The Way of Ah-Tzenul

THE WAY OF AH-TZENUL

Everything got strange when the new moon cycle started last April. Course, things always get strange when the moon changes. My goats and chickens act up, coon dogs howl more than usual, cows won’t milk. It figures, I suppose. We’re all tied to the moon more than we think. Farmer’s Almanac says so, same as John George Holmnan’s Long Lost Friend. Hell, moon pulls in the tides and such. Makes sense it messes with other things too.

I’m rambling like an old fool. Happens when you get my age. Take a seat there on the sofa, son. Didn’t catch your name.

Ah. You’re the new fella, ain’t you? Fresh in town from medical school. Pleased to meetcha.

Anyhow Doc, I’m much obliged, you coming to see my Betty. Dr. Jeffers, he’s on vacation. He recommended you. Said you was a fine sawbones, which is fortunate. My Betty, she’s in a bad way. Has been since last April. As I said; moon pulls on all of us, but this business with my Betty? Well, that’s something else altogether. Something unnatural.

What’s that?

Oh, she’s resting now. We’ll go see her by’n by. Lemme catch you up with everything, first. Things got strange around the new moon last April. Right when The Way of Ah-Tzenul said to start planting, but like I said, the moon always brings out strange things. If I think back, it all started with The Way itself. Everything started changing after I found it. Wish to God I’d left the damn thing where it was. Maybe none of this would’ve ever happened.

Too late now, though. Here’s how the whole damn thing started.

***

I wasn’t looking for nothing in particular the day I found The Way of Ah-Tzenul in the recycling dumpster at the Webb County Landfill. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I ain’t no garbage picker. No, sir. I ain’t one of those fellas who drives round town the night before garbage day, going through junk on the curb. I’m as curious as the next fella, though. When I was dumping our paper into the recycling dumpster at the landfill, something caught my eye. Two cardboard boxes. One of ‘em spilling a mess of pamphlets, papers, and letters stuffed into opened envelopes. The other was stuffed full of old books.

The one full of books drew my attention. I talk a little rough, but I ain’t dumb. Did fine in school, wanted to attend Webb County Community but couldn’t cause of Daddy dying and me having to take over the farm. By the time Momma passed I was married with a little one on the way, so my chance for college had passed, too.

But I never stopped reading. Got me a nice little library out back, filled with all sorts of books crammed on bookshelves made by my own two hands. Books like Tom Sawyer, Edgar Allen Poe stories, Huck Finn and The King in Yellow, (that last one I don’t read much cause it always gives me strange dreams), some old mysteries, a clutch of Lovecraft’s books (they hurt my head, too, so I don’t read them much neither), my Hardy Boys books from growing up, and a whole bunch of newer ones by Stephen King and Dean Koontz.

Got some heavy thinking books, too. The family King James, The Book of Mormon, Long Lost Friend, also got The Traveler’s Gate and The Witch Book of Throop.

Anyhow I love books, so when I saw that box in the recycling dumpster at the landfill I couldn’t resist. I dumped my load to the side, leaned in, snagged the box’s flap, and dragged it out. Didn’t take time to look through em right then, just pretended I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. I needn’t have worried cause there wasn’t no one around so early anyway. I got into my truck and headed to The Skylark for my usual Saturday morning pancakes.

In the parking lot I rooted through the box for something to take into the diner and read. Didn’t find much of interest at first. Only a few books with plays by Shakespeare and a book by Melville called Benito Cerano. Past those, I came across something promising. An old journal. Name on the inside cover read JEREMIAH BASSLER, which of course caught my interest, Bassler being an important name round these parts, what with Bassler Road, old Bassler House and Bassler Memorial Library. Flipping through it, I saw it was written in other languages and such, maybe Latin, which I can’t read. But I knew some hill folk—especially a hoodoo man named Clive Hartley—who could read Latin, so I put it aside for later.

I looked back into the box and of course, that’s when I found it. The book that’s caused all this trouble. The Way of Ah-Tzenul. Course, that’s not what’s printed on the cover. There’s a picture of some sorta tribal man squatting down with both hands raised to the sky etched into the cover and traced in silver. Otherwise, it’s a plain-looking book, all bound in pebbly black leather.

The title was printed on the first page. See, this book was also handwritten, but a whole lot neater than the diary. All in English, too. Under the title, whoever had written the whole thing wrote an explanation of who Ah-Tzenul was. Apparently he was the Aztec nature and harvest god. Another name they had for him was “He Who Brings Life from the Earth.”

You got it right, Doc. From what I was reading, The Way was a planting book for ancient folks, like the Aztecs. I didn’t read all of it while sitting there at The Skylark, just flipped through. From what I could see, the book was an older version of the Farmer’s Almanac, which was mighty interesting, seeing as how planting season was coming on. Every year, I raise one of the best pumpkin patches round. I usually get one monster in the top three of Clifton Height’s annual Halloween Pumpkin Contest. Our other produce Betty cans and freezes for the winter months.

