Jack

JACK

         Mary lived on the poorest section of the share crop on the farm with her parents.  For all his experience and expertise, her father could not grow a crop on this land to save his soul.  He had seeded with cabbage and it would peek, then the seedlings would wither and die.  He plowed it under and started again with beets and again the sprouts died.  Pounding the table one night he screamed, “This land is damned.  We will starve and die here!”

         The following morning there was a knock on the door, Mary opened it to an old gray haired man with a wide brimmed straw hat.  His face is weathered and cracked with age lines.  He wore no shoes; his feet were hard with years of callus, his walking staff was as long as he tall and his clothes were tattered and shabby.  “Could I bother you for a drink of water?”

         Her father came up behind her putting his hand on her shoulder.  “We have little to give, but a cup of water we can provide.”  He invited the old traveler in and sat him at their meager table.

         After the old man had quenched his thirst he looked about the room.  “You seem to be in distress, your field is fallow.

         “It is the worst patch of the farm.  If I cannot grow a crop my family will die.”

         “Have you tried beans?  The earth here seems to be just right for a crop of beans.”  There is a twinkle in the old mans eye.

         “I have not, but I have no seed for beans.”

         The old man reached into his tattered shirt and from around his neck he produced a small leather pouch.  He carefully opened it and poured some of the contents on the table.  “These Beans will grown almost anywhere, they are a hearty breed!”

         Mary and her mother looked in wonderment at the few seeds that lay on the table.  “But we have not enough water to even soften the ground any more, the seasonal rains have subsided.”

         The old man picked up his staff and walked out the front door looking over the acre of baron land.  He continued to walk to the center of the field, raising a small cloud of dust with every step.  Stopping in the middle he squatted down, resting his staff over his knees and bowing his head.

         “He’s crazy, the old man is a fool!”  Father brushed the seeds off the table along with the empty tin cup that held the water.  “This is silliness!”  He continued to brood and wring his hands.  Mary gathered all the seeds from the dusty floor and carefully put them into the cup; the old man still squatting in the field.

         By midday the heat was almost unbearable, the old man had not moved and father was on his knees praying.  Suddenly the sound of thunder rumbled across the open farmland. Mother and Mary padded out and looked to see large black storm clouds on the horizon.  When they turned back to the door the old man was marching back into the hut.

         “The rain will soften and irrigate your ground,” He looked at the table with a stern look, “What have you done with my gift?”

         “I was angry, I am sorry, but…” Just then Mary came forward with the tin cup.

         “They are here.”  She placed the cup on the table.  From the tiny amount of moisture in the bottom of the cup, some of the seed had already germinated and were sprouting.  One vine was already peeking up over the lip of the cup.

         “I have proved myself by promoting the rain and giving the seed, I can promise a fruitful harvest and from these fruits you will have seed for the rest of your existence!”  He looked to the farmers two women with longing in his eyes. “In payment I wish a night with your daughter or wife.”

         Incensed with anger and rage; father pushed the old man out the front door into the dust, he landed on his back.  Mary watched as the tiny leaves of the vine instantly withered and began to die.  “The seed will not bare fruit, if you do not pay.”  The old mans statement was emphasized by a strike of lightning and an almost immediate blast of thunder.  With all the wind, black clouds and lightning, not a drop of rain fell. 

         Mother stared at the old man from behind her husband and he stared back.  “I will sleep in that grove,” He pointed across the field, “If you change your mind!”

         “Go, there will be no change, you are not to come back here!”  Father shouted and slammed the door.  He turned to see Mary holding the cup, all the tiny vines that had sprouted and hung dead over the lip of the cup.  That afternoon, not a drop of rain fell, even with the terrible wind and lightning raging overhead. 

         Mother prepared the evening meal and at dusk they all slipped into their beds, with the constant whine of the wind ripping at their small dwelling.  Sometime in the middle of the night the rain started to fall, a torrential downpour saturated the field.

         In the morning they found the leather pouch on the kitchen table filled with seed.  Mother never said a word and neither did Mary, but mother awoke with a different nightdress than she had gone to bed with and her hair was matted to her head with moisture. 

         Father had the best crop of beans, and Mary would have a brother.  Mother named him Jack. 

Word Count = 942