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The summer solstice festival preparations were coming together and the village square was a riot of color, scent, and gleeful disarray.
Garlands of yarrow and marigold draped from the trees, some already wilting under the glare of the sun. The Basics had laid intricate spirals of moss and beetle shells across the stone benches, which the children studiously tried not to disturb, though a few younger Resistors poked curiously at the patterns before being sternly shooed away by older Attuned aunties.
The Resistors had set up grills along the far path to feed the workers, and smoke curled skyward carrying the scents of fire-roasted roots and sizzling oatcakes. Someone was singing a ballad with questionable notes but tremendous spirit, and a flock of children raced through the square trailing ribbons, their shrieks of laughter blending with the hums and flutes of the Attuned musicians.
Bob had been pressed into service as honorary Supervisor, wearing a crown made of braided sweetgrass and brandishing a long-handled spatula like a scepter. Marnie had commandeered a rocking chair under the big walnut tree, grumbling about her knees while expertly shelling peas and swatting flies with the same motion.
Nettie, though officially retired from festival leadership, had found herself drawn into the fray regardless. She was sitting on a low stool near the storytellers' corner, slicing herbs into a bowl of chilled water, when Pemi, a bright-eyed, big-voiced little whirlwind, plopped down at her feet and asked, "Did they throw parties like this when you were young, Aunt Nettie? Like for you and your baby?"
The question caught her mid-slice. She paused, fennel sprig halfway to the bowl.
Across the square, Bob saw her face shifted into a smile and gave a little nod, as if he, too, had heard the question. Maybe he had. Maybe he'd just felt it coming.
Nettie set the knife down, wiped her hands on her apron, and laughed gently.
"They did," she said. "Oh, stars, they did."
She leaned back against the tree behind her, voice growing a little wry, a little dreamy.
"We didn’t just have a baby shower. We had two. And they were in competition."
Pemi’s eyes went wide.
"What? Like a fight?"
Nettie chuckled. "Not fists. But songs. Food. Scented napkins. Rituals. And an interpretive dance that nearly burned the bakery down."
There was a collective shifting around the circle as more children and a few of the younger parents began drifting closer.
Nettie cracked her knuckles and gave Bob a sideways glance.
"You want to tell them, or shall I?"
Bob, flipping a grilled turnip cake with theatrical flair, called back without missing a beat,
"Oh no, Moon Queen, this one’s yours. Just don’t leave out the part where Marnie nearly tackled an Attuned Elder over a scented candle."
Nettie rolled her eyes fondly and nodded to Pemi.
"All right, then. Sit close. This one’s got singing, sabotage, and more humming than any one village should endure."
She closed her eyes a moment, then began.
"It started with an argument over pie…"
It had been Marnie, of course, who noticed first. Marnie, watching Nettie waddle down the path with the slow, swaying gait of a woman carrying a pumpkin under her ribs, squinted thoughtfully and said, "About two weeks, I'd guess. Maybe three if she's stubborn." The other Resistor women nodded solemnly, arms crossed, faces serious. There was no ceremony and no spiritual humming, just good old-fashioned eyeballing.
"Better get a shower together," said Widow Bram. "Food, blankets, maybe a cradle if someone’s got one lying around."
"Get her stocked up before she's too tired to settle a baby properly," agreed Marnie.
Plans were laid down immediately. It would be a simple party at the town hall, with baskets of sturdy, earthy gifts like knitted booties, heavy woven blankets, soft grass-stuffed pillows, jam jars, and foot rub oils strong enough to knock out a horse. The Resistor shower was set for the following week. It was a nice, sensible date, giving folks plenty of time to gather supplies.
Meanwhile, on the Attuned side… The Attuned, still floating in their general calendar-ignoring haze, had only just begun to notice something was different. Nettie’s aura had thickened, become stormy and rich, like heavy summer air before a downpour. Her scent had shifted to being earthy and electric, with sharp edges of urgency. Her presence hummed at a different pitch. It didn't occur to them that she was huge and waddling like a determined duck. Physical forms were... secondary. (Had she gained mass? Who could say? Such things were illusions.)
