Pluralized
April 8th, 2014, 12:46 AM
Outside his window, Markel could hear the drone of the farmer’s tractor well into the night but even with the full moon couldn’t see what the old man was up to. Markel buried his head in the pillow, twisted and writhed around for a time, and checked the clock’s white face at least a dozen times. Around two-thirty, the moon reached an oblique angle and glinted off the clock’s glass, driving all sleep from his mind. He sat up and pulled his boots on. The floorboards in the old house creaked like the sides of an old ship, lost at sea. Across the room the moon painted a rectangle, chopped up by the blinds. It disappeared as he flipped on the light switch.
Pushing arm through jacket sleeve, he felt a light tickle then a sharp pinch. He withdrew, staring at the back of his hand. He dropped the jacket to the floor. The spider ran out of the sleeve and into the hallway so quickly he wasn’t sure it was really there. The bite already started throbbing and he could see the two punctures from its fangs. He went after it, but could find no sign of it. He shook the jacket and, convinced it was free of bugs, threw it on.
When Markel cracked open the front door, the tractor’s muted hum became a well-defined, loping roar, chuffing like a locomotive. He still couldn’t see the old man beyond the row of juvenile alders separating their farms. The sound of the engine faded as the tractor made a turn and headed south. Markel thought he heard the scrape of a plow attachment digging up the hard Springtime clay. A light wind brought him the sweet scent of grass-fed manure, which he knew well. He was reminded of his years driving endless laps around their small farm, his father looking on in constant disapproval. He’d make the turn, come all the way back down to where father stood, and listen intently as father spoke up over the noise of the diesel machine. “Y’need to run them lines straighter, boy,” he’d say, then step back to where he’d been standing, arms folded. More than a few times, Markel took off on the tractor with his teeth clenched and tears streaming out the corners of his eyes.
The bite on his hand throbbed.
His footsteps crunched along the gravel driveway as he finally came to a gap in the line of trees, revealing the modest farm of Donald Gumlap. Moonlight reflected off the windshield of Gumlap’s old steam machine as he headed back toward the house, running what looked like the last pass right along the edge of the road. Markel walked briskly toward the far side of the road and jumped down beside a wide culvert, out of sight.
Pain tore through his spider hand as he steadied himself jumping down. He looked at it in the moonlight but all he could see was a dark patch.
The tractor approached, breathing its noise out into the crisp night air. The old man passed by on the rumbling machine, looking straight ahead as he and his apparatus shook the earth. The plow dragged on behind him, creating seven black lines in the gray dirt. Markel breathed through his mouth. The air was still and the moon about to duck out of sight. Gumlap pulled his tractor over to the barn and jumped down. It idled with a strange surging noise that bothered Markel. The sound became rhythmic, like a dirge leading him down the corridor of some darkened carnaval side-street, then came the pop of fireworks, bright and brilliant, flashes of white, and all went black.
The smell of earth in his nostrils, he popped awake. Sunlight stabbed him in the eyes and panic lit up in his mind before awareness settled in and he realized where he was. Somehow, impossibly, he was sprawled out across the furrows of Gumlap’s field. Instinctively pushing himself off the ground, he realized his hand was tight and swollen. The lines in the field were arrow-straight, converging on the horizon like the strings of a giant harp. Markel tried to stand, but stumbled and knelt there, looking at his swollen hand. Around the bite was red and purple, bruised deep beneath the skin. Red streaks were forming up the pale flesh of his forearm like the furrowed earth, but virulent. Wrong. He looked down at the rows of upturned mud, and thought he saw strands of hair sticking out. When he tugged at one, it wouldn't pull loose. He tried digging down with the good hand, but found only more and more of the hair; must've been a foot long. Hundreds of hairs, in clumps, sticking out of the dirt. In every row, as far as he could see. It seemed to be growing, but that was ridiculous, he reasoned.
