inhabitants, the crackling of embers in the hearth, the dampened chirp of peepers from beyond the wood and hide of its walls. A light rain was beginning to fall, softly drumming on the roof above him. He slipped off his boots, his last thought before giving in to sleep being that that the first thing he needed to do upon waking was wash his pungent feet.
He was in his room, in the loft at the topmost of the house. Wait… his house? What was he doing back here, in the Preserve? Hadn’t something bad happened here, something which made him leave? He couldn’t remember.
He stood up, his hand instinctively going behind him, for his… what? What was so important that he always had it on him, strapped to his back? It couldn’t have been all that important if he couldn’t remember. He was wearing loose fitting cotton pants and a baggy cotton shirt and his skin was scrubbed clean and callous free save for those on his palms from tilling his father’s garden.
Pa . Mercer dashed out of the room and down the hallway, towards the staircase that led to the kitchen below. The air was filled with the smell of eggs frying on the skillet and the clucks of chickens from the backyard. An old woman was at the stove top when he came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. She had graying hair tied back in a bun and wore a chambray dress that hugged her stout frame.
“Nan?” The old woman turned around, sweat on her raised brow. She smiled.
“Oh, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence, I see.” She turned back to the stove top and flipped an egg with her spatula.
“You’re… you’re alive?”
Nan turned again. This time her face was plastered with reproachful wrinkles and lines, a look Mercer knew all too well from his days as a prolific troublemaker. “You watch your tongue, young man. I’m alive and kicking, as my grandpappy used to say, and plan to stay that way for a while longer.”
“I’m… sorry…” Mercer looked around him in stunned silence. He still had the feeling that something was very wrong here, that something had happened. “Where’s Pa?”
“Your father is out in the greenhouse, I believe. You should help him with some of the morning’s chores so he doesn’t get too mad at you.”
Mercer walked to the back of the kitchen to the door leading to the backyard. He pushed it open, but something made him turn to look back at his Nan before he stepped out.
It was as though a new person was standing there: she was perched on one leg, and her dress was dirty and covered in stains. Her hair, which had been in a neat bun, was now as akimbo as a hay bale tossed from a barn loft. He wanted to call out to her, but couldn’t find his voice. All the energy within him was drawing him outside, like the current of the Axe Man pulling him along despite his best attempts to swim against it.
Outside, the sky was the haze of a dream. The trees were plush with leaves, pulsing subtly in an unfelt breeze, as if they were the lungs of the whole scene, softly breathing. The greenhouse was beyond the rusted old backhoe and tool shed, abutting the pond. It was a large structure his father had built, made of a steel frame and a very expensive glass he had brought all the way from Lazarus Township. Nan said that in the old days, people had chosen not to build their great houses in the Preserve, revering the landscape for its natural beauty and spiritual nature. These were the reasons why Mercer’s father had wanted to settle there and raise his family.
Mercer pushed open the glass door of the greenhouse. The walls were lined with shelves loaded with trays of plants. The air was steamy and hot and punctuated by the trickle of the goldfish pond that ran around the greenhouse’s interior perimeter, its water constantly circulating and nourishing the roots of the plants. His father stood at the far end of the room, his back to his son.
Willis Crane was a little shorter than Mercer but of a stouter
He was in his room, in the loft at the topmost of the house. Wait… his house? What was he doing back here, in the Preserve? Hadn’t something bad happened here, something which made him leave? He couldn’t remember.
He stood up, his hand instinctively going behind him, for his… what? What was so important that he always had it on him, strapped to his back? It couldn’t have been all that important if he couldn’t remember. He was wearing loose fitting cotton pants and a baggy cotton shirt and his skin was scrubbed clean and callous free save for those on his palms from tilling his father’s garden.
Pa . Mercer dashed out of the room and down the hallway, towards the staircase that led to the kitchen below. The air was filled with the smell of eggs frying on the skillet and the clucks of chickens from the backyard. An old woman was at the stove top when he came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. She had graying hair tied back in a bun and wore a chambray dress that hugged her stout frame.
“Nan?” The old woman turned around, sweat on her raised brow. She smiled.
“Oh, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence, I see.” She turned back to the stove top and flipped an egg with her spatula.
“You’re… you’re alive?”
Nan turned again. This time her face was plastered with reproachful wrinkles and lines, a look Mercer knew all too well from his days as a prolific troublemaker. “You watch your tongue, young man. I’m alive and kicking, as my grandpappy used to say, and plan to stay that way for a while longer.”
“I’m… sorry…” Mercer looked around him in stunned silence. He still had the feeling that something was very wrong here, that something had happened. “Where’s Pa?”
“Your father is out in the greenhouse, I believe. You should help him with some of the morning’s chores so he doesn’t get too mad at you.”
Mercer walked to the back of the kitchen to the door leading to the backyard. He pushed it open, but something made him turn to look back at his Nan before he stepped out.
It was as though a new person was standing there: she was perched on one leg, and her dress was dirty and covered in stains. Her hair, which had been in a neat bun, was now as akimbo as a hay bale tossed from a barn loft. He wanted to call out to her, but couldn’t find his voice. All the energy within him was drawing him outside, like the current of the Axe Man pulling him along despite his best attempts to swim against it.
Outside, the sky was the haze of a dream. The trees were plush with leaves, pulsing subtly in an unfelt breeze, as if they were the lungs of the whole scene, softly breathing. The greenhouse was beyond the rusted old backhoe and tool shed, abutting the pond. It was a large structure his father had built, made of a steel frame and a very expensive glass he had brought all the way from Lazarus Township. Nan said that in the old days, people had chosen not to build their great houses in the Preserve, revering the landscape for its natural beauty and spiritual nature. These were the reasons why Mercer’s father had wanted to settle there and raise his family.
Mercer pushed open the glass door of the greenhouse. The walls were lined with shelves loaded with trays of plants. The air was steamy and hot and punctuated by the trickle of the goldfish pond that ran around the greenhouse’s interior perimeter, its water constantly circulating and nourishing the roots of the plants. His father stood at the far end of the room, his back to his son.
Willis Crane was a little shorter than Mercer but of a stouter
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