Harvest of Change

by Darragha Foster

  The young man on the side nodded. “I’m Barron.”

  “And I am Judah. But you can call me Hay. Everyone does.”

  Chapter 9

  Only a day’s ride away. Light years away from home.

  The Farm.

  The bright center of the universe for traditionalists.

  They passed the arched sun-ray steel gate at the entrance to the realm of the Spirit of the Harvest. “This is some spread.”

  “Don’t let the shininess deceive you. This place is all business. Best get ready for some hard work. We’ll hand off our horses and get sent to the fields straight away. Sometime around sundown we’ll be called in for supper.” Barron clicked at his horse.

  “I’ll take care of my own horse,” Judah replied.

  “No, sir. The Farm has grooms. Brother Nazari oversees anything to do with the equine residents and guests of this farm.”

  Judah cleared his throat in obvious distaste. He murmured under his breath, “My horse. My rules.”

  “Not here, seedpod.”

  “Don’t call me that. Please.” He paused. “When do I meet her?”

  Augustus laughed. “Hell if I know. My assumption is she stays hunkered down until the hay is put up. Why consume an extra pair of strong shoulders?”

  Twin youths around the same age as Judah dashed up to the caravan. “We’ll take care of your horses and stow your gear in the bunk house.”

  Judah dismounted. “I’m Judah.”

  The twins twittered. “Yusef.” “Zeb.”

  “How is it you come to work at the Farm?” Judah asked.

  Yusef laughed. “We were born here.”

  “Is your mother the goddess?”

  Zeb took Hravart’s reins. “She is everyone’s mother.”

  Barron smacked Hay on the back. “Let’s go. You ready to dance with the scythe and sickle? Let’s go reap the hay and get this party going.”

  Judah looked around for Buck. Truthfully, the most predominant features of the Farm were the fields of amber hay and corn. Acres and acres of crops. He could see flashes of blue work shirts and the tan of burlap bags in the rows. And the song of blade to grass—with its swish, swish, swish—enticed him. “Hard work brings salvation,” he murmured.

  “That’s the spirit,” Barron replied.

  Judah pounded the last of the brandied coffee in his flask and followed the others into the field.

  A dozen other young men were already hard at work. Standing twelve across, they mowed the tall grass with their sickle in a rhythm Judah knew well. They cut and moved forward, cut and moved forward. Behind them, others raked the fallen grass into windrows.

  The smell of newly mown hay perfumed the air.

  The sun danced off the moisture retained in the grasses creating little rainbows.

  Judah turned to Barron. “I can see why you wanted to return. This place is beautiful.”

  Barron chuckled. “The real work will be tying the bales and storing them. This is a Sunday picnic compared to that.”

  “I’ve bucked hay before.”

  “We put up thousands of bales here. Thousands. It’s like a maze in the loft. We make little tunnels leading nowhere, and sometimes, leading somewhere quite wonderful.”

  “Does the goddess know you play in her hay loft?” Judah asked.

  “Buck says she doesn’t mind. And he’d know,” Barron replied.

  “Where is he?”

  “With the horses. He’s always with the horses. Can I ask you something personal?”

  Judah nodded. “Did he claim you? Lay hands upon you and say the words?”

  “He did.”

  Barron cleared his throat. “Did you know he is the only surviving consort of the goddess?”

  Judah stopped dead in his tracks. “What? I know she has communicated to him in ways we shall never understand…but he isn’t a Chosen One. I’ve seen him…he isn’t marked.”

  Barron reached out to grasp Hay’s muscular arm. “It’s true. He was born with the mark. He removed it.”

  “Removed it? How?” Hay thought back to those first moments when he beheld Buck’s powerful, muscular naked body. There was a patchy scar on his right hip. Like a healed burn.

  “He’s got guts, man. He used an acetylene torch and burned it off. Can’t believe he didn’t pass out before he finished.”

  “Holy harvest,” Judah cursed.

  “No kidding, man. Beck Nazari is the bravest of the brave.” Barron paused. “And you’re his. He claimed you. Lucky dog.”

