Expand; till the land; plant the grain; watch the natives burn it to a crisp; do it all over again. That's what we did. Our desires called, and we answered. Those who travel to Northeastern New Mexico might stumble upon what's left of the little town of Nitton. You won't find it on any maps, not anymore. It was founded in 1864, and the place grew slowly. My great grandfather was one of the farmers who made his home adjacent to the town, and it was passed down from him after his untimely death at 29. He drowned in a well, they only found his body rotting at the bottom of it two weeks after they held his funeral. We call it the old man's well, and when the wind hits it just right, it sings. My grandfather Kenny took possession of it, and after planting the first crops, he ran screaming into the wild. Some say he already had demons in him the moment he was born, and his sudden episode was just an outcome of his evil spirits, so his brother took the land and his wife, who was already pregnant with my father, Fred Cain. He would take the land after Kenny's sudden departure. My dad said he didn't remember much, just that the moment he turned 16, the only father he knew rode on horseback into town and never returned. By 1930 I got what our family had promised me, a large farm of twelve acres, and fruitful. I tilled the land. I planted the seed. The first dust storms of the year were quiet and normal. When the dry season rolled around, that's when people started going missing. That's when my father finally died. He already had something wrong with him; someone would talk to him; the man outside would sing him to sleep. Some days he would see his father's brother on the horizon, riding a horse. One night, he left my ma's bedside, he said someone was singing to him. It was the well, and my mother heard it too. “Come back to sleep Fred,” she begged him, “there's no man out there.” “I'll show you him,” he said. He walked out the door, to the living room, and my mother followed. I heard the commotion, and the wind picked up. “Fred,” my ma sounded like she was near the point of crying, “the winds are picking up! Come back to sleep!” “Someone is calling darling,” ma grabbed him, and by the time I walked down stairs I watched as the man who taught me to keep the land of his father's walk out the door and it slammed shut. My mom tried to chase after him, but the door wouldn't budge for her. The winds were too strong, and by the time we got it open, he was gone. Two weeks passed and a rancher's dog found his body, nearly completely buried in the dust. The rancher dug him, and his now half-eaten hand, out of the ground. We buried him alongside my great grandfather. That night, I heard him walk back through the door. He stood in my doorway, and hummed. When I got up for the morning chores, my mom was weeping over a pot filled with boiling potatoes. They were as salted as her tears were. “You dad's angel visited me last night,” she said, “he sang me to sleep.” I didn't tell her that he did the same thing to me, “I need to go into town.” “You ain't even going to acknowledge me?” Her tears fell into the boiling pot, “son, the seed isn't there anymore. What you planted is gone.” “Then I'll plant more.” “I'm sayin’ ya leave.” “We sell this land?” I asked. “No son,” her face fell onto her hands, and I went to go give her a hug. “Ma...” “No, there's no future here. The dust isn't settling how it used to,” The humming picked up, “leave this. Leave me!” “Why?” “Because I'm not leaving your father,” she slammed her hands on her lap, and wiped them dry. “I love you ma, but I'm going into town. I'll be back in an hour.”
The horses were skin and bone. Feed was getting expensive, and we had to ration it. Dancer was my horse, quiet, and he often hung his head low as if sad. He was too weak to fight me anymore, but strong enough to take me to and from the town. When we got to Nitton, I walked him to a man selling vegetables. “‘Mornin’,” he said with a low raspy voice, “food's been getting buried.” “I know, is this all ya got?” I asked. “All I got for the town.” I handed him some money and I gave Dancer some corn. When I was about to leave he spoke again, “I don't remember this place bein’ so empty.” I looked around, he was right. There were less than half the usual people walking around. Half the buildings were clearly unkempt, which wasn't too unusual, but it was noticeable. Suddenly, a naked woman ran out of a home screaming. Men ran to her, and her husband chased. “What happened?” I asked to myself, but I guess it was a little too loud, because someone tried answering my question. “Been happenin’ a lot,” it was a man with black hair and a long frown, “this is the town of madmen. E’er since the sands been kicking up people been hearin’ hummin’.” “Where they hearin’ it from?” “Cain's land,” he answered, “Fred Cain.” “Oh damn,” I whispered. The well, I thought. “Haven't seen him in a while. Do you know Cain?” I had already turned my horse to go home, to go to the well. Dancer raced; he hadn't run so fast before. We got to the well. My heart raced as the horse's legs had, and I looked down into the pit. The walls were of mixed stones and wind howled as it flowed through the, now dry, channels. The note was deep, and it called to me. I turned to Dancer, and thought of any way I could bury the hole, but something beckoned. A little thought at the back of my mind wiggled, and it pulled at my body. The thought that I needed to be at the bottom, that they, my forefathers, were waiting for me at the bottom. All I had to do was jump in. Suddenly, Dancer made a spine raising screech and I turned to him and watched as the rancher's dog was digging in the distance. Who knew what Dancer was roaring at, I was worried about what that beast was doing, digging up MY property. MY father's property. I marched to the furry creature and grabbed him by his scruff. The damn thing was foaming at the mouth and drool slathered across my arm as it twitched and twirled its head to grab my arm. It found its mark and bit me, so I stabbed it. It wasn't my proudest moment. It yelped as I swooped for the rib, and then the neck. He went down slowly and then died shortly after. I noticed the hole it had dug, one large pit, no deeper than four feet, at the foot of my father's gravestone.
