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September 28th – The Festival of the Bloodthirsty Sword

Almost all the organisations which were linked to the monarchy have now been extinguished, or have at least been transformed, and changed their name from ‘royal’ to ‘municipal’. The cultural capital that ‘royal’ once conveyed has now become somewhat taboo. There are a few exceptions, besides the neo-monarchist rabble and their onerous leader Regent June, one of which is the Fraternity of Royal Physicians, who have survived the Revolutionary age with their name intact mostly because nobody has told them to change it yet.

As with a lot of things in Buentoille, the name remains the same more out of a (perhaps misplaced) sense of tradition, rather than it being a source of pride, or even an accurate descriptor of the group in its current form. Indeed, the ‘physicians’ (inverted commas are here used because most members of the Fraternity have no medical qualifications) are presumably, like most people in Buentoille, fanatically anti-monarchist. And yet, the group persists in the primary duties it fulfilled prior to the Revolution; keeping the current monarch safe from a very specific threat.

The Well of Saint Quella is not actually a well. That is to say, there is no water at the bottom; it’s just a very deep pit made to look like a well. Nor is Saint Quella actually a real saint, but, like the Well, a fabrication designed by the Fraternity to keep something hidden. Before 1916, when the Fraternity went public, today would have been a private festival, where they drew ‘holy healing water’ from the Well, which would then be used to form tinctures with which they treated the monarch. It seems that nobody ever bothered to check up on this story, and even the Chastise Church became convinced that this entirely fabricated saint was one of their own (in fairness there are so many it is difficult to keep track). What the Fraternity actually do today, what they have always done, is remove the iron grate that keeps the Well locked, remove the water pail from the end of the rope, and then fasten a young ‘physician’ to said rope, who abseils down, returning with a large, long metal box.

At one point, whilst the name was mostly a cover for their real activities, the Fraternity would have actually have been made up of royal physicians, men and women whose job it was to tend to the health of the monarch of the time. They would have done these jobs well, or rather, as well as one could before the advent of modern science, but this was not their job within the Fraternity; what they were mainly there to do in this shadowy, secret society, was gain samples of the monarch’s blood for today’s festival.

The box from the Well is laid out on a ceremonial bench, alongside a heart, that of a cow or pig, which has had the blood drained from it, replaced with that of a human. These days, it is the Fraternity members themselves who provide this blood, though pre-Revolution it would have been that of the monarch. The box is carefully opened, the various padlocks removed by their keyholders, who wear masks to conceal their identities. Inside the box is lined in blood-red velvet, sitting in a groove of which is a sheathed sword. It is very old, the scabbard blackened ancient leather and wood. When drawn, the blade is shiny and bright still, despite the age. Apparently this is because it was forged from meteor iron, but this is disputed. The blade is then plunged into the heart thrice, each time with a slightly different angle, so that a six-pointed star shape is pieced into one side and out the other. The blade is then cleaned, put back into its box, and lowered back into the Well. The festival is over.

Whilst to the casual observer (of which there are few; the festival is still held in semi-secret), this sequence of events may seem a piece of macabre but arbitrary theatre, but for the Fraternity it serves an important function, indeed it is the very reason for their existence. According to the ‘physicians’, the stabbing of the heart in this manner tricks the sword into believing that it has killed a monarch that year, meaning that it does not contrive to attempt an actual murder. This allegedly sentient blade was apparently forged in Strigaxia, with the intention of wiping out the Buentoilliçan royal line, and indeed it managed to kill two monarchs (King Blaneweld and Queen Volupt, from whom we get the word ‘voluptuous’) in the hands of two different assassins. There are rumours, too, that these ‘physicians’ have not always had the monarch’s health in mind, and have been, at certain moments of history, swayed by political reasoning to let the blade loose for some time. Why else would they not simply destroy it?

So, with the monarchs gone, why do they still persist in performing this yearly ritual, held on the day of both Blaneweld and Volupt’s assassinations, and why has an organisation whose job it was to protect the monarchy been allowed to survive after the Revolution? The answer lies in a quirk of Buentoilliçan law; instead of a formal dissolution of the monarchy, the Revolutionaries instead decided that the Monarchy would be converted, its powers conferred onto every Buentoillitant; in essence, every person living in Buentoille today is the monarch. The Fraternity of Royal Physician’s job has never been more important.

