Life in the Land

For Tom and Fidget.

Many thanks to Sue and Shira.
Your help and support keep me writing.

B
OBBY
helped himself to another piece of his mum’s steak pie and watched his dad for any sign the cough he’d suffered from of late was worsening. His dad looked healthier than he had for months as he patted his stomach and pushed away from the kitchen table.

“I’ll be glad when this week’s over,” said his dad. “The cabbages are giving me jip this year—bloody brassicas, never behave themselves when they should.”

“At least the cauliflowers are out of the way. You get ever so grumpy when you’re doing cauliflowers,” said his mum, carefully adding a washed plate to the stack of crockery balanced on the draining board.

“Take a lot of coaxing, cauliflowers—can’t be rushed.”

Bobby rubbed at a patch of acne on his chin and chased a pea around a pool of gravy on his plate. The second piece of pie was no longer as appetizing as he’d originally thought it would be.

“Bobby?”

Bobby looked up. A deep crease of worry stretched across his dad’s forehead.

“Fancy a walk, son?”

“Yeah, all right.” His mum smiled at him, an attempt at encouragement, and he noticed how she squeezed his dad’s hand while he waited for Bobby to put on his jacket.

Bobby lifted the latch to the back door of the farmhouse and zipped up his coat as he stepped into the yard. Large puddles of dirty water reflected the dreary evening; the closeness of the humid weather was heavy with rain that threatened to fall in fat drops.

His dad followed him out. “Let’s head up to the top field. Always a nice view no matter how moody the weather’s being.”

“I….”

“It’s all right, Bobby, there’ll be no pressure from me—everything in nature needs time to grow and develop, and you’re no different.”

“You make me sound like one of your carrots.”

“More like a runner bean.” His dad chuckled, the sound a throaty gargle that turned into a phlegm-filled cough.

They walked, side by side, up the narrow lane that meandered around the circumference of the top fence. Bobby hunched over slightly, but he was still taller than his dad thanks to the growth spurt that had hit last year, just after his sixteenth birthday. His build was almost willowy, and nothing like his dad’s, which was still rotund around the middle despite the weight he’d lost during his illness.

Bobby’s shoulders sagged further the closer they got to the stile. He clambered over with ease; a childhood of exploration had left him well practiced in the negotiation of fences and hedges. His dad puffed with the effort as he swung his leg over the gate, but he batted away Bobby’s hands as he stepped down.

“I ain’t that old.”

“Never said you were.”

His dad stopped a moment to catch his breath; he wheezed slightly and dug a handkerchief out of his waterproof jacket. His mottled cheeks flushed beyond a rosy glow, and his jowls quivered with the intensity with which he blew his nose.

“See that hillock? Over the left fence, on the Flint’s border?”

Bobby nodded. “You used to call it Amaethon’s Altar. I had nightmares for weeks.”

“I seem to remember your mum not being too pleased with me over that.”

“Probably not the best story to tell a six-year-old.”

“I was trying to involve you in family history. Though looking back, blood rites in honor of an agricultural god were probably not the best starting point.”

Bobby laughed, despite the memory of sleepless nights and wet beds which had plagued him after he’d first heard the stories. “I suppose I should be grateful that’s not something we’ll need to do.”

“Very true. Thankfully, we only need to pay homage to the Battle of Cad Goddeu once a millennium.”

They trekked up the field, careful not to trip over the ploughed ridges of soil. Bobby remembered a summer when he was seven, maybe eight, and the soil had been baked hard, the rain absent, and the sun relentless. The neighbors’ fields were filled with withered crops, pathetic parodies of the lush greens his dad’s gifts had helped to cultivate.

At the top his dad pointed to the large oak that stood regally in the corner, branches spread wide and adorned with a thick canopy of leaves. On any other farm it would have been pulled out years ago; its roots had encroached into the rich, fertile soil, stealing potential sustenance. Every childhood tale of the family’s special powers linked back to it: from stories of his forefathers who had danced around it naked on Midsummer’s morning, to when his dad had proposed to his mum, raining petunias down upon her until she said yes.

“We’ve tried this before,” Bobby said as his dad positioned him to stand under the oak.

“And we’ll keep on trying. I’ve told you before, Bobby, it’s not something that’ll happen overnight.”

“We’ve been trying forever.”

“So it won’t hurt to try once more, will it?”

There was no point in arguing. His dad would ruffle his hair and smile, and Bobby would do whatever he’d been asked. He leaned against the trunk and the knots of gnarled bark poked into his back. Under instruction from his dad, Bobby closed his eyes; his soul was heavy, burdened with the weight of expectation loaded with his own disbelief.

“You’re thinking too hard. Not your normal problem, I must admit,” said his dad. “Breathe deeply and empty your mind.”

Bobby slowly inhaled the warm evening air through his nose, and let the exhalation escape though his slightly parted lips. With each breath he released a worry; the internal negativity and self-doubt floated away, captured and held tight in the branches of the oak.

“Lean back. Let the oak support you.”

His dad’s words ghosted over him and wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket. The ancient tree his anchor, Bobby allowed his mind to empty, and as it did, his skin tingled with the sensation of being so exposed. The gentle wind whispered through the leaves above him, a soft chant of comfort and support.

“That’s right,” his dad said. “Now let it in.”

The air felt heavier, each breath harder. The smell of grass and tree pollen overloaded his senses, even the mildest of breezes an onslaught; Bobby screwed his eyes shut even tighter and bit down on his bottom lip as he felt both hot and cold at once. A sweat gathered on his brow, yet his legs shivered as if he was sitting on a block of ice. Involuntarily, he flinched; his mind swam in the silence, looking—hunting—for something, something out of reach.

