XXVI. Another festival? That’s what you’ve heard, and there’s no way that the “war wives”—Xxilili… Axxililioli…? You’ll never remember those goddamned “names”—are going to mess with the wagon this time. It’s unclear what the festival is about, as there are no saint’s days or regular feasts of any sort coming up.  In any case, you get everyone ready to go, or at least, the handful of your family around. Most of your daughters aren’t technically missing, as they did say that they were going “to roll around the dewey fields to pray for non-abusive husbands,” but that was like at least a week ago. Your sons are up and at ‘em, helping out like they used to, though Berkind and Bryland are a bit skittish. They scream when touched unexpectedly and often mutter something similar to the incomprehensible “language” that the “war wives” employ, responding to themselves in your language, as if engaged in soft, angry discussions of some sort. You’ve gotten everything ready, but where is your wife? You call to her, but there is no response. You tell everyone to split up to find her, which they do, but not after a great deal of sighing and grumbling about, “that idiot again.” You remind them that that “idiot” is their mother, but they can’t seem to care less. Running about the farm, calling her name, no one can find her. You are filled with a mixture of fear for her safety and anger that you may miss yet another festival. Of course, this isn’t the first time she’s gone missing, but this feels strange to you. She is nowhere on the farm or the entire stead, so the only other places she could be are the forest, which has been flooded with bandits yet again, or the valley with the illegal idiot pigs. Presumably she knows her way back home, unless she is already gone and with the Father in heaven, so you figure it’s best to just head to the festival. You think about leaving a note but then remember again that no one can write. You pack everyone into the wagon, though not before checking to make sure all the parts of the wagon haven’t been replaced with some bullshit prank materials, and head toward the road. Not two seconds later, your wife comes running toward the wagon, apparently from the hovel—though you personally checked it quite thoroughly—screaming something about “mad pigs.” You get out of the wagon to calm her down, as she is clearly hysterical and in need of a bit of devil’s trumpet to still her shifting uterus, but she will not shut up about the pigs. “What is this about pigs, my love?” you say, holding back your fury with every esterling you possess. It is then that you see a veritable horde of googly-eyed swine trotting toward your hovel. “We must pray, family,” you say as steadily as you can, “these are no ordinary pigs. Your mother speaks the truth.” Your sons have fallen asleep in the wagon, however, and the daughters you remember being in the wagon have vanished. You’ll have to skip this festival, too. 

XXVII. Ever since the Shire Reeve came by with his “sensiss,” you’ve suspected that he may be a warlock. The only authority to whom you could appeal, however, is this new Count Xxrtlempywll, and you can only surmise that he now inhabits the castle of the previous Lord Grimdram. You have a vague recollection of where that is, but it’s so far away that you know that even if you were not accosted and robbed or murdered by bandits, by the time you returned to the farm, the hovel will certainly have burnt down at least twice. Weighing the options, you decide that you will put the Shire Reeve to your own test when he next shows up. The “sensiss” aside, his tunics are just too weird to be anything but warlock garb. Count Xxrtlempywll is probably a warlock, too, you realize, so it’s a good thing you’re not going.

