The Soul Farmer

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There is a place in the world where you will find a rocky island. Upon this rocky island, you will find a farm. And upon this farm, there is one crop, and only one crop, that grows. That’s because the soil of this particular farm on this particular island is perfect for growing souls.

A lot of people say the island reminds them of Ireland. And perhaps it is Ireland, or perhaps it’s a different island. But for the sake of argument, let’s just say it is Ireland because the island of Ireland is also rich with Guinness beer, and Guinness beer is an accomplice in this story.

Only one farmer has ever lived upon this land. He is the Soul Farmer. As the name implies, he grows souls. As a matter of fact, he’s grown every soul that ever lived. Raised them from soul seeds. Nurtured them into soulings. Carefully harvested them. Gave them homes. If you’re saying to yourself right now, you didn’t know souls were grown, you wouldn’t be alone. If you think about it, though, it makes perfect sense. They must come from somewhere, you see. And that somewhere just happens to be from the ground on an island like Ireland.

The Soul Farmer, however, has stopped growing souls. It is not due to a draught or a flood or any other natural disaster. It is not because of an equipment malfunction. It is not because the hired help got kicked by a horse and now believes himself to be Patsy Cline. It is because the Soul Farmer has decided he’s grown enough souls.

The Soul Farmer now spends his days sitting at Sean’s Pub. He enjoys Guinness beer. And as long as he finds himself with considerably less work and substantially more time, he enjoys a greater quantity of it. 

Yet, it does not take long to notice the Soul Farmer has ceased production. You see, with no souls, there can be no new children. And considering the world population, it would be an enormous anomaly for even one day to pass without a child being born. Now imagine several months have passed without a single birth. The magnitude is alarming. 

One of the first to notice is the Soul Farmer’s brother. He happens to work at the opposite end of life’s spectrum and is the more well-known of the two. He is the Soul Reaper. He decides to pay a visit to the Soul Farmer at Sean’s Pub.

“Farmer, why are ya not planting souls? Is it not the soul season?” Reaper asks while sidling up on a stool next to the Farmer.

“It’s always the soul season. Ya know that. And I have decided to stop growing souls.” Farmer takes a long pull from his Guinness beer, leaving a foam line across his upper lip.

“That much is evident. But why have ya decided to stop growing souls?”

“Because they all turned rotten. They didn’t leave me farm rotten, but assuredly, they turned that way.”

“Oh, not this conversation again…” The bartender puts a Guinness in front of Reaper.

“Yes, Grim. This conversation again.”

Reaper jumps up and throws a finger in the Farmer’s face. “Don’t ya be calling me Grim! Ya know I hate it! Just because humans get so freaked out about dying, and it just so happens to be me job to bring it about, doesn’t mean I’m Grim!”

“A wee bit touchy, are we?”

“Aye…people who live in glass houses should not be throwing stones, brother. I’m not the one who got so whipped up that he stopped doing his job.” Reaper sits back down and stares into his beer. “Plus, you know they always turn rotten. This ain’t anything new, ya know. How many wars they’ve started? How many horrible deeds they done? Murder. Thieving. Cheating. Lying. Think it’s worse now, do ya? I got news for ya…it’s just a rotten crop to begin with.”

Two chaps walk into Sean’s Pub and sit across the bar. 

“If that’s the case, then why should I keep growing ‘em? Just to give you something to do?” Farmer says.

“Well, now that you mention it, if you stop growing souls, I will have a problem. Eventually, I’ll run out of souls to reap. It won’t take long. Maybe a hundred years, and they’ll all be gone. And then what’ll we do?”

“Ahhh…it certainly will make the place nice and quiet now, won’t it?”

“If you feel that way, then why have put up with ‘em for so long? Why have kept growing ‘em all these years?” Reaper prefers being the one to ask the questions.

“If you like ‘em so much, then why do you keep finishing ‘em off?” Farmer also prefers being the one to ask the questions. It’s a family trait.

“You two fancy another round?” The bartender also enjoys asking questions, even though he is not related.

“Just for your information,” Reaper begins, “I try to see the best in every one of ‘em who comes into me charge. If I didn’t, I’d get jaded. Cold. Hard-hearted. I need to find good in them so I can usher them through as gently as possible. If I only saw the dark, I’d have no problem dropping buildings on ‘em and smiling while I did it. And I just can’t be that evil.”