Unfortunately, last year’s crop of pumpkins was one of the worst I’d had in years. Only a third turned out, and they was just little blobs which rotted on the vine. First time in ten years I didn’t have an entry in the contest.

Anyhow, I finished up them pancakes, closed The Way, and headed back to the farm. Soon as I was pulling in the driveway, my old lady—Betty—she come out and lit into me as she always did about wasting my Saturday morning at The Skylark chewing the fat with the other old codgers, instead of plowing and getting things ready for planting.

One thing you gotta understand about Betty and me, Doc. We have our tussles now and then. She’s a good country woman, my Betty is. Raised the kids right and proper. The boy is attending Cornell University studying Agricultural Science and my girl is down at Broome Community College in Binghamton, working on her degree in Social Services. They turned out right cause of their momma.

Betty also runs a tight ship. Leastways she did before her troubles. Time was, she had dinner on the table around five, clothes were always washed, mended and folded in my drawer, the house neat as a pin. She had several flower beds around the property she tended with about as much sweat and blood as I poured over my fields.

Thing is, Betty has a temper (still does, in a way). Came with her red Irish hair, I suppose. She got something on her mind, she said it, and she didn’t spare no one’s feeling about anything. She’d light into you or Sheriff Baker or anyone else, she get her dander up.

Ain’t always a bad thing. My girl and boy learned their manners and did their schoolwork. They minded their mother because if they didn’t, she’d bring down hellfire on their heads. Even I can admit to a strain of shiftlessness. Suppose if I was left to my own devices I’d putter around town all morning, chewing the fat with the boys at The Skylark. Sometimes, it’s good for the soul to know you’re gonna catch hell at home if you don’t get work done.

Problem is, there’s a few things about Betty that really chaps my ass (used to, anyway). One: Much as her fire was good for the soul, she didn’t rightly know when to quit. Especially when she found her groove. Whole week coming up to the Saturday when I found The Way, she was riding my ass. Couldn’t let last year’s bad harvest rest. Every minute I spent doing something other than plowing the field or turning the mulch she was hammering away about how I needed to get my ass moving, or we’d have another poor harvest. That Saturday morning she was pushing me to my limit because I’d heard the same riff all week long.

Another thing is, she hates books. Hates me reading them so much, too. Now, she don’t hate school learning, else she wouldn’t have been so hard on the kids, driving them so hard they got the highest marks in their classes and got scholarships for college. No, what she can’t stand is the idea of reading for pleasure. She never took to school herself. Quit at age sixteen. And though she made our children attend school and college so they could someday have better lives than us, she didn’t cotton to the idea of a grown man sitting around for even ten minutes reading something for enjoyment.

According to her, I was a farmer and nothing more. I was to spend all my days with my hand on the plow, not on a book. Fact, she went so far as to never clean my study. Kept the rest of the house spotless, but she never cleaned my study. Said she hated being near some of the strange books I kept, claiming they gave her the heebie-jeebies cause they was Satan’s own words, bound in evil and lies.

Mostly, I think she couldn’t stand the thought of me sitting in there reading them heavy thinking books or a Stephen King yarn for fun. She wasn’t ever much of a reader. Meaning my old lady no disrespect, Doc, but I’m not sure how much she could read herself. I think a lot of her ire came from being jealous of all the simple pleasure I took from it.

Lastly, Betty always did poke fun at my pumpkins. Said I spent too much time fretting over them, claiming last year’s harvest was so bad cause I wasted too much time trying to save the pumpkins. For true, might be something to what she said. Got a bit taken with the pumpkins last year and probably did spend too much time trying to save them.

But Betty, she never though my winning one of the top three spots at the Festival was much to-do. Never mocked me outright, but was always sarcastic about it, see? This past year, after all my pumpkins died on the vine? Well, she was in hog heaven, for sure.

Don’t get me wrong, Doc.

I love my Betty. But she nags, sometimes. Leastways she used to, before all this. Hell, I’d trade it all back to catch some of her nagging.

So anyway, you can imagine her consternation. There she was, standing in the front door, wiping her hands on her apron, scowling, and she says, “What the hell kinda trash you dragging in now, Seamus?”

I open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her hand and says, “No, lemme guess. Some fool dumped a box full of those useless books yer always reading and you fished em out and brought em home so you can waste more time reading instead of plowing the field. Ain’t gonna have nothing to eat, winter comes.”

Now truth be told, there was something for her to be frustrated about. I had dawdled a bit all week. Hadn’t plowed the field as I should’ve, especially my pumpkin patch. I’ll admit I spent a patch of time in my study, reading the Farmer’s Almanac and The Long Lost Friend to see if I’d missed anything that could help with the crops.

