The 31st Annual Conference Produce Conference

‘An Apple and Pear case, Part I’, 28th July, 1959

By Jon Sully

The town of Conference is listed in the Guinness book of world records in two sections. On one count, its annual produce competition boasts more than a dozen records for the various gigantic apples, pumpkins and pears (among other things) which are grown there. On the other, the town itself boasts the highest number of unexplained disappearances per capita since the turn of the 20th century.

To the average reader, I’m sure it will seem as though those two cannot possibly be related to one-another - and that may well be true. It would go against my journalistic nature and integrity, however, to dismiss the possibility out of hand. Thus, dear reader, I embarked upon my quest to infiltrate the 31st annual Conference Produce conference - and determine once and for all whether there was something altogether more sinister sequestered at the bottom of the apples and pears.

I arrived in Conference early in the day, and found the town undergoing quite a transformation. Up and down the high street both brightly-coloured bunting and market stalls were being erected, selling prizewinning seeds, Miracle Gro, weedkiller, and, of course, refreshments. The Conference conference was about to begin.

My taxi driver made pleasant, informative smalltalk as we traversed the town, largely bemoaning the industrialisation of the produce-growing business.

“All these pesticides can’t be good for the birds and the bees, sir, that’s all I’m saying. And the fertiliser just seems a bit much to me; why do we have to dig up chemicals hundreds of miles away to feed plants here in Conference? I mean in the olden days you’d just bury an ‘orse under your field and Bob’s your uncle…”

I enjoyed his company during the drive, although I must confess my mind was more focused upon my destination than our conversation.

Among the multitude of fantastic farmers residing in Conference, there are at least a dozen who could be considered stars, each holding numerous titles and, more often than not, at least one world record. Yet even amongst these acclaimed agriculturalists, there is one who stands head and shoulders above the rest; a master among masters, with more awards to her name than most of the others combined: a Peruvian woman by the name of Mama Pacha. Her villa, therefore, was to be my first stop.

Mama Pacha’s villa was situated on the outskirts of town, in a small valley overlooked by two picturesque, wooded hills. Local legends claimed that the hills were haunted, though whatever spirits inhabited them clearly bore no ill will towards Mama Pacha’s orchards, whose trees hung heavy with delicious-looking fruit.

The villa itself was smaller than I’d expected, seeing as it was the residence of a world-famous (within certain circles, at least) cultivator of produce. Mama Pacha herself, however, was the epitome of the term ‘larger than life’. Heralded by a chorus of barking dogs even as she opened the door, the legendary agriculturalist stood six feet tall and almost as broad, and radiated warmth and energy despite her advanced age.

“Come in, handsome! Don’t be standing at the ceremony, I am no queen,” she boomed before we’d even introduced ourselves. Behind her, I could see the wagging of several brown, white and black tails.

Not one to decline a welcome invitation - or unsolicited flattery - I shortly found myself seated in a cozy sitting room, surrounded by ornate orchids, colourful chilli plants and a pleasing pattern of interwoven ivy which appeared to coat both the exterior and interior walls of the villa. After a belated round of introductions, I asked Mama Pacha about her status as a local legend.

“They flatter me, the people here, they are very kind. I just love to grow things. As you can see!” She gesticulated with one hand at the verdant decor which surrounded us, the other absent-mindedly scratching behind the ear of one of her many dogs.

“So what’s your secret?” I asked.

“Secret to what? Looking so young?” She laughed; a rich, exuberant sound which seemed to penetrate down to the very bedrock of the house. “Happiness is my secret, Mr. Sully. Secret to living, and to growing life. Love and happiness.”

“So there’s no special technique that you use to cultivate your crops? No secret ingredient?” She shook her head.

“Leave the young to their fertilisers and pesticides. Mama Pacha prefers to do things in the old way.”

I could tell I wasn’t going to get a top tips list worthy of the Gardener’s World column out of the old lady, so I changed pace. “And what of your story?”

Mama Pacha had, she explained, immigrated from Peru during her youth, leaving her war torn homeland to begin a new life. The villa in which she lived had been a mere hunting shed then; the valley having been considered untameable before her arrival. For all her assertion that she was no queen when we’d first met, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was very much a guest in her queendom.