  Judah cut a swathe with his sickle. “Truly, I have only just stepped out from under a traditionalist bushel. But I can still outwork you.”

  Barron laughed. “Hard work brings great rewards.” Then he added, under his breath, “In the hay loft, after all the ritual-loving traditionalists have gone beddy-bye.”

  Chapter 10

  Six hours in the field. He’d been traveling or working for nearly twenty-four hours straight.

  Judah wasn’t sure he could force his hands to release the sickle. He was too tired. “Holy harvest, when do we eat?”

  “It’ll be waiting for us in the bunk house this time. We get oat porridge and fruit and then it is lights out.” Barron patted Judah on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, we’ll be on a more regular work and eats schedule. Two big meals in the cook house.”

  “Why didn’t she just cut my throat when I arrived? Why the farce of working the fields and having a slumber party in the bunk house?”

  Barron opened the tool shed door and stowed his scythe and sickle. He paused as Hay passed his tools. “Man, the handle of your tool is hot. You feverish?”

  “I’m just tired. I’d like to check on my horse and see Buck, however.”

  Barron waved to a group of young men walking across the compound. “Follow them. They’ll run you through the showers and sit you down for your last meal. I have to make sure all the tools from the others are stored properly. My mission. Toolkeeper.”

  “Don’t make it sound so ominous,” Judah replied.

  Barron leaned in. “Those young men…they’re like us. Non-traditionalists. One of them is the muscle of the outfit. Ev. Be patient with him. He flies off the handle at every little thing. Don’t turn your back to him. He’s in a mood today. I can see the steam coming out his ears.”

  “I’m not of temperament for a donnybrook. I’d just like to see my horse and Buck.”

  “Your horse is fine, and Buck will be around when he gets to it. He keeps a tight schedule.” Barron gave Judah a shove toward the shower house.

  Too exhausted to argue, Judah dragged his feet toward the living quarters. He stepped inside the shower facility, only to be scolded. “No shoes! No clothes! Take everything off, leave it in a box by the door. You’ll get it back in the morning.”

  “It’s not customary to bathe in the nude in my community. I thought my undergarments would—”

  “Just get cleaned up. We’re as tired as you are.”

  Judah frowned but did as commanded. The bath house bully had dark arms and legs and a sunburned face and neck. His torso, upper arms, and thighs were white. His buttocks had a sinewy quality, and he found it hard not to stare at the other worker’s penis. It was pierced.

  He stripped and walked into the shower of hot water cascading down from a long pipe suspended above them. “Did that hurt?” he asked.

  “Like hell.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Do you really want to know why?”

  Judah held out his hand. “I’m Judah Hayaam El-Bara.” He smiled, hoping he had not got off on the wrong foot with the other worker.

  They shook hands. “I’m Evanston.”

  “Ah, yes. Your name was mentioned to me, at least in part. Evanston, why did you run a steel bar through the tip of your penis?”

  The others in the shower moved to surround Judah.

  Evanston laughed. “So when I fuck your ass you will enjoy it twice as much.”

  Judah start
led as the three others grabbed him and pulled him to his knees. “Let me go. Now!” He was strong, and he knew it. But both arms were captive and a third held his legs down by sitting on the back of his calves. “Release me!”

  Evanston dropped his balls against Judah’s face. “Suck me.”

  “I will not,” Judah replied.

  Evanston stroked his massive cock, pounding Judah in the head with each long stroke. “Turn him around.”

  Judah took a deep breath and tilted his head forward. He snapped it back with some force in a classic head-butt. It was enough to jar the one holding his legs. The lad toppled over and splashed into the shower runoff. He turned to his right and looked into the shocked face of the second assailant. And head-butted him hard in the chin.

  Evanston displayed a rounded fist with over-sized, bruised knuckles. “This is just what happens to newbies. Deal with it, Harvester.”

  Judah wasn’t prepared for the blow Ev dealt. It stunned him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell onto his side.

