Last year, I published a guidebook to the BryonySeries to give readers a quick reference to a person, place, or thing when they encountered it or needed a quick refresher.
And then last week during WriteOn Joliet's radio play rehearsal, the topic of Fisher Farm came up because Ed Calkins' piece is set on Fisher Farm.
It's interesting hearing Ed discuss Fisher Farm because he is absolutely enchanted with that farm and told me several years ago his plans for it.
As you may know, Ed is a former supervisor turned collaborator, turned character in the BryonySeries, turned author, turned friend.
As an author/character, he is an unreliable narrator. This gives Ed plenty of freedom in his writings because he can write whatever he likes, however he likes, and have it still fit on the BryonySeries world, which readers can accept as "canon" or not.
Here's the fun part for me. As I put together these ten facts about Fisher Farm (supported by texts from some of the BryonySeries books that might whet your reading appetite to know more), I realized that Ed's writings brought the farm's existence more than full circle. He brought it very forward and infused it with greater and deeper meaning than I had.
Who knows? Maybe you'll become enchanted, too, and want to experience Fisher Farm for yourself.
Oh, and refill that coffee mug. This is a long post. Enjoy the journey!
Here is what the guidebook says:
Fisher Farm: Family
farm with two farmhouses northwest of Munsonville, founded by Clyde Fisher in
the nineteenth century. Mentioned in “Bryony.” Appears in “Before The Blood:Bryony Marseilles,” “Before The Blood: Bryony Simons,” and “Call of the Siren.” (And also "House on Top of the Hill," which wasn't written when the guidebook was published, as well as two books by Ed Calkins: "The Fifth" and "Recovering Ruthless").
Here are ten facts about Fisher Farm:
1. Fisher Farm was well-established by the time Munsonville was just getting developed. (FYI, Munsonville is a mid-nineteenth century Utopian community in Northern Michigan that encouraged eating fish and not eating meat. Munsonville only exists in the BryonySeries, despite what Ed may tell you).
All summer
Maybelle, as plump and sweet as an overripe peach now that she was expecting,
stocked the Marseilles cabin with bounties from Fisher Farm; Galien and Adele
hardly opened a can. They also drowned in fresh fish, courtesy of Orville and
Bernie, a welcome change from last winter's salt cod.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles).
2. Fisher Farm remained an important supplier of fresh food a decade later and beyond.
Afternoons
toward the end of the week held the most variety. In mild weather, Bryony
accompanied Mrs. Parks on errands to the general store for staples or to Fisher
Farm for eggs and vegetables.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles).
3. Fisher Farm was a place of joy for Bryony Marseilles even as a very young girl.
Bryony liked trips to Fisher Farm. Cattle grazed contentedly
in the meadow. Hens waddled and clucked across the road without a care, but
when a cart or buggy approached, they scurried away, flapping their wings and
kicking up dust.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles).
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The fading sun sank to the horizon and cast golden orange
shadows over the endless countryside. Old Drew clopped along the path his own
hooves had dug through many treks to Fisher Farm. Bryony clasped her hands in
delight. They were on their winding way.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles).
4. Fisher Farm was a hub for all-village social events.
Whistling a
song instead of singing one, Mr. Munson set off again, gaily swinging Bryony's
hand as they walked. They were now approaching the party. The bonfire blazed
tall and hot in the chilly October air and smelled of burning pine. Here and
there stood wooden barrels, with spigots. There were women in cloaks and
bonnets, some with faces together and chattering, some arranging the food; and
men in jackets and caps, waving glasses, guffawing, and biting into crisp
Fisher Farm apples.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles)
(Later, at the above harvest party, Munsonville founder Owen Munson told this tale of "Stingy Jack.").
Bryony remained with the Parks' until twilight on December 31,
and, by the look of annoyance on Reverend's face at her return, she knew he
wished circumstances were otherwise, too. But Mr. and
Mrs. Parks were attending a New Year's Eve square-dancing party at Fisher Farm
with the rest of the village, and Reverend wouldn't allow Bryony to accompany
them. So home she went.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles)
5. Fisher Farm is where Bryony found a family during the summer of her eleventh year - and so did her neglected friend Susan Betts.
A gregarious reception greeted Bryony at the back door as
the Fisher girls ushered Bryony into the bright kitchen, warm with genuine
welcome, and succulent with thyme and garlic.
