Drerys' Guest

The next few days went as routine to establishing an acreage under new ownership. Land needed to be surveyed and allotted for consideration of harvest. Debris, both man-made and natural, needed to be assessed and carefully tended to, and structures needed to be thoroughly examined in fortifying against the approaching elements. It was in these tasks that Madeline received her father’s pride. Her enthusiasm to help, he admired. On a farm such as this, any hand, no matter how large or small, is always appreciated and well received. It was in the task of alleviating debris that led Madeline, under her father’s supervision, to the place where she had seen the thing. Under provocation of curiosity and hesitation of apprehension and fear did she step foot beyond the borders of their yard and into the long, yellow grass that dominated the orchard floor. She walked ahead of her father. The silence in the air shattered like glass as freshly deceased leaves gave in and broke under her feet. A slight breeze stirred and rustled the leaves in a gentle, rocking motion, coercing the weaker ones to give in, break away, and fall to the ground around her. This same breeze also stirred something some distance away. It waved and weaved through the air with each wisp of air that attempted to take it. Madeline’s curiosity peaked and she walked towards it. As she got closer she saw what it was and cried out.

“Daddy!”

He came running in response.

“What? Are you hurt?”

“No, no daddy, look.” She pointed to the end of an appendage of a branch that had broken off from a nearby tree.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “How peculiar is that?”

Mr. Drery stooped down to look at it. Then, slowly, he reached out and plucked it from where it had rested. In his hands he held what could only be determined as a lengthy tuft of animal hair. It was ghostly white, with speckles and streaks of gray intertwined within. But what was most perplexing was what it was attached to. It appeared as though it were fabric of some sort. It felt like cotton, and there were but a few slivers. Still, it was clearly recognizable in texture and pattern. It looked as though it were some sort of checkered cloth. Perhaps flannel? To Mr. Drery, this could be any sort of mystery with any number of ridiculous conclusions. To Madeline, it was evidence, if not proof of that strange and frightening thing she had observed not a week before.

That evening at dinner, Mr. Drery sat with hair in hand, staring and pondering any sense of such odd coupling. His wife looked at him but a moment and then shook her head in disapproval.

“Are you going to eat or stare at that thing all night?”

He didn’t respond.

“Well?” She protested further.

He put it down and replaced it with a spoon.

“Daddy? What do you think it is?”

“I’m not sure, Skipper. I’m not sure.”

“Could it be from that… that thing I saw?” She awaited an answer, concern growing in her eyes.

“I doubt it, Skipper. What you think you saw was just a dream, honey. Or maybe the night playing tricks on you. It happens sometimes, sweetie.”

“Well, whatever it is, I wish you wouldn’t bring such strange things to the dinner table,” Mrs. Drery chimed in.

“It could have disease. And you don’t want to jeopardize the whole house on account of your curiosity, now don’t you?”

Mr. Drery looked at his wife for a second and replied.

“I suppose you’re right, love. I suppose you are.”

He placed the strange object into the top drawer of an adjacent desk and finished his meal.

“That goes for you too Madeline, you hear? We are in a new place and got to be careful. We’re miles from the nearest hospital with only God to help us should something go wrong,” her mother lectured.

Madeline nodded in agreement.

“Good,” Mrs. Drery replied curtly. “Good.”

The night passed without incident as all slept soundly. Madeline was once again comfortable sleeping in her own bed, her curtains tied closed as a gesture of security. For when the morning came, the curtains provided space enough for the sun’s rays to etch along the her bedside and provide the necessary light to stir her from her slumber.

It was nearly week’s end when Mrs. Drery made note of a strange observation.

“You know, dear, it’s been nearly a week now and we haven’t seen any of our neighbors. Not one.” She seemed to almost take it personal.

“Well, love, it seems surprising that this sort of thing would rile you up. Seeing as how you were raised in the city and all, figures that you’d be used to people minding their own business,” Mr. Drery replied.

“Well, sure. But at least they’d say hello first,” she retorted.

He couldn’t argue with that. The woman had a point. Mr. Drery read the paper for a minute more, folded it up and spoke.

“I tell you what, I’ll go over to a neighbor’s house and introduce myself. I’ll break the ice and then I’m sure we’ll all be fast friends. How’s that sound?”

“Well, a little less sarcasm would be nice. But, sure, that sounds great.”

“Well then it’s settled, when afternoon comes by, I’ll set out to make a meeting.”

