Chapter 81: Farmer Jack

"The Gods are supposed to be Merciful."

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"Papa! Papa, there's a demon!"

Your daughter, Marian, tears through the barley field hiking up her skirts. Her cheeks are reddened from the effort of how quickly she must have ran towards you. The countryside is in full bloom, thanks to the start of Harvest coming in. The stalks rise tall— taller than they have in years. You scarcely heard or saw her coming.

You are a farmer, and a humble and short-tempered man. You may not be the most pious, but you're a hard worker. You've been at the field all day. Your sword is back in your home with your wife, and your six other daughters.

You wish you'd had a son. One day, perhaps. The Gods are supposed to be Merciful.

You tense every callous on your hands, on your scythe, and look down to your baby with hope in your heart. "To lie is to sin, Marian! What have you really seen—? Speak, quickly!"

"Papa, you lie all the time—"

"Marian!"

"There's men in the field, Papa! They've got on blue dresses, except for the demon— and there's a big dog, but it might be a demon, too—"

"How many, Marian?" You gesture with your hands, pointing your fingers, trying to remind your girl how to count. She's so smart. You know she must understand.

With a pout, she eventually produces five fingers, but seems confused. She alternates between five and six.

You place a hand to your baby's head. "Run home, baby. Tell everyone to hide. Keep yourselves calm, okay? Remind Mama and all your sisters. Stay safe."

"But Pa—"

"No buts." You ruffle her hair, repressing your fear, and doing your best to quell your emotion. You are a short-tempered man in a world of demons and sin.

There's still a current of fear as your girl takes back off into the grain.

You pause and listen, with your calloused hands clenched as tightly as you're able around your scythe. You've had nightmares like this every night, for as long as you can remember.

There's a soft plodding of a single horse, and several men off in the distance.

You rush out to meet them. You know what happens.

Your harvest— the barley, the sweet smell of prosperity and the start of the season— brings you no relief as the cold sweat on your body intensifies. You run through the field towards the sound, weapon in hand, expecting a fight with every fiber of your soul. The grain parts before you, and you emerge along a path through the field.

Every hair on your body stands on end as you brace yourself. Your gaze catches on six clergymen, a horse, a rider, and a dog.

For the briefest of moments, there's a psychotic snarl of a dog that's been trained to kill any threat to its master on command. The dog also has its fur on end, sticking close to the hooded rider. It's the largest animal you've seen save for a horse. Its coat is mangy and war-torn, with a scar over one of its eyes, a gaping scar on its torso, and old blood stuck to the edges of its gums. Its muscles ripple as it tenses.

The beast's growling and snarling is so aggressive that you stop in your tracks, fearing for your life.

One of the clergymen— wearing disheveled robes— places a single hand to the beast. You back up, tensing further, expecting the mastiff to rip the man's arm clean off.

The display of protection is silenced in an instant. The animal relaxes and falls immediately into a slumber.

You back up further— lowering your scythe, lowering your eyes— trying to defer to the man of the Gods.

At least Marian won't have to see this.

The clergyman approaches you. You get a good look at his house slippers. They're beaten, battered, and look to be caked with mud from several weeks of travel. Your gaze trails up along his disheveled robes, to a man who must have slept for most of his life. His indulgence— the clean facial hair, his chewed on cigar that's not even lit— reassures you that he may still be human. It's a good thing, given that there are cracks in his very face. Maws of exposed muscle and blood are replaced by stained glass, swimming paint, and a Dream all in shades of blue.

The holy man whispers to you as if he doesn't want to wake someone. "I am seeking asylum for my companion. We wish to pass through here unharmed. The Church of Dream wishes to compensate you for any rest you can provide us. If you have a well, any food you can spare, or even a bed, we would be in your debt." The man extends a hand. The scars of his service are as plain as the day, the sun, and the heat beating on your back. "Father Wilhelm. Your name is Jack, if I'm not mistaken—"

There's a low laugh from the man behind you— the hooded rider. It's so soft, so timid, that you scarcely hear it at first.

Assuming the man is invalid, you ignore him and try to answer. "Yeah. I mean no offense, but you're trespassin'—"

The laughter softly continues, wracked with exhaustion. Father Wilhelm looks to you apologetically. "You have nightmares— don't you, Jack?"

The hood falls back, as the man— a wraith, a shadow of a figure for how emaciated he is— lolls his head back as if he was still asleep. It doesn't escape your attention that the burns on his hands and the sheer number of scars adorning what little skin is visible on him are caked with blood and black. It's under his nails, nestled deeply into the grooves of war.