Yet amidst
the cheer, apprehension clung like the web of a large house spider.
Mr. Parks
silently set Bryony's bundles on the wide plank floors, tipped his hat at Mrs.
Fisher who appeared in the doorway, swollen in expectation of her seventh baby,
and without a word, departed.
The girls'
babbling floated around her as clear soap bubbles on a sunny day.
"We
waited dinner for you," Rose said. "Are you hungry?"
"We
sheared sheep last week," Daisy added.
"We're
summer sisters," Ivy said.
"Do
you like chickens?" Heather asked.
Lilac hung
back. Marigold skipped around the kitchen, clucking like a chicken.
Bryony,
still clutching Penny Whistles, gazed
about the large room, from the double cast iron stoves, many cabinets and
shelves built into the walls, and the large windows that showed only the
blackness outside. A large cast iron triangle hung near the door.
Next, she
contemplated the girls, her companions for the next three months.
At eleven,
the same age as Bryony, but slightly taller and not so slender, Rose Fisher
bore the appearance of her mother's right hand daughter. She had the round face and eyes, supple well-fed
limbs, and dark ringlets of her sisters, but she carried herself with the quiet
assurance of knowing her place in the pecking order and having the abilities to
carry it out.
Next to
Rose, hands demurely behind her back, stood Lilac Fisher, a year younger, the
prettiest of the girls and the shyest, but with soulful eyes that expressed her
beautiful spirit more eloquently than mere words could.
Daisy,
eight, jumping up and down and talking over everyone else to get Bryony's
attention, was bright, ebullient, and easy-going, a real hoyden, Mrs. Parks had
once said, although not in an unkind way, for the powerful vitality emanating
from her shouted, "Challenge? Bring it on!"
By
contrast, Ivy, even at age six, oozed femininity at its sweetest. No one could
look at the limpid pools that passed for eyes without thinking pink, crocheted
lace, and pastel bouquets, and she often adorned her abundant locks with a
single blossom.
Five-year-old
Heather was the plainest, for God had bestowed on her the worse combination of
her parents' physical traits: her mother's high forehead, large cheeks, and
protruding belly; and her father's narrow eyes, wide nose, and turned down
mouth. But no one, including Heather, seemed to notice this, even though anyone
with eyes could see she would never be a beauty, Mrs. Parks said; her
friendliness and ready smile more than compensated for these defects.
Marigold
was simply a little country doll with the babyish roundness all well-fed girls
had at age two, content on pattering about her world in complete trust of those
she followed.
"Girls,
girls!" Mrs. Fisher held up her hand. "You'll overwhelm our little
guest. Rose, please show Bryony her room. After supper, you can help her
unpack."
"You're
sharing with Lilac and me," Rose said.
She,
Bryony, and Lilac each grabbed a bundle and
led the way up the back stairs to the second floor, with the younger
girls behind them, Heather crooning an unfamiliar tune all the way.
"What
is she singing," Bryony asked.
"Who
knows?" Daisy said behind her. "She makes them up."
Rose and
Lilac's bedroom was the middle of the three. Daisy and Ivy shared a room as did
Heather and Marigold. Mr. and Mrs. Fisher had the attic.
"But
Mama usually is with Heather and Marigold most of the night," Rose stepped
into her room and dropped her bundle, with Lilac repeating that move.
"Well, this is it."
The sight
of that room spawned a malignant spirit inside Bryony and not because the room
was ugly.
On the
contrary the bedroom, like the curly heads waiting for Bryony's reaction, was
charming. It had whitewashed walls, plank floors, and feed sack curtains
embroidered with flowers. A large handmade quilt covered the large homemade
bed. Sprawled on that bed was a menagerie of farm animals, all sewn from feed
sacks. They had mismatched buttons for eyes, and stitching for noses and
mouths.
At each
side of the bed stood a homemade night table. One table held a stack of books;
the other displayed a glass jar of white thimbleweed. A large bureau with a
small looking glass dominated the right hand wall; hooks holding dresses,
bonnets, straw hats, and capes ruled the left. The last piece of furniture, in
the corner next to the dresser, was a freestanding commode with a closed lid.
The entire
scene felt homey, loving, and captivating. That was the problem.