Still, much as I love my Betty as only a man could love his God-given wife, sometimes she can’t get it through her head how much gets in the way of plowing and planting, come spring. For example, that whole past week, besides reading the Almanac for planting ideas, I had to re-shingle the roof on the backside of the house. I also spent a whole Tuesday repairing the fence around the goat pen. Wednesday, Betty had me fetching mulch from the landfill for her flower gardens. The tractor’s engine broke down Thursday. I spent the better part of the day fiddling with it until I finally threw up my hands and called Jeb Hawkins (mechanic who runs a little shop up in the Heights) to come fix it for me. Of course with the tractor out of commission all day I couldn’t plow, but I didn’t tell Betty that cause she’d just get her dander up and accuse me of lying to get the day off.

So anyway I was behind in my plowing, but not because of loafing around, as Betty said. When she lit into me about those books I’d scavenged from the dumpster, I scowled and says, “Don’t start. If I don’t figure what went wrong with last year’s crops it ain’t gonna matter how soon I get the fields plowed, same thing as last time’s gonna happen.”

Betty folded her arms, scowled and says, “Hell, ain’t no mystery why the crops failed last year. Went in with Cletus Smith on them cheap seeds he found in Booneville. Got taken for a ride, Seamus. Which I told you last year, if you remember.”

Thing is, Doc, Betty wasn’t exactly wrong about that, neither. I did throw in on a deal with Cletus Smith to buy some wholesale seed from this place he’d heard of in Booneville. Folks around those parts swore on the place. Well, they may have sworn so, but the seed Cletus bought grew some of the weakest plants I ever seen, no lie there.

Even so, the subject was still sore despite her being right. You show me a man who don’t mind being proved wrong, I’ll show you a man who ain’t got much in the way of balls. I snorted and says, “Ain’t nothing wrong with the seed we got from Booneville. Something else went foul. Soil, mulch, weather. Something. And if I don’t figure out what, same thing is gonna happen this year. Then we’ll be up the creek. Plus, I ain’t missing out on the Halloween Festival two years in a row. No way in hell.”

She shakes her head, wiping her hands on her apron the whole time. “You gonna spend the whole day reading them damn fool books you dug outta the dumpster, trying to figure out how to save yer precious pumpkin patch? Or are you gonna get on yer tractor and do some plowing today?”

Now, plowing wasn’t what I wanted to do right then. Truth be told, I wanted to hole up in my study and start flipping through The Way. Of course, I couldn’t say so to Betty without riling her up even worse, but an idea came to me, quick as flash. “Depends. We got any venison left in the freezer for dinner?”

She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “Used it up in a casserole night before last.

“We got any meat at all?”

Her face scrunched up. “Nope. Was planning on spaghetti tonight.”

“Well then,” I says with a smile, “best head out to Clifton Lake, hook me some bass for dinner. Can always plow Monday.”

I’d offered her a perfectly logical explanation. We was out of meat, and she didn’t like spaghetti any more than I did. She knew I had good luck with the rod and reel. More than likely, I’d bring home at least ten or twelve bass and pan fish.

But she knew me, Doc. Knew I could plant two rods in the ground, sit back, kick my feet up and browse through a book to my heart’s content. She also knew what I knew, deep down in my heart: I was putting off plowing the field.

She smirked, wiped her hands on her apron once more and says, “Fine, Seamus. Do whatever you want. I’m only yer wife. Hell, when we’re begging for food at the Methodist Church food pantry in the Fall cause the plants didn’t grow right cause you spent all yer time trying to conjure how to grow prize-winning pumpkins, don’t complain. Hell, you’ll have plenty a time to read then, sitting on your ass in an old church pew every month waiting for a handout.”

With that, Betty turned and walked back into the house, muttering under her breath something I couldn’t hear but figured wasn’t complementary. I thought Hell with her anyway. Doc, I love my wife as much as the next man, but she couldn’t ever consider anything from a different perspective. Besides, what did she know about planting? I’m the one been doing it all these years.

Plus, something in my head was whispering The Way of Ah-Tzenul had all the answers I’d need. If I could find some time to sit and read the damn thing, all our planting problems would be solved. I would finally take first place in the Halloween Pumpkin Festival.

Turns out I was right, Doc. The Way did have all the answers I needed. But honest and true? I’d take it all back, sure as God rules in Heaven and the devil dwells below.

***

Luckily I keep all my tackle and poles in my truck, and there’s bait coolers at the Quickmark on the way, so I didn’t have to weather Betty’s disapproving glare while gathering my fishing gear. In no time at all I was rambling down Main Street, turning the corner at the end and heading to Clifton Lake. I parked at the trail-head, gathered my gear—The Way of Ah-Tzenul in my jacket pocket—and tromped down to my usual fishing spot, under an old elm on the deep end, whose branches reached over the water. Bass congregated there.

I cleared a space on a big rock, set and baited my poles, cast one, then jammed the end in the crook between rocks. I cast the other, fixed it up, then settled back against the elm and opened The Way, hoping to find something for better crops.

