Baling

A small being darted through the shadows of the wheatfield. Both of the world and not, they were far more feeling than substance, and yet still stirred the towering wheat stalks with their passage. They bore no name they would speak to another — names have power, and the being knew not to give such power to anyone. Like all of their kind, they were addressed according to the impression that they left on others: shading clouds, hope, relief, satisfaction, mist over the fields, and dampened earth. Petrichor.

Petrichor was on their normal patrol of the wheatfield, expecting a simple day of magicking away mold or charming away hungry birds. It was work they did often, and did well, and they felt a meditative contentedness in their daily life. To keep the humans’ crops was a satisfying pastime — they lamented that harvesting season was well underway, and that they would soon have to endure a boring and cold winter. They felt a prickle of jealousy for those among their pod who would be Baled, but dismissed it. Baling was for a nobler sort of Fey. Petrichor could content themselves with their simple work and their dreams of the next sowing season.

They turned down a new row of wheat, and were brought to a standstill. There, crouching near the past of a wheat stalk, was a Wild Fey who gave Petrichor the impression of persistence, bright sunlight, thick undergrowth, choked gardens, and freedom. It was strange to see a Wild Fey in the wheatfield — they were a capricious folk, and their only consistent mood was disdain for humans and their works upon the world. If a Wild Fey was in the wheatfield, Petrichor knew it to mean trouble.

“Dandelion,” Petrichor said, speaking their impression of the other fey. “What are you doing here?”

Dandelion looked up from their work. They were weaving enchantments over a patch of bindweed to coax it to spread and deepen its roots. Their face twisted into a sneer.

“Nothing, farmhand,” Dandelion said. “Be on your way and leave me to my business.”

“You’re cultivating bindweed in the wheatfield,” Petrichor said. “That is my business.”

Dandelion scoffed. “Why?”

“Humans are friends to the Field Fey,” Petrichor said, though they knew Dandelion was simply stalling for time to deepen the bindweed’s roots beyond repair. “I will not let you bring a blight onto their land.”

“Friends,” Dandelion scoffed. “Friends are meant to benefit one another. You give to the humans — what do they give to you?”

“They seed the earth,” Petrichor said. “They tend the fields and cultivate the crops and rear animals on their farms.”

“To eat,” Dandelion said. “And to sell. The animals they raise are slaughtered at their hands. They create in excess to turn a profit. The food you help them to grow never even graces their own table.” Dandelion gave a snort of derision. They had become so distracted by their disdain that they had forgotten the bindweed at their feet. “Once there was a time when humans left offerings for us, Wild and Field alike. They respected us. Now they do nothing for us.”

“Humans planted the trees you call home,” Petrichor said. “Just as they planted the wheatfields.”

“Perhaps,” Dandelion said. “But the trees shook off the yoke of human cultivation long ago. Roots burrow in their floors now, and the trees grow where they wish rather then in lines to block the wind. We have won there, and we will win again.”

“You will not,” Petrichor said. “We will oppose you.”

“Why?” Dandelion demanded. “Give me one example of a service humans provide you, a single kindness they show, and I shall repent my wicked ways and join your court.”

Petrichor grinned. “Baling,” they said, and a feeling of satisfaction washed over them at their quick and irrefutable response.

To their surprise, Dandelion laughed. “Are you mad? That is no kindness!”

“What?”

Dandelion looked at Petrichor as though they were stupid. “The humans tear through the fields to gather their crop, and you fools lay down and allow them to chew you up and spit you out! Then you are wrapped in the hay all season, useless, until the humans come and shake you free. Where is the sense in that?”

“That’s not what — ”

“They burn the fields, spray poisons into the air and earth and water, and wipe the prairies clean of animals,” Dandelion said, ignoring Petrichor’s interjection. “Yet you feel that to wrap you in hay and leave you to rot is a kindness?”

Petrichor shook their head through all of Dandelion’s speech. “Humans have made mistakes, but they are getting better. There have been humans in these plains near as long as there have been fey. They are a part of the world, and they do what they can to keep it well. And besides,” Petrichor said. “There is no danger in Baling.”

“If there is no danger,” Dandelion said. “Then why do we all know the tales of what happens when the bales are forgotten? That the fey trapped inside them are lost when the bale rots away?”

