The House of Dust - 3rd Chapter

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The Bull Farm

Mark

“So-sorry to disturb, sir.” Mark tried to talk, but there was a ball of fur trapped in his throat.

The dog barked violently, ready to attack, and more importantly, without a leash. The farmer looked at the brothers, resting his rifle on his shoulder and his brows on his eyes.

“‘Em boys are lost, eh. Com’in. It’s cold outside!” The farmer stated the obvious. He opened the screen door and turned back inside. Still, the dog stayed by the door, silently and deadly, like a doorkeeper. Its eyes sparkled yellow, and the drooling jaw was wide open.

Mark froze, gazing at the hound, with all his muscles becoming numb.

“Miri, we have more visitors!” the farmer screamed, cutting the tension. A few seconds later, the farmer was back at the door, saying, “Ar’y’all coming or not? Ah!”

But the hound kept the door tight, so the farmer understood their fear and said, “Cool, get out of the way.”

At first, the hound didn’t obey. It smelled the air, looked at the brothers, grunted a “garmr” sound, and headed for the living room’s corner, trotting like a trained horse, allowing the brothers to enter. To their surprise, the house was great; a simple warm, and a nursing home.

The living room was enormous, the size of Mark’s apartment alone. Four semi-open windows brought the fresh air inside. Two were closer to a fireplace, covered with old but exquisite lace curtains, moving softly from the wind. The dog stared by the corner while the farmer rested his rifle in a rack above the fireplace.

The room seemed like a museum, with century-old pieces of furniture, very well preserved. Three big sofas surrounded the fireplace, with an enormous coffee table in the middle and a cup holder in the corner. Everything was handmade in sturdy wood, with giant blue cushions on the seat and back. Mark just wanted to lay down in those cushions and sleep forever. The floor was waxed wood, perfectly polished, and covered in rugs like crochet, bull skin, or fur. A chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, old yellow lightbulbs were installed, and lamps spread throughout the room, giving the place a warm color. The stair in the corner of the room was also wood, carved delicately. The walls were white but looked washy, making the yellow lights yellower.

A vase of fresh-cut flowers rested on the coffee table, white lilies, which freshened the room’s air. But the smell that got Mark’s attention was the coffee coming from the kitchen.

A corridor lay at once in front of the entrance door, leading to the backyard and other rooms. The kitchen was on the right, crossing a double frame with no doors, where the smell of coffee came from. The farmer invited the brothers in. A charming older lady fixed the coffee, a teapot, and a cookie tray. When Mark saw that kitchen and smelled the food, he relaxed for the first time that day.

The lady spoke, looking at them with lovely blue eyes, “Well-a-well, hello! I’m Miri. Ya’r’all seem tired. Why don’t y’all take a seat?”

The kitchen was also abundant. A family table with two solid wood benches on each side, big enough to host twenty people comfortably, rested in the center. The wall and floor shone with white tiles, a floury black cross adorned. The cabinets were built with the same wood as the living room furniture. There was a cocker behind the smiling lady with a whistling teapot boiling water, a single-piece kitchen with a sink, and more cabinets, white-painted steel and wood.

Everything was fantastic! It was like traveling back to the forties to a classic old farmhouse.

As the Rodriguez brothers took their seats, the farmer rested in front of them a tray of cookies, taking one and sitting on the opposite bench. The old man seemed to be very interested in how Mark looked, probably because of his long hair and beard.

The farmer sounded like Mark’s father, using even his jargon “champs.” Such nostalgia. The old lady, Miri, brought the teapot to the table, with the porcelain matching the coffee pot and more cookies.

“So, champs, y’all’re lost, eh? Folks are always lost around here, usually driving to the beach. Esperanza is a traveler trap! I’m Gerbert Sylvester. This is the wife Miridiana, but y’all call ‘er Miri. Welcome to Bull Farm. Y’all should eat and drink.”

He filled up his cup of coffee and made a sign for the brothers to do the same.

Miridiana never turned at them during Gerbert’s speech but kept staring at the kitchen ceiling.

