In the Forest of Farmer Mybrow

 Mr. Mybrow was a first-generation freeman, a descendant of slaves emancipated in the wake of the war, and was undoubtedly a man of grit and determination. Grit and determination without luck, however, are seldom enough in this world. This is a truth accepted only by those with minds of compassion, who do not mock the poor for their poverty, and by those who respect the dominion of the Fates.

Well, when a newly married Mybrow brought his first patch of land on the edge of the South Carolina wilderness, it appeared as if the Fates were against him. His first crop, initially quite promising, withered and failed in dramatic fashion. Subsequently, Mybrow went through a period of poverty and desperation. His marriage failed as wholly as his crop, and it seemed as if want was to be the mark of Mybrow’s new station in life.

Still, Luck had not yet abandoned Her subject. It is unknown how he coaxed Fortune back to his side, but, the next year, Mybrow’s crops came in fuller and healthier than those of any of his neighbors and possessed a richness of flavor unmatched in all of the Carolinas. Strangely, though he never remarried and hired out no laborers, no one ever actually saw Mybrow work his own fields. If such a thing could be believed, it appeared as if his fields tended themselves.

As for Mybrow, though he never became unfriendly, he developed into something of a recluse. He was spotted most often in the woods beyond his fields, wandering between the trees and speaking, apparently, to himself. Perhaps just as odd, though it was obvious that in time he had become quite wealthy, he never moved from his humble farmhouse. It was joked by some that he had become betrothed to the property. It was joked by others that he had lost his mind.

The gossip surrounding his character grew in proportion to his wealth. Mybrow was said, with justification, to have a cure for every ailment known to man. Whenever a neighbor of his was sick or suffering any manner of illness, Mybrow would be there (very often uninvited) at their door with a remedy. His cures never failed, and the local physician cursed him. Still, perhaps the most peculiar thing of all about Mr. Mybrow was that, after the divorce of his first wife, he simply ceased to visibly age. In fact, he never looked a day older than thirty, even after reaching his forties and fifties.

Mybrow’s town was a small one, and a religious one at that, and it was inevitable that the rumors around his peculiar character would evolve more sinister over time. It did not take many years for whispers of witchcraft, and of consorting with demons, to blossom within the town. It took only a few years more for Mybrow to become effectively shunned, unless someone was in need of a loan or a remedy, as Mybrow was liberal with both his money and his aid. A sad fate, potentially, if Mybrow had ever noticed.

On the eve of his fifty-seventh birthday, Mybrow vanished and was never seen again. Of course, the authorities (and many of his neighbors), checked his house, but nothing of Mybrow (nor his wealth) was ever discovered. The woods beyond his home, and his fields, were searched as well but there was again nothing. Indeed, despite the many rumors of murder, no body was ever found and the investigation soon called off for a lack of evidence.

He was assumed dead, likely by suicide. Only a couple folks showed up to his service, and a little monument was left for him by the local church to stand vigil alone in his fields. 

This is most of what can be said of Mybrow and his legend. The house was left to rot and fell into disrepair. The woods took back the fields, and Mybrow was generally forgotten.

 ~

 Generally forgotten, that is, but remembered by some all the same. Generations passed, yet the house still stood, however decrepit, and served as a reminder of the richest and most peculiar Black man who had ever lived in that formerly segregated community. Tongues yet wagged on occasion about Mybrow’s wealth and his strangeness, as well as his ghost which, apparently, still haunted the property. 

One of the elder barbers at Big City Styles, the local barber shop, relayed as much to a young Marcus Jackson, a shiftless man who longed for the kind of wealth that would lead to gossip for generations. Marcus was a quick-fingered, quick-footed and quick-witted fellow, who occasionally had a job, and who occasionally made money in a less than legal manner, and was, to be honest, an accomplished petty-gentleman and thief. He was polite, personable, charming and entirely untrustworthy, as many a woman and careless homeowner discovered. Hearing of Mybrow’s legend caused hope to strike his heart, and a thought to take shape in his mind. The thought then became a plan, a plan which would, in time, become an act.

