Jaqual

“If I work in the fields with you, will you feed me?” asked the stranger.

His skin was wrinkled from long days in the sun, and his hair, white with years, billowed around his shoulders in the brisk morning breeze.

“We will share what we have, friend,” replied the farmer. “Come help us.” So the stranger and the farmer and the villagers, young and old, worked gathering the crops. It was harvest time, and the fields, trees, and hives were bursting with vegetables, nuts, berries, fruits and honey to be collected and stored for the winter.

After their midday meal, they loaded a cart with fat, ripe pumpkins. The stranger lifted a perfect one out from the pile.

“This is the finest pumpkin I have ever seen,” he mused. The villagers gathered close.

“It’s my field, I should keep it,” said the farmer.

“We gathered the pumpkins, I say we cut it up into even pieces!” shouted one woman.

“No, I loaded it onto the cart, I should get it!” argued a young man.

“I can make delicious pies!” said a mother with three children holding tightly to her skirts.

So much arguing, thought the stranger, and over one pumpkin! But it was a splendid one, perfectly round, evenly colored, and smooth skinned. And everyone wanted it. They argued and fought till the stranger could take no more. He seemed to grow when he stood tall, and the people hushed.

“For sharing your harvest with me, I will give you a gift.” Whispering soft words over the pumpkin, it floated up, up, up onto the back of a wagon. With a gust of wind and a swirl of dust, its smooth skin transformed into the face of a woman. She had eyes of morning glory blue and a mouth shaped for kind words. Her ginger skin was like a polished copper pot. The villagers gasped.

“There are two rules," said the stranger. "At sunset you can ask Jacqual one question, and everyone must agree on that question.” He looked at them sternly. “If you fight, I will know.” He bowed low and with a rush of fog and wind, disappeared.

As the golden rays of the setting sun touched the pumpkin, she breathed with life. She stared at them, smiling.

“I am Jacqual. You may ask me one question, and only one! Be swift! My life fades with the sun.” They whispered among themselves. At last, a wrinkled woman, leathered from sun and stooped with age, stepped forward.

“Jacqual, may we have some of your magic to make sure our crops grow?”

She closed her eyes. “You have the magic of rich soil, warm summers and many friends to gather the harvest.” The villagers murmured in agreement.

A little boy, with a dirty face, blurted out, “Will we see you again?” The crowd mumbled fearfully. He broke the rule! Would Jacqual be angry? Would the stranger return and bring bad luck to them?

Jacqual turned her blue eyes and sweet smile on the boy. “Plant my seeds and when my children grow, face them towards the sunset on this same night. One day, the magic will return."

The sun fell behind the faraway mountains, but its rays filled up Jacqual. All through the night, her face glowed and the people admired her.

From that time on, children gathered pumpkins, which they called Jacqual lanterns, carved faces on them, and set a candle inside, put them on their porches and in their windows, facing the sunset while they waited for the magic to return.

Don’t forget to ask your Jacqual lantern one question, and only one!