Poe - [Anthology]

by Edited By Ellen Datlow

  Silence.

  “Bob Flud’s my name,” he recited, back up. “You know I was just talking to your neighbors down the road, the Sufflows, nice folks, and they were saying what a fine family you had and how much they thought your lives could be improved, ah, with the gift of learning.” Jeepers it’s tough when you can’t make eye contact. “Now I just happen to represent the world-renowned Canning Encyclopedia Company, and for a very modest monthly payment you can own a full set of encyclopedias, from A to Z. If you order today you will receive, free of charge, the Official Canning Atlas of the World, see the entire globe from the comfort of your favorite easy chair, and if you—”

  “I said get off my land.”

  “Think of the opportunities for your children to expand their—”

  “Ain’t no children here.”

  “But just think of the opportunities for you and your wife to—”

  The farmer took a step forward. “Ten seconds.”

  Flud was on his way before the countdown began. “Thank you for your time, sir, and best of luck to you on this most glorious summer day.”

  Flud glanced back as he reached the DeSoto. The farmer stood rooted, facing the door to the locked granary, the late afternoon sun glinting off his ruby red visor, facing the door as if the salesman were still there. A moment passed, and then the farmer turned and walked with a stiff gait in the direction of the barn.

  Climbing into the car, Flud unloaded his stuff on the passenger seat, put the key into the ignition, and hesitated. He dug through the pile. His order book appeared to be missing. Must have forgotten it when the friendly farmer made me jump, he thought.

  Flud left the car again and made for the granary.

  When he spotted the order book, he knelt down, brushed the dirt off it, and rose...

  “You heard it too, didn’t you?”

  Flud found himself facing the shielded farmer again.

  “Heard it...”

  “You came back. You heard it. You heard it, too.”

  Flud’s instincts kicked in, seeing a deceased sale unexpectedly sit up on the slab.

  “Sure, sure, pal, I heard it.”

  “Wasn’t cow or cat or sheep or pig or chicken.”

  “No...”

  “You heard it. Stay for supper. Tell me what you heard. Chicken supper.”

  Flud looked at the red glass, unable to see the eyes behind.

  “You heard me, didn’t you?” the farmer asked.

  A sale, possibly. Another odd duck. Cash in advance.

  “I’d be happy to join you for supper, Mr. Platzanweiser.”

  * * * *

  The farmer collared the hen and hauled her over to the stained stump in the grove. He positioned her neck on the stump, her mouth opening and closing, the bird strangely rigid in his grip. He brought the ax up high and then down hard. The head went flying, the scene painted in red. The body, blood spurting from its neck stump, landed on its feet and dashed madly through the grove, disappearing into a thicket of wasted weeds. The farmer corralled another candidate, the ax a blur, pinning her down before she could flee, scaly yellow feet going through the motions of escape anyway.

  The farmer plucked her, white feathers riding the air currents like snow, then dressed her and took her out to dinner. Inside the house, a pot was boiling on a wood-fired stove, and this is where the hen was laid to rest.

  The farmer and the traveling salesman rested on the porch while supper cooked, the farmer softly playing a harmonica.

  A strange melody, haunting, ripe with a pure and unbecoming splendor, as naked in emotion as the farmer was occluded in conversation.

  He finally stopped playing, the last note trailing off into the early evening haze.

  “You sure know how to handle that thing,” said Flud. “Never heard anything like it.”

  The farmer tucked the mouth organ into the vest pocket of his overalls and said, “It’s the only music I can take anymore. The rest—squeezebox, fiddle, washboard—like knives in my head, knives.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Flud.

  “You’re probably wonderin’ about my glasses. Took it from a welder’s mask. Can’t stand the light, any kind of light. I’m sensitive to everything these days.”

  “You should see a doctor maybe. Long trip into town, though. You know, there’s a lot of information contained in a single volume of an encyclopedia. You might pick up something that could help you with your condition.”

  This was met with silence, which extended into chicken, potatoes, carrots, all cooked into profound blandness.

  Flud was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the silence. He was afraid if he talked at his usual clip, or pushed his pitch with too much vigor, the farmer’s sensitivity would make any sale impossible. Could he close this sale without speaking? Maybe if he just shoved the order book at him, he would sign. Supper would be over soon, so he had to act quickly. Get the conversation going again, let him do the talking, keep leading him down the path to Canning Encyclopedia Heaven.

  “So,” said Flud, picking at his meal, the image of the headless hen escaping into the woods like the late edition in his mind, “have you farmed here long then?”

  “Platzanweisers have plowed and planted our land for generations. I was born on our land, and I will die on our land, as it should be. I haven’t set foot outside our land in twenty years. The land sustains; the land is life.”

