The Reaping

I would like to first say that this story is the only in the first step and that it will look vastly different in the (hopefully) near future.  But I promised you a story, and it is long overdue.  Enjoy.

    Heads of grain danced like so many seething strands.  A dull, silvered pre-dawn light tricked the field to resemble an ocean in the eyes of the farmer and his friend.  The two of them stood beside the black barn, great doors unfolded.  The men stepped into the pitch belly of the warehouse as the sun turned silver into gold.  Seven minutes passed.  The farmer returned, with a scarecrow propped on his right shoulder.  The plants waited, still, for their protector to arrive; a certain rush of relief greeted the scarecrow when he was raised amongst them – while a raven slowly skated down the skies and navigated the autumn winds to perch on the scarecrow’s crown.

    Then the farmer, sickle keen, waded into the field the ears to reap.  The wheat swam away from that bitter blade and then with a sad shuffle the stalks sank off the guillotine onto the earth.  As the edge ate the grains a mob of men traversed the plains and struck toward the scarecrow with weary steps and rowing arms.  “Scarecrow,” they asked, “how is it that you keep away the black birds?”  “Why do they pass over the grain, but land on you?”  “Our crops are being eaten, we cannot stop them.”  “Are you dead, or are you living?”  “Scarecrow, do you feel or are you thinking?”  The scarecrow hung.  And with rasping sounds a parched voice was heard.

“There was a farmer’s son, a boy, and he tended the gardens for their sup.  With spade and shear he cultivated and encouraged the plants to grow.  In struggle and striving those domestic vines ascended the stakes and on account of the spade there were plants and on account of the shear the family had fruit.  One day, the servants of the father grew jealous of the son’s success and left the gates open for the swine to ruin the garden.  The wild boar came upon the boy as he was shearing and gored him there.  The father later commanded those servants to be brought into judgment for the blood they had spilled but the garden freshly pruned and now fed – grew.”

Even more somber now a few of the men sat near the scarecrow while the rest with either anger or despair ambled away.  A deep silence ruled for one unbreaking moment.  Then on a gust of wind they were returned from the deep and forgetful pools of reverie.  Far off in the field the farmer was singing and the shift and slap of the wheat on the ground provided a regular cadence.  “An’ who can say if they’ll walk around.  Fo’ those who pay shall fall to the ground.  Raise yo’ hands and shout the found, cuz oh mama they’ll fall to the ground, fall to the ground – yeah mama you’ll fall to the ground.”

“Scarecrow,” said an aged cooper, “my barrels once could hold the waters back and tame them in its trunk.  Yet even my well loved oak planks can no longer bear the secret rage of that blue beast and burst soon after the filling.  How can we endure under a curse so bitter?”  The others murmured agreement.  “We came to you because you hang perpetually affixed in a silent agony.  You speak to us in riddles for you understand us... will you not give us a plain answer?  We each of us are hanged as well.”  Tears fell from the men and dust from the scarecrow.  “Behold the raven.” It whispered.

The wanderers had deterred fresh pilgrims from their course and many more were avoiding the scarecrow.  With piercing accuracy the raven sped toward each of the discouraged townsmen.  Their bowed heads were suddenly boxed by black wings and their faces scoured with angry talons.  They each tried to deflect it or hide their faces from its terror.  Some it seemed to herd to the scarecrow and others were driven away.  Each of the men who did not join the contingent eventually tried to placate the wrath of the raven with seeds and when it had eaten from their hands it flew back and perched again on the scarecrow’s crown, contented.

The number of idle followers had grown again to what they had been prior.  The light upon the field had long since turned clear and now was causing the wheat to shift in its lazy glow.  After the wounded had been given handkerchiefs and the men discussed the bird’s frightening behavior they quieted.  Each considered the scarecrow, with the sun setting behind it, and each desired the same prosperity the farmer had.  He was gathering the bundles of wheat, the reap of the day was accomplished.  The field was now largely empty but there was still grain standing in patches.

From the flock of men a bleeding face came forward.  “Hanging-one.  Sojourned have I from lands in squalor now forgotten.  Blasted were the skies from before the time of my father and falling from the heavens was not water but poisoned drink.  Making war upon my people were the stars themselves and lingering in the pools is death.  How shall I my people save?”  As the foreigner was so speaking the farmer had completed the gathering of the grains and was among the followers.  When that black bird had spied the farmer she vanished into the dark sky.  He plucked up his wretched guardian and returned again into the cavernous black barn.  Only the foreigner followed them.

Starlight alone showed the scene.  The soft air hushed the wild into sleep and the earth waited for the sun to rise again.  It seemed as if the raven shrouded all of the land under her grim wings.  The mouth of the barn had light pouring from it and also smoke.  Soon three men exited and the building and all the grain within was consumed.  “We shall build a new grain-house tomorrow.”  Said the farmer, “and it shall be white."

Dt

PS


When I finish the next version (which may not as soon as I would like) I will certainly post it and you can compare the two to see which is better.