XXVIII. Nunnery day! The day has come for the nunnery to be built. Well, the day when ground is to be broken. You’ve heard that the plans for the complex are extensive, something like two separate buildings, and so perhaps your great-grandchildren will see the functioning nunnery in it their old age. The excitement of anything happening in the time between harvesting the sour yams and the pea bark is too much, so you decide to go check it out. It’s an unseasonably cold and blustery day, but your winter cloak has yet to be mended (your wife has taken to the mandrake wine again, but she’s really hitting hard right now) so you are forced to “borrow” some of the shrouds the “war wives” wear. You figure that they’re too outlandish and foreign to be identifiably women’s garb, so you’ll only need to say ten Our Fathers when you return home. There is also the added benefit that any bandits who see you might mistake you for whatever the hell the “war wives” are and flee in terror. Or you hope so anyway. You wrap yourself in the shrouds which you immediately realize have not been washed in the year and a half since the pagan harlots arrived, being overwhelmed with the unique stench of their alien physiology. Gagging and having to stop to dry heave every so often, you eventually make it to the derelict church, where the nunnery is to be built. There are no masons, builders, or any craftsmen at all. There is not even any formal delegation so far as you can tell, just a gaggle of nuns. You approach slowly, making your presence known from afar as not to scatter the ladies, and call out, asking where their Mother (or Father, for that matter) Superior is.” They look at each other and start click-clack yammer-mumbling in that infernal language you are hearing more and more frequently. You walk a bit closer and notice that they are the strangest nuns you’ve ever seen. They bear no outwardly-Christian clothing, nor any symbols or jewelry indicating that they are God-fearing women of the convent. With more than a little anxiety growing in your chest, you ask after their queer habit. The chirruping, tongue-popping sounds return for a few moments, after which a rather oddly tall nun emerges from the fray, saying, “Who are you and why have you come?” Well, rather rude of her to answer a question with a question, you reply with your name and that you were just curious as to the beginning of the nunnery. The tall nun eyes you through narrowed eyes, calling back to the other nuns in that foreign prattling, without turning to face them. They call back in unison—well, chant, rather—and the tall nun says, “None of your bees’ wax, Stinkpeat the Transvestite. We have work to do and the Captain of the Grimace is near. He would be displeased to see you here, especially in that absurd getup you’re wearing. Begone, slave of the Triune, before I set these horse-whipping nuns on you!” Well, that was horrifying. You run away. It begins to rain and the shrouds act like huge, flowing sponges. The odor they emit makes you vomit uncontrollably all the way back to the hovel, where you see the “war wives” waiting in the doorway, screaming at you, presumably about the shrouds you “borrowed.” Not the best day but, well, you did get out of the hovel.

XXVIIII. There is a terrific pounding on your door. Your three sons and severely hungover wife look at you with contempt, which they mean to convey, “You get the goddamned door.” It’s the Shire Reeve. Great, it is time to test him. His tunic has become even more ornate and his boots have new, shiny buckles and the toes are elongated far beyond what was legal last you checked. He is definitely a warlock. Being the Shire Reeve, however, you must wait for him to speak first. He stands in the doorway, taller than you remember, his head level with the lintel, staring at you. You clear your throat, averting your eyes, and he speaks, “What is this I hear about you planting carrots alongside rutabagas?” Oh crap, Hafdold did say something about Bryland doing some very untoward farming, but you figured he was just using his fingers instead of the new dibble you found under your bed with runes carved into the handle. “I believe my son, Bryland, may be responsible for this. I apologize profusely for this grave error, which is both his and mine to spare. Will you accept my sorrow?” The Shire Reeve eyes you for a moment before walking over to the field with the illicitly-planted vegetables, which he proceeds to just absolutely savage with a pair of hoes he apparently had strapped to his back. You guess you had this coming. Bryland will have to be reprimanded. Once the field has been thoroughly ruined, the Shire Reeve returns to you, wild-eyed, red-faced, and breathing heavily. “Don’t do it again. I’ll tell the frowning nuns if you do. They hate it far more than you purport to.” He scrapes off a bit of mud from his boot with one of the hoes and flings it in your face. You’ll have to determine whether or not he is a warlock some other time.

XXX. Ever since the march of the foolish pigs, you’ve been wary of anything regarding the valley, so when a pack of vagrants emerges from it one morning in the fall, you run into your house to fetch what’s left of that hewing axe after Berkind dropped it on a rock. You try to rouse your sons from their slumber but even though it is well past midmorning, they are just completely out. Your wife won’t be of much use, though she is sober these days. Your daughters, too, will be pretty useless, even if they could even give the impression that they cared about your wellbeing. You can’t find them anyway, so whatever. You run outside to see the vagrants shambling toward your hovel, tripping over stones and falling into holes on their way. You ready yourself for whatever is to come. One of them raises his head and sees you standing with what might have once been something that could be wielded as a weapon, whistles loudly, and the pack of them change course and head toward the forest. You feel waves of relief pass over you. They looked like they had Clay Brains or some other horrible affliction, so you are glad (and proud) that you were able to scare them off. As you turn to head back into the hovel, you hear something eerily familiar. You freeze, listening intently, and you feel your heart drop. From the valley’s edge, you see yet another army of stupid, ugly pigs marching toward your hovel. Sighing, you just sit down in the grass to watch them trample everything in their path yet again. You realize immediately that there are nettles underneath and all around you. Somehow, it seems fitting.