“When I came here, it was all long grass and thistles, brambles and burrs. I don’t like this. Nature is good, but it should know its place. The hills are where Nature belongs.” She gestured out of the window, towards the hills. “Not the valley. It is too warm and peaceful here, the soil too nurturing. This is a place for crops, not wild things.”

I took the opportunity to mention the hills in the context of the local legends surrounding them. I expected another booming laugh, and was rewarded with a sage nod instead.

“Haunted they are, Mr. Sully. You would do well to stay out of them.”

I searched the woman’s brilliant green eyes and found no humour there. “So you’ve seen the spectres that haunt them for yourself?”

“I do not need to. People have vanished, that is proof enough.”

“But surely-”

“Ah, I am sorry, Mr. Sully. Where is my hospitality? I made Alfajores this morning and have not offered you any.” Mama Pacha rose, her canine companions making way for her as she made her way into the kitchen and returned with a tray of sweet, creamy biscuits and two bottles of iced cola. This line of inquiry, it seemed, was over - but I had not yet gotten the answers I sought.

My taxicab and I trundled along the road towards the town hall and library, passing as we did the bustling Conference conference conference center; a gargantuan, sprawling marquee situated in the midst of a grand field kept fallow solely for this purpose.

Upon arrival at the library, I was taken aback by the grandeur of the place. Stone lions flanked the entrance, and the interior was floored with carpet so rich as to render one’s footsteps wholly inaudible. I felt almost abashed to break the silence by enquiring with the librarian on duty - a friendly and knowledgeable young lady by the name of Suzanne - where I might find a record of the town’s history.

Following my well-trained journalist’s nose, it wasn’t long at all before I found what I was searching for: details of the innumerable unexplained disappearances which had occurred since records began in the late 1800’s.

Fred and Martha Harrowgate, visitors to the town of Conference for a long weekend, were reported missing on September 15, 1947 after failing to return from an afternoon walk in the Old Conference Hills. A search party was dispatched, but was unsuccessful in locating the couple.

Footprints were located, a police source has confirmed, but their direction was obscured by numerous paw-prints around a small stream running down the hill. One civilian member of the search party suggested wolves, but none have been spotted this far south in recent years.

This is only the latest in a string of disappearances which have stricken the otherwise sleepy town of Conference, the most recent taking place in…

I flicked back in my record, and checked the previous entry. A similar story. 1938. An individual this time, hiking in the hills, vanished without a trace; his trail lost among pawprints. 1926. Same story. And again in 1919, and in 1911.

Well, I wasn’t going to learn anything from sitting in a library that the local police hadn’t already uncovered. If I was going to unravel this mystery, I was going to have to brave the woods myself.

Without further ado, I set off to the local store to stock up on supplies. It was time for a hike.

The afternoon was well under way as I started my ascent. Unable to find a guide willing to accompany me, I struck out on my own.

The trees were tall and dense, and despite the summer sun I was grateful for the battery-powered torches the store had provided. I walked for perhaps an hour before reaching the site of the most recent disappearance.

A stream whispered softly as it trickled by, lazily sauntering over rocks and mud towards the valley below. The trees were not quite so dense this close to the water, and I was able to give the torches a rest. Looking about, I could see no sign of paw prints - but I did spot something on the edge of my vision flowing down the stream. It looked to my eye like a tuft of long, brown fur. Fur. Paw prints. I began to follow the stream, keen to get a closer look at it.

To my dismay the sluggish, shallow path steepened shortly thereafter and I had to break into a brisk jog to keep pace, but I was convinced that my quarry would provide answers which I could not find elsewhere. Alas, after a few minutes I lost sight of the tuft - but, looking around, found that I had stumbled upon something far more exciting.

All around me, the ground was covered in pawprints.

I examined the prints. Happily, my many talents happen to include tracking. They led me down, towards the valley… and towards Mama Pacha’s orchard.

As I descended, my mind began to race. The pawprints at the scene of the disappearances; Mama Pacha’s copious pets and reticence to pursue my earlier line of questioning… And then I remembered my driver’s words from that morning: “In the olden days you’d just bury an ‘orse under your field…” I shivered as I arrived at the edge of the forest… and found myself face-to-face with Mama Pacha herself.

She was standing in her orchard, basket in hand, gathering pears from a heavily-laden tree. Her eyes widened as she saw me, and I saw her look down and regard the pawprints which led back to her orchard. She opened her mouth to shout, and behind her I heard dogs begin to bark.

