What the Earth Wants

When I say that the barn was special, there is something you should know. I don’t mean special in that hazy, sun-filled, precious memory kind of way, nor that it was a sanctuary that worked its magic for the myriad animals that we kept in there, though all of this was true. No, the barn was special in a different way.

Strange things could happen in the barn.

Case in point: Roman Garrullo.

Roman was a tall, gangly, lumbering man, all broad hands and dark hair. His family had known mine for as long as anyone could remember, and while it couldn’t be said that we were friends, we were familiar in the way neighbors are, when neighbors are few and far between.

Roman’s father, Con, had helped build the extension to the farmhouse when my mother had fallen pregnant with myself and Francis, and had loaned us the use of a tractor when our ancient beast had finally given up the ghost. Con was a stout, proud man who enjoyed telling my father all the ways he was going wrong, which were numerous.

Despite the fact that the Garrullos never seemed to be short of money, my father would always smile and shrug off this ‘advice’, telling me in private afterwards, “He can plow his furrow and I’ll plow mine. Doesn’t mean either of us is right.”

“What he means is, opinions are like assholes,” Francis had quipped, “everyone’s got one!”

That earned a gentle reprimand from my father.

“What it means is, boys, you’ve got to do what’s right for you, and the earth here’s telling me different.”

He was a bit of a hippy, my father, though not in the tie-dye, free love kind of way. No, he was a straight-up button-down and lace-up boots kind of guy. But he felt a connection to the world around him; to the land - to what others might have called Mother Nature or Gaia, but he always referred to as ‘the earth’. What ‘the earth’ wants. What ‘the earth’ knows. Sure, he drove us the 10 kilometres to church every Sunday with all the others, but we always sat at the back, and we always thanked the earth for our bounty at grace instead of the good Lord. The rest was just for show.

The last time I saw Con Garrullo, he was old and frail-looking, as though somehow he had suddenly aged, when he showed up at the farm driven by Roman, his eldest son. Roman held the door for him, helped him out, then leaned sullenly on the car when Con told him to wait.

I remember being startled by the contrast between Con and my father as they stood, deep in conversation, the wind rippling the golden fields beyond them. There were no more than a couple of years between them, but anyone would have said it was ten or more. I didn’t know it then, but Con was dying, and had come to strike a deal. He wanted the farm as part of his legacy for Roman.

Dad respectfully declined, smiling and shaking his head, and Con had gone off at him, erupting into a coughing fit that might have done for him there and then if Roman hadn’t escorted him back to the car.

The offer was handsome, Con had said. Money didn’t matter, my father had replied. It wasn’t what the earth wanted.

Con spat on the ground between them. He was dead within the month.

The next time I saw Roman was in the barn.

It stood to the right of the house, solid and permanent-looking, a feature of the landscape. Apart from its size, and its sense of…belonging, there wasn’t anything particularly special about the way the barn looked. The red paint was old and peeling, the timber warped and buckled in places, but the gambrel roof was sound and the structure was strong.

The way it felt, however, was another matter. You could sense it, out in the field, a silent hum, a beacon, pulling you in. Dust motes floated in sun beams. The whole place creaked and sighed like a ship. The animals, when they were herded in of an evening, would suddenly still, their grunting and braying quelled, their breathing slow and even. As though they knew they were coming home.

It was like it recharged them, and it had the same effect on people, too. Francis and I would hang out in there as often as we could, reading or playing darts in the hayloft. Sometimes we would hide from mom and dad, determined to spend the night out there, but my father would never allow it.

“All things need to rest,” he would say, and we were only half-sure that he was referring to the animals.

We were up to our tricks the night we saw Roman. Mom was sick, and dad was too busy to chase us inside - probably grateful for the peace and quiet, too - but we waited all the same, lights out, listening to the sleeping animals and watching the crescent moon from the window.

We were listening for dad, but what we heard was him: Roman.

He was coming through the field, the swish of the wheat and the crunch of earth crumbling underfoot carried on the still night air to the loft.

Francis was lying on his back, tossing and catching his baseball, but when I sat straight he immediately stopped. Twin telepathy in action.

“What is it?” he hissed, but I held out a hand: wait.

I strained my eyes as Roman’s lumbering shadow crossed the bare track between the field and the barn.

He was coming inside.

Quickly, we scrambled over to the edge of the loft and waited.

There was a long, slow creak as the door opened.

Moonlight spilled in through the gap, throwing Roman’s long shadow on the straw-strewn floor.

A pause.

Then he began to move, his heavy footfalls accompanied by a a sound like liquid sloshing inside a metal container. He was carrying something.

