Root, Stalk, and Seed
Harmony Ridge, about 30 km from Clover Hollow, Appalachia
“Here you go,” Nathan Frye announced to two milk cows tied in the barn as he dropped a bale of hay into their trough. He cut the coarse baler twine and rolled it up to be reused.
“Moo,” replied a fawn-colored Jersey. The other one munched into the fresh hay with gusto, bypassing any display of gratitude.
“Well, you’re welcome,” the young man replied as he tossed the twine into a weathered crate of other rolls of cord. He moved on to stack a dozen bales from the small wagon in the barn’s breezeway, his taut muscles making light work of the chore.
“Nathan!” yelled Eve, his younger sister. It was her alarm voice—the one that meant she wanted him to handle something she wouldn’t. He hoped it wasn’t a dead farm animal.
He snatched up a mucking shovel propped in a corner and trotted through the open barn doors into the sunlight. It was a lovely day, though the nights still bit with chill. Mamaw always said that, before the War of Correction, summers stretched longer, and winters weren’t as harsh. Nathan was just grateful no bombs had dropped within hundreds of kilometers of their valley.
Rounding an apple tree loaded with small, green fruit, he spotted Eve beside the hen house, dancing from one foot to the other, clutching her hands in front of her chest, a wicker basket’s handle crooked in her elbow. She peered at him with wide eyes.
“There’s a snake in the chicken coop.” She pointed, inching away as he approached.
“Eve, when are you gonna get over this fear of snakes?” he chided. His sister, wheaten braids dangling past her shoulders, was twelve years old already. “We live on a farm in the country, for Core’s sake. There’s gonna be snakes.”
“I can’t help it.” Her sweet, freckled face, front teeth too big for her mouth, and glossy brown eyes presented a pitiful plea.
Nathan sidled up beside her, squeezed her shoulders, kissed her head. “Where is it?”
“In the laying box with the eggs.”
Nathan made a quick count. At least the predator hadn’t gotten a chicken. “Stand back. I’ll take care of it.”
When Nathan opened the little back door to the laying boxes, he spied trouble. Coiled around a clutch of eggs lay a timber rattler, at least a meter and a half long. He was suddenly glad Eve hadn’t reached inside. Rat snakes, garter snakes, and water snakes often slipped in to steal eggs—harmless nuisances. But if this pit viper had bitten his little sister …
Opening the door startled the serpent, an egg in its mouth. It wound tighter, rattling its tail in warning. Nathan’s reflex was to dispose of the danger, even if he broke a few eggs. He jabbed the long-handled shovel in and scraped the snake out onto the ground. Four yokes splatted. The rattler spat out the egg, fangs flashing as its body coiled to strike. Eve shrieked.
Nathan, who wore knee-high leather boots and thick cotton duck work pants, aimed the flat blade of the square-point shovel just behind its head and struck. The tool wasn’t sharp, but its oversized scoop didn’t miss. The viper writhed, hissed, and shook its rattles. Nathan bore down harder, pressing his boot, twisting and grinding. Snake and shovel pushed into the soft earth. Heyanked up the tool and slammed it down. Smashing a boot onto the rattler’s head, Nathan chopped at the intruder’s body until it no longer moved.
“There,” he stated, stepping back. Eve grabbed him in a hug and squeezed.
“You’re good to have around.” She beamed up at him with an admiring gaze.
“Now, I want you to touch it.”
Eve shook her head vigorously, eyes wide. She retreated a step. “Mama said to feed the hogs, get the eggs, throw scratch for the hens, and put the goats back in their pen for the night. Nowhere in her instructions were the words, ‘touch a dead snake.’”
Trying not to laugh, Nathan presented his most serious expression. “It’ll help you get over your fear. It’s dead and can’t hurt you. Go on now—touch it.” He pointed at several pieces of its dismembered body.
Eve scowled at him, brows narrowed. Nathan crossed his arms, jaw set, hazel-green eyes fixed. The girl took a step forward, jabbed out her forefinger, crouched, and stretched a shaky arm toward a middle piece. She sucked in a breath. Her finger made contact, then flew back quicker than the snake could have struck. Leaping to her feet, she glared at her brother. “You’re mean!”
This time, he let the laugh bubble out. “You’re welcome,” he called after her as she stomped away.
Leaning on the shovel handle, Nathan scanned the farming commune founded thirty-two years ago along the New River. Sixteen cabins and farmhouses perched on terraces carved into the ridge overlooked patchwork fields stretching down to the riverbanks. The towering millwheel churned away, turning steadily with the stream’s rhythm. Goats, cattle, and horses grazed on the hillsides while oxen and mules did the heavy work, pulling iron cultivators over the fledgling crops or hauling hay wagons or cut timber. At the hub of the community stood the shared buildings—storage barns, smokehouse, the preservation shed with government-issued presses and cauldrons, the meeting house, and the Unity House, where Shepherd Cyrus Cain spent every Sunday brainwashing Nathan’s neighbors. He frowned at the rectangular wooden building with its sharply peaked roof and bell tower.
As Nathan lifted his gaze to the green-forested mountains and the spectacular hues the sunset painted across the sky over the lazy river, his smile returned. He loved the land, its plants, and animals. No future called to the young man more than farming—rich soil under his nails, the smell of fresh-cut hay, a colt’s affectionate nuzzle. Too bad he had no say in it.
A clanging triangle roused him from his thoughts.
“Supper’s ready!” his mother shouted.
Nathan cupped his hands, yelling down the hill toward the field where his father and brother labored. “Dinner time!”
Pa waved. Denver unhitched Petunia, the sturdy, headstrong mule, and, clutching her reins, dashed through the rows toward the house. It was hard to fathom that by the time of the Great Correction, mules had become extinct. Now, the half-donkey, half-horse had regained its former place of honor, once again powering agriculture across the land. Sure, the big grain agribusinesses on the plains to the north used tractors, but fuel was scarce. Harmony Ridge kept a couple of old machines under dusty tarps in the communal barn—for all the good they did.
