We all stop working in the fields when we hear the boom, boom, boom, from the village gong. One of my friends says that magic spreads the sound to the farmers who live outside the village's protective walls. Dad says, no one around here uses magic.

  I kick dirt over one of the fat weeds that wouldn't come out of the ground. Done. I've been waiting for days to hear the gong. I run down the dirt-packed path toward the village before Mom or Dad can make me stay and do something else.

  Today, we'll get news from the rest of the island. Sometimes, it's good, and sometimes, it's bad. My favorite part about message days is stopping work early and hanging out with friends. If my parents don't find me after the reading, I won't have to work again tonight. I run faster.

  The sun sets as our two moons rise out of the ocean to take their place as guardians of the night.

  The dirt trails become stone paths inside the walls of Chetly village. The ones who live inside think they're better than us. The houses inside are surrounded by more houses rather than trees. If there were a choice, I'd still choose dirt and jungle.

  The village gathering spot is already packed with people. Most of them sit on the ground. Those in finer clothes remain standing or sit on fat, fluffy floor pillows, servants carried for them. I weave between the knots of people to get in line to pray at the temple altar. Green and yellow lichens grow over the stone platform. A piece of red hardwood is carved into the shape of a woman. Tiny cracks cover the woman who's older than the island. At her feet is an offering plate. The flames give off a soft blue glow.

  When it's my turn, I kneel on the stones and bow my head, trying to quiet my thoughts. Padora, thank you for being the god of our island. That's all you're supposed to say. It can't hurt to say more. Could you help Chacla? We need a good harvest this year. We're all hungry. And help me want to work hard. The man behind me nudges my foot. I get up.

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  My friends sit under the white-barked, healing tree on the grassy hill behind the temple. Petro waves me over. Trombert starts waving, too.

  We all stop talking when Fremid, the village lector, walks into the square near the temple. He refuses to read the scroll until he's given everyone enough time to get here. How would it be to know things before everyone else? Because it's almost Planting Festival, there will be a message from the valley's lord or the island king.

  At last, Fremid clears his throat. His long, stringy body and bulging eyes remind me of a newt with a giant hooked nose. He unrolls a scroll. "Our first message is from Lord Dennison. He says, 'Please remind the villagers, especially those of the lower classes, that Planting Festival is to be honored completely by all. At the full moons, guards will be out in force to ensure everyone observes the holiday correctly. Anyone caught violating the traditions will be brought to my dungeons. There is plenty of room for all rule-breakers. Thank you, and enjoy your holiday.'"

  Groans break out from the group. Fremid calms the forming mob with a look. "Even though Lord Dennison is a two-day journey away, he must be obeyed. He claims to rule over the whole west side of the island. Let's show him we are true followers. If we're compliant, he'll send fewer guards in the future. We only have tomorrow to prepare." People grunt in agreement.

  Fremid moves on. "The next and last message is from King Hezameade. 'The royal astrologer predicts higher than normal rains, which in turn will increase crop yield. This year, there will be plenty for all.'" He waits for the cheering to end. "'As per the Yesiphaa pact, it's the boy's turn this year. The following trades will open to all classes of people: blacksmiths, scribes, tanners, and innkeepers. If you are between the ages of ten and sixteen and interested in one of the trades as mentioned earlier, please talk to your local lector about the rules and whereabouts of the competitions.'" Fremid rolls up the scroll. Villagers start lining up to ask him questions.

  Petro jumps up, grabbing Trombert and me. "Let's be scribes. We've got what it takes. Imagine the easy life we'll have. What do you say?"

  I shrug. "I don't know."

  Petro rolls his eyes. "What about you, Trombert?

  "I'm in. Jeremiah, if you come, you'll get out of a day of work."

  "All right." I'll only get one chance to try out a new trade, maybe not even that.