Credit:Dlarm112. CC 4.0 Attribute share and share alike license.
A fly pounded its wings against the window. Rudolph pondered the struggling insect.
“It'll be dead by nightfall,” he muttered.
He poured himself a cup of acrid coffee and sauntered onto the porch. His two rat terriers greeted him with wagging tails and affectionate yips.
“Morning, Henry. Morning Banfield.”
The scruffy terriers raced him as he headed to the barn. They were yipping and yapping because breakfast was waiting just behind the barn door.
The sun was barely up, and there was a full day of work ahead. He had to clear rocks and roots from the west field. He was priming it to be sowed. His rye harvest was selling well and he had a brewer, Seth Andrews, who was eager to buy more. The buyer would take as much as Rudolph could grow.
Andrews was coming by later that day to pick up burlap sacks packed with freshly harvested grain. If Rudolph had another field he could double his output... pay off the mortgage, put away something to buy a mule.
He was planning...dreaming...about the future, when everything went black.
Rudolph opened his eyes. His arm was bleeding. His body ached. He looked around. The only light was far above his head. It struck him that he was in a hole. A deadfall trap. He had gashed his arm on one of the spikes that were positioned to impale any animal that fell in. That animal turned out to be him, and he was lucky he hadn’t been impaled.
But how would he get out? Then he heard the dogs, yipping and yapping. Not just yipping but barking vigorously.
He called them.
“Henry! Banfield!”
They peered over the edge of the hole and barked loudly.
“I need help, guys.”
The barking grew louder, more forceful. They stared down at him, then ran away. He could imagine them running in circles.
They were smart dogs. Would they understand?
“Banfield, Henry. I’m hurt.” He lifted his bleeding arm with great effort. The pain was sharp, but they had to see. Maybe they’d understand blood.
Banfield started to howl. Henry joined in. The two dogs let out a mournful chorus of yipping and yapping, of barking and howling.
But would it do any good? There was no one to hear.
Then Rudolph remembered Andrews. He was coming. If only the dogs could draw his attention to the hole. Andrews would surely think it peculiar that Rudolph didn’t have his rye order ready. Would he just turn around and go home? Or would he look around?
Rudolph watched as the angle of light over the hole changed. It was growing late. The sun was setting. Where was Andrews? Had he come and gone already?
Just then Rudolph heard frantic barking. The dogs in unison howled and growled. They looked into the hole, down at him, then they ran away.
He heard a voice.
“What’s up fellas? Where’s your buddy? Where’s Rudolph?”
Rudolph’s name triggered the dogs. They were yowling and crying. Running to the hole. Running around the edge of the hole.
“Lordy!”
Rudolph heard Andrews' distinctive twang.
“What the hell have we got here?”
A minute later Andrews' head was outlined at the top of the hole. It was getting dark now, and hard to make out Andrews' features.
“Help, Seth. I’m hurt. Quick! Get a rope from the barn.”
“Holy shit…”
“Yeah, holy shit. Please, the rope. I’ve been down here for hours.”
A few minutes later a rope was dangling over the edge and down far enough for Rudolph to reach. He could hardly use his arm, but he managed to climb with the one hand and his feet. Andrews was a muscular man. He reached his large, callous hands over the edge of the hole and pulled Rudolph out.
“One of them damn deer traps,” Andrews sneered. “What son of a bitch left that thing here? Down right unethical it is, trapping an animal like that and letting it die slowly. Damn, that gets me angry.”
“Thanks, Seth. That woulda been me, if you hadn’t come by. Some animal that died slowly…”
Rudolph regarded the sticks and grass that had concealed the hole. He looked out over the field.
"Better check the rest of it. Might be another one out there. Could lose one of my dogs.”
Andrews nodded.
“Those dogs. Never would have found you without those dogs. Pretty smart they are.”
Rudolph patted Banfield.
“Sorry about the rye, Seth. Hope you can come back tomorrow. I gotta tie up this arm.”
“No problem. I’ll stop by, check on you, pick up the grain.”
Andrews rode off in his wagon and Rudolph limped into the house. He was about to collect the first aid kit when he had a thought. He hurried into the bedroom.
There it was, the fly, still buzzing, but weakly.
Rudolph reached past the curtains with his good arm and opened the window.
“There you go fella,” he said as the insect flew away. “Today is not a day for dyin’.”
I was in the mood to write a story. Every now and then it hits me. This time I found an idea in the fiction prompt post: #31 in Story Ideas: "Write a historical fiction piece about something that happened in the town where you live".
I started thinking about my great-great-great-grandfather, who immigrated from Southwest Germany in the early 1800's. How did he get his start? I know he eventually had a very successful farm that he passed down to subsequent generations. It was the very farm where I picked strawberries one summer, long ago.
I did some research on the kinds of crops that were grown at that time, the kinds of dogs that might be on the farm, the implements that would be used to remove rocks and stumps from a field. Eventually an impression of my ancestor took shape and I came up with this story.
Wonderful to have a lovely community like the Inkwell where I can vent my creative impulse.
Thank you for reading my blog. Hive on!
