The Farm Ch. 11

Philip could barely croak out his answer. He understood. He understood he was a coward, a coward not to stand up to Cousin Maycott sooner. He understood that if anything happened to his grandmother it fell to him because he failed to act.

When Rud saw the belt mark on his neck, Philip pulled up his collar and turned his back. When Rud hitched the horse and prepared to go to town, Philip begged him not to. He told him they didn't have the law. He told him about the papers at the solicitor's office. He told him he needed him to stay on the farm and help him. Rud listened and nodded and thought about what Philip said. He didn't go to the solicitor's.

"Then keep yer head down. Bide yer time."

Time was something Cousin Maycott saw as running out. He knew a thing or two about getting what he wanted and he wanted the farm. He kept the boy in line with brutal amounts of farm work, isolation, concern for his grandmother, and more beatings. Never enough to push Rud to action. Not that he knew the full extent of it. Cousin Maycott executed what he considered his coup de grace on any rebellion Philip might initiate, though there was little mercy involved.

In the garden Philip worked the under the directions of his grandmother. She pointed with her cane and Philip pulled a weed or lifted a carrot from the dirt. She didn't talk. She never talked now. She smiled at Philip and pointed at the pea plants twining up the back wall. Philip searched among the leaves and found a few young pods and brought them back to the wooden chair. He placed one in his grandmother's hand and lifted one to his lips and bit through the green flesh and sucked the peas into his mouth. He let them roll on his tongue a moment then popped them between his teeth. His grandmother smiled at him and lifted the pod to her lips.

"Philip, do you want her to choke to death."

Cousin Maycott pulled the pod from Abigail's hand and threw it in the dirt. He helped her to her feet and steered her back to the house and handed Abigail to Mrs. Cousin. "Yer a fool. An uncaring brat. Don't ye care for yer granny?"

Philip opened his mouth to answer. Tears started in his eyes.

Cousin Maycott put his arm around Philip's shoulders and walked him to the end of the garden where a few tools were kept and lifted a shovel. "It's no matter, Philip. Take this. It's time ye understood how sick Granny is. Philip, I don't expect my dear cousin to live through the winter. Winter takes so many of the weak and old." He pushed the shovel into Philip's hands. "Come walk with me."

They walked up the hill to where the grave of Abraham lay next to the empty ones of his parents. The markers small, the graves well tended by Rud or Philip, whoever found a moment to sneak up the hill.

"So sad." Cousin Maycott dabbed at a tear. "The ground will be hard to turn and dig once the cold sets in. It's best ye dig the grave now." He thrust the shovel into the dirt and left Philip to hollow out Abigail's grave.

It was nothing more than a garden spade that he left with Philip on the hill. Philip began to dig. His hands were hard and calloused from farm work but the hard ground pulled new blisters from the skin. Rud found him that evening there kneeling in a shallow trough his arm across Abraham's headstone weeping. Philip was inconsolable. Philip was fifteen.

"Ah, boy, what's happened?" Rud knelt down and put his arm around Philip. "Is it Abigail?"

"Cousin Maycott says she won't last the winter. He says I'm to ready her grave."

"He's a cruel bastard that one. Let me do it for ye."

"No, Rud."

"Then let me help ye."

Philip looked up. "She's my grandmother. I'll do it."

Every day when the chores were done, Philip climbed the hill in the falling light and worked on the grave with the garden spade. It took him more than a month and late summer turned to autumn. He shed tears. He left the last of his boy self in the grave and the digging of it.

And Cousin Maycott applied his other plan and talked of soldiers and the army and glory and the making of heroes and adventure. He talked on through the cold winter in Abigail's parlor as the old woman sat by the fire.

"Granny," Cousin Maycott shouted in her ear, "Don't you think Philip'd make a striking fine soldier?"

Abigail smiled at Philip and patted his hand. Maycott may as well have asked her if Philip would make a good pope for all she understood. She knew Philip with his blue eyes and black hair so like her Abraham, but she knew little else. And so it went through the winter.

That spring Philip placed his grandmother's wooden chair in the garden and began turning the soil with the same garden spade. The air smelled of greening and life, the sun warm, the earth rich and dark as Philip turned the soil.