Other festivals happening today:

  • An Annual Protest in Favour of Please Just Melting Down the Sword
  • The Festival of Unpassed Time
  • Gerome Semmap’s Day

September 29th – Tremor Day

At some time between 3-5pm today, there will be a small tremor that shakes Buentoille for a few moments. It’s barely noticeable, really, like the passing of a train in a house beside the tracks, but all over. It lasts for a few seconds only, and will be entirely missed by some. If you’re sitting in a pub, getting some late afternoon refreshment, the glasses at the bar might tinkle a little. The people’s mirror ripples momentarily, and later on in the day, well over an hour later, a larger-than-average wave will hit Buentoille’s shorelines.

Despite its regularity, it seems that the small impact of the tremor (the occasional instance of injury or property damage is recorded, but nothing ever serious) has led to it being rather overlooked; nobody seems to have noticed that it happened on a regular basis until 1428 (in fairness, it may not have happened at all prior to that point), when the folklorist Joseque Harimanis wrote about a tale pertaining to the phenomenon that he called The Apprentice’s Mistake which seems to be attempt an explantation for the regularity of the tremors. It seems that this tale and knowledge of the tremor’s regularity was lost again for several hundred years, resurfacing in 1759 when the journal Syentiffik Advantses published a twelve year study which recognised the yearly cycle of the temors.

Despite further scientific study, there seems to be no true consensus on the phenomenon, besides the fact that in recent years the location of the tremor’s epicentre has been estimated as far to the east, in the deep Outer Ocean. Given the poor record of Buentoilliçan expeditions and the difficulty with persuading anyone, let alone those with cushy jobs as scientists, to leave the City for any length of time, there have been no research missions sent to ascertain the source; there are plenty of proposed explanations, ranging from weapons testing, to an enormous deep sea drill to some rare, natural regularity in the shape of the tectonic plate beneath the Outer Ocean, which therefore makes the earthquakes produced at the fault line regular. Given that there is no evidence for any of these theories, many turn to that fifteenth century folk story for explanation, hoping that there is some grain of truth within.

The story begins with a ‘great wizard’ who made a pact with the Waylayer for magical powers, and her apprentice, also involved in this infernal deal. The wizard sets her apprentice the task of preparing a simple potion, but one which requires him to shake the potion within a glass bottle for three full days. Quickly tiring of his task, the apprentice decides to create some magical, mechanical being to perform this role for them, finding the appropriate spell in his master’s grimoire. Yet unfortunately, something goes wrong. The apprentice fails to accurately designate the target of the spell, and instead of having the bottle be shaken by a mechanical arm for three days, the City itself begins vigorously shaking, to such an extent that buildings begin to collapse. When the wizard realises what has happened, she manages to modify the spell, but not to nullify it entirely, ensuring that the shaking gets spread over the following years, and is lessened in effect.

Today various earth scientists and building surveyors will be out and about, measuring, collecting data and photographs with which they hope to get a better idea of how and why the strange phenomenon occurs. Perhaps one day a scientific delegation will be launched and we will fully understand what causes the shaking, but until then, folk will continue to either be perplexed buy it, or will remember the foolish apprentice who forgot to properly set the target of his spell.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Liberal Party
  • Three House Day

September 30th – The Festival of the Brightened Path

Sometimes galleries are the best space to appreciate artwork; they lend a certain prestige, and encourage viewers to reflect on and consider that which they might not normally see the beauty in. Sometimes, they are a compromise, far from perfect but a good tool for exposure. Yet sometimes, glass cabinets and bright white spaces aren’t the best way to present certain pieces of art, and sometimes even a roof seems to ruin things somewhat. One group of people that seem to truly understand this are The Artists of the Bright Path, who will tonight exhibit their artworks in Deep Hall forest, a wooded valley that rests on the southern edge of Ceaen Moor.

In the daytime the wood is a popular spot for walkers, with its ancient oak trees and steep-sided valley spotted with frequent rocky escarpments. A small stream trickles down the centre of the wood, and there are many well-worn paths that snake their way around it, passing through holloways and occasionally crossing via fallen trees and a small selection of stepping stones. There is a little stone hut somewhere in amongst the tall trees and the thick undergrowth and deep-carved paths, though it is long deserted, its old wooden roof given over to fertilise the ground. In the late winter and spring, wild garlic and bluebells carpet the areas not normally covered by undergrowth, but at this time of year they are long gone, replaced today with many other beautiful sights.

The precise path varies each year, but generally it follows the river on one side and then the other, making a circuitous route through the night time forest. It jumps between the many ways laid down by generations of humans and the small deer and other woodland creatures that live there, but unlike these criss-crossings it is easy to follow; on either side of the Brightened Path many hundreds of small candles are lit and laid, replaced throughout the night as they burn out by figures waiting in black clothes just out of sight. Every few metres or so there are lanterns too, in case the small candles are blown or rained out.