When I went to tell the rancher about his dog, I found nothing but a half-buried home. The door swung open to reveal an empty household. The pots and pans were left on a wood stove, the ashes still cracking as if the fire had died slowly. I gave up and would come by tomorrow to tell the rancher about his dog. When I got back home, ma was standing on the porch, a blanket of dust resting on every corner. She was staring into the distance, as if something were holding her gaze, “do you see him?” I looked to the horizon, and just saw a large dust storm, a blanket of sand being pulled over the land as if the wind were trying to put earth to bed. “Your pa,” she smiled, “and look, his pa and his brother! They're riding across the sands to take us home.” “It's just a dust storm ma,” I told her, “you have to get inside,” I grabbed her hand and she grabbed back. We walked into the house, and I heard it again, the low hum. That night, my father didn't stand in my doorway. He opened the front door and didn't close it, his song filled the entire home. Then he echoed, “I love you.” Those three words hung in the air, full and burning, “come home,” he beckoned. I didn't leave my bed. I just tried to sleep.
When morning came, I remained restless. I left my bed to find sand covering the floor, and the front door wide open. All I could think about was my ma. I ran to her room and found her bed empty, its covers mangled and covered in dust. I ran outside and yelled for her, running to the well and seeing her on the horizon, “Ma! Stop!” She walked to the well, looked back at me. I saw the tears in her tired eyes; the same eyes that held me as a baby; the same eyes that were able to say “I love you,” in one glance. I saw her say one last thing, but I was too far away to hear it. My bare feet kicked up sand as I pushed to save the last woman in my family, the love of my father. Each part of my leg ached and suddenly my pace was halted as I felt the wind push back on me. Humming filled the air and I watched as my mother looked back to the well, and plunge into depths unseen. I wept at the well's edge, “ma…” and when I looked into the abyss, sand had filled up the bottom. She wasn't there, her body wasn't there. It was like the bottom of an hourglass slowly showing the passage of time. My tears fell with the dust I accidentally knocked into the pit.
Where was Dancer? I hadn't seen him. Perhaps he ran out into the desert. His stall was filled with dust, and the labor wasn't worth it to uncover, so I just walked to town, the low hum pulling at me, pulling me back to the well. Was it my ma? Beckoning me back to the unknown. I got to Nitton, and found mountains of dust covering the town's homes. I only saw a few men walking about their days, each one looking to the ground in… fear? Anger? Were they weeping over losses as well? I didn't ask, the hills of sand surrounded the town; it was like a bowl, houses half buried in its walls. At the center was a church, with a cross at the top of its quiet, dusty bell tower. I walked through its doors, the glass windows being the only source of light. The crossing was the only portion with sand that leaked in through unknown holes in the walls and doors. No one was there to greet me, and when I walked to the altar, I kneeled. Through tears I asked for mercy. Church was never where my family went. Our lineage was perhaps cursed to never enter the dwelling of God, yet I prayed. Still I sang portions of hymns I had barely heard. I thought of what I heard once, where from, I didn't know. “And still, the dogs eat the crumbs from the master's table.” Then, I whispered the only prayer I had ever known, “our father… our father…” I couldn't find the words, “our father…” tears ran down my cheeks to my chin, “amen… just amen…” I stood, and out of curiosity, I approached the place where the preachers stood, where priests blessed and broke the bread. On the table was a Bible, open to some place in the beginning. Next to it was a note written by the last worshippers, or preacher, or priest, “God has abandoned us.” The note hummed once again, the winds beat against the church. Teary eyed, I marched out, and into the dust as a blind man. I followed the hum. "Forgive me,” I whispered, but the wind carried my words away. Time passed, and I hit my leg on the stone wall of the well, and lied down. The humming continued, “come home,” my father's voice spoke to me. “Are you even my father?” I cried. “Are you even my son?” It answered back. I stayed on the ground for a few more moments, and stood, “pa, I'm scared.” “Son, I'm scared,” it answered. Don't have pity on me. I followed the steps I needed to, and looked into the well. I ask that you just have joy that I joined them. That they were all there. I laid on bones and bodies, my back felt their comfort as hands all holding me steady. I kept my eyes closed, and felt the presence of a beast I remember. Dancer was there with me.
Notes from the Author
Hello everyone, I've been interested in writing recently and have been trying to improve my skills. I'm looking for some feedback, please keep in mind this is the first draft of the story. I'm hoping its got a good mystery to it without being too ambiguous. Thank you for reading!