The home of a rich man, unguarded! Avoided by all due to foolish superstitions, and the potential resting place of treasures never before witnessed by the less diligent, or the less bold! Perhaps there was nothing, but perhaps still there was something, and Marcus never lever let an opportunity for profit go unchecked.

This is how the man found himself, under the cover of Nyx’s darkening veil, slinking through Mybrow’s old house and perusing its every corner for valuables.

Quite disappointingly, however, he found little of value. The once-fine clothes had decomposed, as had the tablecloths and curtains- though this was to be expected. More heartbreaking was the lack of any precious items, such as chains, watches or jewelry, of any kind. None of the emblems of wealth remained, and Marcus considered that either Mybrow had lived his life as a hermit, or that the other petty criminals in town were not as superstitious as he had hoped.

Yet Marcus was a diligent man. If phantoms did not strike fear into the hearts of his contemporaries, then they did not strike fear into him! “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders,” he assured himself, “use it!” He combed every inch of the house, looked in every drawer and every pantry, and, after some hours, beneath a floorboard in the bedroom under the bed, managed to find a journal.

It was a lovely journal of quality leather, embroidered in gold with the image of a cottonwood-tree, beautifully detailed, upon the cover. The pages too, it seemed, were gilded in gold. He put it in his thieving bag, along with some old Chinaware he had found in the kitchen, and snuck out the house as stealthily as he had come- a little disappointed to be sure, but determined to make the best out of a bad situation.

The plan, of course, was to sell the book and the China to some antique shop, or to some thrifter, but the next day, upon thinking the matter over, he decided to peruse the journal to see if it was truly Mybrow’s own, and if it contained any hint of the wealth that had never been found. So Marcus opened the tome and began to read.

And, ah! What he found! Mybrow wrote of many things, much of which would only interest a humble farmer: statements of the weather, crop fertility, market prices for crops, etcetera. Marcus skimmed over these. There were many other entries, however, that seemed to confirm the man’s insanity.

Mybrow did, in fact, have a secret: 

“In the wood, beyond my home,” he wrote, “is the source of everything. All my fortune arises from this singular spot, and I must never forget my yearly offerings to my eternal benefactors.”

In another passage: “Gold, and silver, is the preferred offering, not for its monetary value but for its great beauty. I have left many such elegant artifacts, fashioned by these precious metals, at the base of the great old cottonwood tree, along with my blood. I am certain that my good fortune will continue.”

“Most mortal eyes cannot see them, but I have watched breathless as they dance between the tree-trunks, and my ears have drunk their songs which haunt my soul. Lord, their beauty! Such forms should only belong to angels.”

“They have whispered to me their secrets, and their wisdom. The things I know! What man has been blessed with such knowledge as I? I am more knowledgeable now than Solomon, and there is no sickness beyond my power to cure, no misfortune beyond my power to remedy. And yet I am humble, for I am nothing at all except for what they have gifted me.”

“If I were to have any descendants, and they were to, by the light of the full moon, come equipped with rum and with cigarettes and with a heart lacking in falsehood, to this wild land beyond my fields, oh the otherworldly riches and delight they would see! How their heart would shudder for things more valuable than all this cold world’s gold! But, alas, I am cut off from the world of mortal women and of men, and must pass on from here heirless, and bring my secrets with me.”

What to make of this? Clearly, as Marcus muttered to himself, the motherfucker was crazy. Yet crazy enough to leave a bunch of gold and silver in the woods for his imaginary friends, and that was enough to set Marcus’s young heart on fire. So, Marcus borrowed a shovel, one that he did not plan on returning, and the very next morning set about combing the woods beyond Mybrow’s home, looking for buried silver and gold.

He found none, of course. Up and down through the woods he went, increasingly tired, dirty, and foul-tempered. We cannot entirely blame poor Marcus, who, though he knew the stash was by a cottonwood tree, couldn’t tell a cotton from an oak and really had little idea as to how to locate the precise location of the hoard. Sweat streamed down from beneath his close-cut hair and onto his brown skin made browner by the sun, as he dug hole after hole to no avail.

Still, Marcus could ask for no aid. To seek assistance would be to offer a share of the prize, and that was not something his soul could permit. So, being the diligent man he was, the next day he went to his local library and took out a field guide on trees. Then, just for good luck, he went to the general store and brought a bottle of liquor and a pack of cigarettes. He doubted he would run into Mybrow’s mysterious benefactors, but, as he told himself, “A wise man leaves nothing to chance.” Besides, he would like to celebrate at the very moment of his success.