As you can probably imagine, the effect is quite magical; the usual fears of a woodland at night evaporate as the eye cannot see beyond the flames into the darkness; there are no branches swaying in the moonlight on the edge of vision, and few birds are startled as you approach, having already been scared away by the light. At most there will be the hoot of a curious owl or two, or the swift, soft flapping of bats catching the attracted moths. Quite alike to an art gallery, this Brightened Path implies there is something to be found along it, something worth your time and attention, but it has some more novelty to it as well.

What you can see, beyond the Path, are the artworks. Some are made of candles or fire themselves, rotating and slowly lighting their surroundings in languid passes. Others are odd configurations of neon lights, flickering, or statues that look different as lights turn on and off around them. Some stretch into the treeline, only revealing themselves in chunks as you walk onwards, a parallaxed illumination. Sometimes there are lights which merely highlight some coagulation of roots, or another piece of the landscape that deserves attention; an arch of trees, perhaps, or a place where the stream falls and froths. Some pieces draw your eyes into the treetops with staggered, snaking concatenations of fairy lights, where illuminated orange tents hang upside-down.

Who knows what fresh delights await you this year; the pieces described here are only a taste of the full range which has graced the wood, which still holds its foliage, refusing to relinquish it at least until the three day exhibition is over. If you are interested in visiting tonight or any of the following two days, buses leave from Treoali Point at 7:00 tonight, returning on the hour until 1am.Visitors are reminded to please stick to the Brightened Path.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Festival of Unhappy Lost Puppies
  • The Dragging Out Festival
  • Kiss of Life Day

October 1st – The Festival of the Frozen Sip

When two of explorer-librarians (Gerrine Bessant and Turkmenster Vao) were looking to extend the Hidden Library in 1836, they came across a dessicated corpse in an antechamber of an old salt mine, kneeling and holding a wooden cup to its lips. The coroner was called, and the results of their investigation showed that the body had been mummified by the salty air, and that they had likely died of dehydration, too. This was not a recent death, however; the coroner estimated the time of death to be the early fourteenth century; so more extensive tests were not carried out. There is no mention in the report of the cup or any possible substances it contained; this is because the cup was taken by the librarians shortly before they viewed the body.

The Father’s Cup is an old and well-known tale in Buentoille, one which tells of a father and his three sons, one of whom is found dead. Both of the other two sons are suspected of the murder, but both deny it and blame the other. The father takes a cup, fills it with the blood of his dead son, and tells the other two sons that they must drink it, and that whoever was truly the murderer will fall dead. Both sons die when they drink, having both had a hand in the murder. Later, this vessel, which has been depicted in many different forms over the years, seemed to pop up in other stories, with the ability to divine the untrue heart (as it does in The Lady’s Suitors), or to make folk speak the truth (as in The Mandrake’s Daughter). It was this cup that the explorer-librarians thought they had found, and wanted to keep for themselves.

The cup, which is today held at the Museum of Traditional Antiquities, certainly does have a reddish-brown stain within, as if it had once held blood, so it is easy to see how the librarians jumped to that conclusion, given the circumstances of how it was found. They attempted to find a buyer for the piece, but had trouble convincing anyone it was genuine. Eventually, however, they agreed a hefty price with an industrialist, on the condition that they had the ‘blood residue’ tested and dated. When the results came back, it turned out that it was not blood at all, but some other red substance which, it was declared, was ‘unknown to science.’

The deal fell through, but the two librarians were now intrigued by this substance that lined the cup, thinking that perhaps this it instead could earn them some money. Apparently oblivious to the risks, Vao convinced Bessant to fill the cup with water, into which some of the residue became incorporated, and then drink it. The moment they did, they became frozen in place, and could not move for over an hour. It seemed that the substance (now called ‘Bessant’s folly’) was actually a powerful paralytic and anaesthetic, and that the corpse which once grasped the cup had, presumably, drunk so much of the stuff that they eventually died of an inability to water and feed themself.

