Matthew 11/04/13

 

                The smell of morning drifted field by field over the farmlands long before the sun rose. Nothing was visible yet—no morning fires had been started and no lanterns had been lit. The animals were quiet and nothing stirred in the grain fields. But the smell was there. The breeze lifted the air off the creek and blew it across the land so that the smell of earth could wake the farmers from their dreamless slumbers. The thick, drying heat of the farmland summers had finally, after hours of night, cooled just enough so that the day felt new and welcoming. In the dark the animals woke gently in the barns, the cows only chewed their cud waiting patiently to be milked, the hens began to stir, and the softly undulating water of the creek made its melodic summertime gurgle as it flowed over roots and stones in its shallower stretches. These were the sounds of the farmlands, and they ebbed and flowed but never went silent.

                Very near the creek, on the western edge of the farmlands, there was a wheat farm. There were forty acres dedicated to the golden grain, but in the summer times the fields were fallow and dry. There were a few other, smaller summer crops growing, and always the garden, but the ground was mostly desolate. There was a small barn, the chicken house, and the farmer’s house. By the creek there was a fresh grave.

                Matthew woke after having slept little. The small storage loft above the two rooms of their house where he and his brother slept smelled of onions and herbs, and in the summer the air up there was close and heavy even in the morning. His brother on the hay rick next to him was quiet now, but he’d gone to bed crying. Matthew had barely been able to coax him up the ladder into the loft where they slept. Reuben had been quiet while they buried their father, his face ashen and still, but after, when everyone had left and they and their mother were alone in the house, he’d started shaking and sobbing like a child. Reuben and their mother had wept together on the ground in front of the cold fireplace. The waves of grief washed of them and through them, their bodies were weighted down with it, and they did not cover their faces or even turn them to hide the flow of tears. Matthew had watched them, standing, and he felt as if the boards of their tiny house were squeezing in around him. He watched them, silent, until it was late and even the patient summer sun had left them and he had to light a lantern. Their mother only went to the bedroom, the only other room in the house, when Matthew touched her arm and nodded to her. But Reuben had not wanted to get up. The rag rug that he knelt on was wet with his tears, and his fingers dug into it.  

                Matthew climbed the ladder against the wall that went up the square opening in the ceiling. There shallow loft above stored the family’s foodstuffs: sacks of grain, salt, barrels of root vegetables. Onions and herbs hung from the ceiling. Matthew put the lantern on the floor of the loft and then had come back down to his brother.

                Reuben was fifteen. He had thick black hair with a gentle wave, golden-brown skin that had tanned dark in the sun, and his frame was becoming that of a man. Already his shoulders were as broad as Matthew’s and his arms and chest were filling out. He would be strong like his father. In the last year his voice had finished squeaking and though he still spoke quickly and often thoughtlessly, he sounded older and his tones were deeper and even. This year he would be able to handle the plow by himself, and, if he could only concentrate and stick to his task, this year would be the year he’d have an equal share in bringing in the wheat.

                Right then, though, his rich brown eyes were wet, red, and his smooth, still boyish face was contorted. Matthew bent down gently and touched his shoulder. “Come on, Ben,”

                Reuben didn’t move and so Matthew squatted next to him. For a few moments he waited and then he put his hand on Reuben’s back. “Come up with me.” He stood and reached his hand to his brother and pulled him up. There was little light left from outside and the inconsistent glow of the lantern in the loft was all the light they had as there were no windows. The light caught on the tear streaks on Reuben’s face and made them shine. Reuben hesitated at the ladder; his fingers wrapped around the first rung, but he couldn’t seem to find the energy to climb. “Go on, Ben.”

                Reuben climbed and Matthew followed closely after him. Their hay ticks were a few feet apart from each other in one corner of the small loft in the only corner of the loft not stuffed with food and supplies. They had a box were they kept their clothes and winter blankets, and there was a wooden bucket in the corner for when they didn’t want to venture out to the outhouse in the middle of the night, and that was it. They didn’t need much.

                Reuben fell onto his bed in a heap. For a few moments he was quiet, still, and then he buried his face and started weeping fresh. His body shook and his sobs were jagged, harsh against the quiet dark. Matthew squatted and pulled his brother’s boots off for him. They both wore their short, soft, summer boots that hadn’t been tanned to fend off the rain of the autumn or winter. Matthew squatted a moment longer, looking at Reuben’s shaking back, and he took a long breath. Then he took his own boots off, stripped down to just his under drawers and blew out the lantern. He lay on top of the thin cotton blanket on his hay tick. It was too hot to be under it—even then the skin of his back felt sticky against the crude cotton. He’d been sweaty since he’d dug his father’s grave that morning, and he felt as if he’d been fermenting all day in the heat. At the funeral the neighbors had crowded around him, their sympathy thick, and the sweat had run down his neck. Now he lay on his back with his hands clasped across his forehead, and waited for his brother to stop crying.

