Around these parts weather is important. It could mean the difference between a prosperous month or a really dreadful one. Tumors in your turnips. Cysts on your cucumbers. Thrush on your tomatoes. Slight changes in temperatures or barometric pressure, or the early onset of Seasonal Sins is sometimes all it takes.

Thus the existence of Weather Men.

You could find our Weather Man in a cramped cottage deep in the heart of the Oak Free Forest. We’d availed ourselves of Old Man Nomdeplumes (as was his weathergiven name) services for three decades, and because of his diligence, our little community prospered and grew.

The first time I met the Weather Man, I was deeply concerned about my potato crops, having suffered potato pustules in the past.

I wandered the Oak Free Forest for days before I found the cottage, and when I did, Greta was already on the porch waiting for me.

(Greta is the Caretaker, the Reader. Or rather, she was.)

“Nice weather outside,” Greta said.

“How is it inside?” I asked.

“Why don’t we go find out?”

There was a basement under the cottage. Damp and moist. In the middle of the room, there was a padded table. Secured to that table were four limbs. You’d be hard pressed to describe the owner of those limbs. Once a human, now a tattered fleshy lump of exposed nerves, tissue, and veins.

Old Man Nomdeplumes.

Greta produced a razor-sharp blade, real thin and methodical in a sense, and you could see the fear in the Weather Man’s eyes as she brought it down to his chest. With swift, calculated motions, she carved and cut deep into tissue, tearing and pulling at the flaps.

Deep, guttural, bestial howls permeated the air, but these things must be done, and so we get used to them.

“Looks like a case of asparagus abscess,” Greta said after the hour was up.

Old Man Nomdeplumes tried to speak, but his tongue was long gone, and besides I don’t think his mind was really there anymore, you know? Just gargles and spittle and red-brown liquid seeping out from a lipless mouth.

I nodded, and left enlightened, as so many did before me, and many more yet to come.

The Weather Men might not choose their fate, but deep down I am sure they cherish their revered position in our community.

Rash on your radishes. Flesh wounds on your fennels. The Return of the Exiled King. Because of people like you, these things can be avoided. And we thank you for that.

Greta is gone now. Old Man Nomdeplumes has joined the sickness in the ground. But you’re here, and I’m here, and so the cycle continues.

Now I’d like you to stop moving, lest I accidentally cut where I shouldn’t. There are sins in the air, and I do not trust the weather reports. Could be an Amputee Jubilee. Or just a Vagabond Season. Or saccules on your salad.

Only one way to be sure.