It has never been determined quite how the substance was produced in the first place, but scientists have since managed to copy its chemical structure, synthesising large quantities for various medical applications; there are no known side-effects to Bessant’s folly, so it has been used to save many lives over the years. Today, in a small ceremony which acknowledges the foolish bravery of Bessant and the history of the chemical, medical practitioners will drink a precisely measured quantity of the paralytic whilst posing, forming a number of statues on the streets of Buentoille that will last for almost the entire day. Apparently it can be a difficult experience to be under the influence of Bessant’s folly for that long, but an exciting one too; users report strange out-of-body experiences whilst drugged. Visitors to the City are reminded under threat of prosecution not to prod, push over, or otherwise harass these living statues who stand in vigil today as thanks for one of the great scientific advances of the last century.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Goose’s Delight Festival
  • The Festival of Fairness in Distribution
  • Slider Day

October 2nd – The Festival of the Great Mistake

Nowadays the patent for the incandescent light bulb is publicly held, but for many years it was held by the Standwary family, making them incredibly rich in the process. It is for this reason that a common term for a light bulb in Buentoille is a standwary, as that name was emblazoned across their packaging for many years. Yet there was another family, another name which could well have covered this packaging, if it were not for a simple mistake: the Goldholders. Today, the anniversary of Excelsia Standwary’s filing of the patent, this other family will hold a small, faux-protest outside the old patent office.

Tresgothic Goldholder was, apparently, actually the first person to invent the electric lightbulb, but that he filed the patent six minutes after Standwary, and lost out on earning a fortune. There is no suggestion that either side copied the other; this was one of those rare moments of coincidence when the same thoughts seem to filter down to the same minds at once. They had never even met each other before the filing debacle, and didn’t know that they had competition, though they had both attended the play Inaga and the Godly Spear two months before, and had sat eight seats apart. Some commentators have suggested that it was this play which inspired them to invent the lightbulb, but it is far from clear, given the play’s distinct lack of anything resembling a lightbulb, how or why this would be the case.

The protest today lacks the bitterness and anger that it once had; the Goldholders have long lost the sense of rivalry and the sense that they were robbed of a better life, and are now actually fast friends with the Standwarys, since Betty Goldholder reached out to them in 1949. Previous to that point there had been many angry letters exchanged, as well as a few blows, and the Standwarys had been banned from the Goldholders’ chain of night clubs, known for their old-fashioned atmosphere imparted by the gas lighting they used (the Goldholders refused to buy lightbulbs for a long time, not wanting to increase the Standwary fortune), after a contingent of them came in, flaunting their cash and saying they were going to buy the place. The feud died down somewhat after 1875 when the patent expired, but for the next 74 years it merely simmered beneath the surface; each successive generation still harboured hate towards folks they’d never met.

And what were they all so bitter about? A briefcase left on a train. Tresgothic Goldholder had been on his way to the patent office to submit his patent two days before Standwary’s was accepted, and had put the briefcase containing it down on the seat next to him so he wouldn’t forget it. He then bumped into a friend, moved the briefcase beneath the seat so the friend could sit with him, and forgot to pick it up again when he reached his station. It took two days for lost property to locate the briefcase, but when they did all was well; it had not been unlocked or broken open by any curious train passenger. It was with a great sense of relief that Goldholder walked to the office, a feeling that didn’t last long.

The central argument that the Goldholders made clear at their yearly protests was that Tresgothic’s paperwork was dated before Standwary’s, and that he even had copies that he had mailed to himself that remained unopened, the postal time stamp clear and true. However, according to the patent office, none of these mattered, only the time of submission. Where once the signs and chants of the ‘protesting’ Goldholders would have once insulted both the patent office and the Standwarys, they are now used to educate the public about the lives of the ‘two inventors,’ and to attest to the power of reconciliation and friendship; nowadays the Standwarys stand shoulder to shoulder with those they once despised. Afterwards, all 78 family members will go out for dinner together, an additional tradition added on to this annual spectacle given new purpose.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Black Desires Festival
  • The Festival of Unreturned Books
  • The Festival of the Homely Hug

October 3rd – The Festival of the Mob’s Injustice

Nobody lives in the tower at Dolrich’s Crescent any longer, but for many years it was inhabited. Nowadays the place is open to the public as a tea house, and before that it was a pub but it lost its license after someone got too drunk and fell from the top. As towers go, the construction is fairly remarkable; its cylindrical shape is formed of many diamond shaped stained glass windows, interspaced with expertly sculpted stone, akin in shape to the wire netting you get on some bottles of wine. Considering that it was built in 1523, the tower is a marvel of engineering, especially when you account for the fact it was built by one man: Triglaw Dolrich.