A weird quiver went through his gut and he worried over his spider bite. The tractor droned behind him, but when he turned toward the farmhouse, Gumlap’s tractor was parked by the barn and the plow had been disconnected. Between the thick rubber wedges of the tire tread, caked mud an inch thick appeared to be dry as a bone. Markel walked up to the machine, studying the tires. He placed a hand on the muffler. Cold as the hard earth.
Ideas or suggestions on where to go with this are much appreciated.
Pushing arm through jacket sleeve, he felt a light tickle then a sharp pinch. He withdrew, staring at the back of his hand. He dropped the jacket to the floor. The spider ran out of the sleeve and into the hallway so quickly he wasn’t sure it was really there. The bite already started throbbing and he could see the two punctures from its fangs. He went after it, but could find no sign of it. He shook the jacket and, convinced it was free of bugs, threw it on.
When Markel cracked open the front door, the tractor’s muted hum became a well-defined, loping roar, chuffing like a locomotive. He still couldn’t see the old man beyond the row of juvenile alders separating their farms. The sound of the engine faded as the tractor made a turn and headed south. Markel thought he heard the scrape of a plow attachment digging up the hard Springtime clay. A light wind brought him the sweet scent of grass-fed manure, which he knew well. He was reminded of his years driving endless laps around their small farm, his father looking on in constant disapproval. He’d make the turn, come all the way back down to where father stood, and listen intently as father spoke up over the noise of the diesel machine. “Y’need to run them lines straighter, boy,” he’d say, then step back to where he’d been standing, arms folded. More than a few times, Markel took off on the tractor with his teeth clenched and tears streaming out the corners of his eyes.
The bite on his hand throbbed.
His footsteps crunched along the gravel driveway as he finally came to a gap in the line of trees, revealing the modest farm of Donald Gumlap. Moonlight reflected off the windshield of Gumlap’s old steam machine as he headed back toward the house, running what looked like the last pass right along the edge of the road. Markel walked briskly toward the far side of the road and jumped down beside a wide culvert, out of sight.
Pain tore through his spider hand as he steadied himself jumping down. He looked at it in the moonlight but all he could see was a dark patch.
The tractor approached, breathing its noise out into the crisp night air. The old man passed by on the rumbling machine, looking straight ahead as he and his apparatus shook the earth. The plow dragged on behind him, creating seven black lines in the gray dirt. Markel breathed through his mouth. The air was still and the moon about to duck out of sight. Gumlap pulled his tractor over to the barn and jumped down. It idled with a strange surging noise that bothered Markel. The sound became rhythmic, like a dirge leading him down the corridor of some darkened carnaval side-street, then came the pop of fireworks, bright and brilliant, flashes of white, and all went black.
The smell of earth in his nostrils, he popped awake. Sunlight stabbed him in the eyes and panic lit up in his mind before awareness settled in and he realized where he was. Somehow, impossibly, he was sprawled out across the furrows of Gumlap’s field. Instinctively pushing himself off the ground, he realized his hand was tight and swollen. The lines in the field were arrow-straight, converging on the horizon like the strings of a giant harp. Markel tried to stand, but stumbled and knelt there, looking at his swollen hand. Around the bite was red and purple, bruised deep beneath the skin. Red streaks were forming up the pale flesh of his forearm like the furrowed earth, but virulent. Wrong. He looked down at the rows of upturned mud, and thought he saw strands of hair sticking out. When he tugged at one, it wouldn't pull loose. He tried digging down with the good hand, but found only more and more of the hair; must've been a foot long. Hundreds of hairs, in clumps, sticking out of the dirt. In every row, as far as he could see. It seemed to be growing, but that was ridiculous, he reasoned.
A weird quiver went through his gut and he worried over his spider bite. The tractor droned behind him, but when he turned toward the farmhouse, Gumlap’s tractor was parked by the barn and the plow had been disconnected. Between the thick rubber wedges of the tire tread, caked mud an inch thick appeared to be dry as a bone. Markel walked up to the machine, studying the tires. He placed a hand on the muffler. Cold as the hard earth.
Ideas or suggestions on where to go with this are much appreciated.