  Judah spat blood, his face half-submerged in water. Someone placed a hand atop his head, and forced his mouth and nose into the run off. He couldn’t breathe. He struggled to free himself, but like lead weights holding his body down, he could only twist from side to side.

  He heard Evanston laugh. “He really is marked.”

  One of the others exhaled forcefully. “He’s hands off. It will rain ill fortune down upon us. We shouldn’t have hazed him, Ev.”

  Judah felt his spirit fade as unconsciousness enveloped him.

  How long had it been since he had taken a breath? Minutes? Seconds?

  Judah reached deep inside and visualized the image his mother had taught him to use to ward off evil. A tall stalk of golden wheat, the sun rising behind it. The Holy Harvest. The spirit of growth and renewal. He called to the goddess for protection. But in his mind, the word that rang out was, “Buck.”

  Water rushed into his nostrils and down his throat. His lungs burned. He ceased his struggle.

  “Bloody hell,” he heard Evanston say as he moved Judah’s head out of the water. “I’ve really screwed up this time.”

  Chapter 11

  He was the eyes, ears, and soul of the harvest. He felt the germination of every seed, the growth of every tender shoot, and the sun against unfurling leaves. He ran his curry comb over his horse’s back aware the serenity of the Farm had been roughly disturbed, as if winter’s harsh breath had blown foul air into the hearth of summer. The soft, smooth sensation of brush to horse grew clouded with something dark and rough against his palm. Something foreign swept over him. It was not life, nor growth. It was neither sowing nor reaping.

  Buck gasped. It was death.

  He slapped his bay on the rump and left him on the cross-ties and ran.

  “Gentlemen! What are you up to? Don’t think you can pull one over on me.”

  He felt the grip of death tighten in his chest before he saw the frantic movement of the workers in the bath house.

  Buck burst in to find the still body of Judah resting beside pooling water. Blood swirled down the drain. “What have you done?” he demanded.

  “We were just playing around, and he fell and hit his head,” Evanston replied.

  Buck dropped to his knees and rolled Judah onto his left side. “He’s alive.” He turned Judah and using the heel of his hand, pushed hard against his chest. Once, twice, thrice. Judah coughed and spit bloodied water.

  “You live.” Buck sighed. He turned to the workers. “Who did this? Who laid hands upon Judah?”

  Evanston admitted his guilt. “We thought we’d have a little fun. Nothing happened, Beck. We were just fooling around. He thought we were serious. He fought.”

  “No hazing. No fighting. No teasing. This is the serious. What were you thinking?”

  Judah opened his eyes. “Buck.”

  Buck cradled Judah in his arms. “Yes, I am here. I should have never left you to the devices of these idiots.” He stood, holding Judah to his chest. “Can you walk?”

  Judah nodded and stood. “Give me a moment,” he whispered. He pulled away from Buck and turned to face his attacker. “Evanston?”

  “Yeah? What?”

  Judah took a heavy swing at Evanston. His fist impacted the bully square in the jaw and sent him flying into the shower wall. “I forgive you.” He turned back to Buck. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

  Chapter 12

  Judah awoke slowly. Groggily. His jaw and ribs ached. “Buck?” He tasted dried blood on his lips.

  Buck ran a wet cloth over Judah’s forehead. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’m sorry about those miscreants. He’s an ass.”

  Judah pushed himself upright. “Have they no respect for themselves, or others?”

  “There are always those who will subjugate others—there always will be. It is the same in nature. Evanston is a bully. I’m afraid you may have cracked ribs. He will be punished, nevertheless.”

  “Will the goddess punish him? I will not seek retaliation. It is not the way of my clan.” He paused. “What time is it?” He rubbed his head. “I’ve missed prayers. First time. It takes a beating to keep me from my devotions.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Buck ran his hands through his white hair. “Ev shall make amends in the slaughter house. His world will be filled with death, while yours, life.”

  “Fitting.” Judah chuckled. “I feel odd missing prayers. I don’t believe in them, yet they were a source of consistency my entire life.”

  “At the Farm, there are no formal prayers. Your labor is your prayer.”

  “I’m afraid I will be of no use until my ribs are more tightly bound.”

