The Farm - Carsil

  The slate roof sighed under the soft, lyrical patter of rain. Inside the barn, a slight young man moved with unhurried purpose, his humming blending with the rhythm of the droplets. The quiet notes of nature’s song spoke to his soul and seeped beneath his skin, deeper than the damp cold could penetrate. He lit each lantern in turn, their fragile light stirring the shadows into slow retreat. Yesterday’s sun had blazed without mercy; today, the world seemed to exhale, wrapped in the cool embrace of the foggy, drizzle and thick cloudcover. Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning of wilder weather and the animals shifted uneasily in their stalls, sensing the threat of the impending storm. From the loft window, a thin wash of gray light spilled down, and for a moment, the man paused within its dull beam, listening, as if the rain might offer something more than its gentle melody.

  The air smelled of hay, old wood, and the faint sharpness of oil from the lanterns. Dust motes turned slow circles in the dim light, suspended as if time itself had thickened. He rubbed his thumb along the lantern’s glass, clearing a smudge that caught the glow, then set it carefully back on its hook. The gesture felt deliberate, almost ceremonial. The rain told him nothing more than its usual whispers.

  In the quiet between raindrops, the world beyond the barn seemed to hold its breath. The fields would be slick now, the furrows filling with thin streams that carried bits of soil down toward the creek. He could almost hear the steady trickle of it beneath the rain’s low hum. It was a sound he had grown up with. The language of water and weather, of patience and passing seasons. Though, the fog was unusually thick this morning, maybe due to the sudden change in temperature. He imagined what a miserable time his brothers and their father were likely having tending the fields. Fog this thick made the Greshian goats nervous. He didn’t know what was worse: the oppressive, relentless heat they’ve had this summer or the densest fog they’ve had in recent memory.

  He glanced toward the door, where a line of muddy footprints had dried into the threshold next to his wet ones from this morning. His boots had left them there yesterday evening, when the sky had still been bright and heavy with heat. He’d trucked through the stream on his way in, wetting the leather of his best boots, making the dust stick as he trudged along. The sun had been so hot the mud began baking in it almost instantly. The memory of it, sunlight spilling over the fields, the weight of the scythe across his shoulder, seemed distant now, as though it belonged to another life.

  The rain had a way of erasing things: dust, noise, the hard edges of thought. It was nature’s way of cleansing; not only the earth but the spirit as well. Standing there in the soft glow of the lanterns, he let the sound of it soak in, closing his eyes and for a moment as he listened to the soothing notes once more, a small smile on his dry, cracked lips. His burned, dried skin was evidence of the sun’s fury. There was work to be done, always, but for the moment, he simply listened. The barn creaked gently around him, alive in its own quiet way, and he felt the day settle, patient and gray, twining with the rhythm of his breath.

  The rain had settled into a steady rhythm now, each drop a soft percussion on the roof, the walls, the earth outside. The barn breathed with it, boards expanding and sighing, ropes swaying gently from their hooks. Somewhere in the loft above, a bird cooed drowsily, unbothered by the dim light. The scent of rain-soaked wood mingled with the sweet musk of hay, a scent that carried him back through uncounted summers.

  He dragged a stool toward one of the stalls and sat, elbows braced on his knees. The lantern light wavered across his boots and the rough, worn floor planks. In the corner, an old pitchfork leaned against the wall, its handle smooth from years of use. Every tool in the barn bore the same quiet evidence of time; edges dulled, metal worn, wood polished by countless hands. It all seemed to hum with memory.

  A gust of wind pressed against the door, and a scatter of raindrops slipped through the cracks, tapping against the floor. He watched them darken the wood, one small circle at a time, and thought about how easily things changed shape under the simplest touch - light to dark, dry to wet, silence to sound. The smallest shifts could alter everything.

  He leaned back, letting the stool creak beneath his weight, and stared up at the loft window where the rain slid in slow trails down the dust-caked glass. It had been nearly three years since his mother passed, yet her voice still seemed to linger here, woven into the hush between drops, into the steady breath of the barn. He could almost hear her humming as she once did while working, soft and low, to calm the brocks before milking. She’d always said they liked the sound of a steady tune; it told them they were safe in her hands.

  He found himself humming now, though he didn’t remember starting. The sound filled the dim space gently, carrying upward to where the rafters vanished in shadow. He missed her most on days like this, days when the world folded in on itself and all that was left was the slow rhythm of rain and breath. The grief wasn’t sharp anymore. It was something quieter, something that lived inside the silence and made it familiar.

  He stood and crossed to the nearest stall. A pair of amber eyes blinked up at him from the gloom. The largest of the brocks, broad-backed, black and white fur thick as moss, claws dull from work, snuffled softly, pressing its blunt nose toward his hand.

  “Morning, Ruz,” He murmured, resting his palm against the creature’s brow. The fur was coarse beneath his touch, warm with life. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  This had always been his place. His brothers had the fields, his father the plow and the markets, but the barn belonged to him. And to the brocks, huge creatures, similar in features to a badger but big enough to easily ride. He’d been tending them since he was small enough to fit between their legs, helping his mother gather their milk, learning the rhythm of their moods and the meaning behind each grunt or snort. The others had never had patience for the creatures’ stubbornness or their size. But his mother had said he shared their calm, they trusted him because he never rushed.

