Scourge within the seedWell, look, boy. You seem alright, for a tourist. And we don't get tourists often. There's already the fact that the Ibraleshi would rather go to either Ghunda or Khan for a holiday, and that the Khani would rather go to Ibralesh or, the richest sort, overseas, maybe to Intraserva. But in the rare occasions when either of these groups make it over here, they usually go to Paraiso for the museums or to Bncarena for the beaches. This is why everyone here looked at you weird. Most of us don't even speak Kharetti, let alone Ibraleshi. You're lucky to have found me. I come here only on Fridays. It's kind of my ritual. I used to come every night, I was a horrible mess of a man sitting on this same chair until I met Tricia, who now is my wife, and, little by little, that beautiful woman put me on a better path. I don't even like to drink any more. I come here for the stories. But I've never told any. I guess, since you're insisting, today will have to be a first.

  It happened during the, uh, Gran Decada. The 50s. Our great decade. Right after Trance Yiemmansek became Empress. Some of her early work really came in our advantage, before she realized it was in her best interest to betray the non-Khani provinces. I was young, I had graduated from high school in the best private school in the city, and I inherited my grandfather's farm. During my st three years of studies I was not only preparing for the Bachillerato, our exams at the end of our studies, but I was also preparing for my grandfather's incoming death, and the responsibilities, hectares of it, that would be dropped upon me when it happened.

  My parents were not doing very well in general — and I frankly never had as good a retionship with them as I had with my grandfather. Hell, to me, it always seemed as if they resented me for having inherited the farm, rather than any of my grandfather's children. In those three years that my grandfather spent sick any could very well have asked him why he enacted his will in such a way — but nobody did. It was probably just that nobody really listened to his stories. Because as he got older, the stories started contradicting each other, omitting information, or ft out describe things that are outside the realm of possibility. My father just said his father was starting to 'drift away'. As a kid, I liked getting a fresh, new story every time I talked to him. As I grew older, I kept listening. I learned a lot from him and he enjoyed my company.

  All this to say, I was alone in that farm, outside the city where I was raised. I had learned some independence in the st couple of years, but the first couple of months were rough. There was a nice dy in a small market nearby that helped me get situated. I owe her the world.

  It was from her that I met some of my neighbours. The first was Joncho. That is not his real name — but everyone called him that, so it might as well have been. Joncho had a slightly smaller terrain that I had, but he definitely had his shit together, so to speak. The market dy mentioned him as if he was some kind of kingpin, but he was very humble in his success. He recently installed a pool, that he doesn't really use, except for when his brother or either of his two sisters come visit with his nephews and nieces. A tall, thin man, not unlike you, a little taller, quite a bit older even than me, with a moustache, and some hair in his face, like most of us here, that rarely became a beard. Joncho would talk to me whenever I was close to the fence separating our terrains, and he started to pay me visits when he realized I was having some trouble. Helped me a lot, like the market dy. After about six months I was doing very well. Good crops. Joncho helped me find the best buyers. A truck from the Sirmacane consortium of consumables would come and pick up our produce and give us good money. I was earning good money and immediately started thinking of the future. Joncho even tried to get me to meet his niece, the only one close to my age, some two years older than me. Pretty girl, but she didn't seem to like me, despite Joncho's efforts for me to court her. She asked me how many children I wanted to have and said none whatsoever, and she never spoke to me again.

  I was doing well. My father started visiting me once he found out that my potatoes were being sold at the cities' major markets. He would just come, shake my hand, walk to the crops, whistle, nod, and approve silently before we had lunch. My mother would be crying when she saw me at the farm and still be crying when they left.

  Once I was doing well enough on my own, Joncho still invited me over to his pce often, for a beer and a chat. He produced his own beer which I quite frankly did not enjoy at first. He would ask me if I liked it, and I'd always say yes, and he'd ugh at me and say I was lying, so I'd have to say what I didn't like of it and every time I went to his pce the beer would be slightly different, until I realized my own feedback wasn't making it that much better, only I started becoming a better liar until he believed me when I said that I liked it. Joncho would talk to me about the town nearby, to which I had been a couple of times for small events, that apparently had a lot more history than what its limited size would suggest. There was a mayor, a chippy man that nobody liked, and a farmer's syndicate, which Joncho told me I could eventually join if so I wished. It didn't seem like a bad idea.

