by Kevin Lucia
I’d offered her a perfectly logical explanation. We was out of meat, and she didn’t like spaghetti any more than I did. She knew I had good luck with the rod and reel. More than likely, I’d bring home at least ten or twelve bass and pan fish.
But she knew me, Doc. Knew I could plant two rods in the ground, sit back, kick my feet up and browse through a book to my heart’s content. She also knew what I knew, deep down in my heart: I was putting off plowing the field.
She smirked, wiped her hands on her apron once more and says, “Fine, Seamus. Do whatever you want. I’m only yer wife. Hell, when we’re begging for food at the Methodist Church food pantry in the Fall cause the plants didn’t grow right cause you spent all yer time trying to conjure how to grow prize-winning pumpkins, don’t complain. Hell, you’ll have plenty a time to read then, sitting on your ass in an old church pew every month waiting for a handout.”
With that, Betty turned and walked back into the house, muttering under her breath something I couldn’t hear but figured wasn’t complementary. I thought Hell with her anyway. Doc, I love my wife as much as the next man, but she couldn’t ever consider anything from a different perspective. Besides, what did she know about planting? I’m the one been doing it all these years.
Plus, something in my head was whispering The Way of Ah-Tzenul had all the answers I’d need. If I could find some time to sit and read the damn thing, all our planting problems would be solved. I would finally take first place in the Halloween Pumpkin Festival.
Turns out I was right, Doc. The Way did have all the answers I needed. But honest and true? I’d take it all back, sure as God rules in Heaven and the devil dwells below.
***
Luckily I keep all my tackle and poles in my truck, and there’s bait coolers at the Quickmark on the way, so I didn’t have to weather Betty’s disapproving glare while gathering my fishing gear. In no time at all I was rambling down Main Street, turning the corner at the end and heading to Clifton Lake. I parked at the trail-head, gathered my gear—The Way of Ah-Tzenul in my jacket pocket—and tromped down to my usual fishing spot, under an old elm on the deep end, whose branches reached over the water. Bass congregated there.
I cleared a space on a big rock, set and baited my poles, cast one, then jammed the end in the crook between rocks. I cast the other, fixed it up, then settled back against the elm and opened The Way, hoping to find something for better crops.
Honest truth, Doc? Part of me was thinking Betty was probably right. The whole thing was a waste of time. Some other part of me, though—deep inside—knew what I needed was in The Way.
Course, I read maybe a page or two before bass started hitting both my lines. Don’t know how much fishing you do, Doc, but fishing with two poles, you gotta be on your toes. Especially when they’re biting, like they were that morning. I hadn’t gotten much past the second page before I landed five bass and two pan fish, all of them big enough to plop right in a bucket I’d brought with me. Anyway, I felt a mite better. If I brought home a mess of fish for dinner, Betty would be pacified for least a day or so.
Anyhow, the first couple pages didn’t tell nothing more than basic advice about planting. When to start plowing and when to seed. What types of soil grew plants the best. What plants to start indoors, what made good fodder for mulching. Ironically it mentioned using fish guts for starting corn seed, which I’d heard tell of some old timers doing, but hadn’t ever tried myself. I’d need a whole lot of fish guts to cover my field.
About an hour later, after landing ten bass and four pan fish, things started slowing down. It was getting on eleven in the morning, after all. Fishing always slows down around then. So I settled back and dug into The Way. For the most part, it still didn’t say much more than what you’d find in the Farmer’s Almanac. I was getting mighty disappointed until I turned to a new section titled in slightly shaky handwriting, Invoking Al Tzenul’s Harvest.
That sounded interesting, seeing as how the whole journal had been named after this Aztec planting god, but it hadn’t yet mentioned him. So I perked up. From then on it all sounded different. Even the writing sounded older, using the kinds of words Clive Hartely and other pow-wow fellas conjured with. Anyway, the first paragraph said invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul in a “treasured vessel” wasn’t to be taken lightly, cause once Ah-Tzenul has “come among the harvest and blessed it he’s forever hungry because his belly’s empty after bestowing his blessing on the land.”