“Wait!” She cried.

I turned and fled.

Back into the forest, up the hill, as fast as my legs could carry me. Every moment I ran, I heard the barking of hounds at my back - yet I ran on.

They began to close, of course, having the advantage of an extra pair of limbs, but I had one last trick up my sleeve. I removed my jacket even as I approached the stream, rubbed it on my face and head, and tossed it to the side - then leapt over the stream and kept running. I continued, blood pounding in my ears, and after a few minutes of agonising exertion was rewarded with the sound of barking growing faint.

Panting much like my canine pursuers, I allowed myself a moment to rest. Around me, the shadows grew longer. Whilst I caught my breath, I began to formulate a hushed plan of escape.

They’ll likely have found my discarded jacket by now, and concluded that I crossed the stream. The only question is where, I theorised. Therefore, the choice is to try to double back unnoticed, or to go around.

Well, I didn’t much fancy my chances in a drawn-out chase around the hills, so slowly, silently, I began to slink back down the hill. Around me, shadows continued to unfurl, coiling long and sinuous from trees and undergrowth alike...

In the distance I could still make out the muffled baying of Mama Pacha’s pack. Perhaps it was my single-minded focus upon that that kept me oblivious to what, even then, was materialising around me.

It was my eyes that alerted me first. I froze as I saw a flicker of movement on my periphery, my neck prickling as hairs began to raise. Slowly I turned, keeping the torchlight low so as not to give myself away.

I needn’t have bothered.

I was surrounded. Large, dusk-pelted beasts stalked silently towards me on all sides. I tried to retreat, and gasped as I felt my back collide with the trunk of a great tree. In the harsh light of my torch I saw more materialising from the gloom, seeming to form from the shadows themselves. My back pressed into the bark of my tree, I squinted to get a better look at the foremost among them.

Its fur was black as night, its head and body long and angular. Behind it hung a broad, bristly tail. Fox. I thought. But it was much too large.

Still silent, it opened its jaws. Even their contents were midnight black - but in the light of the torch I could make out the jagged shapes of teeth. Gripping the torch and with my own teeth clenched tight, I awaited my fate.

I watched as the obsidian fox braced its paws against the ground, then launched itself forwards on powerful haunches, soaring through the air towards me. I squeezed shut my eyes, let out a wordless prayer, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

When a count to five yielded no searing pain, I opened my eyes again. Before me, shadowy jaws snapped furiously open and shut - still eerily silent, despite their closeness. Wide-eyed, I looked past them to the rest of the fox - and froze.

It hung in the air, suspended in place by a curved tree branch. Even as I watched, the branch wound itself tighter around the fox’s midsection and began, slowly, to raise it higher into the air.

Around me, the other beasts were rapidly becoming similarly ensnared. I stared dumbfounded as snarling shadow-creatures were constricted in brambles, entombed by roots, and even in some cases impaled upon saplings which burst suddenly from the ground in an explosion of violent birth.

Beneath my feet the ground began to tremble, first gently, then with greater vigour. One by one the captive monsters began to wink back into shadow as a different, greater figure emerged from the night.

She stood as tall as some of the trees, her hair flowing as moss, ivy and vines about her waist. Where before there had been skin she bore bark of rich mahogany - but still, her eyes sparkled green. About her feet trotted her dogs, quieted now that their quarry was gone.

I stood, shaking like the leaves of her dress as she extended a colossal hand to me. Gingerly I stepped into it, and felt my knees buckle as I was raised to meet Mama Pacha’s gaze. When she spoke, I heard the creaking of boughs; the thunder of restless bedrock; and the whisper of deep, flowing water.

“I think, Mr. Sully, that we have some talking to do.”

Welp, that’s it! 8 stories in 8 weeks. What a ride it’s been. Thanks for sticking with me.

This one was an odd one, if I’m honest - it feels a little rushed, but I’ve really enjoyed writing it - and exploring some lesser-known mythology as well! For those who are interested:

Pachamama was an ancient Incan goddess of agriculture, motherhood and earthquakes.

Foxes, or Atoq-kuna in Quechua, were regarded in Inca mythology as an ill omen at best, and deliberately evil at worst. I took a bit of creative license turning them into shadow-monsters, however.