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Shriveled leaves drifted from wilted branches, creating a brown carpet of detritus on the orchard ground. Another fruit tree dead from mysterious causes. Porl peeled away the flaking bark, but as with the others, he found no beetles or bugs. No blight marked the leaves or trunk. He was far from a plant expert, but hundreds of trees and crops around the town had died, and neither the fruiters nor croppers knew why.

What in the name of the Ancients was going on?

Despite the sun beating on his face through the thin canopy of leaves, he shivered. Hysteria grew among the townsfolk. Even the oldest grandparents shook their heads, exclaiming how they had never seen such a thing, but most worrying was that the town Elders offered no explanations or solutions. His senishan, Olbut, suspected a fault lay in the irry pipes that watered the orchard, and had sent Porl out here to investigate. At last, Porl could help, could show the Elders what he was capable of. Pride jostled with the foreboding in his heart.

Porl loved being a nishan. To him, it was the most important job in Plainstown. The Elders ran the world, and society needed fruiters and woodmakers and weavers, but only nishans knew how to repair things. Veshtar, his world, was broken. Or at least this small part of it. It was his job to fix it. Only he didn’t know how yet.

He continued through the grove of fruit trees, leaves crunching underfoot, until he came to a sudden halt. With his foot, he nudged the corpse of a furry squil. Too many dead animals lately. Birds too, as if they’d died in flight and plummeted to the ground. What was happening? He looked at the sky, thankful to see its usual pastel green.

“What have we done to upset you, Ancients?”