  Joncho was more of a believer than your average Costan. It's what you folks call Sortheism. With the Sun wearing a suit, very cute and all, yeah. We are mandated by w to adhere to that — but God to some of us is a little different. Oh, you've read of it already? I'll spare you the details, then. I'm gd you're listening. Yeah. Joncho had all these paintings and images of Don Eterno, La Dama Pura, etc. Many goats, too. Taxidermy goat heads, wood figures... he seldom mentioned them, but I liked to watch them while he was away. That and the scriptures and quotes from prophets, heh. I was raised by non-believers, but I regret it. I bang my head against the wall trying to believe, and yet...

  There was this one day, Spring the fourth, 755, where I came by to see Joncho, without him inviting me. I started doing so because he sometimes asked if he was bothering me by inviting me often. I failed to sound sincere when saying yes, even if the time I spent with him was some of the most honest time I have spent with a man in my life. I visited him and I surprised him kneeling before a framed picture of La Dama. I'd never seen him this perturbed. He tried to return to his usual, more id-back personality, but couldn't. I asked him what was wrong. "Just business," He said. He expined to me that he did this weekly, every week on the day prior to the day in which he st prayed, as a ritual to protect his farm and those of his neighbours from a great evil. He called it Diablo. Your folks might call it 'The Scourge'. Some other Costan towns go by Scorcho, or Chupacabra. No matter how many cults we have in this pnet, they all have one. The embodiment of all that is undesirable — the ultimate opponent of God. He spoke with great terror of it. I asked him if he had ever met the Scourge. He shook his head, but I wasn't convinced.

  I didn't sleep well. It bothered me. I could see the portrait to which he prayed, this pale dy with bck, curly hair, and her sad face, looking unable to help him. I thought that if a man with so many portraits of God in his house was afraid, then it meant something awful was going to happen.

  I heard screaming sometime around midnight. I was asleep and it awoke me. I couldn't decipher what the screaming said, but I thought it could be my name, and I thought it could be coming from Joncho. He had told me sometimes that, every once in a while, thieves could try to steal crops or tools from us. For that reason, he'd taught me to use my grandfather's shotgun soon after I arrived. So after I got dressed, I grabbed the shotgun from under my bed, and went outside, and the screaming continued. I realized, then, that, despite having heard it from my room, the yeller was distant. I threw a quick gnce toward Joncho's house and didn't see any lights turned on. The source of the sound was deep into my crops. Deep into my nd. I started running. I didn't want a motherfucker screaming on my nd, for whatever reason.

  It was early Spring, so my crops were still very natant. It wasn't very hard to run through them. I saw, at the end of the trail, a red light, breathing. Fire, I thought. But it wasn't a huge fire. It was like a bonfire, the kind that Joncho's nephews do when they come visit, to roast marshmallows. I didn't want a motherfucker roasting marshmallows on my nd, near my crops. Holding the shotgun with both arms I got closer, and saw the light come closer. The darkness made it all hard to see. A city boy like you might not realize it — when it's dark in the countryside, fme becomes the eyes' one sole existence.

  I found myself in front of the scene, and saw in detail what was there. Description would not make it seem any less deranged. I was in front of a group of animals. About three deers, many squirrels, and even some rats. The rest I couldn't quite differentiate. They were enough that, whatever they were gathering around, was not fully visible. But whatever it was, it was certainly on fire, and it was certainly crackling, so I yelled, in no nguage, like a primal man, and everything and not burning turned to see me, and then scrammed away in different directions, leaving me alone with the fme.

  And it's stupid that I didn't see it before. Believe me, I should've. But only once the animals left I saw what burned — a cross, wooden, twice as tall as I was, and a man affixed to it. His hands were nailed to opposite ends of it. His body was tied to it, though as the fmes consumed him slowly, only small threads remained. I could only see his charring silhouette, and hear him, still, no longer screaming but quietly whimpering... or muttering. I couldn't tell if he noticed me.

  I was pushed by a sudden, strange feeling of empathy that I regret every day. I guess, much like I didn't want a motherfucker near my crops, I didn't want to let a man die in my nd. So I left the shotgun in the ground by my side, grabbed the cross, felt its weight, how deep it was into the ground, and decided instead to give it a good kick to make it fall to the ground.