Dolrich was what we might charitably call an eccentric, who dabbled in all sorts of sciences, including those arcane sciences concerned with the occult and infernal aspects of the world. Yet he was also a kind man, who made his living crafting intricate toys for the children of the middle and upper classes, who mostly kept to himself. He was interested in everything, though was prone to sudden changes of focus, so his tower home was littered with half-finished projects; with coils and sprockets, half read books left open and bowls of dark, reflective oil left to moulder. Walking past the tower at night, the stained glass panels (which once depicted an eclectic mix of saints, scientists, machines and occult procedure, and, despite the occasional replacement, mostly still do) would still be lit at unholy hours, and strange noises might emanate from within.

Given his eccentricities and foibles, it was hardly surprising that, when someone accused him of keeping children trapped at the top of the tower, many believed them. It seemed that Dolrich had gotten into a dispute with a local landowner, Maggie Hatterat, about the toy which he had made for her son’s birthday (a small mechanical horse) which had broken when said son threw it down the stairs in a tantrum. Hatterat seemed to believe that she was due some sort of compensation for the horse, which she deemed had broken too easily, a suggestion to which Dolrich merely laughed and shut the door in her face. Not being a woman known for her temperance, Hatterat decided to start spreading malicious rumours.

It’s not entirely clear whether Hatterat was pleased when the mob threw Dolrich off his own balcony to a messy death below, or whether things had got out of hand, and progressed further than she wanted. Whilst there was some consternation from local people about the lack of due process, the law of the time was pretty clear on what should happen to people to imprison or abuse children, and it wasn’t far off what they did to Dolrich. The fact that there were no imprisoned children found in the tower didn’t really seem to matter; he had clearly magicked them away somewhere, he certainly had the magical apparatus he needed for it, there for everyone to see. Generally, local opinion was that they’d saved themselves a lot of bother later; who knew what other evils this wizard could have done?

They had a conversation about whether they should burn down the tower and all the apparatus with it, but it was decided that the tower itself looked too pretty to be burned down, and they could simply remove all the implements and papers out into the crescent to burn anyway. Besides, they were already planning a festival to celebrate ridding themselves of the ‘evil wizard’ and they needed the tower for that. In this festival, The Festival of Wizard Riddance, a male effigy with a pumpkin for a head was thrown off the top of the tower each year, making a very satisfying splat beneath, and then a bonfire was held in the crescent, upon which the straw-filled body was burned.

It was only in 1873 that anyone realised that Dolrich had been framed, when Hatterat’s diary was unearthed and read by one of her descendants. Ashamed by the actions of her ancestor, Dorothy Hatterat-Quingle set about publicising the facts by word of mouth and in her book My Awful Great Great Great Grandmother. Central to her argument was that the festival should be cancelled, as it was essentially a celebration of murder (few even remembered, at this point, the origins of the festival), yet there was considerable backlash to this, as the festival had become ingrained into local culture and identity. Eventually, partly because of pressure from other parts of the City, a compromise was reached; instead of an effigy of Dolrich being thrown from the balcony, one symbolising Hatterat would be cast off instead, and there would be a prolonged speech before the throwing, whereby the true history was told and posthumous apologies were issued to Dolrich’s spirit. The Festival of the Mob’s Injustice, as it is now known, has continued this way ever since.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Festival of Going Home Early
  • Tractor Engine Maintenance Day
  • The Festival of Laughing and Spraying Tea

October 4th – The Festival of the Ladies Reunited

‘There are many lovely places to eat in this City,’ wrote Veriah Squall in her diary, on evening of the fourth of October 1922, ‘but none so lovely as the Hugmont Road Rail Station.’ She loved the station restaurant, called Cassey’s, which was located on a balcony, overlooking the hustle and bustle of folk getting on and off trains below. ‘They move so beautifully, the trains and people, almost like clockwork, which is probably why I like them. Each person seems unaware of the other parts in motion around them, looking only to perform their task of getting from a to b, but from up there, in the restaurant, they flow so beautifully.’

Squall had been to the restaurant many times before, but it was only on this day that she felt compelled to mention it in her diary, because it was only on this day that she met Anther Dornfel. ‘I was looking down at the crowds, as I do of a Wednesday morning, and one of them looked back up at me and we locked eyes for a duration that ought to have been uncomfortable. Yet for some reason it wasn’t, and then she was gone, slipped back into the crowd and I remembered only her eyes until some minutes later a voice piped up from beside me and she said, “that woman with the red backpack below; she’s going to visit her mother who eats nothing but her cookery and her bag is full of food.” I looked at her for a moment, the lady speaking not the one with the backpack, and I saw her eyes were the same, the same smile was in them, and I turned back and picked out a man from the crowd, who had a violin in its case, and said, “his wife just gave birth and he insisted on running home to get it, to play for her and the baby.” We spent all morning like that and I was two hours late for work.’