"Do you want the peas planted against the far wall, Grandmother?" Philip turned to ask her again.

She sat so still. Her eyes fixed on spot where Philip stood moments before, a smile just fading from her lips.

The solicitor, innkeeper and his wife, Rud, the Cousins Maycott, and Philip stood on the hill and listened to the minister finish his last prayer. The others turned to the house for tea and cakes while Philip and Rud lowered the cheap coffin into the grave. Philip sent Rud away and filled the grave alone.

Rud stood at the door of his room off the stable and watched Philip on the hill. A thin young man now in clothes too small. In clothes too worn. Rud turned to his room to get blind drunk.

Luck smiled on Cousin Maycott. It began when he received the letter from Abigail to come to the farm and it continued when he learned that recruitment for the army was planned in several villages including Gilling. He took Philip, who at six feet and muscled from hard work, was not questioned hard about his age. And Philip became a soldier at sixteen.

***

In all his reading, searching, and interviewing Alonzo never heard a hard or disparaging word about Philip until he sat in the dark farm kitchen and listened to Mr. and Mrs. Maycott. Once they learned that he hadn't come to turn the farm over to them in the most official and legal sense, they became markedly less hospitable. Their view of Philip less than charitable once they learned he wasn't dead or most likely not dead at all.

They painted a picture of a selfish boy who plagued his dear grandparents with demands and tantrums. A young man who contributed little to the farm once he left school and returned. They hadn't seen him nor did they expect to. Alonzo should look for him in taverns and brothels. Seek him out in gambling halls. If the man lived, he lived were he could profit from others not here where hard work and honest toil dictated the day.

Then Cousin Maycott leaned forward, lifted his hand, nodded at his wife and whispered, "He was alone with both his grandparents when they died." His wife nodded. They both nodded sadly.

Alonzo Tidewell kept his own counsel and left the kitchen feeling slightly ill and headed for his rented trap.

"So Denenby's those cousins now." The man stood near the horse and glared at Alonzo, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

A little taken aback, Alonzo answered with less than his usual even tone. "I'm looking for information on Philip Alexander Maycott."

The man looked at Alonzo and indicated a small hill. "Come with me."

They climbed the hill to a small family graveyard. There Alonzo saw three headstones and two wooden crosses. The arrangement of the graves was odd. Four graves parallel to each other and the fifth perpendicular to the four. Rud pointed at the cross and Alonzo read the words in black paint, "Philip, most loved."

He turned to the old man startled and trembling. To be so misled by the people in the kitchen. To hunt and travel and worry and to find this.

"Oh, it's empty. Those two are empty too. Those that belong to his parents. I couldn't let him disappear." Rud turned away to hide his emotion. "I put the marker at the foot of the others as the only way to bury him close to them all. Not him, his grave. They never found his body." His voice muffled and drifting on the air.

Alonzo waited to give the man time to collect himself. He reached and touched his arm. "I don't mean to distress you further, but we, er, I believe Philip is alive."

"Where?"

"I hoped I might find him here."

And the old man wept.

***

"Ye'll need to dig faster than that. It's a hard bitch when the earth's cold."

Prize stopped and looked at Tom. He'd had a thought, a feeling, a memory niggling so far back in his brain that it seemed to crawl right out of his spine. Digging in the cold. It was gone. Prize wiped his hands down his trouser legs and worked faster. He felt tears tickle his throat. He worked faster.

Tom left with Belle to gather a load of stones. When he returned, he saw Danny using the digging bar working on a large root. "Danny, let me help ye with that." They worked on the thick root together. The tension between them began to pull loose as the root pulled loose from the earth.

Prize fell asleep by the fire that night with his bread still in his hand. Tom pulled the winter quilt over him and placed the bread on the plate. Nanny, William, and Tom sat in silence and watched Danny sleep, each with their own thoughts.

Chickens and the wall. That was Prize's day. He worked hard. He slept deeply. He started to look forward to his time with Tom down at the wall. He grew strong again. He enjoyed the progress of the wall.

"Will ye come with me to load the stones, Danny?"