It wasn’t until word trickled over that the Resistors were planning a baby celebration that panic seized the Attuned.
"We must honor the transition!" cried an Elder. "We must bless the arrival! Before the Resistors tarnish it with fried pies and practicalities!"
Thus began the Great Attuned Baby Shower Scramble.
The Attuned had no idea what a baby might actually need. In their world, babies were natural continuations of energy. They only needed a soft mossy nook in a sun-dappled corner, a whisper of milk from any willing Attuned whose scent harmonized, warm arms passed along as needed, and their needs were met before the child could even form a cry. They used no cribs, no bottles, no knitted socks, no diapers and definately no pie. It was just the living web of attention and scent and being and the babies were well cared for.
But this was a competition now, and competitions required festivals and scented decorations and blessed offerings.
The scramble included gathering baskets of dewdrops carefully strained from the morning leaves, twisting vines into elaborate, fragile "nests" that would collapse the moment anyone sneezed, preparing songs written entirely in tonal hums ("to soothe the spirit of the approaching being"), and making tiny dioramas of moss gardens inside snail shells. The Basics, drawn by the excitement like moths to a flame, solemnly contributed piles of soft dirt, clusters of slightly chewed twigs, and one extremely confused frog.
No one questioned it and he Basics seemed proud.
The Attuned Shower was scheduled IMMEDIATELY.
It would happen two days before the Resistor party. Victory was assured, or so they thought.
Nettie, when told she would have to endure not one, but two showers within a week, one full of "scented affirmations" and "auric flower dances," and the other full of "practical goods and ham biscuits”, simply laid her head down on the kitchen table and muttered, "I am the butter swan now. I accept my fate."
Bob, holding a slightly dirt-encrusted flower offering from a Basic, nodded solemnly. "Fly, little butter swan. Fly."
That afternoon, Bob and Nettie shuffled down the winding garden path toward the Attuned gathering, both bracing themselves for what the Resistors had warned them was to come from a normal baby shower. They had been warned about Guess The Shoe Size games and awkward sniffing of mystery herbs. The Resistors said the Attuned would probably have forced sentimental speeches about one's favorite tree. Resistor showers had mundane presents to be unwrapped one by one, each requiring gasps of joy and at least two earnest comments.
Bob had prepared himself mentally for hours of genial nodding while Nettie did all the heavy lifting of smiling, thanking, opening swaddles of moss and slightly damp woven shawls with chirpy exclamations of awe. Nettie had prepared herself for battle. She had practiced her most feral fake-smile. She had rehearsed polite, vague compliments ("So vibrant!" "What a living memory!" "Truly a resonant root!"). She was ready to endure.
They were not ready for what actually happened.
As they stepped into the clearing, the Attuned greeted them, not with clapping or shouting, but with a deep, harmonious hum that made the hair on Bob’s arms stand up. Soft moss had been spread across the ground and circles of flower petals spiraled outward from a central smooth stone seat draped in vines.
Bob and Nettie shuffled forward uncertainly. Then the Elder stepped forward and, with a deep, fragrant bow, said, "We honor the Seed Bearer."
Bob blinked. Nettie, sensing something wonderful unfolding, went utterly, blissfully still.
The Attuned did not invite them to play shoe-guessing games and there were no swaddled gifts to unwrap one by one and no mundane 'thank you' speeches. Instead, Bob was led solemnly to the stone seat, crowned with a delicate wreath of woven grass and meadow bright blossoms. Nettie was given a comfortable shaded cushion nearby, a cup of mint water, and a gentle, respectful nod that said, "Rest over here out of the way, slightly less honored one."
The Basics solemnly placed small smooth stones around Bob’s feet, humming softly. Nettie watched, sipping her mint water in growing delight.
The Attuned took turns offering gifts of spirit to Bob. There was a carved spiral stone "to honor his perseverance," presented with a surreptitious sideways look at Nettie, and a thin bracelet of braided sweetgrass "to strengthen his dreams," as well as a vial of morning mist "to ease the weight of his responsibility," given with another pointed look at Nettie.
