{"id":4937,"date":"2013-01-11T00:00:27","date_gmt":"2013-01-11T05:00:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=4937"},"modified":"2013-01-30T14:35:06","modified_gmt":"2013-01-30T19:35:06","slug":"the-ploughman","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/the-ploughman\/","title":{"rendered":"The Ploughman"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Hoof beats echoed through the gentle rain and brought the ploughman to his senses. He sighed and let the soil trickle through his fingers, back to the ground where it belonged. \u2018It\u2019s just not what it used to be,\u2019 he muttered, allowing the wind to swallow his words.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello there!\u201d The old man turned around and leant on his staff. His beard was matted with sweat, and his grey eyes looked older and wiser than ever. \u201cHave you heard the news?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI haven\u2019t.\u201d Mr. Slater leapt from his mount and landed in the mud. His features were bright with excitement, and he leant towards the ploughman like a conspirator.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s happened, we\u2019re at war.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d The ploughman busied himself with the horse\u2019s harness, tightening the straps and checking the coat for blemishes. Before long, the horse would be too old to work. \u201cIs that all?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean? It\u2019s exciting! They say it\u2019s going to be over before Christmas, so I\u2019m sending young Joe to the barracks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you\u2019ll have no young hands on the farm! What if something happens?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe war will be the making of the boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

The ploughman clicked his tongue and the tired stallion trudged forwards, dragging the cart through the mud.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, I\u2019ll have to hire some help, but it\u2019ll only be for a couple of months.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI see.\u201d<\/p>\n

The rain was heavier now, and Ellison looked at the sky.<\/p>\n

\u201cI say, Jack\u2014why are you outside in this weather? Can\u2019t you wait until the morning? This is no time to be baling\u2014we\u2019re at war, don\u2019t you know?\u201d<\/p>\n

The ploughman whistled softly and the horse slowed to a halt.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does the war have to do with me? I just don\u2019t have the time, Joe. I just don\u2019t have the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

It was dark when he hung up the harness and led the horse in to the stable, and the rain had been replaced by a cacophony of hoots and birdsong. It was cold for a night in July, but Jack welcomed the reprieve after a day of sweating in the fields. He patted his pockets and pulled out a beautiful, hand-carved pipe, and he was soon filling his lungs with cheap tobacco. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn\u2019t notice the figure beside the farmhouse until it rose to greet him.<\/p>\n

\u201cJack?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood evening.\u201d The young farmer walked over and shook the ploughman\u2019s hand by the moonlight. \u201cWhat brings you here so late?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Have you heard the news? I\u2019ve been thinking about it all day.\u201d Excitement shone in his eyes, and he vibrated with patriotism. \u201cWe\u2019re at war!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m signing up tomorrow. Tess will try to look after the farm, but I suppose I\u2019ll have to get a couple of boys in from the village. It\u2019s no work for a woman, although I\u2019m sure her father will be happy to help where he can. He used to be a farm-boy himself, as a lad. It\u2019s not ideal, but it\u2019ll all be over before Christmas. They\u2019ll only have to take care of the harvest, and I\u2019ve trusted them with that before.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll keep an eye on them when I can.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat would be amazing. To tell the truth, I came here hoping to ask for something similar.\u201d The ploughman smiled and invited his neighbor inside, but he declined the offer. \u201cI can\u2019t stay, Jack,\u201d he said, lifting his hat from the low wall. \u201cThere\u2019s a war to prepare for.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The nights grew longer and the days grew colder, but the ploughman worked stoically on. Ellison Jr. and Mr. Slater were fighting for their country, and the old man kept his promise and checked on the neighboring farms. Then the winter came.<\/p>\n

The ground and the work grew harder, and the ploughman toiled from sunrise to sunset. The harvest was good, and there was plenty of work to keep him busy until the sowing season. Fences needed fixing and hay needed baling. Even Mary, the elderly horse, needed new shoes.<\/p>\n

Late one night, when Jack was sitting alone in front of a roaring fire, he heard a heavy knock at the door. With a sigh, he threw another log on to the fire and walked across the cold floor to answer it. As an afterthought, he took his shotgun from the wall and pointed it through the crack in the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho is it?\u201d he growled. He wasn\u2019t used to visitors, and it was unheard of for a stranger to knock on his door at night. \u201cI warn you, I\u2019m armed.\u201d A pitiful whimper echoed through the darkness, and Jack recognized the voice but not the tone.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t shoot!\u201d it cried. \u201cPlease, Jack \u2013 it\u2019s me!\u201d<\/p>\n