If only,
and Bryony felt the nasty green pang of jealousy for the first time, she had
been born a Fisher.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bryony proved quite adept at berry-picking, courtesy of all
the times she had accompanied Mrs. Parks, even though she still gorged her mouth
as well as her pail. As the girls crawled through the tall tickly grass and
gathered the tiny ripe fruit, Grandpa Clyde and One-Eye Blue meandered and
meditated.
One-Eye Blue was the closest Bryony had
to a pet. Puss didn't count, since the old tabby rarely interacted with humans,
only dozed, her right perhaps, since she was older than Bryony and quite the
hardworking mouser in her day, Mrs. Parks had said.
The dog's
appearance was striking. He had copper points on his white fur, an eye of brown
and an eye of blue, and an unending source of energy, making One-Eye Blue one
of the most industrious members of the Fisher household.
With stern
barks (and a few nips when necessary), One-Eye Blue rapidly rounded a flock of merino sheep or prodded a herd of
black and white Holsteins; he headed and heeled with ease.
Even little
Marigold was safe roaming outdoors when One-Eye Blue romped nearby, for he
never let her ramble far.
Inside the
farmhouse, One-Eye Blue retrieved more dirty laundry than any of the girls,
Lilac included, and located lost buttons with ease. He announced the arrival of
any strangers, and stretched out by the front door at night.
Yet for all his dominance, One-Eye Blue patiently
submitted to brushing and petting, a pastime of Bryony's during drowsy
afternoons after lunch. Often, she sat under an old elm, relishing his warm
skin and soft coat while in the distance, Mr. Fisher, Grandpa Clyde, and Robbie
plowed or hoed.
When she finally
laid aside the brush, Bryony cuddled the dog's neck and rested a cheek against
the silken fur, neither moving, together basking in the bright sunshine, cool
shade, and exquisite pleasure of each other's presence.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"There." Rose tied fastened her work with a bit of
blue ribbon. "You look pretty, Susan. Go see in the looking glass."
Susan shook
her head. "Ma said it steals souls."
At that
moment, Mrs. Fisher peered around the door in her night cap and dressing gown.
Blue, guarding the foot of Susan's bed, pricked up his ears.
"Goodness,
girls, why are you still awake?"
"I
fixed Susan's hair, but she's afraid to look!"
Mrs. Fisher
stroked Rose's curls and looked sympathetically at Susan, who shrank back and tucked her legs under her nightdress.
"Girls,
I'll be right back!"
Mrs.
Fisher returned with a bronze hand
mirror. She eased beside Susan on the trundle bed and held out the mirror
upside down.
"Such
a small object, Susan, see? Looking glasses don't harm you. They help
you."
"Don't
see how."
"They
show the truth."
"I
ain't purty!"
"How
do you know if you've never seen yourself?"
Susan
crossed her arms and scowled at the wall.
"Honey,
we can look together," Mrs. Fisher said. "I'll even hold the mirror.
Susan, would you like that? And I'll hold your hand so you won't be
frightened."
Mrs.
Fisher's coaxing tone slowly won Susan's trust. Bit by bit, Susan inched toward
the motherly figure.
"Can
you believe it?" Rose whispered to Bryony.
"Are
you ready, Susan?"
"Yes,'m."
Slowly,
Mrs. Fisher rotated the mirror. Susan gasped, and two hands flew up to her
mouth.
"Do
you see the pretty girl, Susan? Do you see her lovely cornflower eyes, golden
hair, the spray of sun kisses, and that spunky turned-up nose?"
Susan
seized the mirror and brought it close, searching, searching.
Mrs. Fisher
stroked Susan's head. "Susan, do you see?"
"Yes'm."
"You
know what I think? I think you need some pretty new dresses to go with that
pretty face you see, and I think tomorrow is a good day to start sewing some.
What do you think, Susan, would you like some new dresses?"
Susan said
nothing, mesmerized.
"The
glass is yours, to keep."
Susan
lowered the mirror, her expression defiant. "Ma'am?"
"When
I was a little girl, much younger than you are tonight, my aunt presented me
with this mirror. Now, I am giving it to you, as she gave it to me."
"Much
'bliged, ma'am."
"Oh,
Susan!"
Mrs. Fisher
swept Susan to her breast. Susan hung like a rag doll, aloof, as Mrs. Fisher
rocked her back and forth.
After a
long while, Mrs. Fisher lay Susan down, tucked the comforter around her as she
might do for Marigold, and then kissed Susan's forehead with compassion and
warmth.
