air_fletcher

The tall hansom young man rises to stretch his lean back as he finally reaches the end of another meticulously hoed row of vegetables.  He watches as a car full of his classmates roar down the dusty lane.  He knows they’re headed to the swimming hole.  To play.  To while away the day.  They’ve packed a lunch and might even share a bottle of pop.  They might even flirt with a girl, but that is extremely unlikely in the Pennsylvania Dutch farmland community.   He watches them pass, but his face gives no hint of his anguish, nor does it reveal that something has snapped and he is forever changed.  He turns, and starts the next row.  

The sun slowly crosses the sky, inch by inch.  Finally it reaches the sycamore grove and The young man gets his first break from the heat, and relief from the headache of toiling in the hot dry dust stirred up by his hoe.  This job, as compared to his many others, is less strenuous, but takes the greatest toll on his young back.  His father, his brother and he had worked all day without a drop of water.  Each had a roll in his pocket, and would take a crumb from time to time.  The sun sets.  There is neither moon nor starlight sufficient to work any further.  He looks to his father and brother, and, in unspoken concurrence, they each shoulder their tools and walk to the house.  Not a word has been spoken all day.  Occasionally his father would summon his attention with a whistle, and then point to where he should turn his attention.  No break was taken. 

The house is in stark contrast to the field.  The kitchen is brightly lit and bustles with the constant chatter and girlish giggling of his seven sisters.  There is some bread, potatoes and greens left on the table, but the girls have finished off the milk.  The young man  stares briefly at the trace of butterfat left in the pitcher from the fresh raw milk.  A blessing is repeated as it has been before each meal of his sixteen years.  The same blessing, mumbled in unison thousands of times, but he does not know the words.  He then takes a bite of the stale bread.  He rises and pours water for his father and brother.   They eat in silence.  The women continue to chatter.  They had baked a cake that day, and, as a well deserved reward for their efforts, had eaten it.  The young man  glances briefly at empty plate, the returns to eating his chard.  

To anyone unaccustomed observing this scene, it would seem totally bizarre.  Three gaunt, but strong silent men sit at the same table with eight plump incessantly chattering women.  The same table, but miles apart.  By any standard other than Pennsylvania Dutch, the women would be diagnosed as obese.  The men were, by any standard, too lean.  They were tall and straight and strong, but did not have enough fat on their bodies to sustain them should they become ill.  They wore suspenders not just because it was the fashion, but because they lacked the fat to hold their pants up.

The young man  was comforted by void that separated them.  His seven older sisters were his greatest fear.  Their remarks at his gaunt body and his scruffish appearance crushed his soul.  Their tone and manner were light and gay.  No menace was in their voice. The were neither evil or cruel at heart.  It was if they were teasing the family dog which they loved dearly.  Sugar and spice and everything nice.   He took this abuse with neither tear nor tantrum.  No attempt at retort crossed his mind, much less his lips.  After all, he was snips and snails and puppy dog tails.  The young man  s mind wandered.  He dreamed that someday he might go to that swimming hole.  He might have a taste of soda pop.  He excused himself, rose from the table and headed for the barn to finally rest his weary body.   He slept in the barn because it seemed improper to allow a young male in the same house as seven sleeping young ladies.   However he did have to occasionally have to share the barn with a passing vagrant who promised to work for a meal.   The young man  always had to redo the sloppy job the spoiled.   

On cold nights The young man  often found himself uncomfortably close to some stinking vagrant.  One night he awoke awash in some man’s urine.   He was angry as he had never been before.  He had been well taught that no problems were solved in anger.  On the farm he had also learned that every problem had a solution.   He went to the tool shed and clipped off a piece of bailing wire.  He wrapped the wire securely around the man’s penis and twisted it tight.  He meant no malice, it seemed a simple solution to the problem at hand.  It just had not occurred to him that the man would eventually lose his appendage.

They were not poor.  The farm was run with the greatest efficiency and was very productive.  They had some of the finest milk cows and healthy productive chickens.   They had rich perfectly tended fields.   The land, which they owned without mortgage, was incredibly valuable.  Selling the land, or any piece thereof, was unthinkable.  The family had been on that land since William Penn deeded it them. 

They did have one financial problem that would now be referred to as an impending cash/labor flow problem.  Too many daughters, too few sons.   If the young ladies weren’t   plump and pleasing to the eye, If they showed wear from the sun and the elements, they might not find a husband, or they might be lured to the city and go astray.   So the eggs and cream, the sugar and spice and everything nice went to the girls. 

Years ago he found a pop bottle that his sisters had discarded, and pretended he was drinking from it.  He finished each imagined gulp with a satisfied “mmmm”.   It was as truly as good as he could ever imagine.   

On his eighteenth birthday he rose in an uncommonly good mood.  He ate his breakfast, grabbed his hat and walked to the door.  He looked back and surveyed the room and the familiar faces.   Without a word he stepped out the door, never to return.