Petrichor clenched their jaw. “They are tales of the foolishness of generations past,” Petrichor said.

“Are they?” Dandelion said. Petrichor could see they knew they’d struck a nerve. “I know many tales, Petrichor, of fey lost to Baling. Most are far more contemporary than the tales passed around your pod.”

While they spoke, Petrichor saw them wave their hand over the bindweed. The green of its leaves deepened, and the stalks stretched outward. Petrichor was filled with a combination of anger and embarrassment that Dandelion had distracted them from their duty.

“No,” Petrichor said, hoping their voice was firmer than their conviction. “I won’t have this in my field. Begone, wild one. You have no business here.”

Petrichor took a moment to draw their magic, feeling the energy flow between their palms. Dandelion scowled and shook their head.

“Have it your way then,” Dandelion said, then turned and fled.

Despite Dandelion’s departure, Petrichor still felt an edge of icy apprehension. The Wild Fey’s proclamations about the dangers of Baling had shaken them more than they wanted to admit. They sighed, pressed the thoughts away as best they could, and looked down at the spreading bindweed. They wove magic over it to loosen its roots and call it to the humans’ attention. Then they turned and continued their patrol of the fields.

###

“You did well,” the corpulent fey said to Petrichor. “Very well. In fact, Petrichor, I think that you deserve to be honored for your accomplishment and bravery.”

Petrichor offered a genuine smile. They had returned to their pod, and the praise they received there had wiped away the fear Dandelion’s words had awakened.

“Thank you,” Petrichor said, inclining their head.

The corpulent fey returned the nod. “I have conferred with the other elders of the pod, and we have decided that it is high time you got to participate in the Baling, Petrichor.”

Petrichor was surprised at this. Their deed had seemed too small a thing for such praise — just a little patch of bindweed — but Baling was not an honor to be passed up.

“Of course,” Petrichor said before they had time to think on it. “Thank you.”

The other fey beamed down at them. “The first Baling is today,” they said.

Petrichor gave a start, and the corpulent fey gave another hearty laugh.

“Don’t get too excited. Your deed was great, but greater were done this season. There will not be a Baling for you now, but the humans will perform another in a few weeks time. You will participate then.”

Petrichor nodded. The suddenness of the offer had reawakened their apprehension.

“Um,” Petrichor said. “I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

Petrichor gazed into the expectant face of the other fey. They bit their lip, and smiled. “Nothing,” Petrichor said. “I’m excited.”

“Nerves are natural, Petrichor,” the corpulent fey said, placing a delicate hand on their shoulder. “This is a great honor. Remember that.”

Petrichor could offer only a weak smile in return.

###

A massive metal human was moving through the field. It stank of soot and long-dead things, but it was gentle and did not crush the wheat, nor did it foul the earth below it. The beast gathered the cut stalks of wheat and Baled them. Petrichor watched from the safety of the uncut wheat as the fey who had been given the honor of first Baling lay in the loose stalks in the path of the Baler. They watched as one such individual was gobbled up by the machine. After a few moments, a large column of hay bound in twine was expelled from the back of the Baler, and left on the short, prickly stalks of the spent wheat.

The sight of it was more frightening than Petrichor remembered. They had watched the Baling ceremony for generations, but never before had they seen it as violent. Lost in their unfamiliar apprehension, they almost missed the sigh from their left.

They turned to see a fey they scarcely knew — scrawny, voracious, timid, insects buzzing in the night, flighty, and out of place.

“Lacewing,” Petrichor said. “Is something the matter?”

Lacewing turned to Petrichor with a sour expression. “I’m only lamenting my lot in life,” they said. “Don’t mind me.”

Petrichor had heard of Lacewing’s melancholy moods. They knew that to ask was to doom them to a tale of woe, but to not ask would violate ancient laws of etiquette that all fey were bound to.

“What’s the matter?”

Lacewing sighed. “I miss Baling,” they said. “Once, there was a time when my contributions were celebrated. I was Baled near every season. I loved it, and the pod knew I deserved it, so they loved me.” They heaved another sigh. “But now the poisons that the humans spray kill pests and their predators alike. I am obsolete, Petrichor.”