Honest truth, Doc? Part of me was thinking Betty was probably right. The whole thing was a waste of time. Some other part of me, though—deep inside—knew what I needed was in The Way.

Course, I read maybe a page or two before bass started hitting both my lines. Don’t know how much fishing you do, Doc, but fishing with two poles, you gotta be on your toes. Especially when they’re biting, like they were that morning. I hadn’t gotten much past the second page before I landed five bass and two pan fish, all of them big enough to plop right in a bucket I’d brought with me. Anyway, I felt a mite better. If I brought home a mess of fish for dinner, Betty would be pacified for least a day or so.

Anyhow, the first couple pages didn’t tell nothing more than basic advice about planting. When to start plowing and when to seed. What types of soil grew plants the best. What plants to start indoors, what made good fodder for mulching. Ironically it mentioned using fish guts for starting corn seed, which I’d heard tell of some old timers doing, but hadn’t ever tried myself. I’d need a whole lot of fish guts to cover my field.

About an hour later, after landing ten bass and four pan fish, things started slowing down. It was getting on eleven in the morning, after all. Fishing always slows down around then. So I settled back and dug into The Way. For the most part, it still didn’t say much more than what you’d find in the Farmer’s Almanac. I was getting mighty disappointed until I turned to a new section titled in slightly shaky handwriting, Invoking Al Tzenul’s Harvest.

That sounded interesting, seeing as how the whole journal had been named after this Aztec planting god, but it hadn’t yet mentioned him. So I perked up. From then on it all sounded different. Even the writing sounded older, using the kinds of words Clive Hartely and other pow-wow fellas conjured with. Anyway, the first paragraph said invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul in a “treasured vessel” wasn’t to be taken lightly, cause once Ah-Tzenul has “come among the harvest and blessed it he’s forever hungry because his belly’s empty after bestowing his blessing on the land.”

Or something as such, anyway. I don’t remember it word for word. Anyhow, the first thing needed to invoke the spirit of Ah-Tzenul was nothing special. Plowing, tilling and mulching the land. Which let me down. I started thinking the rest of the journal was as Betty would say. A waste of time, and I was just desperate because I was afraid I’d lost my touch.

Let’s be honest between men, Doc. That’s the real reason for putting off plowing my fields. I was afraid I’d never grow plants again, or—stupid as it sounds—grow prize winning pumpkins again. Men don’t take blows to the ego well. I heard tell of one fella, over in Eagle Bay, who had a nice business guiding tourists to good fishing spots. Been doing it for years, and he always found folks the best spots without fail.

Well, one summer he lost his touch. Couldn’t find any fish at all. Lost all his customers, one right after the other. Wasn’t long, folks hadn’t seen him around town for a few days, and when they finally broke into his place, they found him in the tub, wrists cut and bled out. I’m not saying I’d thought about doing something similar, but I ain’t saying I hadn’t thought about it, either.

Anyway, I was ready to quit until I read this line: Invoking Ah-Tzenul’s Harvest requires a nightly propitiation to Ah-Tzenul by the offering of the planter’s seed.

Offering of the planter’s seed.

You understand what that means, Doc? Guess by the way yer staring at me, you DO. So, according to this book I’d found in a dumpster, for a good harvest I hadda go onto my field at midnight, chant a bunch of mish-mash, grab myself and, well . . . get it up . . .

And offer my seed.

On my damn field, under the moon.

You’d think I would’ve caught on, right then. Maybe this whole Ah-Tzenul’s Harvest wasn’t something to be messing with, right?

Yeah.

You’d think so.

***

I read more of The Way while fishing. Thing is, can’t remember much of what I read. My head’s fuzzy after the part about “offering the planter’s seed.” Guess it threw some gears. Anyhow, best I can remember, what I read afterward said something again about a “treasured vessel” meant to bring forth Ah-Tzenul to bless the harvest, and how Ah-Tzenul is always hungry after.

Wanna know the real strange thing? I sorta remember tending to my rods every now and then, hooking the odd bass or pan fish while I was reading, but it didn’t seem more than two or three. When I finally blinked and looked at my watch, saw it was near two o’clock in the afternoon, you know how many fish I’d caught?

Fact is I couldn’t count. The bucket—ten gallons—was stuffed full of fish, of all kinds. And I’m not saying it was full of fish pushing water to the bucket’s brim. I’m saying there wasn’t any water left at all. Damn thing was stuffed full of fish. Maybe forty, fifty of em. All stuffed in there, tails sticking up and flipping.

Y’know what I think, Doc?

There I was, reading a strange book about invoking some nature god to help with my crops and my pumpkin patch, and while doing so, I managed—without paying attention—to catch near fifty fish. Something knew what I was pondering and it offered me a blessing. Rewarding me, maybe, and promising more things to come.

