And that’s not all. He paused, waiting expectantly for the raised heads and eyes in the audience. There’s more. I was born in the season of rain to the goddess of virtue. I never strayed from her side in those days; helpless, as all children, I circled my mother’s will in case it weakened.
She was the ermine clad queen, mother earth, ruler of grass plains. She never took her gaze from me, even as tribes and packs travelled through her folds and across the mounds and flatlands of her birthing. I rode with them, dug spurs deep into her flanks and waited for the flinch. Like her weakened will, it never came.
Come early summer I grew her foxgloves, and their purple-speckled bells grew heavy in the unseasonal rains. In unison they had arrived together one evening, emerging tall from the banks and hollows, to stand together in tribute. The storms bowed them.
At this he drew himself up. Looked around. My life, he said, was always dedicated to
the memory of the last season’s disappointment.