Harvest of Change

by Darragha Foster

  “I had not context for the words save for internal feelings I needed to hide.” Judah laughed as his orgasm flowed from him and down Buck’s throat.

  Buck fell back, his arms open. He swallowed hard, his dick at full mast. “Sit on me. Ride me like you ride that red horse of yours.”

  Buck guided Hay’s slim hips until the head of his cock was poised for entry. Hay’s member dripped semen. He filled him, stretched him. The tension was nearly unbearable. Hay moved atop him, working his way up from walk to trot to cantor. Buck thought he might explode. He wanted to feel Hay atop him forever. Alas, he came and moaned as the surge of pure satisfaction enveloped him.

  Buck pushed Judah off in a playful manner and rolled onto all fours. “You know what I want. Do it!” A moment later, Hay jabbed his hardness home.

  Chapter 6

  Hravart hoofed the ground.

  Judah turned to Buck as they rested in the cool moss. “She’s bored. I need to take her for a ride.”

  Buck smoothed his fingers against Hay’s cheek. “My horse is not far. I will ride with you. Across the thicket to the south, perhaps. It is closer my home and farther from yours. We will go unnoticed.”

  “I would readily spend the rest of my life with you, but I do not know where we will live, Buck,” Judah said. “Certainly we cannot live in my community, and I do not know from whence you hail.”

  “I’m afraid to tell you.”

  Judah kissed Buck. “Don’t be afraid to tell me anything.”

  Buck rose to his feet and dressed. “Amongst other things, I am a groomer and caretaker of very fine horses at a large farm to the south.”

  “A progressive farm? I know of a few—”

  Buck shook his head and raised a finger to cut Hay off. “Not a progressive farm. I am not a progressive. I am the son of a traditionalist, like yourself. Recently, I became leader of a small group of dissidents who have been slowly infiltrating the underpinnings of society in order to make changes occur. My mentor compelled me to do so.”

  “That sounds quite exciting,” Hay replied.

  “Judah…I work at the Farm. Her Farm.”

  “The Farm? You work for the goddess?” Hay asked.

  Buck nodded. “For many years. I came to her as a farmhand, such as those who would accompany you tomorrow, and stayed.”

  “She is the leader of a rebellion against traditionalism?”

  “I do her will. I am her servant. I am compelled by forces stronger than the rites of the harvest to make changes. She is shrouded in antiquity and no-one sees her, save for her lovers. They enter, but only once has a man emerged. It is as if she consumed them as the soil uses fertilizer. They evaporate. Save for one. She has set forth her will in my heart and mind. She would see change come. Change as clean and pure as the seasons in passing.”

  Hay smacked his forehead. “Truly, I am beseeched by too much information and sensation in a very short time.”

  “Go astride your horse, and I, mine. We will ride, and it will clear your head. Then, we shall talk. In the morning, I want you to leave with the caravan. I will be waiting.”

  “At the Farm.”

  Buck nodded. “In the stable.” He cupped his crotch. “With my member in my hand.”

  “How many are there? Those who seek change? Are there others like us? And how can we change anything unless we have witnesses to the fact that I shall not seed the harvest? There is rarely news from the Farm. You know…if a tree falls in the forest and no-one is there to hear it crash, does it make a sound?”

  “There are many of us, Hay. Many. At the Farm, there are five—all long-time field hands—and of those who are man/man, one; and he is a powerful worker, commanding the respect of his peers. In the caravan, there are two more. Our plan shall unfold before witnesses—and in truth, said plan is already underway. I promise you, the trees that fall will be seen and heard, and from them shall spring forth a new world.”

  “Yes, because the old world will crumble in fits of tornados. Buck, tell me this, did you know of me or was it happenstance that led me to the book and thereby you to me?”

  Buck chuckled. “She told me.”

  “She?” Hay asked.

  Buck nodded. “She.”

  “Holy harvest,” Judah replied.