  As the cross fell, I saw surrounding it mud — it seemed we were past the crops, but the cross kept burning, and the man had gone silent, his st sound being a coughed reaction to the cross' thud. I saw the lingering fmes, smaller but persistent, light on some lilies not too far away, rare lilies, rare enough that I recognized the pce, and remembered where to find a hose from it. I ran toward it, sweating, almost crying, as if it was my son in that cross and not just a charred, unknown body, grabbed it, turned it on, and poured water into the fmes. The fire dissipated quickly, I heard it become sizzles and the sizzles turn to silence. I mourned the man for less than five seconds, when I heard the shuffle of a body that wasn't mine.

  "Hey," I mumbled. "Hey!" I yelled. "Can you hear me?" I asked, to what I thought was just a corpse.

  The man groaned, but I heard him get up, coughing. I heard him clean himself with both of his hands. Then, I heard him shuffle something, as if inside a pocket. Then, he did that same thing again.

  "Good evening," He said. His voice was hurt, but he kept a certain stoicism. "you saved my life, kind stranger."

  A darkness surrounded the two of us. Without fire, I had no way to see. But then, fire reappeared, strangely, as the man flicked his hand, and a lighter lit a cigarette he got out of God-Knows-Where. He held the little thing to his mouth, but kept the lighter on so we could see each other. His face was burned. Half of his face had taken most of the damage. It was horrifying, but I wasn't awake enough to grimace. Only one of his eyes looked like it still looked. And it looked at me. His hair was charred, but what remained of it used to be long. I saw he wore a suit. And, now, the little light we had was not reliable, but I could swear to you, now, that the suit was intact...

  "You —" I was stunned. He smoked so nonchantly... "are you alright? We should, I need to take you to a hospital."

  "No need," He said. "I just needed some help getting out of that darned thing. If it wasn't for you, I would be done for." With a cigarette on his mouth, and the lighter on one hand, he stretched the other one to me, though I could only see his shoulders as he did so. "What might be your name?"

  So I said it to him, and then asked for his. He repeated mine in acquaintance, then said his own.

  "Melton." He spoke a good, credible Costan, save for the pronunciation of his own first name, which sounded foreign. I know my fair deal of Khani, Ghundan, Ibraleshi, and even hints of Primman. The man's name didn't sound like any of these. "Sirmacane" His st name, however, ringed a bell. I stretched his hand, and felt the scars in them, especially around the middle of the palm, where the nails were. It was then that I wondered how the hell he got himself out of that cross so easily, but the Sirmacane name somehow felt like a priority to address.

  "Like the Sirmacane consortium?" I asked. It felt like a stupid question, and I prepared myself for an 'Obviously', of sorts.

  Except he said, "No.", and ughed, earnestly. "Just a coincidence. No retionship."

  The consortium is certainly Ghundan, I thought. But I wasn't going to probe any further into the ethnicity of a man with half a face. Not that it bothered him much to be charred, anyhow...

  "What the hell was going on here?" I asked, after the hand-shake allowed me to breathe. "Who took you here? What were you doing in my farm?"

  The light breathed out, for a moment, and he was almost eaten by the darkness. I saw him blink a little slower and smile without showing his teeth. "Of course, I should tell you. I can tell you, and then I will reward you handsomely for your heroic effort tonight. Your farm is — I can foresee great prosperity ahead of your farm."

  I wasn't expecting a reward. I much preferred an expnation. But I just nodded. "Come, then." I said. "I have a first-aid kit in the house." I tried making a step to turn back in the direction I came from, but my feet kicked something hard that I recognized was my shotgun. The man watched it, too, and I saw the lighter reflect his reaction of slight surprise. Only as a caution, and because I would hate to just leave it there, I crouched to grab the shotgun with one hand, not in any threatening position, but when I looked back, the man was gone.

  I did not hear any rustle of the crops, or the common sound that shoes would make against the dirt. At the moment, I figured he had been sneakier than I could've anticipated. I screamed. "Melton!" into the void, and it echoed many times, but no response came. I was trapped in the darkness — my eyes having been accustomed to the light of his lighter, I felt like I would get lost if I went after a man that could have escaped in any direction. So I stayed there a good couple of minutes, calling for him, and ultimately gave up and returned to my home, comforted in its light and warmth, and, too, in the fact that it had not been robbed while I waited for Melton.

  I went to bed, and figured this was a dream I was soon to forget. But the next day came, and the world had changed. My crops had, at least. The potatoes I had pnted that week had grown to full size, exactly that in which they are ready to harvest. All of them showed this exact same irregurity. Not only this, but they looked rger, fuller, drastically better than the average potato we grow, which we already considered to be a near-golden standard for Costan agriculture. I walked through my crops in sheer amazement, arrived at the scene with the lilies, and saw no trace of a cross, no trace of fire, but certainly footsteps, my footsteps, just as like I had left them the night prior, from house to lilies, from lilies to hose, from hose back to lilies. As I watched the scene, I heard Joncho yell at me.