I craned my neck, trying to see, leaning out as far as I could, my hand trembling on the wood.

Francis pulled me back. His face was grey in the darkness, a shadowy mirror of my own.

“He’s going to burn us down.”

No. He was wrong. He wouldn’t. But grief could do strange things to a person.

We waited, listening.

Nothing.

I nodded at Francis and he let go so I could peer out again.

Roman was standing there, in the middle of the barn. Just standing there.

I don’t know how long we waited like that, waiting to see what he would do. Not long enough for dad to come looking for us, but long enough to know that something was very wrong.

“I’m going down,” I said.

Francis nodded.

I looked down at his hand holding my arm and then back at his face.

He swallowed and let go.

Slowly, I lowered myself down the ladder, slipping through the shadows towards Roman’s tall figure.

I stared from the safety of the stall. Was he waiting for something? Did he know we were there?

A hand on my shoulder made me start.

Francis’s face loomed beside me, eyes fixed on Roman.

“What’s wrong with him?” he said.

I didn’t answer. All I knew was that something was very, very wrong.

Roman gave a loud grunt of exertion, and there was another metallic slosh, and I could see that Francis was right - he was holding a jerry can.

Roman gave more of a wail this time, his whole frame shaking.

It was as though he was frozen, like when we played stuck in the mud when our cousins came to visit. He was fighting it, but there was no doubt. He was rooted to the spot.

“What’s he doing?” Francis said.

“It’s the barn,” I breathed, and stepped out into the moonlight.

Roman started, but still he didn’t move. I could make out his eyes, glittering in the darkness, watching me.

“It’s no good,” I said, overcome with certainty. “It won’t let you.”

Another grunt.

I stepped nearer. I could smell the whiskey and sweat on him. And the gasoline.

“Why are you doing this?” I said.

“Get out of here, kid,” he growled.

I stepped closer.

He looked terrible, the fuzz on his chin and cheeks almost a beard, bags under his eyes.

He was shaking.

“My dad says it’s not the barn,” I told him, “It’s what’s underneath, in the earth. A place where things come together.”

Roman’s eyes flickered at me from under his heavy brow.

“The rules are different here, anyway," I said. “You can’t take a life.”

“I don’t want to take a life,” Roman said. “I said, get out of here!”

I could see the two battles going on - his body against the barn, and the one in his head.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” I said softly.

Roman huffed at that and looked away.

“It’s not our fault he’s dead,” Francis piped up, and I saw that he had stepped out from the stall.

Roman scowled at him.

“Killing us won’t bring him back,” Francis called again, undeterred.

“Ah!” Roman cried. “You have no idea…”

“If you’re not trying to kill us, then why have you got that?” I nodded at the jerry can.

Roman regarded it. He tried to raise it, straining with all his might, but it was like trying to lift a truck.

“This farm,” he said, through gritted teeth, relenting, “It’s supposed to be mine. All of this.”

“Dad wouldn’t sell it to you, it’s ours!” Francis called.

I shot him a look: cool it. Clearly the twin telepathy thing needed a bit more work.

“Why does it matter?” I said.

Roman groaned and raised his chin to the rafters.

“Our crops. Something’s wrong. The land’s no good. Pa knew it. He mortgaged the farm. You were never affected, he thought….” He tailed off, broken.

“So if you couldn’t have it you thought you’d burn it down,” Francis said quietly.

“I just wanted to scare you,” Roman said, unable to look at us.

“You could have taken the money; bought somewhere else,” I said.

Roman gave a bitter laugh. “That easy. Just throw away everything we’d built. That farm was his life.” At that, tears came, streaming down his face.

“What about us?” Francis said.

Roman looked between us. “I don’t know. I didn’t know what to do.”

I stepped towards him, almost close enough to touch.

“I’m sorry your Pa is gone,” I said. “But there’s a part of him in all of this now.” I glanced around the barn. “Is this what he’d want?”

I stepped closer again and put out my hand to his, quivering on the jerry can.

“You have to do what’s right for you,” I said, and felt it still.

Roman looked startled, and then his features softened.

Gently, he lowered the can to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, and more tears came.

My father finally came looking and found us like that in the barn. He saw the jerry can and looked at our faces, but he never asked, and we never told, though I think he knew all the same.

We helped Roman Garrullo till the soil on his land, Francis and I, and my father gave him work and made sure his family were taken care of while he let it rest. In time the crops came back to life, better even, dad said, than when Con would give him advice. And if anyone asked him how he did it, Roman would shrug and smile and say simply, “It was what the earth wanted.”

Like I said, strange things could happen in the barn.