First it came the Last Harvest Festival during which Opna officiated the ceremony: he cut the last emmer ears, displayed the Sacred Bundle and offered food and gifts to everybody and his dog. Actually, the whole village had exchanged gifts but, as usual, the lowest on the social ladder had to give the richest gifts because the gifts were to be worthy of the recipient's status. So Opna got the most beautiful gifts while he, being the highest in rank, gave away only paltry ones. Yet, he was in a gloomy mood since the recipients' line was incessant. Then it was the time of the New Year's Eve, the day that falls halfway in between of the autumn equinox and the winter solstice when the dark part of the year begins. It was the time of the Plowing and Sowing Ceremonies with a lot of feasts and giveaways. By this time Opna's mood weltered from embittered to violently rancorous. As the Keeper of the Sacred Bundle of the Last Sowing he had to supply the seeds for the annual tribal sowing with his latest crop. His were the perfect ears that were kept in the Bundle for a year and the grains the village men threw onto the furrows. Worried that something might be wasted, a fussy Opna controlled the ploughing punctiliously so he didn't have to officiate the sowing ceremony twice. Every five minutes Opna barked orders and his voice was hoarse with yelling. He had just stopped to quench his thirst when he saw an elderly vagrant observing him from a small alluvial hillside over the embankments surrounding the village's fields. The tramp was emaciated and poorly dressed: a thin mangy pelt covered his loins and a rag hanged around his neck. The flinty old geezer was staring at him, and this was already a sign of serious rudeness - no one stares at a man in his face, only wizards do it. The old man, however, realizing that Opna had seen him, made peaceful gestures, tracing signs of goodwill on the ground, and approached Opna. When he was closer he stretched out a shell. "O mighty chief, may the gods give you your merit!" - exclaimed the old sod with a voice so powerful that contrasted with the thinness of his frame – "I come in peace, westbound. For days I drank muddy rotten water and I had nothing to eat. O Powerful, give me something to drink and eat, and your hospitality will be sung in every village to the earth's rim." "The umpteenth old fart who comes to eat at my own expense!" Opna thought rancorously. "I just need that this tramp goes around saying how we are hospitable and wealthy so that hordes of ne'er-do-well bastards will come to steal my goods." So Opna growled: "There is a spring; it's not far, you can drink there, and the food ... I've none left. I have just eaten the last crumb. These grains are for the next crop and I can't waste them." The old man nodded and asked: "What are you sowing?" "You old stupid dog, don't you see for yourself?" a curmudgeonly Opna thought. Anger and bitterness made his blood boil and he bellowed. "Dicks! We're sowing fucking dicks, you prick!" "As you say, as you say." The old man smiled and walked away.