  “I’ve wrapped them as tightly as I could,” Buck replied. “You’ll grow accustomed to the pain, and then, it will fade completely.”

  Judah reclined. “This place is not what I thought it would be.”

  “Nor will it remain as it is now. The revolution is upon us. Elders from surrounding communities are making their way here. The true nature of the harvest is about to be revealed.”

  Judah closed his eyes. “Is there a goddess?” He felt Buck’s soft lips touch his. He returned the kiss, willingly. He flicked his tongue and found it met by Buck’s.

  As the embrace cooled, Buck spoke against his mouth. “The Spirit of the Harvest is with you, now.”

  Judah chuckled. “It is not a woman I feel next to me, sir. It is your hardness my hand seeks.”

  “It is a common misconception, and one I see no need to correct, the Spirit of the Harvest is a goddess. Judah, I am the seed of the harvest and you are the love that will give me root and send my shoots forth.”

  “You are the goddess?”

  “I would not use those words, but yes. The Spirit of the Harvest passed on after a long season. A very long season. When she coupled with me…she passed her gifts. Nature is not fixed. It is ever-evolving. The spirit saw the stagnation of the people and evolved to enact change. She needed someone like me. Someone like you.” Buck sighed. “The people are potatoes dug up fresh from the field. The sack in which they are stored is their faith. What happens when you put dirty potatoes in a bag and leave them in the dark?”

  “Spoilage.”

  “What must you do to prevent rot?”

  “Shake the bag so that the potatoes rub against one and another and brush off the dirt.”

  Buck nodded. “Yes. The spirit wished to shake the bag. And so I became the eyes and ears of the harvest.”

  “We’re going to make ripples in the pool,” Judah replied.

  Buck nodded. “We’re going to make a tidal wave.”

  “I want to ride your wave, Buck.” Judah reached down to stroke Buck’s burgeoning erection through his thick canvas work pants.

  Buck turned down the bedclothes which covered Judah and buried his face in Hay’s crotch. Judah sank into the darkness of oral pleasure. Buck’s deft hand and warm tongue against his member left him nearly speechless. His o
rgasm flowed from him. He kept his eyes closed—lost in the pleasurable darkness.

  Buck stood, his dick protruding through his pants. “Can you take me? Are you well enough to take me?”

  Drained, Judah rolled over and pulled his legs under him. “Fill me. Your touch is a balm to my bruised flesh.” He lurched forward as Buck rammed his hardness into him. He met the thrusts, hoping to capture every inch of Buck’s cock. He laughed as the hot spill filled him.

  “I am the soil to your seed,” he whispered.

  Buck slapped his ass. “Hard work brings salvation.”

  Hay rolled over. Beams of sunlight filtered in through skylights, creating a halo around Buck’s white head. Over Buck’s shoulder, a hand-painted relief of the goddess and Spirit of the Harvest framed his strong shoulders. In the haze of the sunlight it appeared as though golden stalks of corn and wheat sprouted from Buck’s flesh. “She passed the spirit to you.”

  “She did.”

  “What if she had not? I am unchanged. My love does not lie within the arms of a woman. How did she know for me to fulfill my destiny she would need—”

  “Me?” Buck asked.

  “You.”

  “Nothing can stop winter from turning into spring and spring from passing into summer and summer into autumn.”

  “It is the natural order of things.”

  Buck nodded. “It is the natural order of things, restored. Come now. Dress. We have work to do.”

  Hay laughed. “Hard work brings salvation.”

  “We must buck the hay from cart to loft. This is a working farm, after all.”

  Judah Hayaam El-Bara stood and gingerly took a step. “You just did buck hay.”

  “Like love, work has no limits. If you are well enough, let’s go to work.”

  * * * *

  The late afternoon sun beat down upon them as if a mallet upon a tent spike. Sweat poured from Judah’s brow and soaked his clothing. There were a dozen at the first barn, Buck and himself, included. The work was hard, but made easier by many hands.

  Across the compound, six other lofts were busy being filled by other hands.

  “When do we start?”