You back up another step, looking to the Father of the Church of Dream with the fear of the Gods in you. "That's none of your business."

The low laughter stops.

You can't help but glance past the silent clergymen to the rider. He's staring at you wide-eyed, with an utterly unhinged expression painting every last wound on his face. He's so young, but his pallor and the intensity of his stare is that of a man who's witnessed lifetimes of turmoil. His eyes are so wide— widened with sin, with knowledge, with something unearthly— that they could strike terror into the soul. Eyes of green comes with a flash of recognition.

Eyes of solid gold swim before you.

Eyes cloud over with blue as he leans forward, hard, on the steed underneath him.

You back up again, unable to part your gaze. The hollows of his eyes, the angles of bone, the utter emaciation and complete insanity written across the man's face is so disturbing that you can't help but try to back away.

You can't tear your gaze off of the glint of gold around his neck— scarcely hidden by his hooded robe that is so loose it's practically hanging off of his skeletal frame.

You've seen him before.

Dream spills from you as you look upon the rider raised above you all. It's fleeting, and the details often escape you upon awakening, but it's there in full force: The light catching on the chain around his neck. "There was a priest— bloated with sin— beneath a hundred casks of wine. A demon of Agriculture indulged him, his vice. They spoke for hours under a red moon, and recounted a tale of a man with my name. They celebrated death. They celebrated violence. They celebrated each other. There were eyes of green. There were eyes of gold. There were eyes of blue."

You're shaking, wanting to bring your hands to your mouth to stop— but you tighten your grasp on your scythe, instead. You try to remind yourself of where you are. You're awake. There are men of the Gods before you.

The man your daughter took for a demon seems significantly worse than one. The smile across his face looks so unnatural, you don't doubt that he may have never made the expression before. It's cracked— cracked like the hundreds of scars along his frame— the sight of so much dried blood and black. He looks like he's remembering something through his Dream, and you keep backing away. Away from the stench of death and the Gods.

Father Wilhelm looks to you sympathetically, chewing on his cigar. "The nightmare is over, Jack. The Gods wish to grant you rest. To grant my companion rest. We have traveled terribly far without reprieve. I have granted you relief from your nightmare. I have seen it, many times before."

You find your voice and your anger. "What are you talking about—?"

"Your crops will not fail if you partake of liquor. There is no priest coming to kill you. You will not look upon death. Your interpretation of your chronic distress— your nightly terror— has been a falsehood. You have seen through the God. He has seen fit to grant you with His blessing, to understand a small amount of the nightmare. He has granted you a vision. We ask for a small Mercy in return. I do not expect you to aid us, but I have granted you rest. The nightmare is over. Will you help me? Will you give us your Mercy, in exchange?"

The trembling in your sun-streaked frame isn't abating, as you continue to step back. The holy men permit you to go ahead, to caution your family, and to send them to your nearest neighbors. You'd rather risk them traveling together in broad daylight than to suffer the wrath of the Gods.

Your wife and daughters— the women in your life— answer to you without question. You promise to come for them the next day.

The night passes uneventfully. The traveling priests barely partake of your hospitality. They use an exorbitant amount of water to attend to the fractured man they travel with, and do everything in their power to leave the sin and blood outside of your doorstep. They scarcely speak to each other, seemingly determined to not disturb their equally disturbed companion.

Father Wilhelm attempts multiple times to offer you a cigar. He says it might help you relax. He implores you to take care of yourself, too. You decline each and every time, unable to loosen up for an instant. Their fractured and flowery speech, their scars, their impractical attire— it all has you so on edge that you don't take your eyes off of them for a moment. Not off of the skin and bone. Not off of the blue.

Your paranoia does not subside, but the for the most part, the men simply want to rest. The colossal dog is kept under the porch— out of your home— having slept as if he hasn't had the chance to do so soundly in weeks.

No nightmares come to you, as you are too on edge to sleep.

By the end of their stay— as they part ways, and while they thank you for your Mercy as the sun rises— you almost feel sorry for them. Their backs are bent with exhaustion, the men with robes and eyes of blue. They leave with their horse, their dog, and the man who seems to have walked with demons.

You did not sleep that night, but the next was uninterrupted and surrounded by your family. They returned to you without incident. There were no nightmares, and no disturbance in your rest.

Father Wilhelm was not speaking in riddles or rhymes. He said exactly what he meant.

Maybe the Gods are Merciful.