Horrible Harvest

The spikelets turnt yellow and fount a lazy droop. The payoff was near. The back-breaking work during dry growth, the collection of chicken litter to broadcast, the weeding, the flooding, the draining, the battle with the midges, the snake bites, the menace of the gators at the paddies edge, the callouses, the ache at the joints and muscles, all the suffering give out by Daddy had led to the bend of straw at the end of the tillers. It was time for harvest.

Me, Momma, and Charles was made to stay in the house on the day of harvest. We didn’t get much time on the property beyond the porch as it was. Habit had us awake at the ass-crack of dawn, and the three of us set right outside the front door and watched the sun begin its bake of the Lowcountry. A group of slaves was grooming the front property. A stretch of our farm Daddy called the drying acre. Once the harvest was done, the threshing begun and then the grains of rice was laid on the drying acre where the sun would do its job of giving it a gentle roast for market.

Problem was more frigate birds’d gathered, and while they dined mostly on fish and the like, they weren’t opposed to picking at rice drying in the sun. It was a dining opportunity they couldn’t pass up. So another group of slaves was charged with chasing the big birds away, which wasn’t no easier than swatting at midges.

Momma watched the goings-on from her rocking chair on the porch with a little tickle in her belly. “We’ve got weather headed our way.”

Charles stared off onto the field. Barely a word fount freedom from his lips since Daddy’d been hauled off to Rex.

I give Momma a nod. “Yes, ma’am. Told Mr. Stockton when the first frigatebird showed up. He didn’t put much worry into it. Seems like a new bird shows up every day.”

“Mr. Stockton’s got this idea he’s too smart to worry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Smart man, he’s always worried, boys. Trick is to not worry yourself into consternation. That causes more problems, which causes more worry. You want to worry yourself into solutions.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Charles remained a nonparticipant in our conversation.  

A darkening crept up at the horizon. Toward the coastline or beyond. It et up so much of the light I couldn’t see the sky on the other side of it. When it was to arrive and swallow up the sky entire was hard to say, but it was on the march toward us, and there’d be hell to pay when it come.

“What’s the solution?”

“Not our worry. That’s left for Mr. Stockton to figure out. The proceeds belong to his boss. The loss of proceeds is his, too.”

“Daddy’s liable to not take it well.”

“Your daddy has his own worries to spend solutions on. This year’s grain yield, it’s not one of them.”

The treetops caught hold of wind gusts by mid-afternoon. Leaves was torn from branches and sent dancing in the cold current of the coming storm. Some fell atop the mounds of rice, while others rode the winds to the river and plunged into the water’s chop. The waves grew frantic by the mad change in weather.

When the approaching dark clouds rolled into bands, Momma stood up from her chair. “We’re in for it.”

She stepped off the porch. “You boys get the pigs in the barn. Quick as you can.” She stepped in a run to the paddies where Mr. Stockton sat on his mount using the only tool he had to beat the storm, yelling like a fiend. The growl of the storm was near drowning him out. He was none too happy to see Momma coming his way. I come up behind to catch as much of their conversation as I could.

“Back to the house, Mrs. Tennyson. I haven’t the time nor inclination to deal with you right now.”

“Mr. Stockton, you need to stop this foolishness and find shelter. For all these men.”

“This foolishness is our business. Stopping is not an option.”

She pointed to the eddy of black clouds in the distance. “That, sir, is a hurricane. The outer band. Winds full of fury. These men will die if you expose them to the hell that possesses the sky marching towards us. I must insist you get them all to the barn.” She attempted to step past him, but he moved his horse in front of her.

“Where do you think you’re going? You are still restricted to the house.”

“I’m going to help my boys move the pigs into the barn.”

“Pigs are fine where they are. Back to the house.”

“Mr. Stockton, shoot me if you must, but I am moving the pigs into the barn.”

“Pigs aren’t yours to move, Mrs. Tennyson. You need not concern yourself with them.”

“I need not, but I will. Now move out of my way, gather your men, and get them sheltered.”

A flash of lightning scarred the sky overhead and the boom of thunder followed right after. The spotted horse reared and the advance man struggled to keep his mount. Momma and me run to the barn where we placed both bays in one stall and then moved to the pig pen. The drift nervously circled the small enclosure as the clouds above grew more frightening by the minute. Momma opened the gate and me and Charles attempted to herd them into the barn, but a number of piglets made a break for the woods once freedom was upon them. Momma focused on moving the remaining drift to the emptied stall and then hurried to the edge of the woods to gather up the escaped pigs. Before she entered the treeline, four slaves appeared, each with a piglet in hand.

A sideways mist come out of nowheres. Giving us all a near soak in no time at all. Momma ordered us all inside the barn. Once inside, she huddled with the four men. “Y’all stay here. Look after my boys.”

“Yes, missus.”

“When the winds come, get yourselves under the loft. My husband reinforced it for weather like this. He’s a foul man, but he knows the devil that rides these Lowcountry storms. Anyone else comes in here, you tell them the same.”

“Yes, missus.”

To us, she said, “You boys keep the pigs in order and mind the horses. This’ll pass soon enough.”

“Where you going?” I asked.

“To do the impossible. Talk sense to Mr. Stockton.”

She exited the barn.