Mr. Drery set down his paper and left the room.

At about two or so, Mr. Drery walked along the dirt pathway the led from his house, across the road, and eventually connected to an isolated home on the far end of another field. As he approached, he observed the condition of the land that he treaded upon. It was withering. Cracking and broken, it seemed to have been unable to withstand the force of one hundred winters. The ability for crops to exist as they did before Drery’s observation was astounding. They surely must have been the offspring of some sort of invincible weed. And they bore edible fruits, though they were scarce and long since needed harvesting. Running along the length of the rows of crops and along their perimeters was a long, wooden fence in dire need of repair. It was once beautiful and white, but time and neglect had cracked and broke the wood and chipped the paint that once defined it. The only thing in need of minimal attention was the house, which seemed to be more than adequately comfortable by reasonable standards.

At that moment the door swung open.

“Yes, may I help you?” An elderly man stood wide and terrifying in front of the doorway.

“Uh, I, I live just across the way there, my name is Drery, Lyle Drery.” Mr. Drery extended his hand. But the eccentric old man just looked him up and down, staring daggers into his eyes.

“Sure, sure, sure, an’ what else? Hmm? You got somethin’ to sell don’tcha. Yer all thee same, you come in here an’ try an’ swindle us kind country folk. Well, I be havin’ none of it, ya hear. Just take yer agenda an’ take it elsewhere. I ain’t interested.” The old man turned and walked back inside, slamming the door in the process.

Drery just stood there thinking his wife should be thanking him or replacing him, or both. He stood there for a moment. Everybody deserves a second chance, right? He walked up to the door and knocked. A moment later a stirring noise came from inside and proceeded to get louder as it approached the door.

“You again!?” The old man said as he opened the door.

“Listen, sir. I just want to tell you that I just moved in next door and I’m coming here to say hello. That’s all.”

“No agenda,” the old man asked.

“No agenda other than to say hello on behalf of me and my wife,” Drery rationalized.

“Well alright then, dat’s more like it.” The old man extended his wrinkled, bony arm. Drery took his hand in his and shook it briskly.

“Well, my name be Cyrus Cobbs. I live here all me life. I took it over after me wife died, God rest her soul.” He stopped for a moment.

“How ya say ya got to come out here? Born and raised were ya?”

“Well, yes and no. I was raised in that farm behind us, but I left to live in the city when my Aunt needed my care. Recently, my father passed away and left me the farm. We moved in about a week ago.”

“Oh,” the old man said excitedly. “I knew your father Orson real well. I’m sorry to hear of his passing there, son. A real shame it is. Good man, like you I’m sure.” He laughed and slapped Drery on his shoulder lightly.

“I try Mr. Cobbs, I try.”

“Awe hell, call me Cy. Everyone ‘round here does. You say you got a wife? I ain’t seen her here next to ya. Figured, maybe she ain’t the meeting type?”

“No, no, sir, she just a little shy and reserved is all. Besides, she’s gotta watch our little girl. She’s napping and she likes her momma to be close. You know how little girls are.”

“Sure do, son, sure do,” replied the old man, chuckling between words.

“How the place look now? Been nearly a decade since I been inside,” the old man asked.

“Well, about how it looked from when you had been inside I presume,” Drery said. “My father didn’t like to change much. Set in his ways you may say. Decorations too. Believe me, sir, my wife nearly died when it came time to dust the place.”

They both laughed together as their imaginations ran with the picture Drery had painted. At that moment there came in between the two a comfortable rapport centered in their similar knowledge and experience of the late Orson Drery.

“I tell you what, Mr. Cobbs, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight. My wife isn’t from the country, but she sure cooks like it. You’d be in for a hearty meal,” Drery proposed.

The old man thought for a moment.

“Well, okay. But only on the condition that I can provide the entertainment,” he agreed cheerfully.

Before Drery could reply, the old man disappeared inside the house. Shortly thereafter he returned with an old, wooden fiddle in one hand, and a bow in the other. He brought fiddle to chin and bow to string and there began a most jovial and wild melody Drery’s ears had ever heard. Before a minute’s time, the old man stopped playing and looked at Drery.

“Agreed?” The old man’s eyes widened.

“Agreed,” Drery exclaimed, and shook the old man’s hand once more.

With feet on path and tune in head, Mr. Drery paid his departing respects to his new acquaintance and dinner guest and headed home. What an eccentric old man. But what a tune.