Story #237 - Patch

Patch

The gods died, and their passing was barely a whisper in the lives of men, their absence noted only by the most devout of their followers, those so far removed from their mortal brethren as to be laughable.

It was not war that destroyed the lords of the world, no cataclysmic conflict which sent them spinning into night, but a sickness, a wasting disease against which they had no defense, no hope of recovery.

The gods died, and men went about their business, unaware the gates had been opened, and that which was foul crept in.

***

“Out of bed, you lout!” His father called from downstairs, and Patch Daughtry rolled over, a futile hope rising that if he just stayed still enough, he wouldn't be noticed. The stomp of boots outside his room followed by his father's calloused hand on his shoulder told him he'd been completely unsuccessful.

“Out of bed, Patch,” his father said again, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Curly gray hair and a creased face gave him a kind appearance, and while he had never laid a hand on Patch, he was uncompromising in what he asked of his son for the farm. Without his mother – he bit down on his lip hard at the thought – it was only the two of them, and he knew his father was depending on him to help make sure they survived.

“I know, son,” Bel Daughtry said quietly, “I miss her too, but that doesn’t mean we can sit around moping about it. We have work to do – winter is coming soon.”

Patch groaned, but swung his legs off of the bed and grabbed his shirt from the floor. His father was right – he'd felt the chill in the air the last few weeks, and two days ago they'd lost half a field of Trellwheat to frost. A week more and they'd have their harvest, so long as the weather cooperated.

There were those in the area – Uli Smithson, if he was being truthful – who said that this winter would be one to remember, one that would “break bones and spirits, leaving men shuddering husks and fields caked in death”. Of course, no one payed much attention to old Uli, and every time Patch brought him up, his father silenced him with a glare. Smithson had been in a bar fight – or twenty – when he was younger, and hadn't been quite right in the head for the better part of a decade. Still, Patch couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Uli was right. Fall was coming earlier, and more quickly, than he'd ever seen it before.

His father slipped out of the room while he was getting dressed, and soon Patch could smell eggs and bacon being cooked downstairs. He quickened his pace; though his father would make them both breakfast, the elder Daughtry would eat every last bite if Patch didn't make an appearance within a reasonable amount of time, and there had been more than a few days during the summer that he had gone hungry until they stopped for an afternoon break.

Two minutes later and he was at the table, shoveling food into his mouth as quickly as he could manage. Though not as good a cook as mother, Bel had done enough traveling that he knew how to make a fine breakfast, and between the two of them, they easily polished off everything that had been laid out.

“I want you to check the horses first, Patch,” Bel said, “I heard one of them whinnying last night. It was probably just the wind spooking them, but I want to know for sure.”

Patch nodded. That was easy enough.

“Then, I want you to count the chickens – find every last one – and pick one for dinner. They haven't been laying as much as they should be, and I'm wondering if we lost a few to coyotes.”

He nodded again. With a little luck, he could stretch those two chores out for at least three hours.

“After that, I'll see you in the fields.” His father stood, taking both their plates and setting them on the polished oak counter. “And Patch,” he went on, “I expect you there in two hours or less – don't dawdle!”

Patch cursed under his breath. This was shaping up to be another hard day, but the last thing he needed was a dressing-down for taking a god's name in vain.

“Well?” Bel said, “Get going!”

***

All four of the horses were fine; none of them had so much as a burr in their tails, though they did seem out of sorts, as Patch moved on to the chicken yard. Over the years, they'd managed to increase their stock to a full three dozen, and Bel's farm was known from Kingstown to Port Laul as having the best eggs in the Frontierlands.

Patch stopped as he rounded the corner of the barn, his breath catching in this throat. It was not unusual to find a dead chicken on the farm, though they typically didn't die with both feet in the air and their wings spread. There was something eerie about the scene, and though Patch knew he should at least move the corpse, he skirted around it and jogged for the main part of the yard.

Fifteen minutes later, he was running hard toward his father in the field, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Patch!” Bel called out as he approached. “What in the Five Hells are you doing? Quiet down!”

“Father!” He cried. “They're dead! All of them! Every single one, upside down, feet in the air. All of them!” He could make no sense of it.

“What?” his father dropped his hoe and moved quickly toward him. “What are you talking about?”

He pointed in the direction of the barn, and suddenly the sound of horses screaming came to his ears. His father heard it too, and then they were both running, charging back toward the house.

Gods, Patch prayed silently, please, help us.

- D