With greater confidence, however, came greater caution. What if someone were to follow him into the woods? What if they tried to lay claim to the treasure? No, this time he would go by night, he decided. In the morning he would mark the location of the biggest cottonwoods he could find around the property (there were only so many really big ones left). Then he would wait, like Mybrow, for the full moon, and guide himself by the light of its heavenly orb and by his flashlight and would be discovered by no one. 

The moon had only begun to scale its heavenly ceiling when Marcus crept over the fence to the Mybrow property. He was armed with a shovel, a flashlight strapped to his belt, and a large knapsack holding rum and cigarettes that he soon hoped to exchange for gold and silver. He had his pistol too, in case of a chance encounter with a bear, or other, more dangerous, beasts who walked upon two legs.

Nimble as a fox, he moved through the overgrown fields and into the old-growth forest beyond, where the trees towered high above him and were thicker around the waist than the girthiest of men. He carried his shovel over his shoulder, for he was strong, and pointed his flashlight forward into the darkness. Things moved about in the undergrowth, but he was sure they were neither ghosts nor phantoms, just small, furry creatures that moved about on all fours.

Marcus had spent the week mapping out the largest cottonwood trees he could find in the daylight and memorizing the way to each location. He had underestimated how different the woods would look at night, however, with all its shadows and deceit. Still, he was not to be discouraged. He managed to find the first two trees easily, as they were close to the old field, and dug around the roots of each but came upon nothing each time. The effort took more time than he anticipated, and he increased the speed of his search.

Yet try as he might he still found nothing. Tiring, hot and sweaty despite the coolness of the night, he sat down atop a tree-stump, put his head into his hands and cursed: “Shit!”

Then he jerked upright. He heard, in the distance, a drumming. Subtle, but steadily increasing in intensity, a pounding of a beautiful and yet quietly disconcerting rhythm. Something about the sound made his hair stand on end, and he could feel his soul being pulled toward the distant music as if by a tether, but he thought- stay cool, Marcus, stay cool. He picked up his flashlight and his pistol, steadied his hands, and headed into the direction of the music. 

Only the direction changed.

At first it came from straight ahead, but then from his left, and then to his right, and then from behind him, and around and round in circles until he was thoroughly lost and had no idea as to which direction he was going. Undaunted, he kept on pushing ahead. The sound came from somewhere in these woods, these woods with their boundless treasure hidden under the roots of trees, and in his soul he knew that it was only in following this mysterious sound that he might find his heart’s desire; a wise man leaves no opportunity for profit unchecked. Besides, the rhythms had worked their way deep inside his mind, and he was not sure he could stop looking if he tried.

Then, all at once, the earth began to shift beneath his feet, transfigured from solid ground into cool, soft, roiling magma, and a melodious, seductive wailing rose up from all around him, wafting upwards into the air towards the climbing moon. Marcus made a cry and fell backwards, dropping his light and his pistol and tumbling over earth, branch and stone until his back hit the trunk of a tree.

Everything fell silent. Then a voice, soft and hollow as the wind itself, uttered: “Who is it that knocks upon this tree?”

And Marcus, terrified as he was, knew that this voice belonged to Mybrow’s mysterious benefactors, that whatever strange visions had haunted Mybrow he was to now receive, and he gasped but could say nothing. Yet he knew, too, that this voice was the key to all Mybrow’s wealth and fortune, and so in only another moment’s time he composed himself and rose to his feet.

“Who is it,” the voice spoke again, “that knocks upon this tree?”

“It is I, Marcus-”

“Only a descendant of Mybrow may see us beneath the light of the full moon. Yet he left no descendants among you.”

Remembering, all of a sudden, what Mybrow had written in his journal of the inheritance he would have left behind if he had children, Marcus summoned all of his courage and responded: “I am a descendant of Mybrow! I am here to claim my great-grandfather's fortune!”

Silence, for a moment. Even the owls and the other creatures did not stir. Then, the voice spoke again: “Did you bring the rum?”