Gerbert was a classic over-sixties-old farmer, bald and shaved, with polite but outspoken manners. His eyes were ordinarily dark, but his arms were large like a former navy. Mark could not shake the feeling that Gerbert reminded him of his father, aware they would be about the same age if Paul was alive. They could be twin brothers or cousins.

That was not the first time Mark saw his father in other people. His shrink called that a “coping mechanism” after the accident.

“I apologize for intruding so late at night. I’m Mark, and this is my brother John. We’re lost, and our gas tank is empty.”

“Brothers, hum? Did Mann send y’all here?” Gerbert said.

“Mann?” Mark said.

“That yokel from the gas station.”

“Yes, he did. Unfortunately, he’s out of fuel, but he’ll get it tomorrow. We just need a place for tonight,“ John said.

“Sorry, champ, but don’t ya believe that. Mann lies, a lot. We got fuel usually every other week, and most it goes to the mines. My tractors are also empty, so I’m waiting myself. God, the crops are waiting on the God damn gasoline.”

That was the first time John paid any attention to the conversation, looking desperate, like he held his intestines in his hands.

The farmer carried on, “Hopefully, it’ll arrive tomorrow. Either way, you are welcome to...”

“Thank you, but we’ll leave tomorrow,” John said...

“Maybe y’all’ll, or maybe y’all won’t, champ.”

“Did I hear you have more visitors?” Mark said, shifting the conversation.

“There’s a pregnant lady. Poor thing; she’s due very soon. Her car’s parked outside, a small Italian. She’s arrived a while ago.”

“Is she the only one? With a big house like this, I bet you have employees or other people living here,” Mark said.

“There’s Lilian, Mann’s daughter. She’s about yar age, living with us many years, helping Miri with the household. There’s Stephen. He’d come years ago, a traveler like you, but he stayed. He works in the mines now, an awful dirty job if y’all ask me. But he’s a fine builder, so he helps in church and maintenance here on the farm. There’s Jack, our maid’s son. Our maid died many years ago, and Jack has lived with us since. He’s ‘bout yar age; a son to me, and my right arm here in the farm. Finally, there’s Cam, our daughter, but she’s just a kid and too young to work.”

“The pregnant lady. You said she’s waiting for two days already?” John’s voice squeaked.

“I say that? I guess, a while ago. Miry, when did the girl arrive? Balls, I can’t remember. Old age, y’all see. Esperanza is a remote place, so things don’t come here easy. He’s always around to check on his daughter.”

John desperately started to tap his phone, trying to make a call or send a message, becoming utterly oblivious to the whole discussion.

“And how much for the room?” Mark said.

“We don’t use much money hir’ in Esperanza. We’re a small community, so not much to buy here. Thus, we labor, so save yar money to Mann,” Gerbert said.

“But then, how can we….”

“Work! There’s much to do here, like the farm and the church. Work for us while y’all wait, and y’all owe us nothing, eh.”

“Sir...”

“Call me Gerb, champ,”

“Sure, Gerb. I’ll work, but I insist on paying.”

“Big city men, all about ‘em green scratch. Here we labor, don’t bother for money. Work for yar stay, and yar debt is gone.”

“Okay, but I warn you. I’m no good with any work, and I’m just a computer programmer, so I insist on paying.”

“Yar what? Don’t y’all worry, there’s work for y’all in the church.”

“The church? But I’m not even Christ—”

“Construction work. Our old church burned a few years, and we’re building a new one. I’m old and tired; I should get going.” Gerbert raised his hand, ending the conversation.

Mark accepted, still planning on leaving some money in the room when they left.

“Y’all rest tonight, for tomorrow y’all work. Miri’ll show’ya the chambers when ya’r ready. Good night.” Gerbert stood, drank the rest of his coffee in a single sip, and left, followed by his wife.

When they were alone, John stared at Mark with a red bloodstain in his eyes.

“What?” Mark said.

“You fucking kidding me? Are you so cheap that you rather work than pay the old man?” John said.

“Can we do this tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”

John agreed, but only because he was still trying to use his phone. They finished their cookies in silence, and when they were about to stand, Miri surprised them at the door.

“Don’t y’all worry. I’ll clean ‘em tomorrow. Ya’r getting yar suitcases?”

