A New Story Most Thursdays

Another Edition of Thursday Stories for a New Year!

Happy New Year, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.

You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:

Marco Etheridge Fiction

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Gone Michael, a lyrical literary fiction story about a lonely man on a family farm. This story first appeared in the journal Sequoia Speaks, published in 2023. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Gone Michael

by Marco Etheridge

Sean leans against the kitchen stove and stares out the window at the emerald croft, the grey-white sheep. Fences, his farm, but no Michael. Michael should be out there, arms draped over the gate, a cuppa in his hand, crooning a morning song to the ewes. Laughing with the dogs.

But Michael’s gone.

The coffee pot spits and hisses. Sean curses, turns off the flame, reaches for the handle, burns his forefinger on the hot aluminium, and curses again. Runs cold water over his finger. Eyes out the window while the moka pot burbles to quiet. Another day, work to do, and no one else to ease the load.

Counts back the weeks. Sometimes Sean struggles to remember things. Six weeks? No, six months. Michael went with the autumn leaves, the cottage empty the whole winter long. Spring is well on now. Whether vanished or banished, it amounts to the same thing.

Eerie quiet with his brother away. His twin, the two identical. Until he speaks, smiles, laughs. Michael, the boisterous one, happy, the joker. The one folks like.

Ask Sean for help mending a fence. Go to the pub with Michael.

Pours black coffee into an earthenware mug. Sips it, peers through the windowpanes. Meg and Fly are at the near fence line. The sheep resent the dogs, bleat their protests, sidle away. It’s only the dogs and himself now. And lambing season coming on. He’ll have to hire a lad or two.

Turns his back on the bloody sheep. They can wait a bit. Sits at the scarred table, closes his eyes. Tries to sense Michael. Hard now. Could always do it when they were young. Before Mam died. Before their old Da turned dark and took up the rod. Never beat Michael, Mam’s faerie child. It was young Sean the rod fell upon. Always Sean. Michael did no wrong because Michael did no work.

Sean to plant a post, mend a fence, pile the rock. Bloody mystery, stones rising from the green paddocks after all these years. Sean to listen to old Da’s carping, gone harsh and profane, until Da followed Mam to sleep under the sod.

Michael to dance after the dogs, vault the walls, wander across the hilltops. Down to the pub. Never a man less fit for labour. Never one more loved.

Sean’s fault. Angry words from his mouth, rough speech, shouting at Michael as the old man had shouted at Sean.

Could you not help us, Michael?

Not asking but telling. Demanding.

We’re drowning here. Can you not see that? We tend sheep, Michael, the stupidest animals on this green planet. And always watching the dumb beasts, watching for bluetongue, for signs of the sheep scab. Wears a man to the nub, it does.

Michael laughing, dancing off, the brother who never learned to worry. Too late to learn now. And nothing to stop him leaving. Michael on a ramble, but he’ll be back come the morrow. Sean and the sun rose on that morrow with no trace of Michael. Six weeks gone now. Not weeks, months. Sean chides himself.

Try to remember.

Hands on his mug, leaning over the table. Sean sends his thoughts out across the green paddocks, the craggy hilltops, searching for Michael. City to the north, city to the south, but his brother isn’t one for cities. The water, then. Have Michael’s feet left the shore? Water in every direction, sea or ocean. Sean sends his mind chasing after it. No, not his mind, something else, something deeper. The bond they had when they were lads. Before Mam died and Da went hard. Before Sean chased Michael away with harsh words. Before, before. And now, no sense of where his brother has gone. No sense of Michael, but Sean hears his words.

You do know there’s more to living than sheep. No one’s watching, Sean. Climb on down from that cross. Keep toting that weight, and you’ll end bitter and angry, just like Da.

Sean tosses back the last of the coffee. Raps the empty mug against the table. Too hard. As if it were as easy as that. He’ll just tell the flock to mind themselves whilst he picks posies all day.

Never mind that. Work to be done. Jacket on, hat pulled low. Out the cottage door.

Meg works the inside, cutting ewes towards the chute gate. Sean checks the dumb beasts as they squeeze through, running his hands over squirming pregnant bellies. Many heavy bellies. He won’t get much sleep during the lambing.

Outside the night pen, Fly stitches the flock back together, and Meg dogs the last ewe through the chute. Sean closes the gate and steps after the dogs. They look to him, spring ready. He signals, and the dogs set the flock in motion.

Another day. Settle the flock, settle the dogs, tramp back down to the sheds, clean and muck, fill the hay racks, check the water troughs, and mend loose boards in the lambing shed. Totes dinner and a thermos back up to the paddock and shares a meal with the dogs. A cuppa. Loads a pipe. His only smoke until after dark.

Yet another day.

Sun falling towards the hilltops, herd the sheep down to the night pen. Stupid beasts. Food for Meg and Fly, makes his tea, eats alone, smokes the evening pipe on the back steps, a dog on either side. One whiskey before bed.

Jolts awake, not knowing where he is.

Something’s wrong.

The dogs whine. Out of bed and across the cottage. Stops at the kitchen door and slides bare feet into cold wellies. Takes the small rifle from the rack. Out the door and down the steps. Eyes on the night pen. Searches for a prowling shape amongst the sleeping sheep. Fox, badger, strange dog?

Sees nothing but hears Michael’s voice.

Ah, you’re a fine sight, Sean. In your jim-jams and wellingtons. The wee rifle is a grand touch. Mind your pecker doesn’t catch a chill.