Or something as such, anyway. I don’t remember it word for word. Anyhow, the first thing needed to invoke the spirit of Ah-Tzenul was nothing special. Plowing, tilling and mulching the land. Which let me down. I started thinking the rest of the journal was as Betty would say. A waste of time, and I was just desperate because I was afraid I’d lost my touch.
Let’s be honest between men, Doc. That’s the real reason for putting off plowing my fields. I was afraid I’d never grow plants again, or—stupid as it sounds—grow prize winning pumpkins again. Men don’t take blows to the ego well. I heard tell of one fella, over in Eagle Bay, who had a nice business guiding tourists to good fishing spots. Been doing it for years, and he always found folks the best spots without fail.
Well, one summer he lost his touch. Couldn’t find any fish at all. Lost all his customers, one right after the other. Wasn’t long, folks hadn’t seen him around town for a few days, and when they finally broke into his place, they found him in the tub, wrists cut and bled out. I’m not saying I’d thought about doing something similar, but I ain’t saying I hadn’t thought about it, either.
Anyway, I was ready to quit until I read this line: Invoking Ah-Tzenul’s Harvest requires a nightly propitiation to Ah-Tzenul by the offering of the planter’s seed.
Offering of the planter’s seed.
You understand what that means, Doc? Guess by the way yer staring at me, you DO. So, according to this book I’d found in a dumpster, for a good harvest I hadda go onto my field at midnight, chant a bunch of mish-mash, grab myself and, well . . . get it up . . .
And offer my seed.
On my damn field, under the moon.
You’d think I would’ve caught on, right then. Maybe this whole Ah-Tzenul’s Harvest wasn’t something to be messing with, right?
Yeah.
You’d think so.
***
I read more of The Way while fishing. Thing is, can’t remember much of what I read. My head’s fuzzy after the part about “offering the planter’s seed.” Guess it threw some gears. Anyhow, best I can remember, what I read afterward said something again about a “treasured vessel” meant to bring forth Ah-Tzenul to bless the harvest, and how Ah-Tzenul is always hungry after.
Wanna know the real strange thing? I sorta remember tending to my rods every now and then, hooking the odd bass or pan fish while I was reading, but it didn’t seem more than two or three. When I finally blinked and looked at my watch, saw it was near two o’clock in the afternoon, you know how many fish I’d caught?
Fact is I couldn’t count. The bucket—ten gallons—was stuffed full of fish, of all kinds. And I’m not saying it was full of fish pushing water to the bucket’s brim. I’m saying there wasn’t any water left at all. Damn thing was stuffed full of fish. Maybe forty, fifty of em. All stuffed in there, tails sticking up and flipping.
Y’know what I think, Doc?
There I was, reading a strange book about invoking some nature god to help with my crops and my pumpkin patch, and while doing so, I managed—without paying attention—to catch near fifty fish. Something knew what I was pondering and it offered me a blessing. Rewarding me, maybe, and promising more things to come.
If only I’d known then what those more things were.
***
When I got home from fishing I lied to Betty, saying I didn’t catch a damn thing. Don’t know what this says about me or her, but she believed me. She accused me of not fishing at all, said I probably sat under a tree and read my fool head off the whole mornin
g.
Was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the whole bucket of fish, but I didn’t, for some reason. I let her drag me into a row about me wasting time reading “them fool books” and how things was falling down around our ears cause I “wouldn’t get off my lazy ass.”
After, I slammed out the door, went to the truck and sneaked the bucket around back to the barn. Knowing Betty doesn’t ever set foot near the garden until harvest, I went out and started laying down the fish. I know lots of other farmers do exactly the same thing, so if she did come out and see me, it would be easy to explain what I was doing, though I’d then have to explain why I’d lied about not catching any fish.
Something I’ll never understand about laying down them fish, Doc. My garden’s fairly big, about hundred feet by sixty or so. Was only planning to lay down fish in the east end, where my pumpkin patch is. Didn’t figure on having enough fish for the whole field, not by a long shot.
Here’s the thing. You know the story about Jesus and the loaves of bread and fishes? About how He blessed them when He was feeding the five thousand or whatever, and two fishes and a loaf of bread fed them all, and didn’t run out?