Work, for Squall, was repairing watches at a small dusty shop in Calewynch district. It was fine work, easy and dependable, but Squall had grown up helping her father make watches and clocks in Litancha, and simply repairing them felt like a step down for her. All the same, she had fallen into a style of life that was relaxing, that suited her, there was just always this nagging sense at the back of her head that she should be doing something more. Dornfel was a reporter, and seemed to have such a busy and dynamic life, jumping from here to there, travelling abroad for long stints, it was almost the opposite of how Squall’s life was going. After that first meeting she would get letters from the reporter here and there, but the ones she sent back took so long to get to Dornfel, what with all the lost forwarding addresses and re-routing. The only time they got to be together, as friends, was on the 4th of October each year, when Dornfel returned to the City for the AGM of the Buentoilliçan Foreign Report, an event she loathed but never missed.

Quite a few times, Squall tried to get out to see Dornfel, when she was closer to or within the City for a short time, but she never managed to catch her before she moved on to the next story. Sometimes she was frustrated with this state of affairs, annoyed that her friend could not or would not make time for her, but eventually she would accept it, understanding that for Dornfel work was the essence of life. If only this didn’t make her feel so bad about her own lack of ambition; she wanted to take a positive step, to make something new rather than merely repairing the old, but she knew not what and lacked motivation. Then, in 1935, the enormous wall clock at Cassey’s Restaurant broke and they asked her to repair it. ‘What if I made you a new one, instead?’ she said.

Today, The Ladies of Time Gone is a classic clock that serves as a tourist attraction and brings plenty of business into Cassey’s, which is still going strong, perhaps in part to the clock and today’s festival, where hundreds of friends who have not seen each other for a long time will meet up at the restaurant and share stories, or simply watch and comment on the people below, as Squall and Dornfel did for so many years together, before they died in 1978 and 1965 respectively. The festival is a good excuse, a non-awkward way to see those who you miss but find difficult to invite out. It built up by word of mouth over several years, largely thanks to the clock.

Squall had come to see the movements of her and Dornfel like clockwork. This was something that she tended to do with most of the world’s processes, but within their friendship she saw a process worthy of art, whereas normally this was not the case. The artwork she made to represent it, the clock, is visible both inside the Restaurant and outside on the wall, and it features two doors, out of which two ladies come and go in carousel motion, following tracks on a figure of eight. On each hour they swap places, one going inside, one going out, and they hit a bell as they pass by, yet they move by a fractionally different amount, so that, come this day of the year, they both meet, face to face, inside the restaurant. On every other day of the year they appear to be chasing each other, but never meeting.

Squall, who wasn’t one for secrecy of her feelings, made the clock’s meaning quite clear to the papers when they interviewed her upon its instalment in the wall of the station, and it was probably this that inspired others to start meeting their long-ignored friends there on this date. Squall and Dornfel continued to meet there every year until 1964. After that, Squall continued to come each year, and was not short of new friends to talk to, but she looked in, towards the restaurant, never again over the balcony to those unaware clockwork travellers below.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Festival of Truant Heroics
  • The Resting of the Weary Dog Festival
  • Small Franklyne’s Festival of Amusing Fruit

October 5th – The Night of the Harvest Moon

The night of the harvest moon has always been a significant point of the year for many groups, especially those in the eastern half of the City, where the lunar calendar is observed more closely. Unlike the lunar new year, the harvest moon is a night for work, rather than revelry; traditionally there would be additional harvest activities performed tonight, when the lack of mechanised harvesting tools drew the process out far longer and any additional light would be taken advantage of. The harvest moon is usually in September, too, rather than October; it falls on whichever full moon is closest to the autumnal equinox.

There are certain foods, such as pumpkins and corn which are yet to be harvested properly, but the majority of the Buentoilliçan harvest has always been of wheat and barley. Still, the farming cooperatives will set aside a small selection of crops to harvest tonight, as the light of the moon is said to impart a certain arcane quality to the harvest, especially the white cabbages which seem almost to glow under her gaze. The best way to eat these cabbages is raw, shredded thinly in a salad; they have an excellent crunch, as if the moonlight had made them swell as they were plucked from the ground.