  Chapter 7

  On horseback, the cares of his world ceased to exist. All that mattered was the wind rushing against his face. Hooves thumped against ground and became a percussion rhythm line of his personal orchestra—the tight muscles and sinews of the horse’s body became the strings, and the steady beat of its heart, the conductor.

  Buck, too, rode a thoroughbred. An older gelding. Dark brown—almost black in color—the horse’s coloring complimented his own snow-capped head and tanned skin.

  “First to the fence wins,” Buck called, urging his horse to gallop.

  “Wins what?” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to command Hravart to pick up speed.

  Buck didn’t reply. He hunkered down in the saddle and took off like wildfire. He had a fast horse. Faster than Hravart. Hay felt the surge of speed shoot up Hravart’s legs as she obeyed the command to catch the dark gelding leaving her in his dust.

  Eight hooves pounded against the earth, drumming out an ages-old melody. In that chorus, answers to all questions could be found. Hay flicked away an errant tear and urged Hravart on. The pattern of the hooves rang through him as if he was the pond and the horse a stone tossed in to create ripples. And he knew what he must do.

  A stagnant pond may be mirror-like and beautiful, but underneath, no life can flourish due to the accumulation of muck and mire and algae. Toss in a pebble and the water moves. Silt rises and is disbursed. Break the dam trapping the pond and it can once again flow to the sea. When the rains come, it will be renewed and recreated. I am going to break the dam.

  * * * *

  They let their horses graze.

  “This day has been perfect,” Judah said.

  “I agree, but how so for you?”

  Judah rolled onto his side, facing Buck. “I have long felt the hard pit of indecision in my gut. I suppressed my feelings and towed the line society said I must, and today, I am free. My parents and my community are trapped by ritual. They have no forward motion. If you can understand my meaning, I am going to disturb the pond. When the silt settles, the choke-hold of stagnancy will be obliterated.”

  “Meaning, you are joining the resistance and you know it is the right thing to do.”

  “Yes.”

  Buck caressed Hay’s cheek. “The blush has left your face. Do not be afraid of change.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “She said you would be.”

  Hay sat upright. “I assume it is the goddess of whom you refer.”

  “Calling the Spirit of the Harvest a goddess is a misnomer, for she is not fixed in form or place. The spirit is like the wind. It changes with the seasons. But since you are familiar with her female form, I shall refer to her in that manner.”

  “Go on,” Judah encouraged.

  “Last winter, she appeared to me as if entranced, shrouded in gray—as gray as the December sky. Behind her veil I could see the flames of the hearth fire burning in her eyes. And her voice was as gravely as the long stretch of road between the capital city in the east and the harbor in the west.” Buck paused. “She sleeps during winter. A hibernation of sorts. She mounted me and rode me and absorbed my soul into hers. She spoke to me and told me of you—not by name, of course. She said it was time for change. She said a foal would fall ill. In my quest for medicine to treat the sick horse, I would find a man born of the Harvester clan who would bring the hard rains and cause a flood of change to burst free across the valley. He would be marked for greatness—but would not fulfill the duties charged upon him by his community. He would do more. I tried, some weeks later, when the goddess emerged from her long slumber, to ask her about her visit. She would not see me and had me sent to the back acreage to mend f
ences for my trouble. I believe she sleepwalked in form of a crone, Judah. An oracle blind to her own prophecy.

  “After that, the work took over my life, and I knew her purpose. The cutting of the hay perfumed the air so richly and the furrows sang as the last of the season crops grew within them, and the windrows dried evenly and quickly. It was a glorious time of year. Her corn came in so abundantly we had not enough storage for it, and the barn overflowed with sweet hay for the beasts which live in her shadow. She walked among us sometimes—as the mother or maiden—her butter-yellow veil trailing in the breeze behind her. And then, a brood mare foaled and the colt was born in a caul. Folks say a baby born in a caul brings good luck or will grow up with a second sight. This little guy didn’t seem too lucky to me. He refused his mother’s milk. We bottle fed him cow’s milk, and he improved yet was colicky. I didn’t have what I needed on-hand to treat him, so I came into the forest. When I saw you, I knew—I understood the message from the goddess. That little colt, as sickly as he is, is good luck. He set my feet on the path to you, and I have helped set your feet on a path of great change.”

