by Matt Moss
“Kiss this, Cole,” Donald says and grabs his crotch.
Abram flips me the bird and smiles.
“Jealous?” Benji asks me.
Larry looks confused, then happy, then confused again.
The ATV fires up and we all leave the field. I look over my shoulder at the rock in the field and tell it I’ll be back.
I walk behind as everyone else laughs and has a good time making fun of me. Mr. Gibbs joins them like they’re one big happy family now.
I tell all of them to piss off.
“What the hell is going on, Don?” We’re back inside the barn and the farmhands have left to get supper for everyone. Still, I keep my voice at a whisper because I can’t shake the feeling of Mr. Whyte watching, listening. I look around the barn for cameras.
“You like that little show back there?” Donald says with a grin.
“Yeah. What was that? You guys best buddies with the farmhands now?”
“Have you ever heard the saying keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
“No.”
He takes a couple steps outside the barn and looks at the white house. “It’s all an act. We’re gonna play nice for a while and they’re gonna let their guard down. And when they least expect it, we hit them hard.” He slams a fist into his palm.
“Ya, we talked about it earlier, after we saw you go into the house,” Abram says, walking up to join the conversation.
I look at the house. Donald moves to my side. “What was it like in there? Did you see any guns?”
I saw enough guns to start a small army. “No. It’s just a regular house.”
Donald cocks his head in question. “A regular house? You had to have saw something of note in there.”
I look him in the eye. “Furniture, tables, paintings. What did you expect?”
He snaps his gaze back to the mansion. “There’s something in there. He’s just got it hidden somewhere.” He grabs my arm. “Cole…”
“Touch me again and I’ll kick your ass for real.” I jerk away.
He throws his hands up. “Damn, alright! Chill. Look, we’re in this together. It’s us against them, remember?”
“I remember.”
He settles the dispute with a nod. “Good. Alright, then. So, do you think you can get a glimpse at the rest of the house the next time you’re there?”
“Your assuming that Whyte invites him back in,” Abram adds.
“He will,” I assure them. “But I need to do something first.”
“Like what? I can help,” Don offers.
“I have to do it on my own. And I need to do it tonight.”
“Is it for Mr. Whyte?”
“Sort of.”
Donald rubs his hands together. “Sounds like a plan, then. Do your thing and make Mr. Whyte proud.”
Abram shakes his head and walks back inside the barn. Donald fetches a pale of water from the well. The farmhands come out of the house with platters in hand.
I don’t care if it’s not for me. I got other things on my mind.
Things that trump even the prestigious Meat of the damn Day.
The moon shines bright in a clear night sky. It lights the face of the rock that sits in front of me, nestled comfortably in its bed fast asleep.
“Wakey wakey, bitch. Remember me?”
I get down on all fours and bring my face close to its cold, rough surface.
“This time, I ain’t playin’ around. And the farmhands aren’t here to save you.”
I take the shovel and begin to dig around it. To my surprise, the rock doesn’t protest or antagonize me like it did before. It just sits there, silent and staring, as if it wants me to pry it from the ground to set it free.
An hour later, I’ve unearthed as much as possible and the digging is done. The rock is bigger than I would have imagined, nearly double the size of one of the wheels on the ATV, probably weighing around three hundred pounds. There’s no way I can lift this thing by myself. I feel despair knowing that whatever the stone holds underneath will remain there. I could get help, but I don’t want anyone else to know; not Donald, not the farmhands, not anyone. Mr. Whyte wanted me to find it, and for some stupid reason, I’ve had a grudge against this stone for a while.
I stand slouched and heaving for air. Sticky with sweat in the hot, humid night air. Just when I’m considering giving up, it calls to me.
This is our destiny. I’ve been waiting for you so long.
“Then tell me what to do. Help me.”
Keep digging.
“Keep digging…” At first, I don’t see the logic in it. I’ve dug all the way around this thing and can’t go any deeper.
Then the solution hits me. I begin digging another hole off to the side of the stone. This one needs to be deeper, not by much, though—just enough to roll the stone into.
My back aches, and my arms and legs are on fire, but I don’t let up. Once satisfied, I cut a path to make it easy to transition. By the looks of it, the stone should roll in with relative ease. Positioning myself behind the stone, I place the spade against the base and use the tool as a lever. With my weight bearing down on the handle, the metal space grinds and shrieks against the stone until it gets a good bite. The handle splinters where it joins the head, but I feel the stone budge ever so slightly. I’m aware that if any more pressure is put on the tool, it could snap in two, but I’m willing to gamble.
“Come on, damn you. Move!” I give it a little more, and it’s enough. The stone begrudgingly rolls out of its bed and into its new resting place, leaving a deep crater behind. The hole looks to be man made, definitely not natural. My face drops near to see what’s held within, but it’s too dark to see. I reach in, burying my arm up to my shoulder but can’t feel anything. Frustrated, I grab the shovel and ram the handle down in attempt to reach the bottom. I feel it hit something and a hollow thud comes from whatever it is. It’s about six feet deep and out of reach.
I sigh and wipe the sweat from my face. “Couldn’t have made this easy, could you?”