“I have brought the rum!”

“Sit, and enjoy with us this rum.”

So Marcus sat on the earth, which had since ceased its roiling, and in front of him a fire was lit, though he saw no kindling. He pulled out the rum and, with shaking hands, said, “Here is the rum.”

“Pour it out.” the voice answered.

So Marcus poured, not into any glass for he had none, but directly over the ground. The liquid did reach the earth but vanished halfway before it could touch the soil. 

Marcus shuddered and poured out the entire bottle. 

Then the voice spoke again. “Did you bring the smoke?”

“I have brought the smoke,” he answered. Stay cool, Marcus, stay cool.

“Light the smoke!” the voice demanded.

So Marcus took out a cigarette, and lit it, and though he saw no one there it was plucked from his hand and, right across from his face, began to be smoked as it hung in the air.

“Another!” the voice demanded.

He lit another.

“Another!” 

Marcus lit nine cigarettes, and he had the tenth, and he sat there smoking with his invisible companions until all the cigarettes went out.

“Tell us, Marcus, descendant of Mybrow, is there any falsehood in your heart?”

“No, there is not!” he responded. Stay cool, Marcus, stay cool.

“Are you truly a Mybrow?”

“Indeed, I am!”

“Then let us taste of your blood!”

Just like that, before him was a knife, made of silver and embroidered with gems, intricately designed and patterned with the shape of tree roots all over its hilt. 

Of course, Marcus was no descendant of Mybrow, and of course, he had falseness in his heart. But, oh, this knife! It was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen, and he just knew it had to be valuable, and his heart blazed with it, and he picked it up and spoke out in strong, fearless words: “Taste of it!”

Then he cut his palm.

And a little blood came trickling out.

And it fell to the earth.

And it sizzled and burned, like it was on a skillet.

And something deep within Marcus fell, and he knew he went too far, and that, somehow, he had found himself further from his riches than he had ever been before.

And all at once the shout went up: “Liar!” hissed the voice. And it was echoed, a dozen, a hundred and a thousand times, by other voices, voices from all around him, all as hollow and soft as the wind itself, screaming in the most terrible way: “Liar! Liar! Liar!” and Marcus dropped the knife and began to run, but he did not get far, for what felt like a thousand tiny little hands grabbed his ankles and tripped him, and invisible ropes wound their way around his body, and he was being dragged now over the tree roots which hid the gold and silver he would never see.

“Stop!” he screamed, “stop! Let me go!”

Yet the voices did not respond, but only laughed, and the laughter was like ice in winter which wraps the earth in a blanket of cold and death. Now the moon was reaching its zenith, and Marcus could half see them, beautiful, so painfully beautiful and so small, little, perfect ebony figures of men and women, with wooly, ivory hair, luminescent like the light of the moon, and eyes of gold that burned and broiled like the magma beneath the earth. But they were only half there, and he could see through them as well, see in them the shadows of the woods beyond.

“What are you going to do to me?” he cried, tears in his eyes, struggling against the ropes of gold which he now saw binding him tight. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Penance! Penance for your falsehood! Service, for seven times seven and seven and seven and seven and seven and seven years!” they cried out, and the way they laughed made Marcus cry all the harder. 

Then they were upon a tree, and he was not sure if he was getting smaller, or if they were getting larger, but his captors were now much too big and much too small all at once, and when they looked at him and smiled with their perfect teeth he shuddered and felt his heart sink again, deep within his chest. 

The tree they had arrived at was the largest cottonwood he had ever seen. Its trunk opened, and from within it light, brighter and more colorful than the aurora borealis, danced and shimmered in a million ways. Within it too he heard the drumming, and that profound, melodious wailing, and his soul recoiled in the horror of terror and pleasure joined so tightly he could not tell them apart. Then the men and women, with their eyes of burning gold, shoved Marcus into the mouth of the trunk and went in after him. The trunk closed up behind them at once, and the woods again went quiet.

That was the last anyone ever saw or heard of Marcus Jackson; he did not even get a monument in a field. If I know anything, he will probably be with his captors till nigh the day of judgment, and then perhaps some more.

But I must confess, these are mysteries which I cannot pretend to comprehend well.