Each offering was accompanied by a short, reverent chant. Each chant described Bob as "The Initiator," "The Rooturn Caller," and "The Bearer of Life’s Renewal."
Bob’s face, initially beaming with delighted pride, gradually shifted into wobbling, overwhelmed horror as the depth of their reverence dawned on him. He had thought he would be the genial side ornament. Instead, he was the star. The seedling god. The butter-swan incarnate.
Nettie, perched regally on her mossy cushion, out of the limelight and out of the way, watched it all unfold with the tiniest, most satisfying smirk. Each time Bob had to stand and bow solemnly, each time a child presented him with a bouquet of moss, each time an Elder sang a tremulous poem about "the sacred buttered path he trod," her internal glee grew.
Nettie sipped her water and thought, "Better you than me, butter-boy."
At one point, Bob made frantic eye contact with Nettie, silently begging for rescue. Nettie raised her cup in a lazy toast and smiled. It was the most relaxed she had felt in months.
The ceremony lasted nearly two hours. At the end, the Attuned clustered around Bob, placing their hands lightly on his shoulders and humming a final blessing so pure and resonant that even Marjorie the goat paused outside the clearing to listen. Then with the gravity of priests dismissing a sacred rite, they bowed and slowly drifted away, leaving Bob standing alone on the stone, wreathed in flowers and existential panic.
Nettie, rising from her cushion at last, patted his shoulder as she passed. "You did very well, Butter Swan. May your life be deeply moist and gloriously yeasty."
Bob whimpered faintly. And Nettie, radiant and round and slightly evil, glided off toward home without a single shoe-size-guessing contest to her name. Victory, at last.
The children erupted into giggles, clearly delighted by the image of Bob crowned in grass and praised like a seedling god. One of the older boys puffed up his chest and declared, "I am the butter swan!" before twirling off into the crowd with exaggerated grace.
Bob groaned softly and buried his face in his hands. "It was two hours. Two. Full. Hours."
Nettie, reclined against the tree now, eyes half-lidded with the weight of memory and summer sun, just chuckled. "And you were magnificent."
Pemi squinted at them, suspicious. "So... was the Resistor shower better?"
Bob and Nettie exchanged a long look.
He raised an eyebrow. She smirked.
"Well," Nettie said, dragging out the word as she stretched her legs, "the Attuned shower was reverent, and full of spiritual gifts and mint water."
"And the Resistor shower," Bob added, "involved three pies, a dancing goat, and Marnie trying to teach a Basic how to play the spoons."
"So which was better?" Pemi demanded.
Nettie leaned forward and booped the child’s nose. "The one that came with less humming and more pickles."
Bob leaned in conspiratorially. "And also pies. So many pies."
Marnie, listening from a bench nearby, cackled. "Don’t forget the song you wrote. The one that almost caused a riot."
Nettie groaned. "Oh stars, that speech."
Bob looked sheepishly proud. "It had metaphors."
"It had metaphors about butter," Nettie clarified.
"Rich ones," Bob said.
The children begged to hear more, crowding around with sticky fingers and berry stained lips.
"All right," Nettie said at last, waving a hand. "Settle down. We’ll tell you about the Resistor shower. But be warned, it includes dancing, tears, and one very brave potato."
The group squealed with delight.
Bob took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and struck a pose worthy of a bard with a belly full of fried dough.
"It began," he intoned, "with the clanging of a ladle and the scent of redemption in the air…"
The hall was packed. The tables were groaning under pies, roasted roots, baskets of homemade baby clothes stitched from leftover flour bags ("Might be scratchy, but it’ll toughen 'em up."), garlands of burlap and sunflowers strung across the rafters. Children ran underfoot, already chasing each other with potato sacks. Someone’s dog slept in the corner, snoring like a buzzsaw.
Nettie, glowing, round, and slightly surly, was plopped in the place of honor on a chair piled high with mismatched cushions. Bob, wearing his best shirt (still slightly stained with butter), stood off to the side, clutching his speech. Marnie, acting as unofficial host, clanged a ladle against a pot.
"Alright, ya louts! Butter-boy’s got somethin’ to say!"