Two hours later, I drag a small wooden chest from the ground. I’ve always appreciated the story of a good treasure hunt—the thrill, the maps, the boobytraps.
I feel like a pirate. “Argh, ye stubborn wench, I’ve finally found you. Time to plunder yer booty, yar.” I look to the rock, smiling triumphantly. It stares back, unamused. I gaze down at the treasure chest and flip the metal clasp open. Maybe there’s gold inside, or a diamond, or maybe another map leading to another hunt. Wide-eyed and full of anticipation of what could be inside, I slowly open the lid.
“Really? All of this work for two books. Is this a joke?” I hold a large book up to see it in the moonlight. It’s a college textbook on Soren Kierkegaard. The other is titled Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.
I toss the books back in the box and have half a mind of kicking it back into the hole. The only thing saving me from doing that is Mr. Whyte. He’s probably watching me right now—the thought making me turn nervously to take in my surroundings. I want him to accept me; I need him to accept me. It’s the only way I can get close enough to betray his trust. There’s only one thing I want, and that’s freedom. No book is going to give me that.
I bury the stone and say my final, triumphant goodbye.
With the box shut tight and tucked under my arm, I begin the trek back to the barn tired, exhausted, but mostly disappointed. I had my hopes set high on this one, thinking I would find something grand; something that would help me.
Donald sees me coming and meets me outside under the blanket of night. “What’s that you got? What did you find?”
“Nothing. Just a couple books.” I open the chest and hand it to him.
He holds it to the moonlight for inspection. “Who cares about Soren Kirke-whoever?”
“Yeah,” I say and walk into the barn, finding everyone else fast asleep. Don trots up behind me. “What are you going to do with it?”
“It’s a nice chest. Figure I’ll
just hide it inside the barn somewhere. Could come in handy for stashing something. Besides, I don’t know if Mr. Whyte wants the farmhands to know about it or not.”
It’s dark inside the barn, but I can see Donald shake his head. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a box and some stupid books.” He grunts and lays down on the blanket spread across the ground. For some reason, he prefers it over the cots. “Whatever, I’m going to sleep now.”
A place behind some bales of hay makes a good spot to hide the box. I cover it with straw and make my way to the bed. All in all, today was odd to say the least. But it was a good day, despite being let down by the treasure. I drank Mr. Whyte’s whiskey, smoked his cigar, and got a look inside the white house.
I also kicked the rock’s ass.
Today was a good day.
I hope Mr. Whyte invites me back.
Eight
I wake up to the sounds of conversation. I ache in places I didn’t know I had—my body sore all over from yesterday. I really don’t want to get out of bed.
The sun has yet to rise, but Donald and Abram have already met the farmhands outside the barn door and are discussing the plans for the day. I hear them talking.
“Sure thing, Mr. Red. I’ll take you right to those berries. Can even show you how to make homemade wine if ya like.”
“Let’s just find these so-called berries first. I’ve never seen any on this farm before, and that’s saying a lot because I’ve been everywhere and know every step of this place. You better not be lying about it.”
Mr. Gibbs lights a cigarette, the glow of the flame illuminating his face in the darkest hour of morning. I wonder if he’s even noticed the missing pack of smokes that Donald stole along with the lighter. Surely he has. But why hasn’t he made a big deal about it?
“Damn, Red,” he says, smoke trailing from his mouth into the light of the moon. “How else do you think they made the hooch? Gotta be berries some damn where around here.”
“I said, I’ve never seen them.”
“You’ve never seen a lot of things, Red. Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
Mr. Red spits to the side. “Fair enough. Abram will lead the way. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Fair enough,” Mr. Gibbs says and takes a drag.
“I’m not lying,” Abram states. “I’ll show them to you.” He walks back into the barn with an extra pep in his step. “Abram,” Mr. Red calls. “If you’re lying…” The farmhand takes a deep breath, emphasizing the severity of breaking trust.
Abram turns back to him. “No worries.”
Mr. Gibbs raps on the door with a shovel. “Get up. Let’s go to work.”
I look over my row and am pleased to know that I’ve tilled a good hundred yards so far. Come to find out, the best way to work out sore muscles is to physically work. Seems counterintuitive, but it’s already lunch time and I can barely feel the soreness any more.
The sun beats down hard and I figure we’re in the middle of summer now. A very late start to sow whatever it is they want to plant, but I figure better late than never. We could all use a little more variety in our diet. Not complaining. I love canned beans, tomatoes, and pickles, but not every day. I’d like something fresh.
Mr. Red pulls up on the ATV with water; the third trip of the day. Mr. Gibbs takes his cap off, fills it with water, then dumps it over his head. “Son of a bitch, it’s a hot one today,” he exclaims.
“Only going to get hotter as the season goes by,” Mr. Red notes.
“Yeah, damnit. I know.” He cups his hands around his mouth and yells so everyone can hear. “C’mon, let’s eat.”
Mr. Red sets the jars of beans out for everyone to take.
“Is it always this hot?” Benji asks before putting his mouth under the cooler spout. He nearly chokes from drinking too fast.
Mr. Red spits tobacco. “Not usually. Must be an off year.” He looks to Abram. “After you’re done eating, you can show us where that berry patch is.”