“Yeah? Well, good for you.” Farmer polishes off his Guinness and launches into another. “It’s comforting to know you become such a sympathetic Grim.”

“Are ya mad?! I told ya not to call me that!! Next time that word passes through your lips, it’s gonna have to push its way past me fist too!!”

“Easy, brother. All I’m saying is that you can see the good. You have that ability. But all I see is the bad. All I notice is the intolerance and anger and deceit. The meanness and the disregard for others. The hatred! And all I can think is that it’s on account of me. Something I did. A bad strain of seed. Not enough fertilizer. Too much water. Some mistake I made when growing ‘em.”

Reaper nods and sips his beer. 

“I simply don’t like the way they treat each other. It’s not the way it was supposed to be.”

Reaper continues nodding and sipping.

“And I can’t take the responsibility. I cannot bear to watch what I created turn black. I simply cannot do it anymore.”

Reaper takes one more sip of his beer. “Ya know, if they go away, so does the Guinness.”

A smile breaks across Farmer’s face. “Aahhh…I hadn’t thought of that…” Farmer gazes out a dirt-caked window.

“So,” Reaper prods. “Is that it? Is this where the farm ends?”

Farmer looks at Reaper through sullen eyes. “Aye. It is.” 

Reaper sees nothing but resignation staring back. “Very well then. It’s been grand, has it not?” Reaper finds the bottom of his pint and slams it down on the bar. His bottom lip covers up his top lip, collecting the last treasured remnants of Guinness, pulling them into his mouth. “I will miss this stuff though.” Reaper pats his brother on the shoulder before opening the pub door and heading out into the blustery Irish day.

The pub floods with bright light for a brief moment. Then the door creaks shut. Farmer notes how the bar seems darker than before. 

But that’s the interesting thing. Your eyes adjust. And then it doesn’t seem so dark.

A fresh pint is placed in front of Farmer.

“Courtesy of them fine gents.” The bartender points to the two chaps across the bar. They nod at Farmer. He returns the nod. 

Grateful, Farmer’s attention turns to the glass sitting in front of him, the beer still settling as only a Guinness Stout can. His eyes dive deep into the cascading tapestry of liquid that will shortly give way to muddy perfection. He notes how even the swirling turbulence is captivating, a beautiful yet chaotic necessity in the process. Farmer focuses on the change and transformation as the head settles, the stark contrast between the foam and the beer as it becomes precisely defined. The way the light and dark exist together, with one always coming to rest above the other. Without one or the other, Farmer observes, it simply wouldn’t be…complete. It wouldn’t be…right.

Farmer bounds off his stool and bursts through the door, dashing to catch up with his brother.

“Reaper! I think I may have been a tad hasty…perhaps I might…ummm…reconsider me decision. After all, maybe a…a few more harvests wouldn’t hurt anything now, would it?”

“I want what’s best for you, my brother,” Reaper says. “If ya cannot do it anymore, if you’re completely knackered, don’t do it.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m some sort of child. I’m still older than you, ya know. And I don’t need you acting all ‘concerned’ about me well-being,” Farmer winks at Reaper. “I’m fit as a fiddle to keep growing them souls!” 

“Farmer, you were hell-bent on throwing in the towel no more than two minutes ago. What changed your mind?”

“Well, Reaper,” Farmer looks back toward the pub. “I got a good talking-to from me beer.”

The Soul Farmer returns to his fields to plant his crop. The Soul Reaper returns to Sean’s Pub. He sits on the stool formerly occupied by the Farmer and grabs ahold of the abandoned pint, taking a nice long pull.

“Hey, Reaper!” One of the chaps across the bar calls out. “Don’t be forgettin’ our agreement now. We buy the Farmer a pint, and you give us each an extra year of life.”

“Don’t ya be worrying, friends. Ya each get an extra year,” Reaper calls back.

The two toast their good fortune and resume their conversation.

Reaper turns to the bartender. “They’re not getting shit. Both of ‘em, rotten as black tomatoes. Can’t wait to drop a building on ‘em…only in it for themselves. Farmer’s right…not one of ‘em is decent. Makes my heart happy to pluck the life out of ‘em.” 

Reaper takes another long pull off his Guinness. “They sure do make good beer though.”

THE SOUL FARMER

A short story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

Photo Credit: Tomas Robertson

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