 

                In the morning things were quiet. Matthew never lingered in the morning. He reached around in the dark until he found the lantern. It was hard to light it in the dark, but he could do it by touch and feel by now. The light blazed out from the glass and cast long shadows that stretched into the darker corners of the room. Matthew glanced at Reuben and saw he was sleeping soundly, his back to Matthew just as he had fallen asleep. His brown linen shirt stuck to his back with sweat and his limbs were flung around as if he had slept restlessly. But he was quiet, and that was a mercy.

                Matthew slipped on his clothes, the brown linen pants and cotton shirt he wore constantly in the summer, his socks and his boots. He took the lantern and went down the ladder alone.

                With the lantern he made a fire in the hearth. It hadn’t been banked the night before so he had to make it from scratch. Nothing had been done the night before except that which others had done for them. Other families had brought them food, most of which was still on the table as they hadn’t any appetite, the chicken eggs had been gathered, someone, probably Micah, had done the milking, and Matthew had seen a few women in their garden, weeding and gathering some of the beans that were ready. They were in a bowl on the table. They had left very little for Matthew to worry on. It was bad enough that his father had died in the summertime, when there was the least work to do. But when he saw the neighbors doing the rest of his work, well, he felt no gratefulness toward them. The long fingers of Matthew’s hands, both the strong, calloused fingers of his right hand and the scarred, more stunted fingers of his left, ached to take a scythe to a field full of ripe wheat. The buckwheat was growing well, but it wasn’t ready yet, and the garden, always growing something, was his mother’s domain.

                Usually his mother would be up soon to make breakfast, but today, Matthew unsure. From this day, the first day, everything would be different.

                When he opened the door that faced their fields he heard the first rooster crow. It was not from his farm, but from one further east. That sound started the morning. After the first crow, boldly proclaiming the morning in faith before the sun had even warmed the horizon, another joined, not to be outdone, and then another… a thousand roosters across the farmlands. They would crow until the sun was coaxed to ease its way up over the eastern horizon, waking up the fields and small shanty houses with a fuzzy blue glow that made the wispy clouds pink. The farmers would come out of their houses, the wives, then the children. The animals would begin to stir and the work would begin. An ox might be yoked to pull a cart to the market, wood would be cut for a new barn or to repair an old one, and girls would draw water for the day’s work. Finally the work in the fields would begin after everyone had eaten breakfast: eggs, oats, and creamed wheat were the standards. Lately, at least before his father got sick, Matthew’s family had been enjoying fresh tomatoes and sometimes fried onions in the morning.

                Matthew stepped outside and headed toward the barn. The barn was small, bigger than the house and with a larger loft that was built over half of it. Inside the barn Matthew hung the lantern on its hook so that it could provide the most light possible and then he went to the barrel of water to wash. He scooped big handfuls of water onto his face so that his chest and neck were splashed and he rubbed his eyes awake. He paused and put his hands on the sides of the barrel and let his face drip dry. His reflection appeared in the ripples of the water, lit by the orange flickering glow of the lantern.  Matthew was tall, uncommonly tall to the point of being known for it, and uncommonly fair-skinned for the farmlands. In the summertime his face and arms burned and eventually tanned to a warm oatmeal color, but that was all. He would never have the warm tones of the others in the farmlands, whose skin tanned to at least the color of dry earth. Reuben, who would tan a proper brown, made Matthew look pale and faded. Matthew’s hair was pale too—smooth and straight and the color of ripened wheat. One had to travel to the villages to even have the chance of finding someone else that was blonde. All the farmers had dark hair, black, brown, or reddish-brown. Sometimes, rarely, children had light hair, but it always turned dark as they grew. The worst, though, were Matthew’s eyes. He could see people fixating on them when he first met someone. They were shining blue. Harsh summer-sky blue. Ice blue and stinging. His mother, when he was younger, had always told him how beautiful they were, but Matthew saw others distracted by them and confused. No one else had eyes like that, not even blue let alone such a cold, faceted blue as his. Blue eyes in a taunt, long face with hard features that were so unlike the soft eyes, lips, and round noses of the farmlands. Matthew was hard to look at—he knew it because folks he hadn’t seen in awhile would either fixate on him or avoid looking at him all together. He didn’t look anything like a farmer, and he knew they were trying to figure out why.