The ploughman lowered his weapon and pushed the door open, giving the visitor a glimpse of the fire. Mr. Slater was a mess \u2013 his face was pale and gaunt and his hair was matted with sweat. He was wearing his army uniform, but one of the arms hung uselessly at his side. He noticed the ploughman\u2019s unhappy stare and explained.<\/p>\n

\u201cI lost my arm to a German shell, so they sent me home. The fools, I\u2019ve got plenty of fight left in me.\u201d The ploughman stared sadly at the empty sleeve.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you\u2019d better come inside,\u201d he said, standing aside for the young man to enter. \u201cLet\u2019s have a nip of whiskey and you can tell me all about it.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Winter dragged on and money was growing short. Jack ate Christmas dinner with the Slaters, and he agreed to help on their farm in exchange for a patch of land, which he could use to grow for himself. He would\u2019ve preferred to avoid the work, but he hadn\u2019t the heart to refuse. The shell shock had set in and Slater was finding it hard to concentrate on agriculture. His wife tried to support him, but life isn\u2019t easy for a one-armed farmer. Even with the help of his horses, it was difficult for him to work the fields and to cart his produce to the market.<\/p>\n

But eventually the ground began to thaw and the trees started to blossom. Christmas passed and the end of the war seemed further away than ever. The agricultural season began again, and the ploughman\u2019s hours grew longer and harder. Then, news came from abroad.<\/p>\n

He was enjoying a rare respite from work, drinking local scrumpy in the village pub with Mr. Slater. They\u2019d finished work early and were discussing new advancements in machinery when Ellison rushed in, brandishing an empty bottle and wobbling on the spot.<\/p>\n

\u201cPint of whiskey,\u201d he demanded, approaching the elderly landlady and breathing fumes all over her.<\/p>\n

\u201cQuick, before I fetch my shotgun.\u201d At the other end of the bar, her husband looked up from his cards and grunted.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you\u2019re looking for trouble, you can walk out of that door and find somewhere else. I\u2019m not having any violence.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou, sir, are good for nothing.\u201d Slater was already on his feet, but the ploughman was slower to rise. It took their combined strength to shepherd him out of the front door and in to the cool night.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you?\u201d they demanded, as they began the long walk back to Ellison\u2019s farm.<\/p>\n

\u201cI got a letter,\u201d he replied, and began to cry. They weren\u2019t the delicate, gentle tears of a woman scorned \u2013 it was a deluge of sorrow, like sweat dripping from the eyes. \u201cIt\u2019s my son, he\u2019s dead!\u201d<\/p>\n

The three men paused, and Mr. Ellison fell to his knees. Nobody spoke, and the clouds obscured the moon and covered the stars like a curtain. The farmers tried to pull the mourning father to his feet, but he was stubborn and had gravity on his side. Finally, he looked up at them, with a face that was worn by age and pain.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I wasn\u2019t afraid of damnation, I might have done something stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t talk like that,\u201d said the ploughman, crouching down beside him. \u201cThings are never that bad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s right,\u201d said Slater. \u201cYou need to sober up and look at things properly. Is this what your son would want? Kneeling in a ditch, abandoning your wife, your farm, your sanity?\u201d The distraught farmer shook his head and climbed unsteadily to his feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cI suppose you\u2019re right. I need to talk to a priest. Jack, would you be kind enough to walk me home?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know me, Joe. Always happy to help.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The season pressed on and Slater was still struggling to adapt to a one-armed lifestyle. Mr. Ellison was still in mourning, and he worked the fields in a mud-spattered funeral suit. As for the ploughman, he was working harder than ever. He started before dawn and finished after sunset, and he lived on four hours of sleep. None of the farmers were making money, and they were living on their own produce. Then came the great storm.<\/p>\n

The animals were restless all day, and the ploughman\u2019s muscles were so stiff that he struggled to climb out of bed. His staff had fallen away in the night, and it was too far away for him to reach. He had to pull himself up on the dusty dressing table, and that meant getting up on the wrong side of the bed.<\/p>\n

The storm grew throughout the day, starting with a fine rain that gathered in speed and ferocity. By the late afternoon, all of the farmers were seeking shelter inside their houses, and it grew angrier than ever after the sun went down. The glass rattled in the windowpanes and screamed as the rain flew in to it. The ploughman sat before the fire, warming his old bones as he waited for the weather to change. Nearby, Mr. Ellison drank gin and argued with his wife, and the Slaters bedded down with their newborn. It felt as though the whole world was waiting for the morning, which rolled around inevitably with a brand new sun and a terrifying silence.<\/p>\n

Jack was the first of the farmers to rise\u2014he struggled to sleep when the work was over, and the angry wind and the empty house conspired to keep him awake. He dressed quickly and lit his pipe, but it was a long time before he dared to leave the house and inspect the damage. When he did, he wished that he\u2019d stayed in bed.<\/p>\n