  He moved through the stalls, checking feed bins, lanterns, and water troughs, each motion a familiar echo of his mother’s own. It was unconscious now, like breathing, to tend the animals as she had taught him. Outside, the rain softened again to a murmur, and the sound of the brocks shifting in their stalls filled the barn: a deep, contented rumble like the thunder far away.

  He paused by the last stall, watching a young calf-sized brock nose at a bucket of grain, scattering kernels across the floor.

  “You’ve got her eyes,” He said quietly, smiling. “Same look when I’d forget the morning feed.” Ruz had given birth to the calf at the start of summer and the calf, who he’d affectionately started calling Willa, was already massive. Ruz chittered across the barn, as if approving of the man’s mention of her likeness. Willa huffed again in response, earning a chuckle out of the man. The sound felt good, unexpected, almost weightless. The lanterns glowed steady, their light sparkling in the dark depths of Willa’s trusting gaze as she stared up at him.

  The rain trickled on, heavy with the weight of memories and the songs of the past.

  –????????–

  Sen had just finished checking the water troughs, his last task in the barn, when a sudden change in the quiet caught his attention. It was a heavier rhythm, splashing against the ground outside the door. Not the wind this time. Footsteps approaching. He straightened, brushing straw from his patched overalls, and the brocks stirred uneasily in their stalls, a few giving low warning grumbles.

  The latch lifted, and the door swung inward with a gust of wet air and gray light. Framed in the doorway stood Rydan, grinning beneath the hood of his coat. At his side bounded a shape of fur and energy: Grady, a great wolf hound, shaking off water in a storm of droplets that glimmered briefly in the lanternlight.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Rydan’s family bred the hounds, called wends, for hunting, making a large profit from the game they hunted. However, Grady has always been more of a companion than a hunter. The runt of the litter, small and weak, Rydan’s father had wanted to put him down as a pup but Rydan had protected him. Now, fully grown, you’d never know he’d once been the runt. He had outgrown most of his littermates aside from his massive, golden brother, Morve. Regardless, Rydan kept him protectively close as he wasn’t raised with the pack and therefore not respected amongst the other wends as pack order goes. Sen had always loved the little meatball as he affectionately called him; Sen loved Rydan that much more for standing up to his father and saving Grady. Since childhood, Sen and Rydan had been best friends, stirring up trouble on their boarding family farms.

  “Well, you look about how I feel,” Rydan called, voice carrying over the patter of rain. “Couldn’t see five feet ahead on the road. I figured if I was going to drown, I might as well do it where the company’s better.”

  Sen smiled despite himself. “You always did have a talent for picking the worst weather for adventure.”

  Grady trotted forward, tail drenching and wagging fiercely, spraying droplets everywhere as he came forward. He pressed his nose against Sen’s knee with a whine, wanting to be acknowledged. The hound leaned into him heavily, nearly toppling the stool. Sen scratched behind the animal’s ears, laughing softly. “Good to see you too, Grady.”

  Behind them, a deep rumble rolled through the barn and several brocks shifting and huffing in chorus, their massive bodies bristling in the half-light. One stamped a clawed paw against the floor, a warning thud that made the nearest lantern sway.

  “Easy now,” Sen murmured, stepping between Grady and the stalls. “They don’t mean any harm.”

  Grady gave a halfhearted growl in reply, though his eyes never left Sen’s face. The hound had adored him since he was a pup, following him even when Rydan called him away. But the brocks had never forgiven Grady for his enthusiasm. They knew the difference between a barn’s calm and a predator’s heartbeat.

  Rydan pulled back his hood, shaking water from his hair. “Still got your way with beasts, I see. The lot of them look ready to tear me apart just for walking in.”

  “They remember you,” Sen said, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You were the one who tried to ride Brinda when you were twelve.”

  “That’s not how I remember it,” Rydan muttered, though the grin gave him away. He closed the door behind him, sealing out the rain. “Your father sent me up from the fields just now. The east fence gave out again. He thought you might have some of that spare wire left.”

  Sen nodded toward the loft stairs. “There’s a roll up there, under the tarps. I’ll fetch it.”

  Rydan hesitated, watching Sen for a moment. “You’ve been keeping busy here, then?”

  “There’s always work to be done,” Sen said quietly. He didn’t look up as he spoke, already reaching for the ladder. The sound of rain filled the pause between them again, steady and calm.

  Grady settled at the base of the ladder, head on his paws, eyes tracking Sen’s every move. The brocks had calmed some, though one or two still muttered deep in their throats. The air was warm with the smell of rain and beasts and lantern oil - alive, layered, and full of memory.

  When Sen returned with the wire, Rydan was staring out through a gap in the doorframe, where the fields blurred into mist. “Hard to believe summer’s nearly gone,” He said. “Seems like it just started.”