If only I’d known then what those more things were.

***

When I got home from fishing I lied to Betty, saying I didn’t catch a damn thing. Don’t know what this says about me or her, but she believed me. She accused me of not fishing at all, said I probably sat under a tree and read my fool head off the whole morning.

Was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the whole bucket of fish, but I didn’t, for some reason. I let her drag me into a row about me wasting time reading “them fool books” and how things was falling down around our ears cause I “wouldn’t get off my lazy ass.”

After, I slammed out the door, went to the truck and sneaked the bucket around back to the barn. Knowing Betty doesn’t ever set foot near the garden until harvest, I went out and started laying down the fish. I know lots of other farmers do exactly the same thing, so if she did come out and see me, it would be easy to explain what I was doing, though I’d then have to explain why I’d lied about not catching any fish.

Something I’ll never understand about laying down them fish, Doc. My garden’s fairly big, about hundred feet by sixty or so. Was only planning to lay down fish in the east end, where my pumpkin patch is. Didn’t figure on having enough fish for the whole field, not by a long shot.

Here’s the thing. You know the story about Jesus and the loaves of bread and fishes? About how He blessed them when He was feeding the five thousand or whatever, and two fishes and a loaf of bread fed them all, and didn’t run out?

Same thing happened with this bucket of fish.

When I was finished with the pumpkin patch, I still had over half a bucket full. Halfway done with the garden, still had the same amount. Wasn’t until I’d covered the entire garden with fish did I empty the damn bucket.

It was a miracle. Like Jesus and the loaves and the fishes. I didn’t feel blessed or joyful, though. Honest to God, felt more scared than anything else.

Well, when you lay fish down on a garden, got to plow them right in or it’ll stink up and draw flies. I wasn’t hankering for a whole field full of flies. Soon as I lay down the last fish, I hustled to the barn, hitched the plow up to the tractor, fired her up, pulled out and plowed them fish down in my field, working them in, turning the soil over.

Finally plowing the fields got Betty off my back. She acted right friendly to me afterwards. Made some fine venison steaks for dinner (apparently we’d had some squirreled away in the freezer after all) and didn’t bother me none when I settled into my study to read more from The Way of Ah-Tzenul (which to be honest, I still don’t remember much about). Later at night? Well, we got frisky for the first time in a long while.

I can’t help but think, Doc. If Betty had known what was coming, she would’ve sneaked out to my gun closet in the living room after we’d finished, grabbed my thirty-ought and put me out of my misery right then and there. Would’ve been better all round. Because later on, near midnight?

I went out to the field and called on Ah-Tzenul for the first time.

***

You ever sleepwalk, Doc? I never did before I read The Way. Sure enough, after me and Betty had our relations and we dropped off, I woke and found myself standing at the far end of my garden. And I was—well, this is embarrassing, Doc, cause I’m a private man and don’t like talking about such things . . .

Well, the part about the “planter offering his seed?” That’s what I was doing. Standing at the far end of my garden, buck-naked under the moon, hand on myself. Working it to beat the band. Again, I don’t like sharing all this cause it’s private and personal, but you’re a Doc, right? Sure you’ve heard worse.

And maybe you can explain this to me. When I finally got—well, got there, a bomb went off in my head. I seized up all over, felt like electricity was shooting through me, snapping my back. I offered my seed, as The Way of Ah-Tzenul said I should. It kept shooting out of me onto the ground. My whole body burned. I’m ashamed to say even though some part of me was scared, another part me?

Well.

I kinda liked it.

Loved it, in fact, cause it’d never been so powerful between me and Betty, ever.

Here’s the other thing, Doc. Scares me more than anything else. After it all happened I felt tired and woozy, so I’m not sure if what I saw actually happened, but when I looked down to the ground, where I spilled my seed? Damn my eyes if the ground wasn’t sucking it down. Minutes passed and the ground at my feet was dry as a bone.

Here’s another thing which hit me, Doc, as I stumbled away from the garden and back down to the house, suddenly desperate to get back to bed before Betty discovered I’d left. I came awake standing at the far end of the garden. The muscles in my back, belly and thighs quivering, sore as hell. As if I’d worked my way along the garden, spilling my seed the whole way. I’d covered the whole field. Now you tell me, Doc.

How’s that possible?

***

The following week was the last time Betty and me was on good terms. Sunday, after I found myself offering my seed, I spent the day mending things around the house. We ain’t never been much for church-going, and honestly, Doc? After finding The Way and reading it, and the whole fish thing, and offering my seed? The thought of me walking into God’s House seemed blasphemous. Like maybe I’d get struck by lightning soon as I walked through the door.

Anyhow, rest of the week me and Betty got along fine, probably the best we have since before the kids. After only having relations occasionally, we was having them every night. And yes, before you ask, every night afterward, I found myself waking up at the far end of my garden, under the light of the moon. When I finished up? Well, words can’t explain how it felt. My whole body exploded.

