Pumpkin’s
Revenge
Margaret Callow
Walking across the yard, October left
Joe in no doubt of its intentions. The
sky was slowly releasing its night shades to
admit shards of peach and the crisp air enlivened his face. What little
early morning sun there was shed a
brittle light on the grey stone buildings and a
puddle crunched underfoot. It was a gentle sound, but thin ice
nevertheless.
Hunched into his jacket, he picked up the empty feed buckets and headed
for the barn. In need of repair, the
timbered door no longer shut properly creaking complaint at the
slightest touch. As soon as its edge
scraped the earth and flint the yard came alive with animal noises. Calves, pigs and the chickens
clamoured, their empty bellies adding
urgency to their voices.
In the barn the gloom was sudden.
Wearing cobwebs for curtains, the high
narrow window slits filtered light and he didn’t see the wayward chicken until shrieking in
feather-fluffed outrage it dashed at his
legs. Too late to join its own the night before in the henhouse it raced away it’s rolling gait carrying it at speed
across the yard.
“Stay,” he warned, as his sheepdog
wormed its way on it stomach across the
floor ready to pursue.
Inhaling deeply, Joe savoured the smell of grain, warmth and peace. The harvest
gathered safely for another year the
dryer was silent and the feed bins full. It was a source of satisfaction
that it should be so, yet there was
still work to be done. Mice had scattered wheat off the towering shape of the grain heap still to
be bagged, his ageing tractor waiting to
be serviced stood hunched in a corner and if he was not much mistaken dark pools on the stone floor told him the
rotting thatch needed patching in
places.
Fluttering paper hanging from a nail reminded him a page of
the calendar would soon need turning,
but not before Halloween was over and done with. Dates, there were
always dates to be remembered. Farming
and those days, the right days for planting winter wheat, hoeing beet, weaning piglets, spraying
vegetables, loading beasts for market
and picking the pumpkins. Every year he must be in the field picking pumpkins to send into the town, as long as
the weather complied with the dates, that
is.
He unhitched his hook from its peg in the wall, running his
finger down the blade. Old and well
used, the wooden handle resting in his palm was worn smooth. Its
tactile response felt reassuring like a
worn pair of shoes whose leather moulded to
every bump and turn of the foot it rested on.
Leaving the
tool by the door, he filled the buckets
with pellets and went to feed the stock.
He grew over an acre of pumpkins. This year they’d grown well and
most were cut, a source of relief as he
trudged toward the field. He could see them in the distance lolling
amongst their dark foliage, the orange
orbs in neat rows one a clone for another. As far as he looked they presented calm and ordered
perfection.
Almost at the gate the noise he suddenly heard was alien to his ears. It was an odd
sound and he paused to listen. Used to
the sound of a winnowing wind in a cornfield, the restless rustle of poplar leaves in a breeze and the plaintive sighing
of a gale as it sought out crannies in
the yard, this was different. It sounded like voices, not one or two, but
a hundred or more, pitched low, muted,
whispers even.
Shaking his head, Joe scrubbed roughly at his ears. Was he losing his
hearing so it turned his ears into
receptacles of flannel? When the dog’s whimper distracted him, he ran
his hand over its coarse-coated back
surprised to feel it trembling.
“Daft dog, what’s up with you, eh?” he said affectionately, grateful he’d
heard it.
The whimper was
louder this time, almost tempered by
aggression, he thought and the animal’s eyes
rolled into their whites. Then backing away, it retreated some yards.
“Murphy, for Christ’s sake what’s got
into you? Imagining things are you? Well you and me both, old fellow.
Come on, there’s only a day to finish
this field.”
The last of the pumpkins to be cut from their vines were over on the far side.
Picking his way between the rows, Joe
glanced over his shoulder. Murphy trailed behind him reluctantly slouching low. Whatever it was had gone now. The field
was quiet almost eerily so and when a
pheasant suddenly flew up with its clattering cry it startled Joe. He
noticed the dog ignored it. Strange,
since his chasing skills were more advanced than his staying ones, but there was little time
to dwell on anything apart from cutting
and picking the ripe pumpkins.
With the last load of pumpkins deposited gently off the trailer and into a
towering stack ready for the lorry, time
and light ran out. Easing his stiff shoulders with a calloused hand, Joe teased himself with images of an indolent
wallow in a steaming bath. It would be
some while off still. Another round of feeding, a sick cow to tend to
and mucking out were only a few of the
chores left before he could discard his boots
in the porch.
Looking across the yard, he could see it would be a cold
night. There was a steely-grey sharpness
on the horizon and not a breath of wind either so the smoke from the house fire drew ruler straight from the pot.
His final task of the day was to choose
two of the best pumpkins. One for each of the children carefully hollowed out with eyeholes and a smiley face. That
after all was what Halloween was all
about...
***
In the town the hands on the church clock were inching their way through the
night. Half a moon surrounded by ebony
blackness managed to shed a lemony glow on the rooftops and pavements,
but where it failed only shadows dwelt
in the doorways. Apart from the small concrete
building on a corner signed in blue with the word Police, life seemed to
have vanished completely.
Cluttered with a fresh mug of tea and
several empty china cups, a heap of
paperwork and loads of heavy files, the front desk propped up the Duty
Sergeant. Scratching his head, he stared
thoughtfully at the pen in his hand then reached for his tea instead.
“Time you were on the road, young man,” he called into
the dim recesses behind him.
“Just
getting my helmet,” the police constable replied from somewhere.
In the patrol car, the constable threw the helmet in
question onto the back seat and started
the ignition. Sighing loudly, he grated the gears and finding the one he wanted steered the car out of the parking
lot. It wasn’t he really minded night
duty, but driving about was the bore. It was a small place where most
were in bed by eleven and crime was
about minor misdemeanours. He dreamt of a wild car chase, a mugging maybe or a raid on the
jewellers shop in the High Street. One
day...
Leaving the
built up area, he exited town by the only main road there was. Long
and straight, few lived beside it apart
from an old recluse in a rickety shack and
some distance farther on, Joe and Patches Farm. The long miles to
nowhere, that’s how he thought of it, at
least until you arrived at a crossroads and the
wider world.
He should be
used to it, but his eyes still needed to strain through the inky black.
Once he thought he saw a pair of eyes,
deer height he reckoned, but by the time he
reached the place it was gone. Seeing the outline of the farm buildings
he slowed the car. Sometimes Joe was up
late with calving or some such and a chat
broke up the tedium.
Frowning,
he peered through the windscreen. He could have sworn it was a clear
night, yet ahead of him, swirling like
wisps of chiffon, what he thought must be a thin fog rolled along the road towards him.
“What the heck is that?” he muttered,
calm turning to fear.
Unnerved, he
stopped the car and seemingly frozen in his seat stared at the undulating shapes approaching fast.
Never had he seen orange mist and closer
to him now it didn’t drift, but bounced on the road surface.
“Christ almighty, pumpkins, they’re bloody pumpkins.”
When the first
hit his windscreen, hairs stood up on his
arms. He fumbled for his phone and dropped it. The car lurched under the
impact of them as they kept on coming,
hundreds of them crushing one another so their
flesh was jamming up the windows, blocking the radiator, obliterating
the air, suffocating him with their
weight. Sinuous green tentacles found the smallest gaps, reaching for his throat...