Says the lad who would wear any manner of strange when he was a boy. Tottering round the cottage in Mam’s Sunday shoes, her laughing like a drain. Pleading for him to stop before she pees her knickers, wiping the laughter from her eyes. Tucking the shoes away. Better Da doesn’t see.

Sean stands under the moon, night air like cold fingers against his bare scalp. Meg and Fly look nervous. Damn dogs. Sean, wide awake now, feels a fool holding the rifle. Climbs the four stone steps, leans through the door. Rifle back in the rack, hat off the peg and onto his head.

Walks around the back of the cottage. Turns the corner.

Nothing.

He’s gone mad. Not uncommon among bachelor farmers. It’s the only explanation. Out for a midnight stroll wearing pyjamas and rubber boots. He’ll be singing to the sheep next.

Reaches the front of the cottage. Sees the lane below, stone walls silver under the moon, and someone standing between the walls, still as a statue. The figure of a woman, pale face raised. Too far to see her eyes, but he feels her steady gaze piercing his own.

Sean wishes he had the rifle. Wishes he didn’t have to piss so badly. Why did the dogs disappear like mist? Cowards. Stares at the banshee, the ghost, whatever it is. Wills it to vanish like the dogs.

The apparition raises one hand, and in that heartbeat, Sean knows. Recognition blotting out fear.

Mam! Don’t go. I didn’t mean it.

His arm shoots up to return her wave. Then a swirl of moonlight engulfs the woman, and she’s gone.

A restless night. The dawn of yet another day. Move the flock, settle the dogs, clean and muck, fill the hay racks, tell himself it was all a dream. Just a dream, Sean, nothing more. He clings to the lie, loses it, curses, fumbles his tasks, curses again, and swears he hears Michael singing. Just over the next wall, the next paddock.

Pauses during the work and ponders.

And when I go fully mad, what then? Who will care for the flock? The dogs?

Day gone to gloaming behind the hilltops. Feeds Meg and Fly, overcooks his chop, eats without tasting the food. Just as well. Smokes the evening pipe, then another. A second whiskey. The dogs stick close. Nervous.

 Moon full and bright. Sean drawn awake. Not a jolt, but the answer to a call. Crosses the moon-shadowed cottage, feet into cold wellies, leaves the rifle in the rack.

Ignores the sheep. Circles to the front of the stone cottage. The lane below, moon-shadowed walls, and the pale woman waiting, hand raised. A greeting. Dream or madness, Sean raises his own hand.

The silver-bright woman doesn’t move, not a blink, but a voice in the moonlight. Clear and sweet. Words from long ago, when days were simple and safe. When Sean and Michael were one, whole.

It’s a hard road you’ve chosen. A road that leads to no good. Your dear Da, the poor man, followed it to his grave. Don’t you do the same. Tell me, where has my dancing boy gone? My mischief maker, scone stealer, hare chaser. Find him, Sean. It’s not too late.

Then she’s gone. A cloud rolls over the moon. The lane goes dark. Sean lingers alone.

Nothing.

The night chill drives him to his bed.

He wakes to the song of blackbird and thrush, Fly and Meg whingeing at the door. The start of a new day.

Leaning against the stove, Sean watches the sun touch the emerald-green croft. The coffee begins to burble, Sean turns down the flame, smiles, eyes out the window as the pot goes quiet. He pours the coffee.

Hat on his head, he steps through the door, sits atop the steps. Meg and Fly leave off worrying the sheep and dash to his side. Sean scratches their ears, sips his coffee, savours the last of it, and places the mug soft on the stone. He’s up, and the dogs with him.

The sheep follow the bellwether. The dogs nip at the stragglers. Sean brings up the rear.

The flock spreads out across the paddock. Meg and Fly herd up the last of the sheep, then drift back to join their master. Sean squats, rests his back against the stone, and feels the sun bake through his canvas jacket.

He closes his eyes and listens to the croft. The dull clank of the bellwether as she crops the turf, the panting breath of the dogs beside him. Soft zephyrs play through nooks and crannies in the dry-stone wall. Then a different sound carried on the breeze.

Laughter.

Sean pushes himself up but sees no one. Clouds above craggy hilltops, impossibly green paddocks bisected by dry stone walls, but not another living soul.

He stands still as a statue, waiting.

There it is again. A teasing laugh drifts down the morning air. Behind him, the next paddock, the next hilltop.

The dogs are on their feet. Sean signals them to stay and turns to face the stone wall.

Listens.

One hand atop the wall, he vaults over it. Clears it clean, like an agile child, and walks over the turf, dogs left behind, sheep forgotten. The paddock climbs. Another wall at the upper end. Sean reaches it and stops.

Listens.

Laughter again, closer now, then a snatch of a song.

Sails over the wall. Nothing to stop him. He’s on a ramble, heading for the hilltop, following the lure of faerie laughter. A familiar song growing smaller as he climbs. Or him growing bigger with every step and the paddocks below shrinking.

Cropped green turf fades to rough brown grass, yet still, he climbs. He reaches the craggy rocks at the shoulder of the hill. Steep going, now. He zigzags between the outcroppings, falls behind them, vanishes, reappears higher up the slope. For a moment, Sean is a silhouette atop the hill’s crown. Then he’s gone.

Fini

You can find Sequoia Speaks here:

https://www.facebook.com/sequoiaspeaks/

That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

https://bro.uxw.mybluehost.me/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog

And… if you desire more literary fiction, look no further than my collection Power Tools: