The Grey Seed

For as long as any could remember, many families carried what the villagers called the grey seed. Despite its name, it had nothing to do with the color of the seeds from which children grew but rather was a hereditary affliction. Every family harvested a handful of seeds each year, though only one or two would ever be planted. Their children, once planted each spring in the valley orchard, were born healthy or sickly and malformed. But either way, sooner or later, the seed if present bloomed. It was an eventuality of life like rain or storms. Every child with the grey seed either perished or lived under the burden of permanent disability. One bright morning, a man in a long-brown cloak and a tall wide-brimmed hat came from some far-away antique land, and strode into the town square. From his pack he drew a small handbell and rang it loudly. "Hear, all!" he cried in a resounding voice, the bell clanging through the square. It was not uncommon for traders to come selling their wares and soon a curious crowd formed a rough throng around him. “For years, children have been afflicted by an old disease: the grey seed. It spreads from father to son; from son to son. Every harvest is one of joy mixed with sorrow, pain, and death” The crowd nodded along. Many “Ayes” and “Trues” were spoken. A man in a grey tunic near the back yelled “get to sellin’ already”.
The man nodded. He continued. “No man can cure the grey seed but looking at a seed I can tell whether it bears the affliction”. The crowd gasped. A man in a brown hat frowned and said “no”. Murmurs spread throughout the square. “Liar” “Impossible” “A trick” another voice exclaimed.

“You’re a Liar” and a “Cruel one at that” said a tight jawed woman who shook her finger in the air. “No man can have such control”

The man waited till silence prevailed and held up his hand.

"If I do not do so, call me a liar and send me on my way. But if I do, then put aside your doubts and look not to my words, but to the proof before your eyes. Bring me next years seeds and I shall mark those marred by the grey seed"

Every family brought out their seeds; usually the decision was made randomly to pick which seed to plant.

He proclaimed “Place your seeds in a pot, and after I say some words the ones which float shall not be marred”.

"A lie," shouted one man. "Then let him prove it," said another. "And if he marks my seed falsely? What if through some witchery he curses our seed?" "What have you to lose?" an old woman asked. "The seed is not planted yet; either way you can choose which one to plant. Come now, witchery cannot hurt the true believer” Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

The man whispered some words and performed a queer ritual where he closed his eyes, muttering. And slowly some seeds began to float.

The tight jawed woman approached closer so that she was within arms reach. “A parlor trick, how shall this prove anything?” then she shook her hand in his face so her index finger almost brushed his face. “And how dare you decide who lives or who dies? You are no god”. Some choruses of agreement rang in the crowd.

“I do not decide” he said. He paused. “I simply reveal what is already there”. “Plant the floating seeds and you shall see for yourselves. I shall return next year”.

And with that he strode off toward the mountains whence he came.

The villagers argued among themselves and split roughly into two camps with the tight- jawed women and many of the clergy against and a rabble for. “You have no right to have power over life” a priest said, stepping forward and raising his staff.

A mother stepped out from the crowd and cried out “Why would we wish our children to grow disabled?” “Why should we wish for them to grow wan and weak?”

The tight-jawed woman fired back “no man should choose among seeds. To do so would be to kill the unchosen seeds"

“Today you cast aside the grey seed. Tomorrow you shall cast aside the weak. Then the slow. Then strangers. What child will be safe when parents begin choosing”

This righteous anger of the majority continued.

The parish-priest declared “"Any family who plants a chosen seed rejects the will of the Maker." A mother declared “"What if the floating seeds are cursed?"

Some of the village elders declared “"For a thousand harvests we have planted blindly." "Who are we to judge one seed above another?"

The next planting, all had not been forgotten. A majority of the village planted randomly as was custom. A few families disobeyed the clergy and planted the healthy seeds.

The day of harvest was always a day of jubilation for the town. The sweet smell of pies baking in every house spread into the air until it felt like happiness. Pennant flags were thrown from house to house; bands played raunchy melodies that layered on top of ballads that layered on top of the sound of voices.

In the plots of the minority who planted the healthy seeds, the children were unmarred, with glossy pink skin and bright cries that rang through the orchard. In the plots of the majority, one child in every five emerged bearing the grey seed. Some were pale and frail. Some came forth twisted in limb. Some did not draw breath at all. For a time there was only silence. Then those who had lost their children to the grey seed stared at the healthy children through gritted eyebrows. A woman whose daughter had emerged with shriveled legs stared at the nearby families celebrating their healthy children and felt a hard knot form within her chest. A father cradled his stillborn son. Had their suffering been avoidable? There must have been a trick at work. A few whispers and muttering turned to grumbles. In the Red Giant, the local tavern, these rumours turned to outright expressions.

A local miner said "It is unnatural." "The floating seeds stole the strength meant for the others…" He gulped another tankard of ale. “Some kind’f black magic” “Äye,” said the village cobbler. The woman with the hard-set jaw while pouring another drink commented “Do you not see?” “Do you not see the stranger’s purpose? He divided us and he wishes us to choose one child over another. In the coming months, the children continued to grow and the muttering continued to spread. Winter came colder than usual. Almost half of the village’s livestock froze to death. The air was tinged with frost. The clergy seized the moment. The head-priest stood at the village square and declared “The heavens are withholding their bounty because we allowed a stranger to tamper with the natural order”. Soon the mobs began to rile up. A mother whose child had been born with shriveled legs declared “The stranger’s witchery is responsible”. A few weeks later, a “healthy” child fell ill with the pox. Pustules had opened up all over his body, bursting with pus and blood that covered his skin. His eyes grey rheumy-red; and leaking grey fluid. Here and there around his bed rags lay scattered with spat-out blood. His mother tried to speak with him but he could scarcely understand in his delirium. She stayed at his bedside. Word spread quickly through the village. "Look there," people whispered. "The stranger promised healthy children." "Healthy?" others replied. "That boy looks close to death." The anti-stranger faction grew stronger. Parents who planted the “healthy” seed spoke out recanted their decision under tears. The next day, the boy’s mother in the town square tearfully cried out “the earth has taken its price… he has fooled us all” while clutching her son. By the next day, three other mothers had joined her. The parish priest on the morning of the sabbath standing at the chapel steps addressed his parishioners. “The Stranger is a violent criminal” “An interloper” the crowd chorused, while the priest rubbed his beard. “A satanist who makes aberrations and attempts to fight god. Any continued support will turn the earth against us” The sour breath of a population that has eaten nothing but spoiled roots and salted turnips because the livestock froze spread into the air. The mob grew until it was a shifting sludge of bodies, a multi-limbed monster full of various discordant yelling that coalesced into one cry “We hate him” It was at that moment when the Stranger rode into town on a small sturdy mule, carrying two packs. His beard had grown slightly longer, and his smile turned quickly upon sighting the mob.

The mob paused and drew back for a moment almost in surprisal then rushed toward him. The hatred that had accumulated through the long winter suddenly found an object. Months of dead livestock, spoiled suppers, frozen fingers, sick children, and private humiliations condensed themselves into a single point. There he was. At first they merely circled around the stranger, each elbowing, and shoving to be the closest while shouting verbal abuse. Then all at once their inhibitions fully collapsed and they swarmed over him pulling him down from his horse. The stranger raised his hand and tried to speak but his words were drowned out by the mob. They tore away his clothes: his tunic into rags, his beard in tufts until his pores bled, stomped his head until it swelled up and then they crushed it down again. Then those of them with knives pulled them out and stabbed with reckless abandon until the blood shot out in spumes and misted the air with a reddish color. When at last the crowd withdrew with the reluctance of a beast finishing its meal, a tangled mess of sinew and twisted bone remained poked at by the village stray dogs. Villagers stared at themselves in bewilderment and all of them felt empty: their hatred spent. By evening the town square was empty. By morning many ignored the decaying carcass.
The frost still covered the fields. The livestock were still dead. The crippled children were still crippled. The sick boy still coughed blood into his blanket. Nothing had changed. Yet none of them wished to admit it. And so, when the next harvest came and one child in five emerged bearing the grey seed, the villagers spoke little of the Stranger. Instead they convinced themselves things would have been worse had they not killed him. The village endured. The grey seed endured. And the orchard continued to bloom.