A buzzing like a swarm of bees filled his ears. Louder and louder, a crescendo of noise that made his head ache. A little more, he told himself, but the noise grew louder, and he gasped in pain as a high-pitched squeal ripped through his thoughts. Burning through his nerves, it ignited his fears like a match dropped onto dry hay doused in kerosene.

Bobby’s eyes flew open, and he slid to the ground, crumpled between the roots of the tree. “I can’t!”

His dad was at his side, crouched down with his hands on Bobby’s shoulders. “It’s all right, it’ll come. Every time you get closer.”

“It’s too strange. I can’t last long enough.”

“You will. These things take time.”

“But what if this is as far as I get? What if after all these centuries, it ends with me?”

“And if it does? It doesn’t matter.”

“But who’ll help Uncle Steven? He’s already getting a bit too old to be running around in spandex.”

“I’ve been saying that for years, lad. The day my brother hangs up his cape will be the day he’s buried in it. And he’s got your cousins to help. Gavin and Stuart are really showing potential. Too bad about the twins, though. I’m not sure what help they can be, given they’ve the power to turn people puce, but their hearts are in the right place.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” His dad stood up. “Now’s not the time to start talking of giving up. Stay a while, sit under the tree, and listen to the land—it will guide you.”

Bobby watched his dad walk away, back down the field, over the gate, and out of sight. His dad walked slower than he used to, the illness having had more of an effect than either of them wanted to admit. Bobby knew he needed to do something to reduce the burden of running the farm—the place where all the members of his family came back to recharge, to lick their wounds when rescues had gone wrong or life was not turning out how they’d expected. Although he knew his dad would never really fully retire—his powers even less happy to slow down than the man himself—the early mornings and damp evenings were something his dad could certainly live without.

Bobby leaned back against the tree trunk and stared up at the branches, the weak sunlight dappling the green with halos of gold. The glow reminded him of the golden flecks his dad would conjure into the soil as he tended to the seeds; little pockets of energy sent out to spark life and feed the crops. The chill from the damp soil seeped through his jeans and made him shiver. He sighed heavily and pulled his jacket tighter around his thin frame.

A muffled thud from the direction of the hedgerow made Bobby look up. Accompanied by a string of swear words, his friend Mike emerged from underneath the thicket, pulling himself along on his belly. His dirty blond hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions and littered with bits of twig. He was muddy and had a big smear across his cheek, but he was grinning.

The fondness Bobby felt whenever he saw Mike spiraled up through his chest, and Bobby thought this probably wasn’t how he was supposed to feel about his best friend.

“You all right?” asked Mike as he got to his feet.

“Same old.”

Mike dropped down to sit next to him, and Bobby smiled slightly as Mike knocked against him with his shoulder. “Come on, can’t be that bad.”

“I tried again… it didn’t work.”

In an instant Mike threw his arms around him, hugging him tight, and Bobby relished the comfort. Mike’s open affection always surprised him, and he returned the hug. He buried his face in Mike’s neck, refusing to cry as he held on tight, enjoying Mike’s warmth and the fresh earthy smell of the land that clung to his friend after his adventure in the hedgerow.

“It’ll be okay, Bobby.”

“You don’t know that.” Bobby pushed away but was glad Mike kept an arm around his shoulders.

“Yes I do. You’re going to be brilliant. I told you, you’re gonna be the great Artichoke Avenger, and I’ll be your faithful sidekick, Sprout Boy.”

Bobby huffed out a laugh. “I should’ve never told you how my dad uses his powers—we’re not all farmers.”

“Nope. I’m convinced. You’re going to be the savior of wilted crops the length and breadth of the land. Bobby Sawyer, mild-mannered underachiever by day, hero of the agricultural world by night!”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m going to help fight crime by using ivy creepers as nets and vines as lassoes. And shoot thorns at no-good perps who think they can get away!”

“See that’s the spirit. You’re gonna be great, Bobby. And a real hero someday.” Mike laughed and stood up. “Now come on, my mum’s made treacle tart—and if we don’t get back soon, my little brother will’ve eaten it all.”

“Maybe I should stay awhile. My dad thought it might be a good idea.”

“Don’t be daft. You’ll freeze your bum off if you stay out much longer. Come back to mine now, and I promise we’ll come back tomorrow.”

Bobby let his friend pull him to his feet and lead him away from the ancient oak. Mike kept hold of his hand as they walked down the field, and Bobby held on tighter, determined not to let go.

T
HE
dull weather of the day before had returned with the new morning, but walking up to the top field with Mike, who laughed and joked about everything, made the trip back to the old tree far more enjoyable than it had been with his dad.

“So, what’s your thoughts about wearing your underwear on the outside?” Mike asked.

Bobby laughed. “I don’t think it works too well with boxer shorts.”

“Boxers? I thought you’d be a briefs man.”

“You’ve been thinking about my underwear?” he asked, giving Mike a playful elbow to the ribs.

Mike spluttered and went bright red, and Bobby hoped that wasn’t just a sign of embarrassment—that maybe Mike liked Bobby as more than a friend too. That thought did more to brighten Bobby’s day than the glimpse of sun starting to break through the cloud, and it chased away some of his worries about what he was in the field to do.

With a smug smile, Bobby walked on ahead and took a seat back under the tree. Mike sat next him, not saying a word, and Bobby stared upward at the leaves, waiting for a sign that today would be different.

The distant hum of a tractor’s engine and a few notes of birdsong were the only noises, and once again Bobby’s chest filled with heart-clenching disappointment. His eyes prickled, and he tried to hold back the tears, but he couldn’t. Large, wet tracks raced down his cheeks, and he leaned forward and rested his head and arms on his knees as he sobbed, pent-up disappointment and salty worries splashing into the soil.

“Please don’t cry, Bobby.”