“I’m sorry,” Petrichor said, and amended their impression of Lacewing to include “stuck in the past”. Then, more to change the subject than anything else, they asked, “What does Baling feel like?”

“Warm sleep,” Lacewing said. “A full season of dreams you cannot remember when you wake.”

“Is it pleasant?”

Lacewing gave Petrichor an incredulous look. “Pleasant? Of course!”

Petrichor gave a half-hearted nod. “And is it… safe?”

Lacewing scoffed. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is only trying to scare you.” They sighed again as another fey was pulled into the Baler. “Sky above, I miss it.”

Petrichor pursed their lips against more pressing questions. They realized then that no one in their pod could speak to the possibility of danger in Baling — either they had never experienced it before, looked forward to it with glee, or looked back on it with pained nostalgia. Petrichor would get no new insight from their own kind — but they knew a place they could go for more answers.

###

The Wild Fey lived in a tumbledown structure that once housed humans. Now it was half-collapsed, with vines and shrubs growing in, on, and around it. It was surrounded by a copse of trees — once been planted as windbreaks by humans, left unattended they had flourished into a small forest all their own.

Petrichor had not even reached the reaching shadows of the trees before Dandelion appeared. They wore a smirk. “What are you doing here?”

“I have questions,” Petrichor said, eschewing Field formality for the directness favored by the Wild Fey.

“Oh?” Dandelion said. “On what?”

“Baling.”

Delight dominated Dandelion’s face. “Having doubts, farmhand?”

“No,” Petrichor said. “It’s just… I want to know what I’m getting into.”

Dandelion laughed. “Very well. Follow.”

Dandelion led the way through tangled undergrowth. The air was cool in the shade of the trees, but the soil was warm and damp. Petrichor tried not to show their discomfort — the insects and choking weeds were pests to be deterred in the fields, but here they flourished under the encouragement of the Wild Fey.

The leader of the Wild Fey made their home inside the tumbledown farmhouse with the sagging roof. A curtain of roots hung behind the table they were perched on. To Petrichor, the leader seemed biting, wild, angry, dangerous, and persistent.

“Hello,” Nettle said from their perch, a cruel smile spreading over their features. “What brings you here, little farmhand?”

Petrichor gulped. “I’ve been chosen to be Baled,” they said.

Laughter erupted from all around, though Petrichor saw no one else beside Dandelion and Nettle in the building. They kept their eyes forward and face adamant, staring Nettle down until the laughter ceased.

“Have you come to defect?”

Petrichor scowled. “No. I simply want to know more. Dandelion seemed to think Baling was dangerous. Why?”

Nettle laughed again, but this time there was no chorus to join them. “Humans wrapping Fey up to sleep a whole season through, completely at the mercy of their machines. What about that sounds safe?”

“It is payment,” Petrichor said. “An offering, for our efforts in the past year.”

“Might not the humans offer a placating poison?” Nettle said. “Something to keep you docile?”

“We are not docile,” Petrichor said. “And it does not quell anything in us. It is an honor to be Baled.”

“Then why are you here?”

Petrichor faltered for a moment. “I just… I want to know about the fey that have been lost.”

“Oh,” Nettle said with a laugh. “Are you sure, little farmhand?”

Petrichor gave a stiff nod.

“Very well,” Nettle said. “Long ago, in a field far away, there was a pod of fey. They weren’t so different from your pod, farmhand, or so I’ve heard. They tended fields for the humans, and moved along when the humans grew bored or died or what have you. One day, they came upon a new field that astounded them. It was sprawling, with more wheat than they had ever seen. They realized, to their delight, that all in their pod could be Baled. So they drew lots to see which unlucky fellow would be left out to watch over them, and then lay down in the wheat to wait.

“Soon, everyone in the pod was Baled, save for the lone fey. They watched over their brethren for the season, always expecting the humans to come and shake their friends free. But that season, a blight visited the homestead, and all of the humans perished before the hay could be collected. The lone fey watched in dismay as the snow began to fall, and the bales fell to pieces. When the spring came, they searched through each pile of rotting hay, but to no avail. Their sorrow and loneliness were too much to bear, and they were transformed into a sentinel tree. And that,” Nettle said, a cruel smile on their face. “Is how an entire pod of fey were lost to Baling. How would you like to be a part of that, farmhand?”