  Have you looked around this joint lately? Flud thought, while nodding sympathetically.

  The farmer abruptly left the table, the kitchen itself, out of sight, boots on steps.

  Flud pushed back his chair, taking the opportunity to snoop around. There was a heaviness in the house, as if the dim light itself was pressing down on him. Nothing out of the ordinary among the dusty bric-a-brac and simple stick furniture. On a writing desk, a faded family photo in a tarnished frame. The farmer and a younger female: wife, daughter, or sister. No betrayal of their relationship to the camera. A stoic pose in front of the farm house, faces grim, sky leaden, heavy. But in the background, the garden flourished, flowers in bloom, beautiful even in black and white.

  When Flud heard the thud, thud, thud on the steps, he retreated back into the kitchen, although he didn’t sit down. His mind was working, trying to get an angle, but when the farmer reappeared, the problem solved itself.

  “Encyclopedia,” said Platzanweiser. “You have them with you?”

  Sale!

  “Sure do. Always carry samples with me.”

  “Do you have... S?”

  “Why yes, I think I do. Just wait here. Don’t go anywhere.” He laughed self-consciously at his joke, and then hurried out to the car.

  When he returned, the farmer was seated on a wooden rocker in the living room.

  “Every volume features a genuine gold-tooled binding, handsome Italian leather cover, matching marbled end papers—”

  “Read to me,” said the farmer.

  Flud fumbled with the book. “Uh, read to you?”

  “You have S?”

  “Yes.”

  “Read to me about... Sin.”

  The customer is always right, thought Flud, fanning the pages. Suddenly, reflexively, he clapped the book shut and eyed his watch. “I’m sorry, I have to leave,” said Flud. “I’m late for an appointment in town. Here’s a brochure. Feel free to give me a call if you decide you would like to purchase a set of encyclopedias, all the letters of the alphabet, for your very own. Thank you for your time and good night.”

  Flud hustled outside, his breathing shallow. The atmosphere in the house had produced a feeling of panic, anxiety, apart from the farmer’s last request.

  No sale was worth this, thought Flud, hurrying over to his car, the sun beginning to melt into the corn fields on the horizon, shadows more bold now, arms of darkness reaching across the yard. He climbed in, again dumped his materials on the passenger seat and gave the key a twist.

  The engine tried to turn over, but didn’t fire
up.

  Again, weaker.

  Once more, a whisper.

  Flud removed the key, not wanting to flood the car.

  He waited a minute, two minutes, and gave it another go.

  The spark had gone.

  Flud slugged the dashboard and got out of the car, lifting the hood. He peered at the inner workings of the DeSoto, leaning close, strange, seeing a pale green mold-like substance throughout the engine area.

  How could this be? he wondered. How could this be? He was afraid to touch it. He got a stick and tried to scrape it off, but there was so much. Flud did his best and then went around and tried starting the car again.

  Dead.

  Flud pulled out the key and looked toward the old house.

  * * * *

  “She won’t start,” Flud told the farmer, who already had the back door open.

  “Probably got damp. Happened to my tractor a while back.”

  “Could I use your phone? I’ll call into town.”

  “Don’t have a phone. Never saw a need for one.”

  “Can you drive me into town then?”

  “In what?”

  “You don’t have a car?”

  “Broke down years ago.”

  Flud glanced out at the accelerating darkness. Twilight seemed to give in too easily to the fullness of the dark hours. The wind picked up, carrying an unreasonable chill.

  “I’ll walk to one of the neighbors.”

  “This time of night, in these parts, walk up to a house unannounced and you’re just as likely to get greeted by a shotgun blast as a...”

  The farmer broke off, cocking his head slightly. He suddenly grimaced, bending over, moaning pitifully, clamping his hands to his ears, retreating, stumbling back into the kitchen.

  Flud followed him in, the screen door banging shut behind him.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  The farmer knelt on the floor, head bowed. “Just shut the door, boy,” he said with a strained voice.

  Flud closed the inside door, and the sound of the latch bringing the farmer back to his feet. His eyes were still hidden; the welding goggles gave up nothing.

  The farmer didn’t speak, just shuffled into the living room, wearily lowering himself into his rocker. Flud sat down on a hard chair that was positioned against the oil stove.

  Breathing steadied now, the farmer said, as if a prayer, “The land sustains; the land is life.”

  Flud felt shadows fall.

  “She was born on our land; she was meant to die on our land, as I am, as it should be.”

  “What do you mean? Who are you talking about? The woman in the picture?”

  “Adeline.”