When Mrs.
Fisher finally rose to darken the room, tears streaked her cheeks. "Sleep
well, girls."
Rose meekly
replied, "Yes, Mama."
Susan shed
her indifference as a garter snake shed its skin and emerged from her cocoon as
the beautiful butterfly Mrs. Fisher believed her to be.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Marseilles)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
6. Tragedy killed the magic at Fisher Farm by the time Bryony was grown and married. And little Sue Bass, who later stayed on the farm, never experienced the magic, only the despair.
For the villagers had decided to reciprocate the Simons’ generosity by hosting an event at Fisher Farm. Mayor and Mrs. Fisher had invited Susan and Junior to eventually make their home at Grandpa Clyde's farmhouse, but their marriage was a year away.
In the meantime, Mayor Fisher saw no reason not to offer the house and one of the barns for the party. On the invitations, the Fishers instructed guests to don floral-print clothes and decorate their carriages with native flowers and greenery, as a way to celebrate this transition from summertide to autumn.
Bryony stared at the invitation in disbelief.
"What's wrong?" John asked.
Trembling, she handed it back to him. "I don't want to go."
“We must.” John set the invitation on the sideboard and poured a drink. “I’m the entertainment.”
But the tears spilled out and she cried, "No! I can't do it!"
John set the drink down and took her in his arms. "Bryony."
"I can't!"
"I know it's hard. But the Fishers need it. You can do it. I won't leave your side."
She sniffed and looked up. "Promise?"
He brushed the tears away, and tenderly kissed her forehead. "Promise."
(Before The Blood: Bryony Simons)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How many times had Bryony made the short trek
between farmhouses with her summer sisters, and yet the way never felt this
long or sounded so still. The party sounds grew fainter the farther she and
Mrs. Fisher traipsed from them, while the natural sounds of the night,
katydids, crickets, and the occasional whippoorwill, rose to near-deafening
pitches, as did the scuffing of their feet over the grounds.
She'd spent her happiest, most carefree days of
her childhood at this farm. She had everything here: a loving family with two
parents, a houseful of sisters, and a Grandpa who was wise and true.
She had a beautiful dog to brush and hold, the
freedom to run and play like the wild mustangs she loved to watch, and the
presence of her cowboy making joyful music with his songs.
She hated this place, every blade of grass, every
splinter of wood.
(Before The Blood: Bryony Simons)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blindly,
Bryony stumbled out the door and then broke into a run across the fields,
flaxen in the day's fading light, not caring where she headed, and still the
ghosts of the past kept pace. However did the Fishers endure it?
(Before The Blood: Bryony Simons)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Fisher Farm was dirt, sweat, stink, and
muscle-burning work.
Mrs.
Helsby was tired, gray-ish, and sad.
Auntie
Maybelle struggled to move, struggled to help, and smiled brave smiles.
Priscilla
and Emeline had their noses in the air and fresh mouths beneath those noses,
the type of mouths that needed a good scrubbing with brown soap.
Marigold,
Jasmine, and Violet grew on the same vine.
Sue was a visitor.
(Call of the Siren)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Maudie’s disappearance, for Sue,
crystallized why she loathed living at Fisher Farm, and why the very thought of
staying forever filled her with unease. A resigned sadness hung in the
farmhouse, and an undercurrent of quiet despair pervaded the landscape. Sue
sensed it that day Ma had abandoned Sue at the farm. Sue couldn’t define it at
the time; she only felt it. But the longer Sue stayed at Fisher Farm, the more
she soaked up their misery, the way Uncle James, Auntie Maybelle, and, yes,
even Mrs. Helsby had soaked it up and became part of the bleakness. Maybe
that’s why Marigold “got with” the ‘hand. Maybe that’s why Maudie ran away – to
escape the drab, gray hell of hopelessness.
(Call of the Siren)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The words whirled through Sue’s head,
impossible to grasp. Too stunned for tears, Sue could only hang her head and
whisper, “I didn’t know.”
But
she saw Uncle James – again – in another new light. Maybe Uncle James had
stayed in the barns, not because his sparrow had found a home, not because he
had found God, and not just because he could see Maybelle the way she lived in
his heart, but because his house was too full of his daughters’ ghosts.
