement of the bees. After the children had done their part, the little 'arena' was filled with adults in green robes, accented by white feathers and furs. Again, the band struck up – but rather than a frenzied tune, now they played sedately; echoing, I thought, the movement of the wind over the heath and the call of birds on the wing.

These worshipers of Kynareth began to sing a wordless hymn as they led the crowd in a procession towards the village apiary. At first their voices were like the sway of trees and the ease of nature, but as we approached the hives they began to trill. One by one they started, offset from the previous singer, until their trilling, undulating, voices overlaid to make a buzzing rill. Then I beheld a curious thing indeed. Where the hives had been lifeless, I now saw movement – a small furred bee trotting out to look up at the priestess. Soon the choir was joined in harmony by a buzzing from the hives, as slowly the bees trickled out to surround the priestess, the singers, and mill about the crowd. I saw several children take flowers from their crowns to hold out for the bees to investigate. A few even came to me, seemingly interested in the lingering sweetness on my fingers. The priestess changed the pitch of her tone, and slowly the bees swarmed around her. While the choir still kept their buzz, the priestess began speaking to the bees in a low voice. At my tilted head, Eyja whispered that the priestess was giving the bees any news from overwinter – who in the village had died, who'd borne children or gotten wed. She later elaborated that the villagers believed the bees took prayers to Kynareth and brought back blessings for the small, sick, or elderly, and thus they must be given all the news. A fascinating concept! Especially as orthodoxy holds that birds are Kynareth's messengers.

Soon enough, all the news was told and one-by-one the singer's voices fell silent. The bees went about the business of being bees and the crowd dispersed back to the village green. A Vintner's lunch of cured meat, cheese and wine was taken in the shade of a spreading elm, as we listened to the band and watched people dance – Eyja jumping up to join in at points. The afternoon wore on with competitive hive-making and lumber trimming, until the provost once again took the crowd's attention for the giving of prizes.

Eyja and I listened and clapped politely as the categories were announced, and the winners given prizes of money or tools. "And finally, but by no means least," the provost said, "the meads." Eyja gripped my arm, her eyes riveted. "Honourable mention: Jeannie Idolus." An older woman with white hair accepted her prize of a demijohn valve. "Third place: Renwic Lort." A merry young man, flower crown a-tilt, accepted his prize of a pack of isinglass. "Second place: Eyja of Skingrad." Eyja gave a small squeak, shaking my arm. With a nudge, she practically skipped towards the Provost for her prize of an empty firkin cask – while I clapped loudly, of course. Skipping back she handed me the firkin to examine, exclaiming it had been used to brew Colovian brandy. "First place: Lig gra-Dush" Eyja surprised me by whooping and hollering loudy for the orc dame collecting a cash prize along with her own firkin and pack of isinglass.

"You aren't disappointed you didn't come first?" I asked, as the setting sun chased us down the road towards Skingrad amid a pack of other revelers. "Not at all," said she. "I only got an honourable mention last year, so I'm happy to have placed higher. That might be because Master Lort has been sampling too much of his own faire to brew straight, but a win is a win." "Indeed." "Missus gra-Dush really does deserve first place though – her meads are truly excellent and have won the past few years. Beating her next year will be difficult, but," Eyja raised her fist, "I'm up for the challenge." She flashed me a grin, and I laughed with her exuberance. The sandy road passed under our feet for a time, when suddenly Eyja said, "You know, there's another festival in a town halfway along the Orange Road where they use sugar maple sap instead of honey. I've always wanted to go." I laughed again. "Would you like someone, perhaps a tall man with golden skin, to accompany you to said festival?" She flushed. "Am I that obvious?" "A little," I teased, jostling her shoulder. "But, fortuitously for you, I happen to quite enjoy eccentric little festivals and would be most pleased to attend with you." She beamed, bright as the lowering sun behind us and took my arm. "Then it's agreed!"

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Sitting now back in Cheydinhal, I'm crunching on a block of honeycomb toffee as I write – this time from the town's confectioner, who was thrilled to receive news of a sweet he could replicate. Small though it was, the Skestead Bee festival was a joyous time; and, remembering well the ceremony, I have not only planted a small flower patch, but whenever I see a bee I relay to it any town news I think it may have missed.