  "Neighbour! You seen these crops, mano?" He said. As I peeked through the iron fence, indeed, I saw the same miracle of my farm be repeated in his — healthy crops, ready to harvest, from weeks to months earlier than anticipated. I agreed, nodded, and celebrated. He said his prayers had worked — that this was a work of the Don, that this was the undeniable proof of Him. I didn't have the heart, or the courage, to remotely mention the man I had met, and the possibility that he had anything to do with this. And if he had something to do with this, how did it even happen? Did he repce all of my crops with healthy, new ones overnight? And the same with Joncho's? I much preferred the idea of God having acted in the best interest of our farms, so I adhered to his belief for that day, and we celebrated with drinks as he hurriedly called the Sirmacane consortium (wholly unreted to Melton Sircamane, apparently), to announce that we had grown our crops earlier than expected, and that we could deliver a full order in advance.

  We were kings. Heroes of town. Most of it came only to see what they could not believe. Pictures were taken. Even the mayor came. Everyone was a friend. The reporter for a newspaper came to interview us. The truck picked up the crops that afternoon. I went to bed at eight. I woke up the next day and Joncho was knocking on my door, repeatedly, quickly.

  "We were fucked," He said as I opened the door. "The crops were bad. Almost everyone who ate of it is either food poisoned or worse."

  I couldn't mutter a word. He kept talking. The consortium was facing wsuits, but ultimately took the blow themselves. Their decision was to suspend the payment of the crops themselves, and to never again accept produce from neither me nor Joncho.

  The news made it to town. Their jealousy at our miracle became a vindicated hatred toward our nd. The syndicate kicked Joncho out, and everyone stopped talking with us. Our nd stopped yielding healthy fruit. Everything was growing at a slower rate, decaying, and being eaten by parasites.

  Summer arrived, and a fire made it to our farm. It was suspected that it wasn't just natural wildfire. We lost a majority of the crops we were trying to pnt, again, after the pgue.

  I only had Joncho, and he had only me and his family, which sometimes came to help him, especially monetarily. I lent him some help, too. Things were no longer doing well. He asked me, after the fire, if, perhaps, our nd was cursed, or former native tribe never documented. I only then told him of my encounter with Melton, from the night before everything started going to hell. His face, previously stricken with a sad resignation, now only had shock and fear. He was upset that I didn't tell him before— and he told me that if we had acted sooner, we could have fled or sold the nd. I apologized, and he didn't respond. I feared I had lost my one company in this town, but then he hugged me, before I left, telling me I was a 'good kid', and that I should consider praying. I agreed, but never did.

  The next day, I went by the Joncho as I saw some of his crops take on a healthier colour. He didn't answer — but his truck was still parked. I waited for a moment, then realized the door was unlocked, and once I opened it, I found him dangling from the ceiling with a rope around his neck. No note, no will, no air left in his lungs. It was only me and the family at the burial. Not a lot of emotion. They told me they were going to sell the nd, and they told me that the buyer might contact me as well. The week after, he did, and I accepted. Mine and Joncho's farms are now part of, apparently, a fairly respected equestrian establishment.

  I had saved some money, but not much. The money from the farm was good enough to get a ft here, a couple of blocks from this very bar. I started drinking as soon as I moved here, got a decent job in a food processing pnt. Met my wife. Got a kid. He's in college. I still dream of the man in the cross. It started a couple of days after I met him, and it increased to a nightly occurrence when I left the farm. Dreams of the exchange we had, sometimes, but also new conversations. As if he sought me to ask me of my life's evolution after the pgue. After the pgue he caused. I would try to strangle him, and he would let me, but then I awakened and nothing changed. The nd still rotted, burned, sold, and lost forever.

  Priests, bibles and punk rock songs all warn of it. Of red men, of hyper-beasts, of many-eyed creatures that come to wreak havoc on the kingdoms of men on their way up to invade the heavens. But no description accounts for mine. I have met him first-hand. And believe me, I have heard him say, The Scourge will not be satisfied with poisoning a couple of families and hanging the Joncho. No — I remember him greatly and the greed he still manifests.

  I remember it deep in his purple, wicked eyes... eyes that, now that I see them properly, are quite reminiscent of yours, boy.