I was 17 and headstrong, bold beyond reason, when I accepted the challenge of my peers and left Bordeleaux in the last week of the waning moons. For years the people of Bordeleaux had heard tales of how Baron Brancusi would miraculously harvest his vineyards in one moonless night in autumn. The stories meant to explain the mystery seemed contrived, to my young and sheltered mind. And so it was that I had laughed at my friends as they recounted old tales, during the first week of harvest. Then I belligerently consented to spend the first moonless night in the woods overlooking Brancusis' vineyards.

It was a two-day walk from the city where I lived to the Barons' chateau in the countryside. The days were pleasant, warm sun and cool breezes. As I walked, I watched the peasants working in the vineyards, and the gold and crimson leaves floating along the road beside me.
I stopped for my evening meal, the first day, at the estate of my uncle. Turning up the lane towards his home I could smell the roasting herbs and lamb. Uncle Louen graciously shared his harvest feast and offered me a room for the night. I hesitated over an explanation for my unexpected arrival but eventually admitted the truth of the matter. Aghast at such a brazen plan, Uncle Louen bade me return to Bordeleaux and accept any criticism from my peers. "Better to admit your foolishness now, humble yourself and go back. It is not for us to question the Barons' method of harvest. It is an ill magic to be certain, if tales be only partially true, it is still dangerous to go near his lands."

I passed a restless night contemplating my Uncles' advice. I could laugh at my friends, but Uncle Louen was a respected man of business and his opinion was one I valued. If even my stolid Uncle was leery of Brancusi perhaps it was not prudent to continue with this endeavor.
But in the light of a new day I could not believe that even half the tales were true. "Mere peasant superstition" I told myself, "the stuff of enchanting tales told by wandering minstrels to excite the audience." So when I again reached the main road, I turned north and continued my original course to Brancusis' vineyards.

It was cooler this morning and clouds had begun to form in the west. I walked more slowly, memories of what my uncle had said causing doubt to hinder my pace. By afternoon the road began to rise beneath me. I knew I was getting close to the village of Aubeterre when in the distance I could see the peaks of the Massif Orcal looming above the forested highlands in the east. I ate leisurely as I walked, roast mutton and yesterdays bread courtesy of my kind uncle. He had also bestowed on me a flask of wine for his sister, my mother. A fresh sample of this year's crop, a crisp white for which my Uncle was renowned. I drank just a little to wash down my luncheon. Mother was hardly lacking for good wine, and I was here on the dusty road and thirsty.

As evening approached I decided to find a spot off the side of the road to spend the night, so as to arrive at my destination in the morning. I settled myself in a copse of trees; a stones throw from the road.
There was a spot of packed earth where I suspected others had camped before me. I finished what food I had brought with me and tried to sleep. The night was chilly but I was equipped with cloak and wool blanket. Nevertheless, I slept only little. Awake, I watched the tiny sliver of Mannslieb overtake Morrslieb and both disappear before dawn. There was no rational explanation for my growing apprehension. I thought of the famous Brancusi wine exported to Estalia and the Empire, fetching high prices even compared with other fine Bretonnian wines. Yet here, where merchants would eagerly trade for it, the local populace disdained its consumption. There were those who believed that the harvest was of a sorcerous nature and so avoided it on grounds of foul magic. There were others like myself who thought that the Baron must bring in large numbers of peasants from Bastonne to harvest the grapes and press the wine. The local nobility felt slighted, for they collected much wealth in harvest time by hiring out the peasants, who worked their land, to bring in the grape harvest of those with smaller estates and fewer vassals. With these mundane thoughts in my mind I finally drifted into a dreamless sleep.

One Moonless Night In Aubeterre
Part 2

The sun came up in a cold gray mist its warming rays thwarted in their earthbound route. Shivering with the damp that permeated my clothing I packed my meager belongings and climbed the embankment up to the road. Without a glance back at the way I had come, I walked quickly and confidently into the village of Aubeterre. It was quiet in the village square. There was a noticeable absence of the usual bustle of wives and young damsels gathering water and buying bread. No egg sellers or vegetable carts gathered at the village well and only a single donkey stood tethered to a post in front of the local tavern. Curious at the lack of activity and eager for some morning pastries to break my fast I entered the tavern and called for the proprietor to bring food.

At my third call a stocky, venerable dwarf appeared. His surprise was evident but quickly gave way to a look of suspicion. "And what brings ye to me tavern on this wretched morning?" he asked. I explained that I had come to the village to learn the truth of the Brancusi vineyard and was in need of respite after a long cold night. He looked at me dubiously and then waved me to follow him into his kitchen.
"Well lad", he said "have a seat at me table and I will fetch ye some mutton".
The kitchen was sparse but smelled of warm yeast and rosemary. I sat on a short stool near a long low table. Most of the table was devoted to piles of chopped herbs and vegetables. My host went to the cooking fire and cut a generous hunk of meat from the lamb on the spit. He set this on a trencher of day old bread and laid it in front of me. Through all this he had been watching me out of the corner of his eyes and frowning as though he didn't know what to make of me. Having laid food before me he whipped his hands on the sides of his shirt, his entire front being covered by a thick and tangled beard. Then he stood there watching me, his eyes narrow, and his mouth working as if he chewed something tough, but no words were spoken.

Unable to hold his gaze, I turned my attention to the warm food before me. It seemed more like luncheon than breakfast, but I was not inclined to give my host any more reason to frown. I took a tentative bite of the mutton and bread, it was quite hot and I glanced about for something to cool my mouth. It was then that the dwarf suddenly changed in mood. He broke into a hearty laugh and almost as if speaking to himself said; "A mug of ale the lad be needin, and here I stands gawking like an old nag". He went quickly to a shelf and brought down a large tankard, then from an enormous keg he pulled a draught of foaming brown ale.

"'Ere ya are lad, drink up" he said to me, then sat on the nearest end of the long bench that ran the length of one side of the table. Y're a mite silly young fool, but ya has a determined look. Ya make a go at bein brave." "I give ya some advice" he continued, "but I doubt y'll listen to an auld dwarf". Under his breath he murmured "awr, but if he only knew better". He sat up straighter and drew in a deep breath, "This town is right nearly empty this time o year. No one hear abouts is as headstrong or foolhardy enough to want to stay 'ere. A 'course there be a few what has nowhere else ta go, or no strength to go if they did. They risk death and worse by lack of choice. Now you, ya made a choice to come down here from y're high towered city and see for ya-self what the old devil does at harvest time." At my curious glance he chuckled and said, " You wonder how I know where ya comes from don'tcha. Well that's no hard task for an auld timer such as meself. Ya dress like tha city and ya talks like tha city, why if it warnt for a couple days on the road, ya would even smell like tha city." My confidence began to wane as the implications of the old dwarf settled. Perhaps there was more to the old fishermans tales and frightened whispers? Still, my youthful curiosity prevailed and I had to delve further.

To be continued...