Wait.
What season was it anyway?
It had been autumn back at home, but that didn’t mean it was autumn here. Looking around herself, it was not entirely clear. The grass in the not-quite-meadow was dry and wispy. That could mean late summer or fall. Since she had no real idea of her location or altitude, she couldn’t really tell by the temperature, but it did not feel particularly warm or cold. The trees in her vicinity seemed to primarily be deciduous, with some conifers among them. She could see no autumn leaves nor spring blossoms, but she couldn’t determine based on these observations alone.
One thing was absolutely clear, however. This place was a far cry from the verdant Arcadian paradise dotted with fluffy pink sheep that she had seen from Hollyhope’s cottage windows.
I guess that’s the difference between the realities of a terrestrial world and a divine realm, Demi thought to herself philosophically.
Still, she would have trouble beginning her idyllic farming life if she didn’t have any idea what time of year it was.
“Ahh,” she said aloud to herself, leaning her cheek against her palm. “I should have asked Hollyhope what time of year it is.”
“It’s the first of spring,” came a very cultured voice from behind her. “It’s the first day of the month of Gwlanog, which makes it the first of spring, and it is also the ninth day of the month of Fearn in the season of sumor.”
Demi turned around in surprise and found herself looking at the most beautiful chicken she had ever seen in her life.
He was such a beautiful chicken that Demi was at first unsure that he was a chicken. His long, luxuriant tail would have put a peacock to shame, and he had the bearing of a bird of paradise. His long, phoenixlike tail feathers did not trail along on the ground in any manner pedestrian, but instead floated along behind him idly. His feathers undulated gently, despite the fact that the air around them was relatively still. The feathers did not really look as if they were being carried by a breeze. Instead, it looked almost as if his tail were moving with the flow and ebb of slow water.
Upon very close observation, the majestic comb and wattle clearly identified the bird as a chicken, and as a chicken Demi recognized, no less.
“Onagadori,” Demi said without thinking, pointing at the majestic bird.
“Young lady, it is very impolite to point!” huffed the chicken, although his breast feathers did seem to puff out a bit after having been clearly identified. He seemed a bit tsundere, like a celebrity that is pleased at being recognized but trying very hard to pretend otherwise.
But the chicken before her was unmistakably an Onagadori. They were a rare breed of chicken, prized by the nobility, bred for generations to prioritize the length of their gorgeous, phoenix-like tails. A genetic mutation caused them to molt only rarely, and with proper care, their tails could grow as long as twelve meters by the end of their lives. They were generally docile and friendly, and the hens laid small light-brown eggs. They were not robust egg producers; they had been bred entirely as ornamental and as companions for the nobility.
Demi was confident in her knowledge because she was proud of her Forest Girls’ merit badge in domestic poultry identification.
There had also been a small flock of them at the family estate, given as a gift to her mother when she had married into the aristocracy. Demi had often watched them as a girl or spent time chatting with them, but they had never replied to her before.
Still, the gorgeous chicken was correct. It was impolite to point at someone without good reason.
She stopped pointing and bowed briefly in apology. She wasn’t actually sure what the most appropriate bow to give a chicken was, so she decided to err on the side of caution and give a bow that would have satisfied one of her tutors growing up.
“I’m sorry,” she said honestly. “It’s just not often that I see such a beautiful chicken.” Then, for good measure, she added, “I was so surprised by your gorgeous feathers that I forgot my manners.”
Demi was good at flattering people, and she judged, based on the chicken’s previous behavior, that he would be malleable with a liberal application of praise.
She was correct. Upon hearing her words, the chicken threw back his head and puffed out his breast even fuller, flipping his gorgeous tail so that the long, slender feathers fluttered. The chicken shot her a look that might have come from the leader of a visual kei band or the highest earning host at a host club. Everything about him sparkled, and beyond that, the sound sparkled, as if someone were playing a small xylophone and a collection of hand bells.
This chicken was wearing eyeshadow.
“You are forgiven,” he declared generously. “I must confess that this does happen somewhat regularly. It truly is a sin to be as beautiful as I.”
After basking in himself for a few moments, he at last came back to reality.
“It’s the first day of Gwlanog in the season of spring, and it is the 9th day of Fearn in the season of sumor,” he repeated. “I am the holy beast that the goddess sent to assist you in your activities. My name is”—and here the chicken struck an incredible pose again, his feathers flying behind him to the tinkle of bells— “Glimmer.” He gave another smoky look.
Well, that name absolutely fits, Demi thought weakly to herself.
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Glimmer,” Demi said with another bow. “I’m Demeter Yavanna Kobayashi Serraffield, and I seem to have become the substitute Harvest Goddess. I look forward to your guidance.”
“Of course I already know who you are, my little goddess,” he said, pronouncing the final three words very deliberately. “Beautiful me will absolutely look after you.”
It’s a good thing I’m immune to the charms of guys like this, Demi reflected to herself in amusement. Even if he is a chicken.
And it was true. Demeter Serraffield was quite immune to the charms of all but a very specific subset of serious, reticent, tired-of-life gentlemen. Her capture targets in games with romances always fell into this general category.
Her new avian companion could send an endless array of glamorous, smoldering looks in her direction and they would be met with nothing more than wry patience, which was likely the best for their working relationship.
Their introductions concluded, Demi felt that she had to ask an obvious question.
“How is it the first day of spring and also some time in summer at once?” she asked. “Does this place have two different calendars, or is there something else strange and goddess-y going on?”
Glimmer looked at her shrewdly. “You’re surprisingly clever,” he noted. “Yes. We keep two separate calendars: a solar one for agricultural life and a lunar one for pastoral life. The solar calendar has four seasons: ver, aesta, autumn, and hiem, and the lunar calendar has two seasons, sumor and winter.”
When he said the word “ver” Demi instantly translated it into “spring” in her own mind.
I bet I did that earlier, she realized. The first time he said it.
“Ah, thank you,” Demi answered politely, choosing to pointedly ignore the fact that Glimmer had implied that her cleverness was surprising rather than expected. “That’s handy to know.”
It made sense that a world structured according to pastoralism and agriculture would have careful ways of reckoning the time.
And it’s pretty standard to start on the first of spring too, Demi reflected.
Well, there was no time to waste. As a veteran of farming games, Demi knew that the sooner she understood her new farm and got some seeds in the ground, a couple of chickens in a coop, and a cow in her barn, the better.
It was time to homestead!
“So,” she said, walking over to her new chicken guide. “Where exactly is my new farm?”
The ordinary pattern of a farming game was to suddenly inherit a charming but somewhat dilapidated property left behind by a beloved grandparent, usually with the bonus of a free cow or at least a bag of turnip seeds. Exactly how well-appointed the farm was varied, so Demi was prepared for some work to get it nice and functional again. She was counting on the tutorials that Hollyhope had prepared to at least give her the basics in what that entailed in this world. If they were not up to the task, then she was going to have to depend on what she had learned during the course of amassing merit badges as a Forest Girl.
But then the very beautiful chicken said something very shocking.
“But my little goddess, this is your farm.”