"Boys, come here." Dad waves us over.

  It better not be more work. Ansel unhooks the water buffalo from the plow. Good, he's done. That beast is meaner than a cobra with a toothache. While Ansel hurries across the field, I take my time, hoping whatever chore Dad has won't need both of us.

  Mom calls out, "Jeremiah, hurry up. As soon as the three of you are out of sight, we'll start planting the rice. Don't come near the fields until you hear our horn." She looks at me as she says the last part and shoos me off with a wave of the ram's horn.

  Somehow, female hands bring fertility to the seeds. Why does it have to be a secret? I've never peeked, even though I want to. We need a good harvest. Waltin, the land baron, always takes the first two hundred bushels as a tax. As long as he gets his portion, he doesn't care if there's enough left to feed the families on his land.

  Once we get to the top of a yellow grass-covered hill, Mom blows the horn once. We live the farthest away from the ocean. Horns sound as we pass each field. It signals to gods and men that it's time for rice planting. Any male old enough to walk has to leave the fields. The guys will gather at the ocean to fish. With the weather changing, fishing should improve.

  We follow Dad past neighboring fields. There's no turning back now. Instead of veering left toward the ocean, we continue straight ahead.

  Dad stops us. "I have something to show the two of you, but you have to promise you won't tell anyone, not even your mom or sisters." He scans the area, checking for people. "Let's walk a little further."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  That's interesting—Dad never keeps secrets. The thought is forgotten when the scent of ripe olosapo fruit hits me. All the other olosapo trees in the village were stripped of fruit before they were ripe. The branches of this tree hang heavy with fruit. It grows at the base of the fairy mound. No wonder no one has picked any. The branches are filled with deliciousness. It's not touching the hill, so the fruit might be safe to eat. I want to pick them all, but instead, I take one. The fairies might overlook that.

  I don't see the fire ant till it bites my finger. "Ow! Fairy curse." I slap it, instantly regretting the action. I bend down to talk to the ant. "If you're a fairy, sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." My middle knuckle has already started swelling. It feels like I stuck it in a fire. I rub it, making it sting more. That ant bite should count as payment. I pick up the lumpy yellow fruit and dust it off while looking for other ants. I bite into the soft, sweet pulp. "Mmm." It tastes kind of like sweet egg custard, and better yet, it doesn't get my hands all sticky.

  Dad comes over. Instead of scolding me, he plucks three pieces of fruit before heading up the forested hill.

  "We're not going up the fairy hill, are we?" I ask. Fairies don't like trespassers. No one in the village ever goes up there. Plenty of stories tell of people in the past going up and never coming back down.

  "Yes, come on. We don't have a lot of time," says Dad. "Don't worry; I made a deal with the fairies. If we follow their rules, they won't bother us."

  Ansel and I look at each other in disbelief. This can't be happening.

  Eating the olosapo must have condemned us. I really messed up this time. Now, we have to go up the hill to receive our punishment. Either that or Dad has been drinking the festival wine and has lost his senses. I reluctantly follow, jumping at every sound. Why would a hater of magic make a deal with fairies?