“This place is death,”
Uncle James said, averting his gaze from Sue but not before she saw his
sorrowful eyes. “Anyone who comes here, dies. We’re leaving while we can.”
(Call of the Siren)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
7. Fisher Farm fades into obscurity and no one remembers it by the early 1970s until Munsonville's new librarian asks the village maintenance man about it.
“Steve,” June said as he headed toward the door. “Ever
hear of Fisher Farm?”
“Fisher Farm?” He paused and faced her once again.
“What’s Fisher Farm?”
“A farm James Fisher’s uncle established around the
time Owen Munson founded Munsonville, northwest of the village.”
“How far northwest?”
June laughed. “About an hour by horse and cart.”
Steve laughed, too, and then cocked his head as he
mentally calculated. “So about ten miles or so. Never been out that way.”
“I believe it. Everything beyond my backyard is
overgrown.”
“Hugely overgrown. I’ll ask at the Beulah County
Sheriff’s office tomorrow. I’m driving into Jenson for supplies anyway. My
hunch is that the farm is unincorporated and under the county’s control.”
(House on Top of the Hill)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“As promised, I stopped at the Beulah County sheriff’s
office today on my way to Jenson for supplies today. Surprisingly, no one knew
anything about Fisher Farm. Gabe’s too young, of course, but Jan looked at me
as if I were asking about Atlantis.” Steve polished off the last of the water.
“So I dropped the subject to keep Fisher Farm off their radar until I checked
it out myself. After I returned from Jenson, I headed northwest with the flail
mower.”
“And?”
Steve wiped his damp face with his damp shirt. “And I
didn’t find Fisher Farm.”
June’s heart sank, and she slumped slightly.
“I did find scattered pieces of an old split rail
fence.”
June perked up.
“So if a farm is out there, I’m on the right track.”
Steve yawned behind his hand. “I mowed through a few miles of grass today. Tomorrow,
I’ll head out before dawn. If I don’t find it, I’m either going the wrong way,
or it’s just not there anymore.” He yawned again, rose, and stretched. “I’ll
let you know.”
June rose, too. “Thanks, Steve. I really appreciate
this.”
(House on Top of the Hill)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
June stayed late that night, just in case. At ten
o’clock, she locked the library and trudged home, disappointed, but thankful
Steve had tried. As she approached Pike Street, Steve pulled up beside her, honking
and looking pleased with himself. June sped to the driver’s side window and
breathlessly asked, “You found it?”
“I found it.”
“You’re a genius!”
“Not really. I just followed your directions.”
“So now what?”
“Would you like to see it? I’ve got a couple jobs in
the morning. But we can leave after lunch.”
“Most definitely! How much of Fisher Farm remains?”
“Can’t say, seeing I don’t know what’s original. I saw
seven buildings in terrible shape: two farmhouses and five barns.”
“Is it safe to see them?”
“From outside. When you look through the broken windows,
you’ll see what I mean. I mowed paths through the grass to all the structures
and then mowed paths around them, so you should get a good view.”
“This is wonderful, Steve. Thank you!”
“Be sure to wear long sleeves, long pants, and tall
socks. Bring a hat and insect repellent.”
“I planned on it.”
“Good. Otherwise, the bugs out there will chew you
up.”
“I will, thank you, Steve!”
“See you in the morning!”
Steve drove off and June continued home, ruminating on
bonfires, square dancing, flower festivals, and barn concerts. Of course, just
because Beulah County didn’t know about Fisher Farm didn’t mean Beulah County
didn’t own Fisher Farm. At the same time, just because Clyde Fisher built his farm
on the outskirts of Munsonville didn’t mean Fisher Farm wasn’t within village
limits now. A current plat map should settle the question on who owned the farm.
But before she leaped head-first into that rabbit hole, she needed to see the
property first. Nevertheless, she suspected Munsonville might be putting its
eggs in the wrong basket. The Village Board should consider putting Simons
Mansion out to pasture – in favor of a pasture. June giggled, feeling as light
and giddy as a schoolgirl as she slipped her key into the lock. Nothing excited
June more than discovery.