Matthew wiped the water off his face with his sleeve and went into the cow’s stall. The milking was always first. And always last. The milking provided the pillars for the day. Their cow did not even pause to stop her chewing when Matthew came into her stall and set up his stool and bucket. It was always somewhat cooler in the barn than outside because it was shaded all day. The family’s tools hung on hooks along the walls, and the plow and harrow were against the wall in their place near the wide door. The little cart that Reuben used to hall produce to market when they had a surplus was there, as well as the larger wagon that Matthew used to take the wheat to the miller. Above there was a wooden floor built over half of the barn to store grain and seeds.  Along the back wall, under the upper level, they had piles of hay to feed their ox and cow, and various other farming stores and implements.

                The milk hit the bucket in steady streams. Matthew pulled the cow’s teats rhythmically, his hands moving quickly so that the warm milk filled the bucket quickly.

                Matthew looked up when he heard the barn door creak open. Micah slipped in with a lantern and walked over the stall where Matthew sat. Micah was a year older than Matthew, twenty, and he was of medium height, for the farmlands, but looked taller because of his hair. Loose, messy brown curls grew every which way from the top of Micah’s head and hung down just past his eyes. His eyes were warm brown in a strong face with a wide nose and a mouth that always lingered on the verge of a smile. Micah was broad, a farmer through and through, and even under his shirt his thickly muscled arms and chest showed through. Micah hooked his lantern next to Matthew’s so that the light doubled and leaned over the waist-high wooden barrier that made the cow’s stall.

                “I was coming to do that for you,” he said, yawning a bit.

                Matthew shook his head.

                “I came to see to things for you. Marlana and Isor are taking care of our place.”

                Matthew’s fingers didn’t stop their rhythm. The warm milk foamed in the pail and Matthew’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten much for the last few days.

                “You did well yesterday,” Micah said, his voice gentling, “what you said was good.”

                Matthew paused. “You told me what to say.”

                “But you couldn’t tell. It sounded natural.”

                Matthew nodded and went back to milking. Yesterday was the burying. The oldest child always spoke and pushed in the first earth of the linen-wrapped body, and since yesterday had not been the time to have a long, devastating talk with Reuben, Matthew had spoken. Micah had been over early yesterday as well, and Matthew had gone to him, ashen, and asked him what he was supposed to say over his father’s dead body.

                “Here,” Micah said, and he handed Matthew a little handled tin cup, “let me have some.”

                Matthew dipped the cup in the milk and handed it back to Micah brimming. Micah drank and smacked his lips with satisfaction. He grabbed a pitch fork and began to pitch hay to the ox, who began eating immediately despite the dark, and then he pitched to the cow.

                “I’d rather you left me my work, Micah,” Matthew said. His bucket was full of milk and he rubbed the cow’s side to thank her. He stood with the milk pail in his right hand as he slipped out of the stall. His left hand could not be trusted to form a tight enough grip on the handle.

                Micah paused. “Don’t you want to be with your family, at least today?”

                Matthew closed his eyes. “The work isn’t going to stop.”

                Micah leaned on the pitchfork. “That’s why I came over.”

                “But your farm—”

                “Leave off, Matthew. It’s taken care of.” Micah’s face was frank, and his eyes looked directly at Matthew.

                Matthew took a breath and exhaled quickly. “Micah, when your father died, I didn’t do anything for you.”

                Micah put the pitchfork against the wall and ran his hand through his curls. “We were younger then, Matthew. It doesn’t matter.” He then began to water the animals from the barrel that Matthew had washed his face in. “How was last night?”

                Matthew shook his head and he left Micah in the barn. Outside the flat, gray horizon was beginning to soften with light, and the roosters were in full force. Matthew set the milk and his lantern on the table and added wood to the hearth fire. He didn’t hear anything in the house. His stomach was beginning to growl again. There was food on the table, most of a plate of cornbread from Micah’s family, little oatcakes, the bowl of string beans, buttermilk biscuits and some gravy that was now thick and cold, and someone had even brought them some fried chicken pieces, a few of which had been eaten, but none by Matthew’s family. The sight of the meat made Matthew feel queasy; on an empty stomach the thought of meat disgusted him, especially after it had been sitting in the heat all night. He took the plate off the table and went outside to the chicken coop. He set the plate of chicken by the henhouse. The hens weren’t out of the henhouse but some of the roosters stopped cackling and trilling at the sky long enough to pick at it.

                In the barn Micah was mucking out the stalls. He scooped the manure, several days’ worth now, into the third stall where they had once had a second ox. Now it stored the manure until it was spread over the fields. The barn was still mostly dark, but the daylight was seeping in slowly through the cracks in the wall and the window above. “Don’t, Micah.”

