On Great Days, you're supposed to drink. Wenches lay the tables under the trees and bring mugs after mugs of a syrupy green liquor they call ath, made from the outer pulp of a berry found in the Athegpoon mountains. To make good ath, it is necessary to use berries that have been peed upon by a fox. Since foxes are long extinct in this part of the country, I guess that nobody drinks good ath anymore. Second-rate ath is not that bad anyway. It tastes like whiskey with a lot of salt poured in it. Of course, the taste of ath does not matter as much as the effect it produces on human beings. And believe me, I've attended many Great Days now. On my first One, they agreed that I would not drink. So I stayed there, watching them absorb what seemed gallons of liquor, chattering and joking all the while. It seemed in no way different from your usual country banquet, apart the fact that there was nothing to eat, and only one kind of drink. I could see, though, that the wenches were getting nervous. Apparently they had already spotted some alterations in my friends that my untrained senses were still unable to detect. The maids had stopped talking to the drinkers altogether, never staying at the table longer than the few seconds necessary to collect the empty mugs and to put down new full ones. The maids worried about me too. They were gesturing at me - I didn't speak their language too well then - begging me to leave the banquet. I was torn. The girls seemed so desperate. They were all standing at a distance now, thirty yards from the table. I turned to my neighbour, who was finishing his last pint of ath. I asked him about the wenches, why did they act like that. His answer was a big, hearty, hoarse laugh. He translated my question to his companions, and the whole table started to whoop and roar at my expense. He said, still crying with laughter, I'm sorry, my friend, but you'll soon figure it out yourself. It was at this very moment that