  “The woman in the picture. Your wife? Your sister? Your daughter?”

  The red visor turned his way, and dipped slightly. “Yes. Adeline.”

  Shadows crawled.

  “What happened?”

  “An accident. She was in the granary, the feed pouring through the chute in the ceiling, everyday farm work. Something got stopped up. She climbed into the bin to clear it...” His hand went to his visor and he lifted it. The eyes were still red. Bloodshot, swollen.

  “It’s like drowning. The grain is no different than water.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Flud. “When did this happen?”

  “Never saw a need for one.”

  “What?”

  “Broke down years ago.”

  Flud couldn’t make sense of him.

  Visor back in place. “You heard it, didn’t you?”

  “I... I’m not sure.”

  “You heard her cries, from the granary. Her cries. You heard them, too.”

  Flud heard the wind, the wind and the old house, the protestations of straining wood, inside and out, and nothing more.

  * * * *

  “You can sleep in the upstairs bedroom,” said the farmer. “Hasn’t been used in years. It was my room when I was a boy.”

  Flud thanked him for his hospitality, the emotion in the pit of his stomach far removed from his surface civility.

  He’s a batty old-timer who hears voices, Flud told himself, turning back the covers. Nothing of the boy remained here. A crack ran from the window-side wall, along the faded flowered wallpaper, across the ceiling, ending at the door frame.

  Just grab what sleep you can and maybe hitch a ride back into town with the mailman, or walk to the next farm and make a call, bribe them if necessary.

  Flud sat on the edge of the bed, the stiff stained curtains sleepwalking in the wind, offering glimpses of the impenetrable night, like a black wall beyond. He stretched out on the musty chenille bed spread, grateful to be locked away, thankful for a silence that wasn’t overflowing with distress.

  Then: a sound from within the walls, from downstairs, from somewhere. A harmonica. Playing a heavyhearted refrain.

  From this distance, it was soothing.

  Flud felt his body relax, his mind settle into an easy space.

  Flud slept.

  * * * *

  The wind rose sharply, the house’s laments transforming to shouting as someone burst into Flud’s bedroom. The farmer caught Flud by the shoulders, jostled him, shook him, rousted him.

  “Do you hear it? Do you hear it? Adeline! She was buried alive! Can’t you hear her cries, her hands clawing at the grain, the grain pouring down her throat? Can’t you hear it?”

  Flud groggily pushed back the farmer, scrambling out of bed.

  “You crazy old man, there’s nothing to hear, nothing, nothing!”

  “You said you heard it, you heard it too!”

  “I never heard anything, I just wanted a sale. You think your sister or wife or whatever your inbred family calls it is buried alive in the granary and is calling out to you? Fine, then I’m going to give you the gift of learning, now!”

  Flud stormed out the door, taking the stairs in three bounds. The farmer was after him, tugging at him, begging him to stop. Flud broke free, charging out the screen door and into the farmyard. He didn’t look back.

  Halfway to the granary, something came out of the grove, at a dead run.

  Something white.

  Lacking something, what?

  The no-headed chicken frantically sprinted through the yard, blood no longer spraying from its neck stump. Yet it persevered. A real Horatio Alger story. It seemed to be zeroing in on Flud, using some kind of unnatural radar, then abruptly veered off and dashed between the hog house and the corn crib, disappearing again into darkness.

  Even though the granary was padlocked, the door was rotted and the wood broke apart easily. Flud heaved open the door along its creaking rollers.

  A trickle of light tiptoed in. Flud joined it.

  Mice fled across the warped wooden floor.

  The interior of the granary had a large empty area in the middle, flanked on the left by a huge feed bin and on the right by two smaller bins.

  Not surprisingly, it was quiet as church in the granary. No voices, no cries for help, no one buried alive. This made Flud feel better, as if he had swung the night back around to his own version of reality. Getting out of that suffocating house had helped, too.

  Flud stood up straight, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and looked around the granary. The equipment hadn’t been in operation for a long while, taken over by the dust of disuse. It smelled like grain, the rancid variety.

  Going over to the big bin, the mountain of grain rising halfway to the ceiling, Flud reached in and scooped up a palmful of grain, and let it run through his fingers. It was a pleasing feeling, so he did it again, reaching deeper into the pile. Once more, and that was when his hand touched something solid.

  Flud frowned. What was it? A bin divider? A piece of equipment that accidentally fell into the heap?

  The object was smooth, cool.

  Flud moved his fingers across its surface, until they slipped into a pair of holes. How in the world did a bowling ball get in there? he thought.

  Flud pulled.r />
  Heavy with grain, the object came out slowly, slowly.

  Flud kept pulling.