Now, you might think this would wear me out terrible. Sure enough, after each time, I staggered down to the house, feeling sore as hell, and, not to press a joke too far, drained empty. Literally.

But each morning after offering my seed, I felt good. New. Full of life and blazing with energy. Every single day I did what Betty had been after me to do for weeks: Plant the garden. Corn rows on Monday, potatoes Tuesday, lettuce on Wednesday, onions and radishes on Thursday, peas and carrots and broccoli on Friday.

Then, Saturday, one full week after I’d found The Way in a dumpster at the landfill, I planted cucumbers and my pumpkins at the far end of my garden, and yep, that night, I found myself up there at midnight one last time, after an especially rousing bout with Betty, offering my seed. I say last time, because after that night it never happened again. I’d offered my seed and planted seed. According to The Way of Ah-Tzenul, it was now time for something a bit more nourishing.

Ironically enough it was also the last time Betty and I had relations. The new spark we’d been enjoying for a whole week died after I spilled my seed on the garden for the last time.

***

I know what yer thinking, Doc. Yer wondering if I’ve gone off my rocker. Probably don’t know what to think about invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul and all, but trust me, Doc. I ain’t lying. I did all that stuff and more.

Why would I?

Why go to such lengths?

Sounds foolish, and I suppose it is foolish when you cut to the quick. But that pumpkin contest, Doc. Yeah, being a farmer full-time, I needed the produce for our living, so planting the whole garden was important.

But that pumpkin contest.

Hell, Doc. Growing crops is the only thing I’ve ever done well. The bad harvest last year? Specially them rotten, lopsided pumpkins? Ain’t gonna lie, Doc. It worked on me something fierce all winter long. Not entering the Halloween Festival for the first time in ten years. Not taking at least one of the top three. It was a slap in the face.

And those pumpkins, dead on the vine? Well, must sound awful vain and foolish, but it was emasculating. Like my own balls being sliced off.

Also, I ain’t above admitting The Way of Ah-Tzenul was working on my head something fierce. The King in Yellow, Long Lost Friend, The Traveler’s Gate and some of Lovecraft’s books have worked on my head something fierce, too (though I can’t bear to throw them out, on account of how much I love books in general), but they wasn’t nothing compared to this. I ain’t ashamed to admit I haven’t exactly been in my right mind since I first opened that damn book . . .

What you say?

How’s this got to do with why I called you here? Don’t worry, Doc. We’re getting to that, directly.

***

The Sunday after I last offered my seed up to Ah-Tzenul, I got hit by the worst case a let-down. Felt as if some part of me died. After tending to the animals, I felt the need to settle down in my study and read. Hell, I’d spent the whole week plowing and planting. Figured I owed myself. I’d picked up a few new Stephen King novels last month at the used book sale at Bassler Memorial Library, so I figured on starting one of them.

So I was surprised to find myself sitting up in my chair, blinking as if coming out of a long sleep, with The Way open in my lap, reading about “invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul through the nourishment of the sow’s blood.” I sat there and stared at The Way, wondering how the hell I’d gone and read it when I’d wanted to read something else. Also, how could I sit there for a whole hour and a half reading without remembering what I’d read!

But there it was, staring me in the face. Sitting open in my lap. Mocking me with its slanty-sidewise handwriting. Though I had no memory of what I’d read, the last sentence burned in my brain: Invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul through the nourishment of the sow’s blood.

 I re-read the pages before that bit, and I gotta be honest, Doc. It set me back on my heels. Spreading pig’s blood all over my field. I didn’t know what to think about that. I understood the fish guts thing. Most farmers do, I suppose. Rotting fish produces nitrogen. Plowing it down before planting’s gonna make for lots of nitrogen in the soil. But pig’s blood? Not only that, but bitch pig’s blood?

How the hell was that gonna help?

Course, I’d just spent the whole week spilling my seed all over the field. How was pig’s blood any stranger?

I read a little more to see what else it’d say. Apparently, I couldn’t spread the blood on the field during the day. I had to spread it on the field at midnight, under the spring full moon (which was coming soon, according to the Farmer’s Almanac). There was another spell I had to chant while doing it.

Now, right there you figure I would’ve realized, once and for all, this wasn’t something I should be messing with, having read Long Lost Friend, The Traveler’s Gate and The Witch Book of Throop. But Doc, I’m sure you’ll agree with me. Most men wanna keep their own counsel rather than heed the words of others. This was my field, my pumpkin patch and my chance to take top prize. Also my chance to put Betty (lovingly, of course) in her place for a change. Man get in such a state, ain’t much he won’t do.

I slowly closed The Way.

Sat there and stared into nothing, thinking hard.