I caught the first scent of her two days ago.  She was not yet ready then, but now she is fresh.  I have also sensed a rival.  He is younger than I, and I assume less experienced.   Although we have not seen each other, I know he is as aware of me as I am of him.  I rend trees from the ground and leave my scent hoping to threaten him.  My displays are more awesome than his, but he persists.  I stand all night on top of the cliff, hoping to intimidate him if he gazes at the sky.  I hold the pose for hours.  Neither of us has slept for days.  Neither can think of anything but the other.  We amble cautiously amongst spring flowered fields and sun dappled forests.  But each of us is only aware of the other. 

 Today is the day.  She is ready.  But I can’t think of her now for first I must meet my rival.  Hopefully I can catch him off guard.  My experience should make me more stealthy and cunning, as well as a more skilled fighter.  But with experience come injuries that never have the opportunity to completely heal.  I have vulnerabilities that I must not show.   His youth will make more apt to bolt and run, while I would like to meet him head-on.  A chase would take a bigger toll on me than on him. 

 I see him, across the clearing.  He must have seen me first, for his gaze is already fixed on me.  He is as young and beautiful as I am ragged and worn.  He has never fought.  He bares no scars.  A fog rises up the hill from the forest.  The sun suddenly breaks and the dew glistens on the mountain bladderpod, the kinnikinnick, and the lavender pasque flower.  A small tunnel spider web becomes a delicate garment for a forest fairy.   The sun lights up the mist around the buck like a garland.  He is magnificent.  But truth and beauty have no relationship here.  A fight will be waged, and it will be as ugly as my scared body. 

 He has the advantage of first sight with his head higher than mine.  The advantage is psychological, but only I know that.  I snort and shake my antlers. I take two steps toward him so that he can see my full size and that I will look more intimidating. I outweigh him by four hundred pounds.  It works, he glances away as if looking for an escape route, but only briefly; then his eyes come back to mine.  The beast inside him is born.  He knows he can no longer run.  He must meet his adversary.  He is now a bull, and there is no choice but to fight. 

 Every breath is measured.  The world seems to melt away.  Only we exist, there is only he and I.  He nervously takes a timid half-step, and then starts his dash toward me.  I had hoped to start the charge, for it takes me longer to get to full speed, especially going uphill.  It seems like I’ve only taken three strides when we collide.  My footing isn’t perfect, and I take a jolt.  I have to step back to get better footing, a sign of weakness, but then I charge and butt, charge and butt and we lock antlers.  We are temple to temple.  Every muscle is tense.  I wrench my head to the least comfortable position, assuming it hurts him also.  But my mind is on my feet.  My stance is all important.  I can not falter or stumble.  The dance is painfully slow. A slight twist here, a step, and then we are nearly motionless.  He has the advantage of being slightly up hill, so I must get him turned around.  First, however, I must wear him down.  As long as we are locked together, I have the strength advantage.  When we break, he will have the speed advantage.  .  We stand like this for twenty or thirty minutes.

 The field is raked with the fiery sunrise.  Our hot moist breath looks like the fire of a dragon.  Steam pours off our necks and shoulders as if we were smoldering.  Then we break, scramble for position and then are locked again.  The intense clashes come only as brief interludes to our locked-horn embraces.  The fight wears on.  We lock, strain, and then break.  I am aware of thick slippery blood on my face.  I don’t know if it is his or mine.  It drips on the ground. 

 The doe has wandered into the clearing, almost oblivious to our combat.  The brutal fight for her rages on. She is the instigator and we are the victims.   One will win, one will lose, she cares not who.  She has no favorite.  But her nearness affects the combatants.  Our strength and fierceness double. 

 We break, we lock.  We beak and lock again.  By this time we both know that I will in all likelihood, prevail.  But the fight is never certain.  I could slip.  He could out-maneuver me.  From time to time the ground will slide under our feet, and we quickly reposition.  Our breathing is deep and rasping.  

 I make my move.  I make three evenly spaced lunges, which he counters.  On the third lunge, I back off and he stumbles forward.  Before he realizes what has happened, I am on high ground.  The battle is all but over.  I lunge and butt, lunge, and lunge again.  Then I hear a sickening sound.  A limb of my antler has snapped.  Time freezes.  We both know what has happened.  I can not run.  I am a bull.  No such thought enters my tiny brain.  I repeat my lung, and my broken antler severs his shoulder.  I lunge again.  Blood spurts from wound.  We are drenched.  The ground is drenched.  The air is thick with foul smell of blood.  He stumbles.  I lunge.  He falls.  His leg is broken.  I stand over him, watching as he tries and fails to come to his feet.  He never will.  I step away.  I have no desire to deal a final punishing blow.  All my rage has subsided.  He was the better animal.  Next year he would have been better than I ever was; he would have been invincible.   

 Exhausted, I wander over to the doe and take her.   It takes less than a minute.  I am glad to have it over.  I wander wearily into the comforting arms of the forest to lick my wounds.   Driven by some force over which I have no control or understanding, I carry on one more year.  I have no choice.  I feel no joy, no love, and no hate; except for this brief annual rage brought on by the scent of a doe, I have no emotion.  Without a doubt, next year I will lose, and finally I will be free.