The Runaway: A Stardew Valley Story

Egg Festival

"These are parsnips if I'm not mistaken?"

I nod vigorously. "They should be ready for harvest soon."

Elliot straightens from his squat to investigate my sprouts and smiles warmly at me from his full godly height. "Your first harvest. You should be proud."

"I am," I admit with cheeks burning.

Jutting out an elegant arm, Elliot asks, "Shall we be off then? I don't want you to be late for your first Pelican Town Egg Festival."

"Oh," I laugh awkwardly and take his elbow. "Yes, of course."

The hand that wraps around Elliot's arm is still covered in bandages from the encounter with Sebastian. The wound is scabbing over and itchy. I figured keeping it covered would be the best way to prevent me from scratching and keep people from asking what happened.

"Did you knick yourself in the garden?" Elliot asks ironically against my thoughts.

"I was cleaning up glass," I answer feeling a lump form in my throat.

"Ah, I see. Will you join the egg hunt?" Elliot asks as we leave Lakewood's soft grass for the dirt road leading into town.

"What's that?"

"Hmm?"

"You said egg hunt. What is it?"

Elliot's eyebrows scrunch and he quirks one corner of his lips. "Did your family worship Yabba growing up?"

I shake my head.

"Ah," some of the confusion melts from the god's golden face. "It's tradition to celebrate the reincarnation of Yabba with an egg-themed holiday. According to myth, he sacrificed his immortal life to save his daughter, but the thought of living for eternity without him was so overwhelming that she ate his bones. However long it takes one to do so, she laid an egg, and poof! There was her father! ...Now, her son."

Giggles escaped me at the animated storytelling complete with gestures that rattled my upper body when he used both arms.

"And now you hunt eggs to celebrate?"

"Yes."

Elliot studies me again, and a tingle runs across my neck. I still can't shake the words he used last week. There is something unsettling about this man. Still, I smile wider.

"Say Junox, where did you go to school?" Elliot asks without missing a beat. "I was under the impression that most young children partake in classroom egg festivals even if they don't adhere to the religious practices."

"I was homeschooled," I say.

For once, this is not a half-lie, a partial truth, or even a lie by omission. I was tutored by carefully screened individuals on subjects that were pre-approved by my mother. In fact, I was nine years old before I knew that everyone else met together in a building. Mother wanted me to be fitted for a new dress, and the seamstress refused to do a house call last minute. The woman asked what kind of school allows children to leave for a new dress.

Much like the woman then, my answer satisfies Elliot now. "Ah, that explains a lot."

The dirt beneath us gives way to the grey brick streets of town. Colorful balloons and ribbons decorate buildings and line the sidewalks. Happy music plays from a set of massive speakers near the center of the festivities.

And eggs. There are eggs everywhere.

There are eggs painted with colorful patterns, egg-filled centerpieces on tables, egg-shaped costumes and cardboard cutouts.