We only ever have two or three pigs at a time, Doc. Takes about six months for them to grow big enough to butcher, about two hundred pounds or so. The pigs I had weren’t only about four months along, not a hundred-fifty pounds. Butchering them then would be a waste, getting us only half the meat. I think, Doc, right then and there, if I’d been left to my own self, I would’ve tossed The Way in the fire pit and burned it.

But Betty had to poke her fool head into my study. She sorta sneered and says, “Lookit you. One week of hard work and here you is, sitting on yer ass and reading more trash. Make a hell of a farmer, you do. Sitting on yer fat ass, reading.”

She shook her head, smiling the whole time, and left. Me, however, I was near shaking to rage. Which is kinda strange, when you think on it. Betty had always sorta pissed me off with her talk about books being foolishness and me being lazy for sitting on my ass and reading, but I brushed it off most the time.

Right then?

If I’d had my hand on my shotgun or ax? Think I might have sent Betty right out of the world.

Thinking back?

Might have been for the best, all things considering.

***

Doc, does sleepwalking ever happen during the day? Cause after that Sunday when I woke up after reading The Way, remembering nothing; after Betty lit into me, I found myself dozing off and then waking up in the middle of doing things I had no plans of doing at all.

Take butchering them pigs. One minute I was getting to my feet, mumbling about Betty sassing me and how she’d regret not showing me respect; next minute, I found myself sticking my first pig in its neck.

You grow up on a farm, Doc? Hell now, you did? Don’t suppose you ever butchered a pig? No? Well, it’s a damn messy job, for sure. First stick in the neck sends a fountain of blood all over. And worse, I wasn’t concerned with getting the meat at all, Doc. All I wanted was blood, so I went to extra efforts to drain the blood into buckets as I went. Getting meat was secondary.

So pretty soon, I stood there with them carcasses hanging high from my barn (but it wasn’t too long before they was spoiled, Doc, cause spring is the wrong time to butcher pigs), with three ten-gallon buckets beneath, catching their blood. And, though I remember most of what I’d done, I wandered away from the barn and down to the house to wash up in a daze. Even now, I can sorta remember butchering them pigs, but from far away. Like I watched someone else do it. Make any sense to you?

One thing I do remember. Whole time I was talking to myself. Talking, or sorta singing. Chanting, maybe. But I don’t remember the words. Even if I did, I don’t think they’d make much sense, because from what I do remember?

They didn’t sound like no words I’d ever heard in my whole life.

***

I was washing the blood off my hands in the sink when Betty came roaring into the kitchen, swearing to raise the roof. She must’ve seen me coming down from the butchering pen and wanted to know what the hell was going on, me butchering them sows so early.

The kitchen door slammed open hard enough to rattle the pots and pans hanging next to the stove. She says, “Seamus Freely! What the hell you doing, butchering them sows? Ain’t more than hundred pounds each! Won’t get no meat off them worth keeping! Supposed to be our meat for the winter! You lost yer damn mind?”

I stood there, slowly washing my hands, rubbing them under the hot water. They was glowing red, on account of how hot the water was. Staring at my hands—rubbing, clenching, unclenching—still sorta hypnotized, I mumbled, “Nuff meat there to last us awhile, Betts. Last us just fine.”

Betty stomped, rattling them pots again. “Hell we’ll be fine! We’ll be outta pork by the end of summer. How we gonna get through the winter, Seamus? What the hell was you thinking?”

Right then I started rising from my funk, Doc. Her angry words sent hot flashes up my neck. I grit my teeth harder, washing and rubbing my hands faster under the hot water. I says, “Mind me, woman. Don’t you sass me none. We’ll be fine. I’m still head of the household round here. If I say it’s time to butcher the sows it’s time to butcher, and you get no say-so.”

I paused and then, in calm, cool words, I says something I wasn’t planning on, the words spilling right outta my mouth. “Besides, The Way of Ah-Tzenul says to invoke the spirit of Ah-Tzenul in your harvest, you gotta give an offering of . . . ”

“Books,” she says, grumbling. “Yer damn books. That’s where you’re getting this foolishness from? Hell, I should’ve known. You sitting around all day on your fat ass, reading them damn books, stuffing your head with fool ideas about nothing at all. Why, I oughta drag them books out to the burn pit, pour kerosene over em, and burn em up, and another thing . . . ”

I can’t exactly tell you what happened next, Doc. And I can’t exactly tell you why. Betty and me, we’ve had some knock-down drag-outs over the years, some real screamers. She’s threatened to burn my books before. Said worse things, too. So why everything went so hot and red, I don’t know. Maybe I was embarrassed, because after all, she was right, Doc. Was a waste to butcher them pigs so early, but The Way of Ah-Tzenul had called for sow blood, and I couldn’t say no. I was invoking the spirit of Ah-Tzenul on my field, on my crops, especially on my pumpkin patch. I had to grow pumpkins this year, Doc. Had to win that damn contest.

Also?

