Idol Chat

by Nick Piers

June 12, 2003. 6:00 PM Dear Mom,

The rest of my day with The Farmer was mostly helping him in the fields. There was a surprise that he revealed to me, though. After seeing this surprise, along with the story that backed it up, I understand The Farmer’s motivations a little better.

I was following behind him again, throwing seeds into grooves in the field that he would plow. I thought about the fact that he went from a megalomaniac zealot in the mountains of Europe to a guy working on his farm in Calgary. There has to be something to that.

“So, does it hurt?” The Farmer asked, looking over his shoulder while pulling the plow’s chain. He nodded to my robotic arm.

“Nah,” I answered, “It just pinches a little bit at the shoulder. It might tickle sometimes, but that’s about it. I’ve had a year to get used to it.”

“Phantom pains?”

“Yeah, but only when I was younger. The new arm reminds me of the pains, sometimes. It’s almost like reverse phantom pains. Like having an arm I’m not supposed to.”

He hummed and turned his head forward. After everything that he’d revealed to me, I didn’t really mind talking about something like my arm or lack of thereof. My curiosity was still there, though.

“I have to ask. Why farming?” I dug into the brown sack hanging from my arm and tossed some more seeds into the groove.

“Believe it or not, I was raised on a farm before gaining my,” he paused, “notoriety. I’ve had this strength all of my life. My family saw me as a gift from the gods. They sold all of their labor animals and used me as their beast of burden. So I guess I just went back to what I did best after doing my worst.”

That brought up three pictures in my mind. The first was this child, no older than four, pulling the same plow by a chain or a rope. The second picture I imagined was that same child strapping another child to a neutron bomb.

The third picture I saw was myself as a child, pinned under a car that had flipped over, my father dead and still bleeding beside me in the driver’s seat. Look Mom, I know that you’re happy with Frank. And I’m sorry for some of the things I said about him, even to his face. I’m sure he’s a good guy. But he’s not my Dad, you know?

“So you were basically used as a human mule?” I asked, coming back to my train of thought.

“Since I was old enough to walk. I didn’t mind it, honestly. It only made me stronger. Might’ve been that I scared my folks a little, I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“But, I mean, couldn’t they afford tractors? Or equipment like that?” I asked.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow before speaking. “I never said that kind of thing was invented when I was around that age. Besides, I like doing it this way. It gives me the chance to get my hands dirty. I feel like I accomplished something rather than piloting some damn machine controls.”

“But...didn’t you used to worship the god of war or something? How can you go from the most threatening SPEC on the planet to…well, Farmer John?”

The Farmer shrugged and threw the chains off his shoulder. The chains clunk to the ground. He pulled off his pair of leather working gloves and stuffed them into his jean pockets.

“Walk with me, would you?” he asked me and started walking towards the thick forest that surrounds The Ranch, “There’s something I want to show you.”

I slipped off the pouch of seeds and left them by the plow. He was so quiet the whole time that I was almost started when Digby galloped alongside his master. I’ve never seen a dog so content to be near his master but never ask for anything.

The Farmer then began to tell me a story that I’d never heard before. I didn’t want to interrupt him and ask stupid questions, so I just let him go on. His voice seemed to change a little when telling this story. It was like The Farmer was suddenly a great prophet or a priest giving a sermon. I could finally see what his followers saw in him.

While still walking, The Farmer bent down and scooped up a handful of soil. All of a sudden, the way he walked looked like he was taking a stroll in the park. I could tell that he trusted me, which is funny when just last night, I had a laser pointed in his face.

“There’s an ancient story that was shared by farmers in ancient times.” He looked at me over his shoulder. “Have you ever taken any mythology classes before?”

“Fraid not,” I told him.

“Good, then this will be new to you.” I saw him smile slightly through his beard. I noticed that he never opened his lips and show his teeth to smile. It was always this sly smirk.

The Farmer began his story, “Greek mythology tells of a goddess by the name of Demeter. She has been called the most generous goddess from Olympus. She gave mankind the gift of harvest and the cultivation of soil. Unlike the other gods of Olympus, Demeter most enjoyed wandering the fields and forests, visiting with country folk.”

He kept leading me towards the forest. I noticed that it was on the opposite side of the entrance dirt road to The Ranch where I had walked in from.

“Demeter had a beautiful daughter, Persephone, of whom she was very protective of. The lord of the underworld, Hades, was attracted to Persephone and wanted to bring her to the underworld, hoping that her cheerfulness would bring brightness to the underworld’s gloom. While she was picking up a flower, an arm of Hades broke out of the ground and pulled her under, leaving no sign of struggle.” The Farmer continued, making a grabbing motion in the air to illustrate. “Demeter searched everywhere for her beloved daughter but she was nowhere to be found. After searching for so long, a countryman said that he had seen Hades taking Persephone.”

The Farmer pointed up at the sun shining brightly in the sky. I thought he was pointing out something to me, so I turned my head to look. I was blinded by the sun for a second and cursed myself. I didn’t realize that he was pointing to a visual aid to his story.

“Demeter went to Helios, the sun which sees everything, to confirm her worst fear. Helios confirmed what the countryman had said: that Hades had dragged Persephone into the underworld to be his queen.” The Farmer pointed down at the ground in a dramatic fashion. I could tell that he was getting more and more into the story as he told it. Come to think of it, so was I. “Even worse, Helios also told Demeter that Zeus had given his brother, Hades, consent to take Persephone.”

The Farmer spread his arms out and his pace slowed. He lowered his head, as if he were mourning the death of a loved one. I wondered if he had his thoughts on his son for a moment.