All of his hard work was wasted. The farm lay in ruins, ravaged by the storm. Where the crops weren\u2019t underwater, they\u2019d been ripped out of the ground or battered so badly that they were fit for nothing. The fences had been ripped apart, and they littered the fields like bodies on a battlefield. Most of the animals had wandered off in to the night, and Mary, the elderly horse, was dead. Judging from the chaos inside her stall, she\u2019d panicked and tried to break the walls with her heavy feet. The ploughman stood atop a knoll and surveyed his farm, and he wept.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The ploughman worked hard to repair the damage and to cut his losses, but the season was drawing to an end and there was little that he could do. He couldn\u2019t believe that so much could be destroyed in such a short space of time. He managed to recover a scattering of his livestock and he had some grain in storage, but he knew that it wasn\u2019t enough to last the winter. That was why he hobbled across the lazy countryside to the Slaters\u2019 farm on the other side of the village.<\/p>\n

Mr. Slater was still working when he arrived, but his young wife made the ploughman comfortable with a cup of strong tea. Half an hour later, he returned from the fields.<\/p>\n

\u201cEvening, Jack. How are things? I hope that my wife has provided for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, you\u2019re a lucky man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat I am. So what can I do for you?\u201d The ploughman played uncomfortably with his hat, and he stared gloomily in to the fireplace.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m struggling,\u201d he began. \u201cYou know all about the damage at my farm and how hard I\u2019ve worked to repair it. I\u2019ve been looking at my supplies, and I don\u2019t have enough to last through the winter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI follow you, Jack,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here to ask whether I can harvest my section of your fields. Normally I wouldn\u2019t ask, but…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe problem is,\u201d interrupted Slater, rising to his feet. \u201cWe\u2019re both grateful for your help, but we have our son to provide for and times are hard. Perhaps if things were better…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s alright,\u201d he said, shaking his friend by the hand. \u201cI understand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t Ellison promise a share of his land to you, old friend?\u201d The ploughman smiled, sadly.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe did. I\u2019ll go right over to see him.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what do you say, Joe? Do you think you can help me?\u201d Ellison glanced nervously at his wife and drained his glass.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d love to help you, I really would,\u201d he said, offering the ploughman another drink. \u201cBut things aren\u2019t going well. You\u2019ve seen for yourself how our crops failed, and the chickens just aren\u2019t laying. We\u2019ve tried everything, haven\u2019t we dear?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe have,\u201d agreed his wife, dutifully. She began to clear the table, but she was waved away by her impatient husband.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot now, dear. Can\u2019t you see that we\u2019ve got company?\u201d He turned to the ploughman and apologized. \u201cNow, where were we?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve tried everything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, we have. I\u2019m sorry, I\u2019d help you if I could. Didn\u2019t you have a similar deal with Slater?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI did,\u201d said Jack. \u201cI\u2019ll pay him a visit.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The autumn drew to an end, and the winter freeze began. All of the farmers were hungry, but the ploughman\u2019s supplies were exhausted. Even his chickens were dead, swallowed with the gruel that sustained him. Now, lying in his bed, too weak to forage for food or to light the fire, he was dying.<\/p>\n

With an almighty effort, he lifted his head from the mattress and looked over at the wall. The kind faces of his wife and daughter looked down upon him. He tried to reach out to them, but he didn\u2019t have the strength.<\/p>\n

\u201cElena,\u201d he whispered. \u201cMy love.\u201d His family stared down at him, immortalized by the canvas, waiting for him to join them.<\/p>\n

A cold wind blew down through the chimney, and the ploughman sobbed himself to sleep. The breeze cut through his bones and his valiant heart surrendered to the inevitable. The English sky grew darker; a storm was on the way.<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Dane Cobain is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he\u2019s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found in front of a screen tweeting as @DaneCobain<\/span><\/a> or developing his website, www.danecobain.com<\/span><\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Hoof beats echoed through the gentle rain and brought the ploughman to his senses. He sighed and let the soil trickle through his fingers, back to the ground where it belonged. \u2018It\u2019s just not what it used to be,\u2019 he muttered, allowing the wind to swallow his words.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello there!\u201d The old man turned around and leant on his staff. His beard was matted with sweat, and his grey eyes looked older and wiser than ever. \u201cHave you heard the news?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI haven\u2019t.\u201d Mr. Slater leapt from his mount and landed in the mud. His features were bright with excitement, and he leant towards the ploughman like a conspirator.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":128,"featured_media":5040,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[218,200,219,217],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4937"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/128"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4937"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4937\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5045,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4937\/revisions\/5045"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5040"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4937"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4937"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4937"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}