Same thing happened with this bucket of fish.
When I was finished with the pumpkin patch, I still had over half a bucket full. Halfway done with the garden, still had the same amount. Wasn’t until I’d covered the entire garden with fish did I empty the damn bucket.
It was a miracle. Like Jesus and the loaves and the fishes. I didn’t feel blessed or joyful, though. Honest to God, felt more scared than anything else.
Well, when you lay fish down on a garden, got to plow them right in or it’ll stink up and draw flies. I wasn’t hankering for a whole field full of flies. Soon as I lay down the last fish, I hustled to the barn, hitched the plow up to the tractor, fired her up, pulled out and plowed them fish down in my field, working them in, turning the soil over.
Finally plowing the fields got Betty off my back. She acted right friendly to me afterwards. Made some fine venison steaks for dinner (apparently we’d had some squirreled away in the freezer after all) and didn’t bother me none when I settled into my study to read more from The Way of Ah-Tzenul (which to be honest, I still don’t remember much about). Later at night? Well, we got frisky for the first time in a long while.
I can’t help but think, Doc. If Betty had known what was coming, she would’ve sneaked out to my gun closet in the living room after we’d finished, grabbed my thirty-ought and put me out of my misery right then and there. Would’ve been better all round. Because later on, near midnight?
I went out to the field and called on Ah-Tzenul for the first time.
***
You ever sleepwalk, Doc? I never did before I read The Way. Sure enough, after me and Betty had our relations and we dropped off, I woke and found myself standing at the far end of my garden. And I was—well, this is embarrassing, Doc, cause I’m a private man and don’t like talking about such things . . .
Well, the part about the “planter offering his seed?” That’s what I was doing. Standing at the far end of my garden, buck-naked under the moon, hand on myself. Working it to beat the band. Again, I don’t like sharing all this cause it’s private and personal, but you’re a Doc, right? Sure you’ve heard worse.
And maybe you can explain this to me. When I finally got—well, got there, a bomb went off in my head. I seized up all over, felt like electricity was shooting through me, snapping my back. I offered my seed, as The Way of Ah-Tzenul said I should. It kept shooting out of me onto the ground. My whole body burned. I’m ashamed to say even though some part of me was scared, another part me?
Well.
I kinda liked it.
Loved it, in fact, cause it’d never been so powerful between me and Betty, ever.
Here’s the other thing, Doc. Scares me more than anything else. After it all happened I felt tired and woozy, so I’m not sure if what I saw actually happened, but when I looked down to the ground, where I spilled my seed? Damn my eyes if the ground wasn’t sucking it down. Minutes passed and the ground at my feet was dry as a bone.
Here’s another thing which hit me, Doc, as I stumbled away from the garden and back down to the house, suddenly desperate to get back to bed before Betty discovered I’d left. I came awake standing at the far end of the garden. The muscles in my back, belly and thighs quivering, sore as hell. As if I’d worked my way along the garden, spilling my seed the whole way. I’d covered the whole field. Now you tell me, Doc.
How’s that possible?
***
The following week was the last time Betty and me was on good terms. Sunday, after I found myself offering my seed, I spent the day mending things around the house. We ain’t never been much for church-going, and honestly, Doc? After finding The Way and reading it, and the whole fish thing, and offering my seed? The thought of me walking into God’s House seemed blasphemous. Like maybe I’d get struck by lightning soon as I walked through the door.
Anyhow, rest of the week me and Betty got along fine, probably the best we have since before the kids. After only having relations occasionally, we was having them every night. And yes, before you ask, every night afterward, I found myself waking up at the far end of my garden, under the light of the moon. When I finished up? Well, words can’t explain how it felt. My whole body exploded.
Now, you might think this would wear me out terrible. Sure enough, after each time, I staggered down to the house, feeling sore as hell, and, not to press a joke too far, drained empty. Literally.
But each morning after offering my seed, I felt good. New. Full of life and blazing with energy. Every single day I did what Betty had been after me to do for weeks: Plant the garden. Corn rows on Monday, potatoes Tuesday, lettuce on Wednesday, onions and radishes on Thursday, peas and carrots and broccoli on Friday.