Driving out to Fisher Farm the next afternoon felt
like driving through a jungle. The grass on either side of the path grew nearly
as tall as Steve’s truck. The sun beat through her clothing and sweat trickled
down her face. Clouds of insects chirred through the air, indignant at the
intrusion of their sanctuary. The overpowering scent of grass and wildflowers
stung her eyes and nose. How in the hell did Steve mow through ten miles of
this mess? And all for a farm no one knew still existed! She glanced at her
hiking boots, the ones she bought for her treks into Simons Woods with Vicki,
the first time she’d worn them since…
“You see?” Steve shouted over the truck’s rumbling as
he pointed.
Sure enough, pieces of an old rail fence lay scattered
here and there.
“You could’ve broken your blades with that!” June
shouted.
Steve sharply dodged each board. “I’ve driven over far
worse!”
Fifteen minutes later, a large, dilapidated farmhouse
came into view, and butterflies leaped in June’s stomach. She felt weirdly
excited at the sight of it and didn’t know why. Steve kept driving through the
path and stopped the motor near the caved-in front porch.
“Well,” Steve said. “Here we are.”
June stepped out of the truck, her eyes roaming over
the sight. Split weathered boards. Porch roof buckling. She followed the path
around the side of the house and waded through tall weeds to the broken window,
shading her eyes for a clear look at the old parlor. The second floor had caved
onto the plank floors, flattened the staircase, and partially buried the
family’s talismans and treasures: stained samplers, rotting rugs, shredded
curtains, decaying cushions on chairs crushed by bedroom furniture, a collapsed
bookcase with stacks of water-soaked, misshapen mildewy books. She
eased her way to the dining room window and saw more of the same. A ceiling
beam impaled the long, wooden dining room table, neatly splitting it in half.
Beams and beds created weird geomatic patterns on a canvas of stained and moldy
walls. She rounded the corner and peered through another window. The kitchen
had collapsed into itself, its stoves, cabinets and shelves, and large windows
with jagged glass teeth. Ironically, a large cast iron triangle still faithfully
hung near the doorway. Hands in her pockets, June rambled the quarter mile to
the second farmhouse with Steve shuffling beside her. June circled the much
smaller building, peeping here and there at similar damage.
“It’s so sad,” June murmured. “They left everything. I
wonder why.”
(House on Top of the Hill)
8. Fisher Farm is not a typical farm, a minute detail Ed picked up from reading the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" and expanded in his books.
“You ran away?” Officer Marsha asked.
“No.” Sheriff Matt hung his head. “I
admit that I was irrationally terrified of going into that building, but where
I was heading terrified me more. Yet, being from here and looking for a young
girl triggered something in me. She had to be at the old Fisher Farm. Trudy,
you know that place.”
Officer Trudy nodded to show she did. “Creepy
at night.”
“Yes, creepy. But it’s also where
young girls seem to disappear from…at least to me. It’s not easy to get to.
There’s a narrow dirt road meant for horse teams but… well, I was lucky it
hadn’t rained. Neither farmhouse had caved in yet, but I had a feeling about
the stables. Just then, I saw a figure. It was an old man walking towards it. I
shouted, ‘Halt’ and fired when he didn’t. No one dropped and no one remained. I
could have sworn it was the old man himself.”
“Old Man Fisher?”
Matt folded his hands and rested
his chin on them. “To this day, I believe I was shooting at Clyde Fisher’s ghost.
With my revolver still drawn, I entered the old mustang stables, calling out
for Kimberly though, if I was right, she would not want to be found. Instead of
her, I found old-style distilling equipment that didn’t have the rust of disuse
– and at least a hundred wooden barrels stacked on either side. Most of them
were filled with moonshine. I was facing the other way when I first heard him
laughing at me.”
“Clyde Fisher?”
“No. He was a short man sitting
on top of a barrel with a tin spoon in his hand. He looked a bit like
Eircheard, but he was shorter and older, I’d say.”
“A cluricahn!” Sandra exclaimed.
“He called himself ‘Clancy’.”
“That’s my papa,” Eircheard
confessed. “If you’re dealing with him, you’re up to no good.”
Eircheard pointed to the soul
flower. True blue.
(The Fifth, by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara)
9. In the twenty-first century, Fisher Farm once again becomes a place of healing.
Matt shrugged as he reached for
his jacket. “You'll know if it comes to that. It's not like you won't have any
other options.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That homestead you wanted, remember?”
Marsha nodded.
“I just finished the paperwork and it's been approved.”
Matt’s smile was warm. “You're getting most of the old Fisher Farm land. I'll
keep an eye on it for you until the Munsonville calendars all decide to agree."
