What his Brother sowed

It was the scorching heat that beat him. The sun blasted down from the sky. It felt like it dragged him down to the depths of hell. He stood by himself in a field full of grain, with only a grain cradle. One focus simmered in his mind: making enough for the harvest festival by day's end.

This morning, when he looked out of his bedroom window, the dream from the night before flashed through his mind. It was Jeremiah, his late brother, who visited him and handed him the bloody horns of an ox. As he went to accept it, the gift fell to the ground. Jeremiah contorted into a smile.

From the moment he walked out of the house, even the morning sun spared no grace. His body was being attacked from all sides and sweat poured through his hair. As he touched the barn door, he heard the voracious noise of flies—swarms of them. Then came the smell of the dead ox.

The animal needed to go, or it would spoil the grains locked away here. He took a cart and placed it next to the carcass. He threw a rope over a wooden beam and then tied it around the hooves. The flies, protecting their sacred possession, started to swarm him.

It was the debt from his brother that got him into this mess, which he had to repay at the festival. He stared at the corpse in front of him, took a rope, and began to work. With all his strength, he managed to pull it up as far as he could. The beast lifted slightly into the air. He pushed the legs and head onto a cart, then proceeded with the hind, pulling up both legs. His muscles almost spasmed. Exhausted and stricken with thirst, he fell to the ground.

He pushed the cart out and behind the barn. The flies, acting as a single consciousness, did not hesitate to pursue. When he pushed the body off the cart, the hide caught on a nail, tearing the surface of the animal. Using his hands and fingers to clear the snag, he finally managed to detach the hide. The animal thudded to the ground, and blood streamed in all directions.

He turned toward the sun, hands held aloft. If anything, it would dry off the blood. He then rubbed his face to smear away the sweat. His skin looked like war paint. He left the animal right then and there. He went back to the shed, took his grain cradle, and marched to the field.

What befell his brother, he knew he had inside himself as well. That urge. That need. Although he would never make a deal he couldn't keep—or put his head through a noose. The anger fueled every reap he took. The grip around the wood of his cradle started to groan and crack. For a moment, he feared that breaking it would be the end of him.

The metal ring of the crickets was amplified by the claustrophobic heat that encroached upon him. On the horizon, he could already see some farmers pushing their wagons with festive streamers toward the town square. The only thing standing between him and them was half an acre of grain, pushing itself toward the sun, waiting to be beheaded.

When he finally finished the field, he fell to his knees. Every inch of his body screamed for rest and water. He closed his eyes and felt that it wouldn't be long before the sun set. He still needed to haul. To cart. To load the grain. If he didn't, he'd lose his land, and surely his life.

Only the gasps of air and the pounding of his heart were what pushed the cart forward. He could hear the music play as he entered the festival. What was left of him was a shell, a ghost. A crowd gathered around him and ogled him like a beast. He fell to the ground and hid his face in his hands.

The group of people encircled and shouted at him—at what he looked like, how he smelled, and why his face, arms, and hands were bloodied. Did he come here to besmirch the festival? Did he have no respect for tradition? One man launched a carrot at him. Another threw a stone. Soon enough, a young boy kicked and spat on him. That was the levee that broke and unleashed all the anger.

"Stop!" a well-dressed man shouted with a commanding voice. It instantly froze the crowd. "He is with me," he proceeded. That was enough brevity for the crowd to lose interest. The farmer lay there, bruised and cut by the crowd. A hand reached out for him, trying to pick him up, but he had nothing left in him.

Two henchmen came and inspected the cart. They gave the well-dressed man a confirming nod. "It seems like you're in time to pay Jeremiah's debt," the man said. "We will take it from here." Together with the henchmen, they carted off the grain. The debt was cleared like a magic wand.

The farmer lay on the ground and closed his eyes. A peace befell him. The music in the background accompanied colors on the back of his eyelids. The temperature of the evening melted with his body. His heartbeat vibrated alongside his breathing. On his face, a smile contorted. An irresistible sleep nestled in him like a warm waterfall.

As he was about to detach from his body, he heard the voice of a woman. She came down a ladder of a barn she was helping to build. "You're Jeremiah's brother, aren't you?" The farmer slightly opened his eyes. "Jeremiah was a kind man. He always bought a drink for me and my son. I sat with him many nights as he just listened." She knelt before him and stroked his hair. "I am sorry for your immense loss."