“There is one thing that still troubles me,” said Wen who really seemed to have the ‘Rapunzel’ thing stuck in her craw.
“Yaas,” said Don, in his most irritating drawl.
“Shouldn’t the seasons be sisters?”
“On what grounds?”
“Well, I’m presuming that Mother Nature is an Enchantress precisely because of things like her ability to transform the world through her seasons.”
“This is true, Little Grub,” said Don with the kind of tired air which suggested he would not be around for very much longer, “but the seasons are really contrived in so far as they are useful for sustaining our life through crops. Agriculture is a technology. A very ancient technology but a technology nonetheless. In that sense the seasons are man-made.”
“And that’s why we can have the debate over whether or not there are really three or four seasons,” said Wen.
“Or even two. In the four-season year there are really only two pivotal points and their inverse or reflection.
Wen considered this idea for a bit and then pressed on with her original line of thought, “so the brothers are really alchemists?”
“The first alchemists, adding their art to nature, I like that, Little Grub, can I go to sleep now?”
“Only if you give me something to ponder while you’re gone.”
“You seem to be doing rather well in your pondering without me.”
“But it’s not the same.”
“Why, oh why, my Little Grub, would the day of the king’s death be now known to us as Bent-Black-Sun-Day?”
A short time later Don re-entered the temple room somewhat bleary-eyed.
“Better?” asked Wen doing a poor job of camouflaging her excitement.
“You have been grubbing,” stated Don by way of an answer.
“The bent twig of darkness grows the petals of the morning and shows to them the birds singing just behind the dawning.”
“Ah, Little Grub, ’tis music to my ears.”