(Recovering Ruthless, by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------“Well…Matt faltered and fumbled
for the right words. “This is uncomfortable for me. Let me start off easy. I
pulled some strings and got you a homestead. It’s not ideal, but it’s what I
could get. The homestead is on the abandoned Fisher Farm.”
“The one where the mysterious
Devil’s Moonshine is brewed?”
Money from the Devil’s Moonshine
was the only funding Beulah County received. Even though Beulah County was
contained within the borders of Northern Michigan, the State of Michigan never
heard of Beulah County. Just as mysterious was the brewing and selling of
moonshine in the decrepit barn on Fisher Farm. Nobody ever saw who brewed the
stuff, but Matt once saw the leprechaun-like creature who bought it. The
creature would toss the full wooden barrels into a portal then leave the empty
barrels and a pouch in payment. That pouch always contained pure gold coins.
There was an exchange in Thornton that would melt the coins down and pay in
cash with no questions asked. The journey from Fisher Farm to the exchange and
then to the Beulah County Bank was a weekly trip for Matt. All Beulah County
employees were paid in cash from that sale.
“Yeah, but I put the trailer on
the far east side of the lot. I don’t want you’re soon-to-be-born sons playing
with God knows what.”
“The trailer?”
“Trailer home. When I hired you,
I promised you a hundred dollars per day and a place to live. Yes, we’ve been
putting you up in that room at the Wisten Hotel in Jenson, but it’s cheaper for
the county to buy you a trailer now that you’ve got land to put it on. Its
already hooked up to the utilities and ready to move into. I know it’s a small
living place but it’s enough to get you started. And – here.”
Matt handed Marsha a cashier’s
check. Marsha gasped at the amount.
(Recovering Ruthless, by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara)
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Beth quickly discovered that Fisher Farm had many
rules. Her favorite would soon be the dinner bell rule: If you’re staying for
dinner, clean up at the kitchen sink pump. Otherwise, it’s time to go home.
It was as if these people thought
that every dinner was Thanksgiving. Platters of food covered a long table in
the dining room between the large kitchen and the spacious parlor that seated
forty or more. The platters held two types of meat: chicken and something called
“mutton.” And you had to eat at least one vegetable serving in order to get
dessert.
The adults sat at one end with someone called Sheriff
Matt at the head of the table. This old man wasn’t the sheriff, though; everyone
just called him that, including Sheriff Marsha.
Next to Beth was the white woman everyone – except the
two teenage twins, Authur and Marty – called Aunt Sandra. Arthur and Marty
called her “Mama Sandra.” That was funny to Beth because the twins called Sheriff
Marsha “Mama Marsha.” And both twins were white like Mama Sandra and had her
sunny yellow hair.
Aunt Trudy and Uncle Eircheard, a leprechaun-like man
in a green suit, sat on the other side of the table. Grandma Trudy was a
heavyset poet with long hair and gray eyes. The kids whispered that Grandma
Trudy was some kind of hero, but not everyone called her Grandma Trudy.
The only black teenager at the table – May – simply called
them Grandma and Grandpa. Did May’s father run out on her, too? The only black
adult was Sheriff Marsha – but Sheriff Marsha didn’t call May her daughter.
The white cowboy with the long red hair and
green-tinted skin that drove the tractor was named Glorna. He sat next to Aunt
Karla, who was some kind of magic lady. She was stocky with curly black hair.
Next to Glorna was a really tall lady named Aunt
Patricia. Some of the kids tried to tell Beth why Patricia was so big. Beth
didn’t buy it.
There were about twice as many kids as adults and
teens. All of them were white and went to Jenson Elementary School with Beth.
She always had trouble making friends, but now…
(Recovering Ruthless, by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara)
10. Fisher Farm may soon become a place of legend (but that's up to Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara).
They saw the banners that lined the entrance of the legendary
Fisher Farm. The Knights Templar had great respect for the place and its
owners, particularly Matt Munson, who had signed a contract with the Council of
the Damned that the Templars were to enforce and would keep the living safe.
One of the banners read, “Welcome to your new home,
Sir Tyrone.”
When the crier spotted them, he shouted loudly. “Sir
Tyrone and Lady Beth approach. All hail the return of the Templar Knights.”
(Recovering Ruthless, by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara)