Where did this sneaky old lady come from? Mark thought

Mark and John went to the car to pick up their bags. Both times they passed the living room, the hound threatened them with big glowing yellow eyes and drooling fangs.

The night was cold and windy, and the farm was darker than ever, for only a single lamp on the porch was on. Still, they could see the shining silver jar containing their mother’s ashes on the trunk. The jar rolled around, so Mark tied it up with an elastic cord on a trunk corner. Those ashes were way too important to be rolling on the trunk; after all, it was the sole reason for that trip.

Back in the house, the brothers followed Miridiana upstairs. Mark observed the charming yet strange older woman. She was clearly younger than Gerbert, with dark red hair and blue eyes, crude manners, and probably a poor family. What was more intriguing was that, despite the first encounter, Miri never looked them in the eyes, always looking up to the ceiling. Perhaps Gerb was jealous, or maybe she was just a bit nuts. One thing was for sure: seeing her walking upstairs made Mark realize how tall she was, as tall as Gerbert.

Upstairs there was an extensive mezzanine contouring the whole living room, a corridor with many doors for the house’s many rooms. It was wide as John’s Jaguar. One could see the entire first floor, including part of the kitchen. The chandelier hung a few centimeters away from Mark’s fingertips. Where the path divided, there was a different door.

Miri whispered, pointing to the entries on along the way, “Here’s the bathroom. Be quiet, for Lilian’s on the next door, and she wakes up easy. Yar room is on the left, the first door after the bathroom. Ar room is at the end, on the right. Stephen’s the door in front of yars. And the last on the left’s ar daughter, Cam. Don’t go there.”

“What about the others?” Mark said.

“The pregnant lady’s next to yars, and Jack’s downstairs. Be careful at night, for this corridor gets dark, and one can lose the sense of direction. I’m going to sleep. Good night.”

Miri left them with their questions hanging in the air.

The doors were slightly small, with an antique knob hanging the large key from a wire inside. Mark tapped the wall for the switch but found none, so John used his phone flashlight to find the light bulb. It hung from the ceiling and had a small turning switch. The light was another pale yellow, weak, and barely uncomfortable for the eyes. There was a strong mothball smell, and the air was moldy and humid.

“Fuck it!” John said, dropping his fancy leather bag on the floor and running towards the bathroom.

The room was enough for the night. Nothing fancy or big, but enough. Two bunk beds rested on opposite walls, a desk with a jar of water and towels on the right, and a gigantic wooden wardrobe next to the desk. Everything was old, and Mark noticed even wood dust on the floor from the closet, probably termites. Rugs covered the creaky floor but couldn’t prevent it from squeaking. Mark watched his steps when walking around the room, remembering Miri’s words, “Lilian wakes up very easily.”

The wooden framed window had a gap, not enough to chill the room but to make the curtain dance. Mark opened the whole window but saw nothing but darkness outside. The smell was fresh, and the room could use some new air, but Mark closed it all as soon as he could no longer bear the cold.

Mark noticed that the curtain was strangely familiar; it was precisely the same one from the hospital where his mother had died. Was that grieving or just a coincidence?

The bunk beds were ready for sleep, with a white sheet carefully folded on the thin head pillow. Mark inspected both beds to make sure John wouldn’t complain, but it was pointless. The older brother entered the room like a bull in a rodeo; cranky, bitchy.

“Watch your noise! Geez,” Mark whispered.

“Fuck you and fuck this city farm! They put us in a fucking worker’s room! Do they know who I am?” John barked.

“You’re an asshole. Now keep it down. We’re guests here.” Mark felt embarrassed about his brother’s behavior but was too tired to stick around to audit, so he grabbed his backpack and left, heading for the pot.

As Miri said, the corridor was indeed very dark, and Mark thought the bathroom was far away. The bathroom door cried on its hinges when Mark opened it, and after finding the light switch, he carefully closed it again, slowly. The door rang the same.

The bathroom was a miniature version of the kitchen, the same style, looking exceptionally clean. Over the sink, a small wooden-framed mirror reflected the green moss toilet, matching the green sink and bidet. Only the bathtub looked mismatched, for it was white and maybe newer. The window was charming, with stained glass picturing a colorful Christian cross mosaic.