Bob shuffled forward. Cleared his throat. Unfolded his many crumpled pages.
"Friends, Resistors, country pies—"
(Pause for nervous chuckle.)
"We gather here not just to celebrate a baby... but to celebrate us. The stubborn roots that don't care if the wind howls. The frying pans that still sizzle after the storm. The butter that clings bravely to the bread even when life gets cold."
"When Nettie and I chose Rooturn, we didn't know if we'd survive each other. I personally have wept over potatoes, sung to goats, and become a minor deity. But if that's not family, I don't know what is."
"This child, our butter-spud of destiny, will be raised among the best. The loud. The hearty. The half-mad and wholly magnificent. I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Thank you. May your pies be flaky, your goats well-behaved, and your butter everlasting."
Bob finished, sweating profusely. There was a long silence. Somewhere, a pie deflated audibly.
Then Marnie clapped and was quickly joined by the others. There was a roar of laughter, and stomping and cheering filled the hall. It was not mocking, but pure delight at the ridiculous, heartfelt sincerity of it all.
Someone hoisted Bob onto a chair and someone else slapped him so hard on the back he almost achieved flight. Nettie, sitting in her cushioned throne, wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and muttered, "You're an idiot, Butter-Boy. But you're our idiot now."
After Bob’s triumphant (and deeply strange) speech, the hall broke loose into pure, unrestrained celebration. Someone struck up a tune on a battered fiddle. A couple of Resistors started stomping out a clumsy dance that involved a lot of spinning, laughing, and occasional accidental collisions with tables. Children ran in wild circles, shrieking with glee, trailing ribbons, potato peels, and sticky jam fingerprints in their wake. The dog in the corner, unimpressed, snored louder.
One by one, the villagers piled their gifts around Nettie's chair-throne. No one did it in a formal "open one by one" fashion, they just kept hurling things at her with love. There was a hand carved cradle, rough but sturdy, still smelling of sap, tiny knitted socks in wild, clashing colors, jars of pickled carrots ("Good for afterbirth!" someone shouted cheerfully), a stack of heavy blankets that could probably survive a flood or minor war, a tiny, lopsided spoon carved from willow wood, already stained with jam and a battered but proud butter churn ("They’ll need it," Marnie said, patting Bob's belly).
The Basics contributed a small pyramid of smooth stones, each painted with a different scent symbol. No one knew what any of them meant, but the Basics looked so pleased that Nettie tucked them carefully into the cradle without question.
Nettie, surrounded by gifts and pie crumbs and the low hum of pure community, leaned back on her mountain of cushions and finally allowed herself to stop worrying. For a little while, she wasn’t thinking about swollen ankles or about the future. She just watched as Bob was dragged into a dancing circle. Marnie was teaching two Basics how to properly hold a pie whiled three old men argued fiercely about whether newborns preferred the smell of rosemary or bacon grease. The dog stole half a pie and dragged it under a table without a hint of shame. It was all loud and messy and it was all absolutely wonderful.
Somehow, impossibly, Nettie realized she loved these ridiculous people. Not in the Attuned way, in the soft, universal love of all things breathing way, but the stubborn, gnarly, furious love of "mine." These people were hers now and the tiny, furious creature squirming gently under her hand was going to be part of all of it.
It was well past dark when Bob finally staggered over, pie-smeared and grinning, and flopped down heavily next to her. He handed her a half-eaten fried root ("a gift, my queen," he slurred grandly) and then immediately fell asleep with his head in her lap, and snored gently. Someone draped a rough wool blanket over both of them. Someone else tucked a jar of pickled onions under the chair ("For later emergencies.").
And for a long time, Nettie sat there, warm, full, and heavy with life. Surrounded by noise and crumbs and love.
The Basics, (“So many of them,” she thought) sat cross-legged in a loose circle around the hearth, blinking slowly in rhythm with the crackling fire.
Outside, the moon rose round and soft, like the harvest it blessed.
And Nettie, smiling a little through her exhaustion, whispered: "Better you than me, butter-boy."
Then, at last, she closed her eyes too.