  Sen followed his gaze but said nothing. The rain blurred the world beyond the threshold, softening the edges of everything, fence posts, furrows, the horizon itself, until it all felt like a memory half-washed away.

  Rydan waited while Sen coiled the wire and sorted a few tools back onto their pegs. The rhythm of work steadied the air again, the scrape of metal, the clink of a latch, the steady breathing of the brocks behind them.

  Grady followed Sen’s every move with watchful eyes, tail sweeping across the straw whenever Sen glanced his way. Rydan leaned against a post, rubbing the back of his neck, his grin long faded into a tense line. At first Sen thought it was just the storm and the sound of rain in the barn making Rydan tense. Sen knew he remembered her just as much as he did. Sen’s mother had been just as much of a mother to Rydan, his own having died shortly after he was born. Though, as he watched him, he knew him well enough to know there was something else beneath his tight expression than grief.

  “You still keep everything neater than anyone else I know,” Rydan said finally. “My father says your barn’s cleaner than his kitchen.”

  Sen gave a soft snort, coming out of his thoughts. “Then maybe he shouldn’t let the chickens in.”

  Rydan laughed. A short, real laugh that brightened the space for a moment. “Fair point. Though I suppose I’d still rather have his chickens than your brocks. Never seen a beast glare the way they do.”

  “They just don’t like your mutt.” Sen said, glancing at Grady, who gave a contented huff in response. “Can’t blame them, really. I’ve never seen an animal with keener eyes than him. If he could form the words, I’m sure he’d know exactly what we’re saying and join our conversation. It’s impressive and disquieting at the same time. The brocks can sense it..”

  Rydan grinned and nodded, staring down at Grady as the hound turned his head to meet his gaze. Then, his smile slipped. Sen watched, his eyes missing nothing as Rydan’s hand lingered too long on the post; his eyes not quite meeting Sen’s as they spoke. There was something wound tight beneath his casual tone, something that didn’t belong to jokes or requesting wire.

  Sen straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. “You could’ve sent word about the fence another time. You didn’t have to come all this way in the rain.”

  Rydan’s mouth twitched. “Figured I’d stretch my legs.”

  Sen studied him for a long moment. “That so?”

  The pause between them filled again with the whisper of rain against the roof. Rydan’s jaw worked, but no words came. He looked like he was turning something over in his mind, too heavy to say, too real to hide. Sen had seen that look before; it was the same one their fathers wore after a bad harvest, or when market day went bad.

  “Come on,” Sen said at last, hanging the lantern he’d been using back in place. “If you’re going to fidget holes in my floor, we might as well talk while we work.”

  He led the way to the side door at the back of the barn, Grady padding after them. Outside, the rain had thinned to a fine mist, a veil that silvered the fields. They followed a narrow path that wound behind the barn to a small walled enclosure, the herb garden Sen had built the year after his mother died. Something she’d always talked about doing but never got around to.

  The stone walls stood shoulder-high, moss slick along their edges, and a small iron gate sat locked with a simple clasp. Sen pulled a key from his pocket and turned it open. The hinges groaned faintly as he pushed the door inward.

  Inside, the garden was a pocket of quiet life, rows of damp green plants, the sharp scent of mint and rosemary heavy in the air. The rain had softened the soil to dark velvet. A few small glass jars rested on a shelf built into the stone wall, half-filled with dried leaves and tinctures. His mother’s small garden tools hung there, their handles worn smooth by her hands.

  Rydan stepped inside, running a palm along the edge of the wall. “You’ve kept it well,” he said softly.

  Sen nodded. “She’d haunt me if I didn’t.”

  That drew a faint smile from Rydan, but it slipped away almost immediately. He stood there for a moment, rain dripping from his sleeves, gaze distant. Sen waited, he’d learned not to rush people into words. The silence never made him uncomfortable like it did most, he noticed. Where they were anxious to fill the void with words and noise he was content to wait. Another thing he’d inherited from his mother that his brothers didn’t. Finally, Rydan exhaled, a long, uneven sound.

  “I didn’t come for the fence,” He said. “Not really.”

  Sen folded his arms, quiet. “I figured as much.”

  Rydan’s fingers flexed against the stone. “Something’s happened up our way. Father doesn’t want it talked about, but… I couldn’t keep it to myself.”

  Sen’s stomach tightened. “What kind of something?”

  Rydan’s eyes flicked up to meet his, gray and uncertain, like the sky above them. “It’s about the brocks,” He said at last. “Ours have gone strange. Skittish. Two broke from their pen last night. And this morning…” He swallowed. “We found one dead near the river, deep in the woods. The hounds tracked them. Looked like it had been… attacked.”

  For a moment, only the rain spoke, a slow, whispering sound against the leaves.

  Sen didn’t answer right away. The brocks were hardy creatures, near impossible to kill, and nothing short of a pack of wild hounds could have brought one down. And yet the tremor in Rydan’s voice told him this was no simple accident.

  Sen looked toward the far wall of the garden, where the rain traced dark paths down the stone. “Show me,” He said quietly.