Petrichor cocked their head to the side. “Hay bales do not decay in a single season.”

Nettle pursed their lips. “They can.”

“I don’t believe so,” Petrichor said.

“Perhaps the bales were small.”

“Still,” Petrichor said. “The purpose of the Baling is to keep the hay longer. It would not do if a single season undid the bales.”

Nettle threw their hands up. “I don’t know, farmhand. Perhaps it wasn’t a single season, but what does it matter? Those fey were lost all the same.”

“We tell a similar story,” Petrichor said. “In ours, the humans died because the fey did not help them in the season. The fey were selfish, and wanted to enjoy the Baling without the burden of work. It is a cautionary tale of the dangers of idleness,” Petrichor said.

Nettle scowled. “It was a blight, unrelated to the fey,” they said.

“We ward our humans against such blights. And our field is small and manageable. The humans have never failed to shake free a Baled fey.”

“Why did you come here if you knew the story so well?” Nettle demanded.

Petrichor furrowed their brow. “I thought you would have true examples,” they said. “Rather than a tale told to frighten and entertain.”

Nettle grinned. There was no mirth in the look, only cruelty. “You want a more contemporary tale?”

“Yes,” Petrichor said.

Nettle nodded. “Dandelion,” they said. “Take the farmhand to Askew.”

###

It was a lengthy journey, even for a fey. A night had passed before they reached the fey Nettle had spoken of.

They came upon the skeleton of a hulking human, one of the screaming beasts that darted up and down the roads. It was boxy, with a metal skeleton and rubber feet that had been mostly eaten away by the march of time. The entire thing was the dirty orange of rust.

A fey was standing in the skeleton. They were focused on a twisted orange rib near its front, the glow of magic between their palms as they tried to rub away the rust. Their hands were stained from the effort, but they were making no progress. Petrichor was shocked at the outward display of madness; no fey had dominion over metal.

“Askew!” Dandelion shouted, and the mad fey tumbled from their perch in surprise. They rose again soon, and turned to look at them.

“Hello,” Askew said. “Who might you be?”

Dandelion chuckled. “Askew, you know me.” They gestured at Petrichor. “This farmhand has some questions for you.”

Askew stared and worked their jaw, as though they struggled to identify Dandelion’s impression. “Of course,” they said without an ounce of surety in their tone. “Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you,” Petrichor said.

“Askew,” Dandelion said. “They want to hear your story of being Baled.”

Askew’s expression fell. “No, please,” they said. “It’s a terrible tale.”

“You love telling it,” Dandelion said.

Askew pursed their lips.

“It’s okay,” Petrichor said. “You don’t have to. I was just curious. I wanted to know more before I am Baled myself.”

Askew’s eyes widened in horror. “You are to be Baled?”

Petrichor nodded.

“No, no, no,” Askew said. “You mustn’t! You are too beautiful to be lost, Rain.”

Petrichor was caught off guard by the mad fey’s incomplete impression. “Then tell me your tale, my friend.”

“It was many seasons ago,” Askew said with a sigh. “I don’t remember how many. I was honored for some great deed or other, and was to be Baled. I lay in the wheat with my brethren and was swept up by the Baler, rolled and mellowed into a safe and dreamless sleep.” They paused. “Not safe. Vulnerable. We were Baled near a road, you see, and the humans stalk them, hungry for fey to rattle and disturb.” They stroked the skeleton that was their strange home. “They are not evil, but feral. Humans know not what they do. It does not make what happened any kinder.”

“What happened?” Petrichor said.

“I was struck,” Askew said. “A human swerved from their course, and came up off its road. It hit me, and I was tossed from the bale. When I came to, I discovered that a similar fate had befallen my Baled companions.” They paused. “I remained, if changed, but my friends were lost.” A shimmering tear streaked down the mad fey’s face.

“You see?” Dandelion said. “This is the danger in Baling! A human might careen into you. You could be driven mad by such a violent expulsion. Or worse.”

“Baling is a cruelty, not a gift,” Askew said. “I was driven to exile for my madness.”

“I’m sorry to hear of that,” Petrichor said. “I wish you the best.”

