The Rest of the Chapter

“Koden!  Wake up you sleepyhead!”  The sound my uncle’s voice brought me out of my slumber.  “Koden, time to get up, boy.  We have a long day’s work ahead of us!” 

I groaned and shook my head free of the strange dream.  Actually, it wasn’t that strange anymore, I had dreamed it many times before.  The place I dreamed of was real, well; at least I hoped it was real.  And the man in the dream was my father.  He was gone now. 

I stood up and walked, more of stumbled, towards the bowl of water my mother had set on the table for me.  As usual, she was already up with the day’s chores: feeding the chickens, gathering the eggs, tending to the garden, and preparing a hearty meal for seven hungry men. 

As I splashed water in my face and pulled my overalls over my long johns, I listened to my Uncle lay out the day’s plans.                                                                              

“Just a few more days ‘till harvest!”  He was saying, while twirling his hat on his finger, which he often did.  I found myself smiling.  Harvest time, next to Christmas, was my favorite time of year.  Sure it was hard work, but you really didn’t realize it because you were having so much fun.  A bunch of fellow farmers would come over, including some of my pals, and we’d work all day, cutting and hauling the wheat in to be threshed.  There was tons of laughing and joking between us boys and harmless pranks played on each other throughout the day.  Then there were loads upon loads of delicious food to plow through at meal times.  My ma made sure of that.  But the best part about the whole event was the big bonfire we would have on the last day of harvest.  There would be talking, laughing, singing, and dancing.  Along with plenty of delicious food prepared with the year’s earnings.                                                                                                             

I yawned and combed my fingers through my mop of brown hair.  “How’s the harvest look this year, Uncle John?”  I asked. 

He frowned and stopped twirling his hat long enough scratch is head.  “Well, we’ve definitely had better years.  But then again, we’ve also had worse years.  I’d say we made out alright.  And there hasn’t been any sign of rain lately, but you never know.”  He smiled. “Yes, I’d say we’ll make out alright indeed.”                                                                               

I signaled to my Uncle that I was ready and we headed out to the barn to milk the cows. 

On our way, we passed my sister, Ann, who was helping ma tend to the chickens.                                             

She waved “Good morning, Koden.”                                                                                                                                            

I smiled, “Morning!”

Walking into the barn, I breathed in deeply the smell of hay and animals.  That smell always comforted me like no other smell could.  I made my way over to the first cow and patted her on the back.  “Hi, Darling.”  Which was the name Ann had insisted on calling her.  She mooed in response.  I grabbed a stool, positioned it next to Darling, seated myself on it, and began to milk.  The squirts of liquid into the bucket made a rhythmic sound and I felt myself relax.  Letting my mind wander, I became so engrossed in my thoughts that it near sent me through the roof when one of our farmhands crept up behind me and poked me in the ribs.  He immediately began laughing at my slight jump.  After I recovered I stood up and tried to take his hat but he ducked before I could.  I shook my head.                                                                                                                                              

“Your hopeless, Bill!  You almost caused me to scare the cow and upset the milk!”                     

“Well,” he chortled, “at least your reflexes are working excellently.”                                                            

“They didn’t need to be tested.”  I said, then smiled.  Bill, my best friend and the brother I never had.  He had eighteen years to my seventeen.  My truest friend and best companion, I didn’t know what I’d do without him.                                                                                                                           

He grinned and positioned himself milking the cow next to me.                                                        

Squirt, squirt.  “You hyped up about harvest, Ko?”                                                                                   

Squirt, squirt.  “You bet!”

Squirt, squirt.  “Who’d you think’s going to be here?”                                                                                                                                       

“Probably the usual. Except Jo Davis he’ll be out of town.” 

Jo Davis was, well, a peculiar man.  He rarely interacted with anyone and was always making unexpected trips out of town.  Whenever he went to a gathering you could find him sitting in a corner, smoking his pipe and watching.  I’ve often times looked up and found him staring at me, studying me- sizing me up for something- though what, I did not know.  Sometimes, when I went to town, I could feel him following me.  I tried to ignore it; I assumed it was just part of my imagination.  But my whole life-although, it seemed, increasingly more since my father’s death- he’s been there, a silent figure watching me grow, quietly looking out for me. What for? I was again awakened from my daydreaming by Bill.                    

He shook his head. “What is with you today, Ko?”                                                                                           

Oh, nothing.”  I yawned and shook my head, just tired I guess.                                                               

We kept up our usual chatter until the milking was finished.  And then we returned to the house with full buckets and empty stomachs.  As soon as we opened the door, the aroma of frying bacon and eggs greeted us.                                                                                                                                          

My mother looked up at us and smiled her warm smile.  “Breakfast is almost ready, boys.  Now, you go and wash up.” 

A few minutes later we were all seated around are wooden table.  I took a good look around me.  My Uncle John was seated at one head of the table and our first farmhand, Jeffrey (a very careful and cautious man,) at the other.  Squeezed in the middle sat Phillip (a new but seemingly nice farmhand), Marvin (a hot-tempered but hardworking middle-aged man), Bill, me, and Jordon (a young kid who I’m sure meant well but had a way of causing a lot of things to go wrong.)  I let my gaze wonder over our nice farmhouse.  Our home was simple, but beautiful.  It was good sized, and well built.  Strong and sturdy, the house had stood for generations and generations of our family, the Richards.  As my mother piled our plates full of eggs and bacon and our mugs with hot coffee, I thought about the way things were now.  Ever since Pa’s death, everything in our farm seemed to stop.  We had bad weather and the crops were horrid.  Half of our chickens were killed by coyote’s, which diminished both our meat and egg supply.  Our best milking cow died in child birth along with her calf.  And our wood shed caught on fire, which, thankfully, we were able to put it out.  Everything around the farm seemed lifeless, including me and my mother and sister.  Winter came and with it came the ice which hardened us and froze our tears.  Now, although we were still struggling, Things were eventually getting better.  Our family seemed to be getting back on track, but I knew things.  I knew about my sister crying in the night when she though no one could hear her, I saw my dear Mother taking one of my Father’s old work shirts with her to bed.  And sometimes, during the dark hours of the night, I struggled with my pain to the point of insomnia.  Sometimes it felt as if my emotions were tangled up inside of me to the point of bursting.  I felt like I needed to let it out, but I couldn’t cry.  I never cried, I just couldn’t.  Well, the only time I had ever cried was in my “Orlean Island” dream.  That was the only time my tears had ever fallen.  Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep at night, I would lay awake and think about that dream.  Ever since I was little, my Father had told me stories about the Orlean Island.  A place in between our world, and another.  A place where there was no night or day, a place where no man from our world, has set foot.  I used to imagine traveling there, my father by my side, guiding the pathway.  We would take his special map and follow it wherever it went.  We would leave everything in search of that one mystical land; traveling day and night, never stopping.  Together, we would discover its secrets. 

I lifted my fork to my mouth; against the absurdity of it all, I still believed my dream would become reality.

After all, no one had actually found my father.