The traditional association of work with tonight has survived long after those days when half the City would be involved in the harvest, and many folk will work from home, their curtains thrown wide open to catch the night rays. As a result there are many depictions in Buentoilliçan art of the harvest moon, and the magical effect it has on the land. The light of the harvest moon is usually strong enough to pierce any clouds that choose to spoil the event, albeit with an accompanying halo, which has also been the subject of many paintings, photographs and poetry. For those who are unable or who do not wish to work, it is traditional to go for a long night-time stroll, to enjoy the uncanny nature of a place they know well in the day, to experience the strangeness of the night brightly lit.

There are more specific beliefs and traditions that exist tonight; many folk will choose to pass through The Hollow Stone of Hollowstone square, looking for a subtly different alternate world on the other side, and some children will stay up, trying to glimpse the straw figures, which they made earlier in the year, dance in their secret nooks. Yet it is the many roving walkers out tonight, each nodding or waving to each other as they pass in the half-lit streets, who might unknowingly engage in the strangest aspect of the night of the harvest moon; a phenomenon known as the Opening of the Ways.

There are many explanations for this odd phenomenon, where the routes of the City seem misshapen, strangely shortened or distended, where paths don’t lead quite where they should, where a road that takes a minute in the day seems to take ten or twenty under the warping light of the moon. Perhaps it is just the unfamiliarity of the streets at night, the ability of the moonlight to obscure some details and make others more obvious, that makes folk get lost more easily tonight. Perhaps it is that they are tired, falling asleep as they walk that makes some roads seem longer or shorter. Perhaps folk just don’t know their neighbourhoods as well as they think they do, and the landmarks that they rely on aren’t immediately obvious at night. Yet if you ask them, most walkers will say there was something else beyond these easy explanations at work.

Stranger still, and disputed in terms of its authenticity, are the ‘portals’ that open up tonight, scattered here and there across the City. These seem to have been first introduced to the City by way of an article in The Weekly Buentoillitant, which featured eye-witness testimony from several people who had seen round windows, high up on buildings, through which the moonlight was somehow brightly shining down into the street. Where the light fell was apparently a ‘bright white pool of water,’ rather than the brickwork or pavement that should have existed there; one witness’ brother apparently stepped into this pool, and was never seen again. The article, which implied that this was no new phenomenon but something which happened regularly on this day, spawned many similar tales in the following years. About seven years after it was published, it was revealed to have been written as a publicity stunt for the band Naggmoth’s album, Moonpool, which was never released because one of the band members became very ill and subsequently died. Obviously this has done nothing to deter those who claim to have seen these ‘pools,’ and reports of them surface every year.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Festival of Lightening the Burden
  • The Hopeful Mackerel’s Last Supper
  • The Night of Unholy Reflection

October 6th – The Day of the Healthy Tree’s Haircut

Buentoille’s Municipal Health Service is the best in the known world, and has been for some time. It is a point of indefatigable price to Buentoillitants, which treats and prevents disease and injury in millions of people each year, whether they are from the City, or so-called ‘health tourists’ from the nearby cities like Litancha where healthcare is privatised and barbarically only offered to those with the means to pay at the point of use. The charges incurred by these individuals are invoiced straight to the Litanchan oligarchic government, in anonymised format because, as a result of these charges, the oligarchy has made it illegal for the Litanchan people to travel to Buentoille for healthcare reasons. This is not to say that Litancha has ever paid any of the charges, merely that it embarrasses them; they are currently in a vast amount of debt to Buentoille that they refuse to recognise.

All of this is to say that Buentoillitants prize healthcare above many other things in life, and that they regard it as a fundamental right which is extended to everyone. With this in mind, it is perhaps strange to the City’s visitors that superstition-oriented health rituals like the Healthy Tree still exist and continue to prosper in these medically advanced times. There have been many scientific studies on the Healthy Tree, and repeatedly there has been found no significant correlation or connection between the rituals that occur around it and the health of those who perform the rituals.

The Tree is a short, stout oak which seems to have grown out from between two large boulders, around which its ancient roots are wrapped, forcing them apart like Eurphim with the Doors of Heaven. It resides in a somewhat forgotten corner of the City, a copse in Iglow’s Garden district called ‘the forest’ because it is thought to be the remnant of some primordial woodland which once covered the entire Buentoille Bay area, but which is now reduced to a long strip, perhaps ten trees across at its widest, that divides a rail line and road for about two miles. The knobbly oak is found towards the centre of this space and can be found by following the fairly obvious dirt track that leads through the other trees towards it.