                Micah paused and again looked at Matthew directly. “Do you want me to go?”

                And there it was—the feeling Matthew that had been waiting for. His chest tightened, and the walls of the barn seemed close. Suddenly his breath was shallow and he opened his mouth wide to breath, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. His feet felt unsure beneath him and he sat down heavily against the wall and rested his head against the boards.

                Micah stopped shoveling and came over and sat next to him, the light of the lantern casting pulsing shadows around them but leaving them in a patch of dark that would last a few hours longer until the sun lifted up high and its burning rays crept into every nook and cranny of the farmlands.

                They didn’t say anything. The sun rose, the ball of light almost ready to lift above the horizon—they could tell because the soft creeping glow of light coming in from the eastern wall was mustering its strength. The roosters left not a moment empty of their proclamations.

                “You should go home, Micah,” Matthew said softly, looking ahead instead of at his friend.

                “Do you want me to go?”

                “I was going to spread manure, and I can do that by myself.”

                “It’s going to be too hot a good day to be out in the fields by yourself. And you don’t look very good, Matthew.”

                “I just need to eat. We haven’t had a meal, a proper meal, since he got sick.”

                “Let’s breakfast then. I’m hungry too.”

                They went inside and found Matthew’s mother was up. She had built up the fire, so that now with the rising sun and the flames the house was brightening up. Damora was dark, with long black hair that hung loose down her back. She hadn’t braided it yet. She wore her oldest, most faded brown dress, and her face was heavy with fatigue and her movements forced. She had smaller features than most of the farmers, and she was thin. Matthew towered over her. She reached her hand out to him when he came in and he went to her. She stood from where she stooped over a pot on the fire and touched his face. Her brown eyes were heavy, her mouth a flat line, and Matthew noticed the wrinkles extending from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. The back of her hand rubbed along his cheek and she looked at him steadily, “You were wonderful yesterday.”

                “Thank you,” Matthew whispered.

                She poured some crushed wheat into the pot of boiling water and added a pinch of salt from a box on the mantel. It seemed strange for her to be cooking with so much food going stale on the table, but Matthew pushed that food aside. He didn’t want any of it. A thin bowl of creamed wheat was the only thing he could eat. He saw Micah watch him. “Eat it,” Matthew said. “Someone ought to.”

                Micah took an oatcake but held it in his hands. In a few minutes Damora ladled out two bowls of steaming, wheat, and Matthew dipped a cup of milk from the morning’s pail and stirred it into his breakfast. He blew on spoonful and ate quietly. Micah dipped his oatcake into the wheat and ate it that way. He looked up to thank Damora and she ran her hand through his curls. Then she climbed the ladder into the loft.

                The world was too quiet to avoid hearing her wake Reuben. Matthew heard him stir, there was a pause, and then the realization. His first cry was guttural, angry, sick. Then he began sobbing, heavily.  The sound was muffled from the loft, but the sound of it still filled the house.  His mother’s softer sobs joined his brother’s.

                “Matthew,” Micah said, softly, and he nodded toward the loft.

                But Matthew shook his head and kept forcing down his breakfast. As soon as he had finished he left his bowl on the table and went outside again.

                And, finally, there was the sun. It broke over the flat eastern horizon and sent piercing white rays across the farmlands. Every building, every blade of grass, every clod of earth not even with the surface of the ground sent long shadows reaching toward the west. The light caught the surface of the creek and made it shine. Already the day was warmer. Matthew closed his eyes and paused for a moment to soak in the heat.

                He went to the barn, Micah silently shadowing him. When they entered the sun was streaming in through the cracks in the eastern wall in white, stagnant rays alive with dust particles. Matthew pulled the little cart over to the manure stall and began to fill it one shovelful at a time. He worked quickly as he was eager to be in the fields. When the cart was full Matthew yoked the ox and brought him out into the open area of the barn. Micah helped him hook up the cart and then he grabbed one of the heavy metal rakes used for spreading. Matthew didn’t argue. It was a job for two men and Reuben wasn’t an option.

                Matthew grabbed his wide-brimmed straw hat off a peg in the barn. There were three hats that his mother had made that hung there. His father’s and Reuben’s hung next to Matthew’s. All three of them were graying and faded, with some fraying beginning at the edges. Matthew made a point not to look at the other two as he put on his own.

                Just as they left the barn Matthew felt it. He froze. His muscles tensed and he held his breath. There it was again. It was close, pulling at his consciousness and demanding his attention. She was there.

                He doubled over and lost his breakfast on the dirt.