“Sure,” Abram says nonchalantly between bites.
I hope they didn’t pick the whole lot. Donald doesn’t seem concerned. I suppose even if they don’t find the berries, they will still see the barren patch.
Everyone finishes and we all take off towards the far edge of the field to find the truth.
“How can there be berries if there’s not insects to pollinate?” Larry asks me as we trail behind the others.
“I don’t know, Larry. Do berries need insects?”
Larry matches his step with mine. “Doesn’t all plant life need insects?”
I shake my head. “Never really thought about it before. Never needed to.”
“Because nature has always taken care of itself,” Larry says in all seriousness. “But this place is different. I know you know what I’m talking about.”
I do, but I don’t really care. I just want to break free. Maybe gaining the favor of the farmhands isn’t such a bad idea. Either we’ll catch them slipping or maybe, just maybe, they’ll feel bad for us and turn us loose.
“They’re right over here, by the tree line,” Abram calls and points ahead.
Sure enough, we arrive and there lies the berry patch. Abram stands in front of it, proudly. “Told you. I wasn’t lying.”
Mr. Red bends low and picks one. He holds the black fruit up for observation before popping it into his mouth. His eyes go wide. “I can’t believe it.”
Mr. Gibbs laughs and slaps him on the back. “Stubborn ass. He told you!” He bends down and eats one. Both of them act like they’ve never had a blackberry before.
Mr. Red picks a handful and eats them all at once. The rest of us pull some as well and enjoy the sweet, yet slightly tart fruit. “How many of these do you need to make wine?” Red asks Abram.
Abram grins. “Depends. How much wine do you want?”
“As much as you can make,” Mr. Red says.
Mr. Gibbs cracks a grin and lights another smoke.
We spend the rest of the day picking berries and placing them into some five-gallon buckets that Mr. Red brought back. After stripping the patch clean, we place the buckets in a row at the barn.
“How much is that going to make?” Mr. Red asks, the evening sun making his beard a more vibrant shade of red.
Abram counts the buckets with his pointer finger. After doing a calculation in his head, he wipes the sweat from his brow.
“Well?”
“It’s a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
Abram scratches his chin. “If we water it down—not too much, to conserve the alcohol and taste—I’d say about ten gallons worth of good wine.”
“Wooeee,” Gibbs elates and takes a skip towards the buckets. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Never had homemade wine before.”
Donald walks from behind the barn after washing himself at the well. “You’re in for a treat then,” he says and slicks his hair back.
“How long until it’s ready?” Mr. Red eagerly asks.
Abram moves to speak but Donald cuts him off. “About two weeks.”
Abram shoots a quick glare at him. “I let it go too far last time, and will need to cut four to five days off to make it just right,” Abram corrects. “If you want a high quality product, it would be nice to get some carboys, or glass containers to seal off the air and finish the fermentation process right.”
“We got lids for those, if that would work,” Mr. Gibbs adds.
Abram looks at the buckets. “Not ideal, but it could work. I could fashion up something on the top that holds water to let the carbon dioxide act as a seal to maintain the closed environment inside.”
Donald gives him a puzzled look. “How the hell do you know all this? You’re like a scientist or something.”
“Chemist,” Mr. Red corrects. “And he’s right about the process from what little bit I know about home brewing. Come on, Gibbs, let’s go get the lids.”
“We’ll need some more thin material to protect
it during the first fermentation step if you can get us some.”
“Done,” Gibbs says and turns to join Mr. Red.
Donald looks to us after the farmhands disappear behind the wooden gate at the side of the white house. “That went well. I can’t believe they’re gonna let us make more wine!” He slaps Abram on the shoulder in excitement.
Abram jerks away. “Us? This is my rodeo, cowboy. We do it my way,” Abram tells him and begins to walk away. He turns back. “And don’t ever step in and run your mouth again. Especially when you don’t have the slightest clue of what you’re talking about.”
The rash reaction catches Donald, and myself, off guard. “O…kay,” Donald exaggerates, confused at the outburst. Abram storms off into the barn. “What’s his problem?” Don asks.
“I don’t know. Guess he wants all the credit. Probably wants to impress the farmhands is all. I wouldn’t take it personal.”
Donald glares into Abram’s back before he goes inside the barn. “Yeah, well, if he talks to me like that again, I’m stomping his ass. You can bet on that.”
“I don’t doubt that.” I reply, staring at the white house.
“What’s the matter with you today? You’ve been all down in the dumps for some reason.”
“I thought Mr. Whyte would invite me back today. Sounds stupid, right?”
Donald laughs. “You’re already in love after the first date? Give him some time. He’ll call you back.”
I smirk. “Real funny. Go screw yourself.”
He slaps me on the back, hard. “Cheer up, buttercup. Things are a changin’ around here, and it’s finally looking up for us. He’ll call you back, I guarantee it.” He winks at me before walking away.
Ten days have passed since Mr. Whyte invited me into his home, and there hasn’t been one of those days where it hasn’t crossed my mind. I want to go back. Need to go back. I can’t put my finger on what it is that drives my yearning to return, but something inside me won’t let it go.