There was a helpless loud echo in every move Mark made.

Mark finished his business quickly, taking a bath, washing his long hair and beard, and finally brushing his teeth. He felt fresh and ready to sleep. After a thorough inspection of the bathroom, making sure it was pretty much how he found it, Mark went back to his dorm.

The room was silent, except for John’s snoring, who apparently forgot to take off his shoes. Mark turned off the light, got into his sheets, and slept instantly.

The following day, Mark woke up feeling exhausted, unsure if he was still sleeping. He sat and looked around. The room was empty, the window was wide open, and the morning sun brought light and warmth in. However, Mark felt a strange pressure on his chest and shoulders, a feeling that something pushed his body against the bed, like a weight, all night. He also had many nightmares, including a retelling of his mother’s death and that strange encounter with his nightmarish Shadow.

Mark washed his face with the freshwater from the desk, stretched, and strolled to the window, still in his underwear. He watched the farm’s relaxing view with a cigarette on his lips.

The pine grove extended from the parking lot and surrounded the house, the whole property, and beyond, kilometers away until it touched the mountains that surrounded the valley. The backyard had a swing and a clothesline with white sheets dancing with the breeze. A few meters from the house, there was a shack behind the grove with two garage doors. Immediately behind the shed, an extensive wheat field was hidden between the woods and the cornfields.

Mark enjoyed his smoke, but when he couldn’t bear the silence anymore, he dressed in his favorite t-shirt, Led Zeppelin’s Fallen Angel, and left. The morning sun hit the window at the end of the corridor, and the whole house looked different, alive, and fresh. Voices were coming upstairs from the kitchen; Miridiana was talking to someone. Mark stopped to look around, numbering the large windows, obsessed about how alike those blowing curtains looked compared to the ones at the hospital.

Strolling like a lazy kid, Mark finally reached the bathroom, and in a few minutes, he was ready for the day!

Mark made one last stop to look down at the mezzanine. The living room sure looked different during the day. It was a beautiful house; sure, there were some spider webs here and there, but overall, the place was extraordinarily charming. Now that all the windows were open in the daylight, the fresh air brought wheat, pine, and some strange citric-sweet smell.

I would retire in a place like this. Maybe that’s what Gerbert and Miridiana are doing; after all, Esperanza is the most abandoned corner in the world, Mark thought and wondered what they did before settling in here.

Miridiana stood in the kitchen, gazing at the ceiling, blabbering, barely aware that Mark was watching her from the mezzanine. To whom is she talking? I can’t see the table from here. Either way, it must be an exciting discussion.

Downstairs, Mark sneaked silently into the kitchen and heard the saying, “Grandsons of Aaron? My-oh-my, and whose fault’s that?”

The kitchen was empty. Mark wondered to who belonged the second voice he had heard earlier.

“Good morning,” Mark said.

Miridiana must’ve jumped three meters higher. She turned at Mark, red as a flower, ready to burst. This time she looked Mark deeply into her eyes — they were enraged.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Mark said.

“Oh, my old heart, y’all shallnd’t do this thing, boy! Good morning to y’all too. Sit and eat. Hope y’all sleep well,” Miridiana said.

“Indeed,” Mark lied. Miri turned back to her work, never to look at him again.

“When you’re ready, join y’all brother. He’s walking the farm with Jack, waiting for y’all,” Miridiana said.

“Okay. Thank you, and sorry again. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”

The kitchen looked more welcoming in the daylight, with the tiles shining clean and fresh farm cooking smells. Mark drank a large coffee mug to match his bitter-smoker tongue taste and ate homemade bread with fresh butter and dried fruits from the orchard. All tasted great, and when he finished, he said, trying to help, “Let me help you will the dishes.”

“Leave it all there. Y’all and yar brother must help in the church.” Miri waited for Mark to leave the kitchen to turn and clean the table, and as soon as Mark touched the front doorknob, she started to blabber again.

Weird old lady, making voices, talking to herself. Must be lonely, Mark thought, feeling sympathetic.

