The Heartless Farmer

The old barn sat a little way from a rundown farmhouse, where the farmer lived alone. Once upon a time, the farmer had been a happy man. The townsfolk had frequented his store for his fine produce, and he and his wife were welcomed and elevated at social gatherings the year round.

But nothing stays the same forever and progress marches on relentlessly.

Soon enough, the authoritative boot of progress came stamping down across the quiet, rural town.

The farm was driven out of business in a few short years, and the farmer’s wife fell terribly ill. The farmer sold off all he could to keep the house and tend to his wife as best he could.

But fate can be cruel and despite his efforts, the farmer was soon left alone and deep in despair.

The farmhouse and the diminished ground he still owned became overgrown and foreboding, reflecting the heart that beat in its owners chest. The only hope the old farmer could hold on to was that, try as they might, the financiers and entrepreneurs could not wrest his house from him. He had lived, loved, laughed, and lost in that house and he was damned if anyone was going to take it from him now.

Now, as has been said, Fate can be cruel but those ancient sisters can also bring joy into life when it is least expected, and from the most unlikely places. It just so happened that there was something special about the old barn on the farmer’s land. If anyone had seen it, it would have seemed to them a perfectly ordinary, old, wooden building, creaking and leaning in the wind as though it ached and groaned for happier times, when its green paint shone and its timbers stood straight and true. Hemmed in on three sides by encroaching woodland and wilderness, the barn was approached by an overgrown trail that led down a gentle slope from the rear of the farmhouse, as if reaching and beseeching for deliverance from forgetful oblivion.

But appearances can be deceiving, and there was a magic about that place that ensured that nothing in the world of men and machines could ever disturb that lonesome old barn. For the deep, dusky, musky darkness within those ragged, rickety walls housed the supernatural entrance to a quite fantastic subterranean realm.

Now it happened that one misty morning the farmer was gripped with a strange desire to venture out from his lonely walls and he set off out into the woods that surrounded his home. He wandered far and wide and the heaviness in his heart was lifted by the sweet songs of birds above him, and the swathes of bluebells, carpeting the forest floor before him, and the majesty of soaring aged tree trunks that had taken root in time out of mind. For just a little while he felt calm land content, as if he was right where he ought to be, and that these myriad resplendent works of nature had all grown to this focal point, now, to touch his heart with perfect joy.

Then he remembered how his wife had loved the forest and a cold, bleak weight descended down upon him, burdening his shoulders with chains of leaden grief. Colour leached from the scene before him until it seemed that everything was cast in shades of glooming grey.With tears in his eyes and an aching in his bones, the farmer headed back for home. Saddened steps led him a wayward path and breaking from the woods he was surprised to find the old barn before him. Without really knowing why he walked up to the old oak walls, reaching out to run a hand along the crisp, peeling paint. Following his fingers he rounded the corner, wading through weeds and long grass, and found the great double-doors hanging crooked and slightly ajar. From the gap the dark within seemed to spill out like wisps of smoke, as though it were alive and testing the daylight’s power.

The farmer suddenly realised he could hear music faintly, the notes piggy-backing on the spectral tendrils of gloom, sneaking cautiously to his ears. It seemed to call, gently, mournfully, urging him inside. Confused, but intrigued, and undeterred by that silky, otherworldly lightlessness, he entered.

Deprived of sight he shuffled awkwardly across the earthen floor, slowly following the music to the back corner. Faintly, through that deep, dusky, musky darkness he could just make out a golden glow emanating from behind a pile of old tools and wooden off-cuts. It didn’t seem like daylight, and the farmer eagerly threw aside the clutter to expose the source. He could hear the music more clearly now: the enchanting tones of a guitar, complemented by the unmistakable, smooth warbling of a theremin.

The farmer bent low to inspect the strange glow. It seemed to be coming from the floor, but as he got closer he froze.

There was a door. Not a tall door mind; it stood only six inches high. Yet it was fashioned from fine, varnished walnut and a burnished brass knocker, shaped into the face of a cat, gripping the ring in its mouth was set in the centre. Next to the door was mounted a slate plaque, engraved with the letters “Mr. J. L. Rattus”, illuminated by a tiny gaslight lamp - the origin of the strange glimmer - fixed just above it.