She was disrespecting The Way of Ah-Tzenul. I can handle her disrespecting me. Hell, even when things was good between us she was always a smart ass. But she was disrespecting The Way of Ah-Tzenul and all it’d taught me. For some reason, that I couldn’t abide.

The butchering knife I’d used to stick them pigs was in my hand in an instant, and I covered it in spurting red again. And yeah, Doc. It was this knife, the one I got right here.

***

Now, Doc, you sit tight. Ain’t gonna stick you with this if you sit still. Sure as hell didn’t call ya here to gut you in my living room. And no, Betty ain’t gone. She’s the reason I called ya here in the first place. But you let me finish my story before you judge me. Don’t you try getting up and running neither.

Actually, you come this way, Doc. We’ll head up to the garden, out back. Only way you’re gonna understand everything. You walk before me, and don’t make any moves. I been sharpening this knife every day since I butchered them sows and stabbed Betty in the neck.

Every. Damn. Day.

***

Turned out that night was a full moon. Don’t know if I knew or sensed it, but it’s why I chose to butcher them pigs. Maybe it was all coincidence, but something inside me says that ain’t so. None of this has been coincidence. The frightening thing? I think it was bound to happen the moment I found The Way in the dumpster at the Webb County Landfill.

Anyway, that night.

By the light of the full moon.

I dumped them buckets of sow’s blood all over the garden, softly chanting them same strange words I can’t remember, as The Way of Ah-Tzenul said to. Like with them dead fish, somehow the last drop didn’t get spilled until I’d covered the whole field. And here’s a strange thing. You’d think a whole garden covered in pig blood sitting in buckets since midday would stink to high heaven.

But it didn’t, Doc. Smelled a little coppery but mostly smelled of freshly-turned earth and Adirondack pine. The blood soaked right into the soil, just like my seed did. Wasn’t a drop left on the surface, except now I don’t think “soaked” is the right word.

Drank.

That soil hadn’t soaked the blood up. It drank the blood. Cause I had invoked the spirit of Ah-Tzenul in my garden, and as it says in The Way of Ah-Tzenul, when Ah-Tzenul’s been invoked to bless your crops . . .  Ah-Tzenul is always hungry, and apparently thirsty, too.

***

Watch your step there, Doc. Up this little rise, and here we are.

Yep. Ain’t it a beaut, Doc? Best garden I’ve ever had. Gonna be able to can and freeze enough to last me through the winter all the way into next planting season, for sure. And I ain’t ever seen such corn or potatoes. Those alone are sure to fetch a fine price at the farmer’s market in a few weeks. Fact, I’ve got no worries about the coming winter at all, Doc. The Way of Ah-Tzenul says things about blessing the hunt, starting bee hives, everything else you can possibly think of when it comes to gathering your own food. Got some new young sows and they’re already hundred pounds each. By the time I need to make another offering, they’ll be plenty large enough for me to get all the meat I need.

What’s that?

Oh, Betty. Well, let’s come to the far end of the garden, Doc. Here we go, follow this path along the side.

Look at them pumpkins, now. That one there has to be near forty feet round, all shiny orange and near perfect. Definitely take first place in the Halloween Festival in a few weeks. I reckon I can charge a pretty penny selling the rest for jack’o lanterns, too. I don’t know for sure, but I wager making jack’o lanterns out of pumpkins grown with the essence of Ah-Tzenul might make for a special Halloween indeed.

I see you’re looking at the other pumpkin. The one behind my sure prize winner. Yep, yer right, it’s the biggest in the whole garden. Guinness Book size, sure enough, if I called anyone up here to see it, but I ain’t gonna do that.

Why?

Well, to be perfectly honest, this is where I ended up planting Betty after I stuck her. I been sorta lying and telling everyone she ain’t been feeling well and been resting, and I feel sorta bad, but I couldn’t tell folks the truth, now could I? It’s a real good thing Betty never got along with folks down in town. If she had more friends, I might not have been able to . . .

Hold on there, Doc! You stop right there and don’t struggle, or your gonna get this knife right in the belly. See, I wasn’t lying when I said Betty wasn’t gone. The part about the spirit of Ah-Tzenul taking a treasured vessel when invoked? Well, don’t matter what you think, don’t matter that we fought and she hated my reading and I stuck her in the neck, my Betty was treasured by me, she surely was. That’s where I buried her, Doc. Right in my pumpkin patch, and considering what she thought about my pumpkins and the Halloween Festival it’s right ironic . . .

You hold still!

C’mere! See this ridge here, long the bottom of this here pumpkin? See how it’s sorta quivering? The Way of Ah-Tzenul was right, Doc, it surely was. Once you invoke Ah-Tzenul’s blessing on your crops, it’s always . . .

Now you stop that! My Betty’s hungry and if she ain’t fed right quick . . .

Ah, hell, Doc, now ya done it! She gets right mean when her food ain’t alive . . .