From the porch, Mark could hear the bulls humming lazily, saying “good morning” to him. The rooster also sang, and the sound matched with the perfect perfume in the air, smelling like moist ground, a sweet-citric smell from the orchard. Mark saw the pine trees extending for kilometers on his left, walling the farmland. The road was a few meters ahead, separating two cornfields, yellow and green, shaking softly by the wind. There was an orchard with small withered fruits hanging from dying trees on the right, reminding Mark that he was still in the desert. But despite being in the desert, the place was full of life.

Mark walked into the orchard, checking the thin trees. Most were hazelnuts, pear, and apple trees, and some strange flowers in many colors like purple, pink, and white.

But one tree stood among the others. An opulent golden-flowered tree with petals small as a fingerprint, sitting in the middle of the orchard. Butterflies and bees danced around the branches, searching for the sweet and citric pollen smell. The leaves seemed to dance with the wind, making the tree look alive.

There was a barn after the orchard, the kind you see in farm catalogs, exaggeratedly tall. The beams and structure were painted white, while the doors and walls were red. The double front and back doors were wide open, but no one was in. It was wide inside, easily fitting two firetrucks between the hay piles and stables. There were also two metal buckets for milk. That place was meant to care for the animals, health, and hygiene. One could reach a mezzanine with a ladder, but Mark was rushing to find John, so he left that exploration for another time. The humming bulls sounded closer, and Mark expected to see the animals on the pasture crossing the barn. Still, there was nothing there, just a big open area and more groves in the background.

The animals are probably in the grove, hiding from the sun, Mark thought.

Around the barn, following a funny smell, Mark found a henhouse with a dozen chickens and a slim metallic silo on the other side.

“John?” Mark yelled, but only a bull replied to his calling.

Mark took the ground road back to the house to see the cornfields, hoping to see John somewhere in the path. Indeed, he was coming from the opposite direction, followed by another man.

“Finally!” Mark sighed and waited by the exit road, watching them coming closer and wondering if that man was Jack. Then, he noticed something peculiar. John and Jack were so strangely similar they could easily be taken as brothers.

Although Jack was younger and muscular, he resembled John in several aspects, except for his tainted skin, short red hair, and light brown eyes. In addition, Jack wore overalls over a plaid green-red shirt, while John a set of suit trousers and a linen shirt.

“Yar the young brother, right? Come. Gerbert’s waiting,” the young man said.

“I’m Mark.” Mark smiled, but the man turned his back. John didn’t look surprised, also ignoring his younger brother.

Yes, they are the same, Mark thought bitterly.

“So, you’re Jack, right?” Mark said.

“Yes, but y’all call me Feit.”

Mark felt tired of trying that conversation, so he stayed behind, leaving the grown men walking in front, analyzing them both.

Jack’s hand and neck had a burn scar, and Mark remembered the burned church history Gerbert mentioned the night before.

John was dressed in his finest. Why was he wearing a linen shirt, cobalt trousers, and fancy Italian shoes if he would be doing heavy work? Such a vile, vain man. The worst part was that the shoes were shining anew, which meant that John woke up early only to polish them.

“Morning, brother, I see you had time to polish your shoes,” Mark said.

“Of course, I did. I barely slept, and my shoes looked like trash, like... never mind,” John replied without looking back at his brother.

The three men walked on the road between two tall cornfields. Mark became curious about the corn, so he came closer to grab one cob when Jack immediately shouted, “Don’t touch that!”

Fucking weirdo, Mark thought.

The road ahead was long, and Mark was bored already, so he strolled, walking backward, watching the farmhouse getting smaller in the distance. I wish I could lay in that hammock the entire day, waiting for the fuel to arrive. Oh, there’s a water tower by the house!

Mark watched all the details he couldn’t see from the farm, like how far the mountain was and how pine hectares covered the land, intrigued.

Then he saw a girl coming onto the road.

The little girl rushed onto the ground path, followed by the black hound, running happily towards the three men. The dog ran playfully with her, like a stupid dog, not a killing machine.

As she came closer, Mark noticed something strange and familiar about her. The little girl looked like…

Mark stopped, rubbing his eyes, incredulous, shaking, and sweating. He felt like his guts were pulled by his spine.

“Samantha?”