Prize smiled and put down his shovel. They rode on the cart down the lane and over the bridge that led to Leeshore. Tom pointed out the big house just visible beyond the trees. Tom turned the cart to the north to a rocky hillside. They stopped at a wall toppled by workmen and replaced with an ornate iron fence that surrounded a graveyard. Tom jumped down from the cart and opened the gate. He held it for Prize.

Five grave markers, three small lozenges, a marble stone with a butterfly in relief, and a grand obelisk of granite. Tom walked to the marble stone and pulled a few dried leaves from the base. Prize looked on.

"This here's Antony's grave. I like to stop and make it look nice." He pulled his cap from his head.

Prize stood awkwardly at the gate and waited. The three small lozenges with the word Baby on them held his eyes. They seemed as insubstantial as the bones they marked.

"Antony, Gordy, an' me explored this area. I'll show you the pirate cave up on the hill one day."

Prize shifted his eyes. He never thought of Gordy with a life that wasn't the cottage or before the cottage. Never as a boy who played pirate. It seemed inexplicably sad to Prize.

Tom patted Anthony's stone. "Let's load those stones and get home."

They walked back beside the cart to save the pony.

"Did you have fun?"

Tom turned and looked at Danny. "What?"

"Playing pirates. Was it fun?"

Tom laughed in relief. "Good fun."

They walked in silence to the small stone bridge. Tom shook his head and laughed at himself.

"Did you play pirates?"

"I don't think so."

"The scar on yer side, it could be from a pirate's sword." He wanted to kick himself.

Prize stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. Belle's hooves made a hollow sound as they crossed the bridge and turned up the hill to the freehold. They unloaded the cart in silence.

"I'm sorry, Danny."

"Why?"

Tom wanted to say he was sorry that Danny didn't play pirates or know where the white scar came from and that he saw him in the lamplight. And he. . . He didn't finish the thought.

Prize didn't ask again. They lifted the big rocks together and stacked them next to the footer.

Nanny saved the package until after dinner. The letter she opened and read. As she always did, she removed the money and hid it her knitting basket to give Daniel when he needed it. She passed the parcel to Daniel.

"You open it."

Prize reached reluctantly up from the hearth and took the package. He turned it in his hands and read the name on the label and turned the package. No one rushed him. A package was not to be rushed. He untied the string and folded back the paper. A book. A book beautifully bound in Morocco with the title embossed in gold. Far from the Madding Crowd. He ran his fingers along the cover and handed it to Nanny. The book was passed to William and then Tom. No one opened it.

"It's lovely. I'll put it here." Nanny placed it on the small bureau beneath the print of the boy and dog. She ran her fingers along the cover and returned to her seat.

"Aren't ye going to read it, then?" Tom leaned forward in his chair.

"My eyes, Tom. Will you?"

Tom blushed to the roots of his hair. "I don't read well, ye know."

"Get it here. I'll help ye."

Tom cleared his throat. He cleared it again. He pointed at the words as he read in a halting voice. "When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an," he stumbled on the next word. "Un, un."

"Let me see. Unimportant. It's unimportant." Nanny returned the book.

Tom ran his fingers through his hair and started again and stumbled again. He put down the book and stood.

Prize's smile was meant to encourage him, but Tom snapped, "And ye can do better." He picked up the book and thrust it at Prize.

"No, I don't read."

"Daniel, I saw you read the label on the parcel." Nanny looked at him hard. "Give it a try."

Prize took the thick volume and opened it. He didn't read the inscription written in a feminine hand. He licked his lips. "When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun." He didn't see the look Nanny shot at her husband and Tom.

"Lovely, Daniel. Isn't Farmer Oak the picture of you, Tom?

Tom blushed and sat back to listen as the story slowly unfolded. They didn't get far that night. Prize yawned midway through the first chapter and William drifted off in his chair his cold pipe in his hand. Nanny called the reading to an end and smiled at Prize. She placed the book next to the Bible and woke William.

That night Prize dreamed of Tom as strong as an oak and his wide, wide smile and his hands and his kisses.