“How queer,” the farmer mused. “Still, an apt name, considering the fellow must only be as tall as a rat to fit through this door!”

Sinking to his knees, he gingerly guided his little finger to the ring of the knocker and swung it out and back.

The knock felt louder than he expected, but the real surprise was the sudden great whooshing sound, accompanied by a shrinking sensation.

The door looked twice the size, and he could now swing the knocker between thumb and forefinger.

This time the feeling was less intense, but he found himself kneeling on the doorstep before a door which looked plenty large enough for him to enter.

A little giddy, he stood up and reached for the knocker once more. The brass ring now fit comfortably in his hand, and the ensuing thud reverberated pleasingly through the solid wood. The farmer noticed the music had stopped, and in its place he heard footsteps.

The door swung open revealing a man in a clipped, black suit. He regarded the farmer with an enquiring look. The farmer stood, nonplussed for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the butler.

“You are expected, sir. Won’t you follow me, please.”

Feeling as if he were in a dream the farmer stepped through into a grand hallway. Ahead lay a split staircase sweeping down, not up, to either side of the room. Large portraits and artworks lined the walls and objet were displayed on plinths.

Presently they came to a large set of doors which the butler opened and gestures for the farmer to enter. Inside, he was greeted with the strangest sight. Sitting in a chair before him was a rat the size of a man, wearing a plush smoking jacket. A slim cigar was gripped in his teeth, thick smoke billowing around him. An acoustic guitar rested beside him and his tail trailed off to lay by a theremin behind.

The rat sat before an impressive fireplace and a warm, inviting fire burned in the grate. The rat held out a hand for the farmer to sit opposite him.

The rat began to play music again, picking a sad piece from the strings while his tail drew a lamenting melody from the theremin. The farmer began to drowse but he was aware of a voice in his head.

“I am a collector of curious things. I sense your heart is heavy with despair. I can take that burden from you. I can give you back a life, a charmed and perfect existence with your wife and a child. But you must give me your heart as the price. You will never feel again as long as you live. If you wish it, cut out your heart before the full moon rises tomorrow night and leave it in the barn.”

Then the music grew faster, louder, dissonant and chaotic until the farmer thought he could stand no more...

He sat bolt-upright in bed, gasping for breath. A cruel glint from beside his bed drew his wild gaze: there on the floor lay a simple, keen-looking knife beside a wooden box with a hinged lid. The farmer turned away.

Tears stung his eyes as he dressed and went downstairs. He collected paper and quill and ink and sat at the breakfast table.

For the next few hours he poured out his heart on to the paper, filling the pages with happy memories, loving thoughts and sorrowful pleas for forgiveness to his wife. When he could write no more he sealed the pages and hid them beneath a loose floorboard beneath his bed. With a sigh he went back downstairs and made himself some supper and drank aged whisky, saved from happier times.

But now the dark was falling and he steeled himself for what must come. His steps were heavy on the stairs. Entering the bedroom he kneeled before the ominous box. Picking up the bone- handled blade, he pictured the face of his wife, smiling at the memory, before plunging the enchanted steel deep into his chest.

The pain was intense but he drove the blade on, through flesh and bone, until he could reach in and tear the heart from his breast. He beheld the sight for a moment, horror growing at what he’d done, then he thrust the heart into the box and slammed the lid down.

Pain stopped... but it was not relief he felt; only a vast emptiness. He delivered his heart to the barn, a shadow of a man.

When he awoke the next day he found his wife laying next to him, pregnant with child, but no pride or joy could he feel in that hollow vessel he inhabited.

Years passed him by, watching his family enjoying the life he had bought for them, but never a smile or tear graced his face, and his wife and son grew weary and resentful of his coldness.

Eventually he died and his wife discovered the letter he had written that fateful day so many years ago. She took Hey her son in her arms and they shed some few tears. But they could not forgive the years of bitterness, and the farmer lay, buried in his grave, untended, unloved, and forgotten.