The Straw-Favour Myth of the Harvest MoonThey say that long before the first stone of the village was laid, when the valley was still wild and the fields were only just learning the rhythm of the plough, there lived a young farm hand named Liran. He was quiet as a mouse in the granary, but he worked with a devotion that made the elders nod and say the land itself favoured him.Each autumn, when the barley bowed its golden heads and the air smelled of apples and woodsmoke, the villagers gathered for the Harvest Moon. It was a time of thanks, of songs, of promises made and sometimes broken. And it was then that Liran’s heart beat fastest, for among the workers was Maela, the miller’s daughter, whose laughter carried like windchimes and whose kindness softened even the sternest faces.Liran admired her from afar, but shyness held him like a bramble snare. He could speak to oxen, soothe skittish horses, and coax stubborn grain from the earth—but words fled him whenever Maela drew near.One evening, as the sun dipped low and the harvesters rested, Liran noticed a few perfect stalks of barley left standing, untouched by blade or hand. The elders said such stalks were gifts from the Field-Spirit, meant for blessings or omens. Liran, trembling with a courage he barely recognised, gathered them gently.Sitting alone on a fallen gate, he plaited the stalks into a small favour—simple, but woven with care, hope, and the quiet longing he had never spoken aloud. When he finished, it glowed softly in the dusk, as though the Field-Spirit approved.The next morning, he found Maela by the millpond and, with a voice barely above a whisper, offered her the straw favour. She looked at it, then at him, and something warm lit her eyes.Without a word, she pinned the little plait over her heart.All day she wore it as she worked. All evening she wore it as the Harvest Moon rose. And when dancing began, she sought Liran’s hand first, drawing him into the circle of firelight and song.From that night on, the villagers said the Field-Spirit had blessed their bond. And ever since, it has been tradition that a shy heart may speak through straw: a plaited favour offered, and—if love is returned—worn over the heart until the last sheaf is brought in.Some say that if you look closely at the barley fields under a full harvest moon, you can still see two figures dancing in the silvered rows: one with a straw favour in her hand, the other glowing with the courage it took to make it.