“When she found out this news, Demeter was furious. She walked barefoot across the earth, her hair disheveled. She swore that the earth would remain barren unless her daughter was returned to her. The earth that she cared for became desolate. The streams dried out and the wind blew dust. The people starved as the entire earth witnessed a winter without end. They starved, pleading to the gods for help but their beloved goddess was unrecognizable, her eyes blank and her clothes tattered.”

The Farmer pushed himself into the beginning of the forest. I dodged branches that were flinging back at me while he told the story of Demeter.

“Zeus sent every god and goddess to plead with the grieving Demeter to stop, but she would not. ’The earth will join in my sorrow until my daughter is returned’ she said. Zeus sent Hermes, the messenger of the gods, to the underworld. He told Hermes that Hades must release Persephone unless she has eaten any food of the dead. If so, then she must remain in the underworld.”

To illustrate Hermes’ speed, The Farmer sped up through the forest. I had a difficult time keeping up with him. I didn’t want to get hit with any more branches, so I ran as best I could beside him. The Farmer didn’t grow short of breath once while racing through the forest. Digby tried his best to keep up with his master.

“Persephone, miserable as she was, had brought some warmth to the cold metal underworld. As Persephone was leaving with Hermes on Hades’ chariot, the lord of the underworld offered her a pomegranate. Persephone accepted the gift, but she only ate the seeds of the fruit.” I watched as The Farmer flung the seeds of a fruit that he had snatched off a branch into the air.

The Farmer slowed down to the walk he had started at. I nearly passed right by him when he had suddenly slowed down. In the distance, I could see a tiny clearing in the trees. I could barely make out a large rock of some sort.

“Demeter was overjoyed that her daughter had been returned to her. She freed the earth from its cold winter and continued about her divine duties. But then, Persephone told her of eating the pomegranate seeds. Demeter, though happy that her daughter was back, was saddened that because of the seeds, Persephone would have to spend four months of the year in the underworld with Hades.”

We walked closer to the clearing and I could see that the large rock was actually a statue. It was quite possibly about twelve feet tall. But with the large trees surrounding it, there was no way such a small clearing or statue could be seen from the air.

The Farmer completed his story as he parted through one more series of branches into the small clearing, “So while Persephone was away in the underworld for those months, Demeter would walk the earth in sorrow, putting it in a cold winter again until her daughter was returned.”

I stood in awe of the statue and the surroundings. All around the statue were small bushes and flowers of all shapes, sizes and colors. From where The Farmer stood and leading right up to the statue on either side was small rows of bushes, making a pathway. At the foot of the statue were small flowers that looked to be picked from The Farmer’s small bed of flowers in front of the farmhouse. It reminded me of the times, Mom, when you would take me to Dad’s grave and lay flowers down. In the areas outside of the pathway, there was a bed of both poppies and sunflowers.

As for the statue itself? After the story that The Farmer told me, there was no doubt that the statue was of the Greek goddess, Demeter. The statue’s pedestal was about five feet high and the statue itself was about seven, I’m guessing. The pedestal had bronze around one part of it with Greek-like pictures hammered into it that showed parts of the story that The Farmer had just told me. The statue of Demeter stood proudly on top of the stone pedestal, wearing a robe. She was holding a small statue of a baby, which was wrapped in stone carvings of a bouquet of various flowers and wheat. She had a coy grin to her that I’ve seen The Farmer himself carry.

The Farmer walked into the grass walkway with his hands behind his back. I stayed near the entrance, not feeling it was my place to enter. “See Chris, when you worship Ares, the god of war, you are asking for help in fighting your war; perhaps starting a new one. With Ares at your call, he can give your army the strength to overcome battles, maybe give them bravery against greater numbers.” The Farmer explained this to me, raising his bare fists in the air and making a battle stance while still walking to emphasize his point. “The problem is worshipping Ares is that while he is excellent at starting and fighting wars, he is terrible at winning them. That’s not to say that he loses. But why would a god of war have interest in winning a war when that would mean the end of the war?”

“Did you always worship Ares?” I asked.

He shook his head, “When I worked on my family’s farm, we worshipped Demeter. I used to have a statue not unlike this, actually.”

“Do you think she punished you or something?” I couldn’t help ask this. As someone who works a life of crime, I immediately think of punishment; the repercussions of an act. Maybe that’s why I make a lousy criminal: because I actually think about the repercussions.

“Maybe. When I saw what the world had turned into, I began planning and worshipping to the god of war, pleading with him to help me start.” He looked up at the statue proudly. “I don’t know if I’ve seen the error of my ways, but I’m beginning to pay penance to her, at least.”

I stared at the sight of the clearing and the statue for a few moments. Finally, The Farmer slapped a dirty hand on my shoulder, leaving a stain of dirt on my white shirt. “Come on, we’ve still got a full days work ahead of us.

We turned around to leave and I noticed Digby didn’t walk into the clearing with us. He was quietly sitting at the edge of the clearing beside me, wagging his tail when he noticed we were leaving.

“Doesn’t he come in here with you?” I asked.

“Hmph, no.” The Farmer chuckled, “Demeter doesn’t much like her territory being marked, I guess.”

We continued on with our chores in silence once we returned to the plow. The story of Demeter and the statue were impressive, of course, but all I could think about was his non-reliance on machines. Even as Lord Powerhouse, he still didn’t like large machines doing his work. He personally delivered the neutron payload to St. Mignola without any kind of launching mechanism. Hell, the way he looks at my arm sometimes, I’ll be he wonders if I need the damn thing at all. Come to think of it, I’m starting to feel that way, too. I don’t make for a very good SPEC, really.

Even after everything I’ve done to them to keep the damn thing, part of me is beginning I wonder if The Tribunal would just let me give the arm back.