Then, Saturday, one full week after I’d found The Way in a dumpster at the landfill, I planted cucumbers and my pumpkins at the far end of my garden, and yep, that night, I found myself up there at midnight one last time, after an especially rousing bout with Betty, offering my seed. I say last time, because after that night it never happened again. I’d offered my seed and planted seed. According to The Way of Ah-Tzenul, it was now time for something a bit more nourishing.
Ironically enough it was also the last time Betty and I had relations. The new spark we’d been enjoying for a whole week died after I spilled my seed on the garden for the last time.
***
I know what yer thinking, Doc. Yer wondering if I’ve gone off my rocker. Probably don’t know what to think about invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul and all, but trust me, Doc. I ain’t lying. I did all that stuff and more.
Why would I?
Why go to such lengths?
Sounds foolish, and I suppose it is foolish when you cut to the quick. But that pumpkin contest, Doc. Yeah, being a farmer full-time, I needed the produce for our living, so planting the whole garden was important.
But that pumpkin contest.
Hell, Doc. Growing crops is the only thing I’ve ever done well. The bad harvest last year? Specially them rotten, lopsided pumpkins? Ain’t gonna lie, Doc. It worked on me something fierce all winter long. Not entering the Halloween Festival for the first time in ten years. Not taking at least one of the top three. It was a slap in the face.
And those pumpkins, dead on the vine? Well, must sound awful vain and foolish, but it was emasculating. Like my own balls being sliced off.
Also, I ain’t above admitting The Way of Ah-Tzenul was working on my head something fierce. The King in Yellow, Long Lost Friend, The Traveler’s Gate and some of Lovecraft’s books have worked on my head something fierce, too (though I can’t bear to throw them out, on account of how much I love books in general), but they wasn’t nothing compared to this. I ain’t ashamed to admit I haven’t exactly been in my right mind since I first opened that damn book . . .
What you say?
How’
s this got to do with why I called you here? Don’t worry, Doc. We’re getting to that, directly.
***
The Sunday after I last offered my seed up to Ah-Tzenul, I got hit by the worst case a let-down. Felt as if some part of me died. After tending to the animals, I felt the need to settle down in my study and read. Hell, I’d spent the whole week plowing and planting. Figured I owed myself. I’d picked up a few new Stephen King novels last month at the used book sale at Bassler Memorial Library, so I figured on starting one of them.
So I was surprised to find myself sitting up in my chair, blinking as if coming out of a long sleep, with The Way open in my lap, reading about “invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul through the nourishment of the sow’s blood.” I sat there and stared at The Way, wondering how the hell I’d gone and read it when I’d wanted to read something else. Also, how could I sit there for a whole hour and a half reading without remembering what I’d read!
But there it was, staring me in the face. Sitting open in my lap. Mocking me with its slanty-sidewise handwriting. Though I had no memory of what I’d read, the last sentence burned in my brain: Invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul through the nourishment of the sow’s blood.
I re-read the pages before that bit, and I gotta be honest, Doc. It set me back on my heels. Spreading pig’s blood all over my field. I didn’t know what to think about that. I understood the fish guts thing. Most farmers do, I suppose. Rotting fish produces nitrogen. Plowing it down before planting’s gonna make for lots of nitrogen in the soil. But pig’s blood? Not only that, but bitch pig’s blood?
How the hell was that gonna help?
Course, I’d just spent the whole week spilling my seed all over the field. How was pig’s blood any stranger?
I read a little more to see what else it’d say. Apparently, I couldn’t spread the blood on the field during the day. I had to spread it on the field at midnight, under the spring full moon (which was coming soon, according to the Farmer’s Almanac). There was another spell I had to chant while doing it.
Now, right there you figure I would’ve realized, once and for all, this wasn’t something I should be messing with, having read Long Lost Friend, The Traveler’s Gate and The Witch Book of Throop. But Doc, I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Most men wanna keep their own counsel rather than heed the words of others. This was my field, my pumpkin patch and my chance to take top prize. Also my chance to put Betty (lovingly, of course) in her place for a change. Man get in such a state, ain’t much he won’t do.