Askew seemed confused by Petrichor’s curt statement. “The best is lost to me,” they said. “I wish I could be lost. Or that a fey could die.” Askew sighed. “I should like to die, I think.”

The statement chilled Petrichor. “I’m sorry,” they said. “But I must be going.”

Petrichor turned and walked briskly away. After a few moments, Dandelion caught up with them.

“Their story is upsetting,” Dandelion said. “But to march off that way is rude, farmhand.”

“Askew is a fool,” Petrichor said.

“They are simply mad, Petrichor.”

“Yes,” Petrichor said. “A maddened fool. Why would you be Baled so near to a road that a human could strike you?”

“It was not their fault that they were struck,” Dandelion said, sounding affronted.

Petrichor sighed. “I suppose. Perhaps I am being unfair. But, all the same…” they shook their head. “I came here looking for the dangers in a custom of my people. But these are dangers I knew of, the dangers of greed and negligence.”

Dandelion scoffed. “You farmhands are all so self-righteous.”

Petrichor fixed them with a curious look. “And you are all frightened and selfish.”

Dandelion scowled. “I don’t know why I tried to help you.”

Petrichor shook their head. “I spoke in anger,” they said. “Your wildness seems like selfishness to me, at times.”

“It is not,” Dandelion said with a snarl. “We are wardens of the earth as it was. As it should be.”

“And we are wardens of the earth as it is,” Petrichor said. “And try to guide it to balance and harmony.”

Dandelion’s mouth made a hard line. “To be Baled and complacent at the hands of humans is to seek harmony?”

Petrichor thought about this for a moment. “I suppose not,” they said. “But it is an honor and a tradition.”

Dandelion shook their head. “You are all fools,” they said, a tinge of anger in their voice. Then they turned and marched away.

Petrichor thought to follow, to protest their leaving, but it mattered little. Petrichor realized they had half hoped to sway the Wild Fey to their way of thinking, just as the Wild Fey had hoped to recruit them to their cause. Both had been flawed, almost cruel, in their intentions.

Petrichor turned, and walked back to their field.

###

Lacewing’s face was a painting of misery. “The last Baling of the year,” they said. “And, once again, I won’t be a part of it.”

Petrichor patted Lacewing’s shoulder. “Don’t fret, my friend. You do a service to our pod by watching over the Baled. Take heart in that.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Lacewing said. “You’re going to be Baled today.”

“I suppose,” Petrichor said. “But still. It is an honor all its own. Think of all the times you were Baled. If there had been no fey to watch over you and weave their magic to help the humans find you again, might you not have been lost?”

“Perhaps,” Lacewing said with no conviction. “You seem rather surer about this than before.”

“I am,” Petrichor agreed. “I realized that Baling is sacred to us. It is not just an indulgence or a comfort, though it provides both. It can be dangerous if undertaken foolishly. But not all of our pod is Baled, both to watch over us and to ensure our survival in the face of tragedy. We do not Bale near the road, nor do we Bale in a poor season. We weave protective magic over our humans and their fields to ensure health and prosperity. To assume it is a dangerous and helpless indulgence is to misunderstand what Baling is, what it means to us.” Petrichor thought for another moment. “Just because others do not understand our customs does not make us fools.”

Lacewing was nodding. It seemed to Petrichor that it was the first time they had ever focused on something other than their own lament.

“You are right,” Lacewing said. They looked out over the fields of cut wheat. “It is just as much an honor to keep vigil over the Baled.”

“It is,” Petrichor agreed. “It is an honor bestowed upon our entire pod, Lacewing. That we enjoy the prosperity and wisdom that allows us to undergo Baling without fear.”

“I did not think you so wise, Petrichor.”

Petrichor laughed. “Neither did I.”

Lacewing chuckled. “Go to the field. The Baler will be here soon. Trust me, you don’t want to miss it.”

Petrichor flashed a smile, and then went down to the field. They lay down among the cut stalks of wheat. Even that felt like a simple joy, the hay already warm and damp and fragrant. Petrichor felt a pleasant sleepiness creep into their soul as they heard the rumble of the approaching Baler.

They felt no fear. This was the way of their people. In the spring the humans would shake them free, and they would attend to the freshly-sown fields. All would be well.