  “My family lives a good life within parameters set out by fear. That needs to change. I want them to enjoy their lives without fear as their motivating factor. I want them to be inclusive of all aspects of life.”

  “Man/man for example,” Buck replied.

  “Yes. And I want the next generation of children to be raised without fear. Do you know, to this day, when thunder claps, I feel a strong urge to go find my parents? Children are taught the end-of-life fire comes with a clap of thunder and when the sky is filled with lightning and thunder rolls across it, a loved one may be taken away in a funnel of flames.”

  “Oh, yes. I have heard that a time or two. The surface of the community is pleasant enough, but look under the smiles and rituals and there is fear. So much fear. Do you not feel proud you shall help transform fear into fruitfulness?”

  Judah coughed. “I’ll tell you the answer to that after I face the goddess.”

  Buck chuckled. “When you look at that tree, or these ferns, or into my eyes, you behold the goddess, Judah. Her face is my face. Her face is made of soil and rock and sky and water.” He touched Judah’s lips with his fingertips. “And flesh.”

  Chapter 8

  Judah arrived home just before dawn.

  He joined his parents in the first prayers of the day.

  He had always loathed morning prayers. So damned early. The first of seven. Before breakfast. Before coffee. How many times had he wished he could sleep in instead of rise and greet the dawn in prayer? Every day since I was old enough to join in the circle.

  This time, however, he listened to the words his father so carefully recited and for the first time, appreciated them. He watched his mother’s delicate hand movements as she danced in prayer. He’d never noticed how graceful and how reverently she turned her wrist and flexed her fingers in rhythm to the first rays of light streaming in from the east. Meaningless harvest rituals? Yes. Beautiful? Indeed.

  * * * *

  He cast one slight smile at his parents as he headed to the stable. They look so proud. They look so hopeful. They have waited for this moment since the day I was born. And I have dreaded it at the same time. Judah caught himself reciting one of the harvest prayers he’d been taught for this very day and cleared his mind.

  There would be no goodbyes or dramatics at his leaving. Whatever angst his parents felt would be quelled by hard work and meditations of hand to soil.

  Judah saddled up Hravart and walked her to the crossroads where he would meet the caravan en route to the Farm. Far south, across the expanse of tall grasses, he saw the flash of Buck’s horse. He had gone on ahead. He had gone to prepare for the arrival of the false bridegroom.

  He waited, soothing Hravart, lost in thoughts.

  His stomach churned from nervousness.

  He lifted a flask of brandied coffee to his lips. His mother had dipped the rim in honey. It was her farewell treat. She expects me to return, when no others ever have. She expects me to keep the hard rains and winter away by virtue of the union with the Spirit of the Harvest. And I expect her, as strong a woman as she is, to recover from the shock of change. It will be easier for her to accept when winter passes as mildly as it always does and the soil remains sweet and apples appear on the trees. And if I’m wrong, and the hard rains come and the Everlasting Winter consumes the world because the lamb did not go willingly to the altar, it won’t matter—because we’ll all be dead. Judah curtailed his morose inner-monologue and straightened his tunic. His escort had arrived.

  The caravan resembled more a rag-tag group of riders passing through the outskirts of the village following the work. Many riders passed through, picking everything from apples to walnuts to gleaning the fields for whatever potatoes might remain after the season ended. There were five.

  And two are like me? Like Buck?

  The lead rider greeted him in traditional fashion, his arms open as if to embrace the sun. Judah turned and lifted his hair to display the scythe birthmark on the back of his neck.

  “You are the bringer of crops and the barrier against harsh times. We are honored to escort you to the Farm. Hard work brings great reward,” the rider said. “And is our salvation.”

  Ain’t him. Buck pulled himself up onto Hravart and fell into line. He nodded to the other riders, behind him and flanking him. It was protection. Protection from what, he didn’t know. Protection from neck reining Hravart around the other way and high-tailing it out of the county? Probably.