The weather was threatening but Tom wanted to take Danny up to the pirate cave anyway. He thought he deserved a break from the wall, and they would pick up a load of stones. He wanted to kiss Danny again. He wanted to go back to that night after The Ruby Smoke and before the night in the room. And he wanted to share something of himself, a bit of a nice memory with Danny. He wanted him to have more than chickens and stones to be the good things. He wanted to see the cave again. After Anthony died and Gordy went to school, he didn't want to go back and be a pirate by himself.

"It's not like I remember it. Smaller and just a little hole in the hill." Tom stood at the mouth of the cave and touched the roof. "Oh, but we had big adventures up here. Gordy'd carry Anthony up on his back." Prize looked at him. "Anthony couldn't climb. His heart was weak and he was twisted up." Tom looked at his Danny, "I'm sorry, it isn't much."

Prize sat down on the dirt his legs crossed and looked out at the bare trees and the dark sky. He wanted Tom to kiss him. "It's a nice cave."

Tom laughed and turned. "It's not the same." He put his hand on Danny's hair. He did it without design. He did it to reassure himself. He took a deep breath when Danny moved away. "Oh."

Prize rose and lifted his face and before he stopped himself he kissed Tom. He kissed the wide mouth and drew away. He waited for what Tom did next. He held his breath.

"I'll kiss ye now, Danny. I'll not hurt you."

Tom moved his hands to the sides of Danny's face and tried to read his eyes. He kissed him and Danny kissed back sweetly and moved his body closer and lifted his arm to circle Tom's neck. They kissed again and Tom lifted Danny's arm free and stepped back.

Prize dropped his arms and looked at the dry dirt. A crow cawed in a barren horse chestnut tree. Always a whore. He started to leave.

"Wait." Tom slipped out of his coat and unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. "I'll have ye see me."

Prize saw him and wanted him. He lifted his hand and touched the hard muscles on Tom's chest. He ran his hand down his stomach and watched Tom shiver. He put his lips to a nipple and felt it harden. He ran his fingers up the strong back and listened to Tom sigh. He kissed him again along the blond curls on his chest. Tom kept his arms at his sides. Prize stopped touching and kissing. He waited and wanted.

"I'll love ye now if ye'll let me." Tom's voice low and hitched with emotion. He extended his hands palms up. "I'll love ye, Danny."

"Yes."

It was gentle and sweet, giving and tender, compassionate and gracious that lovemaking in the cave. Prize forgot all he'd learned in the cell and made love with Tom and Tom with him. He lost himself in the caresses and kisses. And he was Danny and not Prize. And he knew he was safe and he knew love. And when Tom entered him and made him shudder and tremble he arched his back and wanted more. And when Tom pulled him into his mouth warm and velvet he came. And when Tom held him close and touched him with his hands almost twice the size of his own and looked down at his body with its scars, Prize cried and frightened him.

"Did I hurt ye? Did I not. . .? He lifted Danny's face wet with tears. "Oh, don't weep. Oh, Danny, what have I done?" He touched the soft black hair.

Danny sobbed and didn't know why. He couldn't stop the tears. Tom started to pull away in confusion and Danny pulled him back. "You didn't hurt me." He rubbed at the tears on his face and more replaced them.

Tom wrapped him in his arms and rocked him and kissed the dark hair. Danny fell asleep in his arms and felt safe and loved. Tom held him and watched the even breathing. He ran his finger down the white scar on his side and looked at the soft circumcised penis resting on Danny's thigh and marveled at the beautiful man in his arms and knew he would always love him and everything he was.

***

The sullen March seemed to be in unusual good spirits as he helped Halden dig the hole behind the casks in the dirt floor of the basement.

He'd never liked Rupert, but his quick exit from this world did not justify his mood.

When the hole reached a depth to ensure containment the decomposition odor, Rupert's naked body rolled in, and the dirt shoveled over, March turned to Halden and asked for the remainder of the afternoon off. He had a few errands to attend to. And he was off to visit his hidey-hole cellar and begin his preparations for the Afterward.

He emptied the burlap sack on the dirt floor and touched the manacles and chain. He lifted them to his face and inhaled the odor of iron. He licked the iron and the taste of blood filled his mouth. It made him hard, hard to think of Prize, his arms pinned behind his back. Prize on his knees on the ground. He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers and shot his cum on the dirt.