This oak, the ‘Healthy Tree’ was perhaps identified as such because of its Eurphimic efforts, its stoutness and seemingly hardy constitution in the face of the obvious adversity of growing between two large granite boulders. The ritual which surrounds it is fairly simple, and can be immediately guessed at by one glance at the tree; all through the year, Buentoilliants (both of the local and more distant varieties) will, whenever they feel under the weather, drape a lock of their hair around the tree’s branches, or add it to the matted mass that covers the trunk. This will supposedly confer some of the tree’s strength onto the hair’s owner. Quite why hair is associated with this particular tree, rather than handwritten notes, fabric or coins as with other trees, is unknown; perhaps whoever started the ritual had an issue with hair loss or excess growth?

Whatever the origin of the ritual, it has one major issue; it’s making the tree less healthy. Over the years the accumulated weight of the hair has dragged down the branches, which appears to be causing the tree significant distress. There are still rings in the thicker branches where the tree’s growth was inhibited by a knot of hair, so no knots are allowed, but nonetheless, left alone the weight of all the hair, especially when it rains, causes damage and stops new growth appearing. The solution is simple; one a year, today in fact, the district’s Public Works Maintenance Team will give the Healthy Tree a haircut, ensuring it remains healthy for another year.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Festival of Trite Observances
  • The List of Elder Branch Festival
  • The Trepanned Scholar’s Busy Day

October 7th – The Festival of Reading the Neglected

Whilst it might sound like something made up in recent times by the book industry to boost sales, The Festival of Reading the Neglected is actually very old. It was begun by the Society of Bibliomaniacs in 1611, after a violent argument broke out between the two leading lights of the Society, who had written extensively on what they called the ‘natural good’ of books. Sirte Arlem, the official Chair, and Duglant Treir, the General Secretary, had grown the membership of the Society extensively over the previous three years, from seven people to something approaching three hundred, by advancing their theories that books improved a person’s moral and intellectual capacity, as well as being a source of ‘unimpeded happiness;’ they did not disappear when consumed, and didn’t have the unwanted side effects of other aids to happiness like drugs, food or strong liquor.

Competition within the Society was strong, with members frequently boasting about the size of their personal libraries, or about the rareness of their recent acquisitions. In order to maintain their status as leaders, Arlem, Treir and the other members of the Committee found themselves aggressively purchasing books at an alarming rate, which was having a considerable negative effect on their bank balances. This competition brought out fractious differences in the theories of the leaders; whilst Arlem believed that the mere presence and appearance of books, the satisfaction gained by their accumulation, was enough to stimulate the ‘unimpeded happiness’ and moral benefits, Treir believed that you actually had to read the things, once you’d bought them.

This argument bubbled under the surface for some time, but with factions forming around each leader, tensions began to rise and communication between the leaders began to fail. Arlem frequently derided Treir because of the low value and seemingly pulpy nature of the books he purchased, whereas Treir portrayed Arlem as a vacuous woman, concerned only with the appearance of things, rather than their substance. Arlem could not understand why Treir kept all the dog-eared, spine-broken paperbacks he’d read, not spotting the pride and happiness that this physical record gave him. In return, Treir failed to recognise that the happiness Arlem gained from her books was not only found in the appearance of their well-ordered shelves, but also in the potential these shelves held; the knowledge that at any point she could find something excellent to read.

As is the way with these things, the argument that broke out at the AGM of the Society in 1611 between Arlem and Treir wasn’t really about books. Things had progressed beyond that point; they were both in large amounts of debt, and their partners had both left, having an affair with each other. The result of the fight, which involved many harsh words and a few thrown objects, led to two things: Arlem stepped down and Treir took their place as the Chair, immediately declaring a month long festival starting following day, where the members would all go home and actually read the books they’d bought, selling off anything they didn’t truly love. Whilst this dramatically changed the dynamic of the Society of Bibliomaniacs, making it a more sustainable institution that didn’t drive its leaders to bankruptcy, it didn’t save either leader from the Requisitioners later that year; both were faced with the humiliation of auctioning all their books off, a process which actually brought them closer together, rekindling a friendship that they had forgotten.

The festival has, in its modern incarnation, been reduced to a single day, and there is no requirement to sell off any books; today is simply a day when Buentoillitants all across the City will look at their bending bookshelves and pick out a long-neglected volume, spending the whole day reading. There has been an attempt to make things more social in recent years, with ‘read outs’ hosted by the Society of Bibliomaniacs, which is, miraculously, still existent. Yet for many, these are merely a distraction from their book; for many, today is an excuse be alone in quiet reflection.

Other festivals happening today:

  • The Dennic Gunther Appreciation Day
  • The Clapping of the Door Festival
  • The Festival of Emollient Architecture