  I’ve got to do this. At least I need to get there and feel out the lay of the land. I’ve never revolted in my life. I am not a dissident. I’m just a farmer with a funky birthmark. I believe the sun rises and sets of its own accord and nothing can stop winter from turning into spring. No ritual or belief system brings about a good harvest. Hard work, good seed, sunshine, and rain create crops. Not mantras and mudras.

  Three fell back, their horses clopping along at a slower pace. The lead rider and the side companion remained close.

  “Have you worked at the Farm before?”

  The young man to his right nodded. “Did a season. Ma got sick, had to come home. It’s no different than working my parents’ farm, except the goddess flits about all covered up from head to toe every now and then. Truth is, she’s kind of scary. She’s a big woman. Taller than any I’ve seen. No-one ever comes out if they go in, you know what I mean. Except for one.”

  The lead rider snapped back. “Don’t discuss such things. I’m surprised you are allowed to return, after your indiscretion.”

  Judah looked sharply at the young man beside him. “What did you do?”

  The rider pulled open his shirt to reveal a brand on his collarbone. “Don’t act so self-righteous, Augustus. I may be scarred for life, but I’m not ashamed of my actions.” He focused his conversation toward Judah. “I had just turned twenty. I neglected my prayers and let my base needs get in the way of my faith. Another villager and I had too much corn whiskey and got frisky. We also got caught. And branded. And put in the stocks. I swear, if my mother had not intervened explaining how I was the only boy in the family, the magistrate would have had my balls.”

  “Did you impregnate her?” Judah knew it was a leading question.

  The rider chuckled. “I’m a bugger.”

  Judah frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”

  The lead rider halted and turned in his saddle. “It means he’s a sodomite. And like an alcoholic, he needs treatment.” He accentuated his voice almost too loudly. Mockingly.

  The back three riders responded in typical traditionalist fashion with the prayerful, “Hard work brings about salvation.”

  Judah chuckled. “You have yourself a chorus back there.”

  The side rider laughed. “Augustus likes to make the minions recite their canned responses. Makes him feel godly.”

  “Shut up, Barron,” the lead rider said.
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br />   “Kiss my—” Barron stopped. “Look, I need treatment like he needs an exaltation of larks to fly out his arse.” He reared his horse closer to Judah’s. “It’s not that I’m a progressive or anything like that, it’s just I no longer believe in the teachings with all my heart. Do I believe hard work brings peace? Yes. Do I believe there is something mystical in the change of the seasons? Yes. Do I want to pray on a schedule? No. I’m going to the Farm to buck hay. If nothing else, the money is good.”

  Judah’s knuckles whitened from clenching his reins so hard. “You speak very openly about your dissatisfaction with traditionalism.”

  “Someone has to.”

  “If enough voices rise up for change, do you think it will make a difference?”

  “I do. I look forward to a time when rituals are again performed with joy as opposed to the fear of breaking routine.”

  “Fear is a great motivator,” Judah said.

  Augustus called back, “Fear is what has kept our parents performing meaningless tasks their entire lives. Ain’t that right, seedpod?”

  “My parents have lived and breathed this day since I was born. And don’t call me that.” Hravart sidled up alongside Barron’s horse. “I met someone who has made me see a different path for my life. He’s older. White hair—”

  “Thick cock. Yeah, I know who you mean. I was twenty-three when I came to the Farm. Met Beck my first day…he’s a good man. Not to say he hasn’t led a few traditionalist men off the path of righteousness. He’s raised a few, broke a few, and,” Barron leered playfully, “trained a few. He brings a sense of joy to the workplace, I’ll tell you…” He paused, and then tilted his head back and smiled broadly. “All roads lead to the Farm and the hour of our rebellion. You in?”

  “All the way,” Judah replied.

  Augustus looked over his shoulder. “It’s up to us, then.”

  Judah laughed. “You’re involved in this? I never would have guessed. You seem so…traditional.”

  “Hide in plain sight, that’s my motto.”