Farmlanders

FARMLANDERS

by

Max Morgan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Max Morgan

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* * *

Prologue

The dawn of man; the dawn of a new day. A small group of humans roused from their slumber. Not all the troop had slept during the night; some had remained awake tending to the fire and performing odd chores. The fire had become critical for keeping away the predators. Where the fire came from they didn’t know, but now they had and could maintain it.

The people conversed in a rudimentary manner; what with a combination of sounds, occasional grunts, clicks, whistles, and hand gestures all affording communication of their feelings and wants to each other, they were already quintessentially human. This being a warm climate, all were naked and none would have quite known what to do had the temperature turned excessively chilly for an extended period of time.

A number of them were able to express their discomfort at what must come next. Food being scarce around the cave, they had to venture into the forest in search of more, thus leaving the reassurance of the protective fire. Not yet having any weapons, they could only rely upon their own physical strength to gather food and ward off any threats that might appear, although they had learned throwing rocks can sometimes be useful. One major advantage over the predators—the ability to climb trees extremely quickly if endangered.

The ages ranged between three and fifty, several infants having died early on and the latter being an extremely old primate who served as a group elder imparting his knowledge to all the clan’s members. No one could account for his longevity, but that wasn’t a question anyone asked themselves because one simply accepted what he saw—much like chimpanzees in a zoo probably don’t wonder which one of them has been around the longest. All everyone knew was he still happened to be with them. Given his status, he led the troop and everyone instinctively followed his lead, plus he was not decrepit and could still enforce his will as the most powerful member.

Shortly after sunrise some of the clan headed into the forest to gather roots, bark, herbs, slugs, fruit, insects—anything the elder said would be good for sustenance. They also put a supply of these aside to take back to the others in the cave. In time, those others would venture out into the forest and bring back food for them while they remained behind tending the fire and the camp. Primitive they might be, but they had learned cooperation.

Things went well. For several hours the group gathered in peace, yet always on the lookout for predators. Given no threats, the elder felt comfortable venturing ahead to see what other dietary delights might be found. After moving about twenty meters forward, it happened. A huge cat sprang from the underbrush and hit him, crushed his skull with one bite, and started dragging away the corpse. The remainder of the humans started screaming and hollering to make the cat drop him and the beast did, but then turned, roared, and made a move in their direction sending them scurrying up the nearest trees as best they could. Seeing them flee, the cat returned to his prey, picked it up in his mouth, and headed farther into the forest to complete the meal. Thus ended the career of the fifty-year-old troop elder, who obviously lived beyond his allotted lifespan anyway.

In another part of the forest, she too headed out at dawn on a foraging expedition after spending the night by a fire. Naked like all other primates, she moved alone warily through the forest, listening for sounds as though expecting to be attacked at any moment. The female also picked up slugs, insects; nibbled at the fruit on the trees, eating but saving nothing and throwing remnants aside. At times she merely stood there, looking like a child lost in the woods.

For some reason, her muscles ever so mildly twitched. Sensing a threat, her eyes flicked about. Bending down, she picked up a grub and savored it, meanwhile making her body exposed and vulnerable. The huge, five-hundred-pound cat almost flew toward her back. Suddenly she wheeled, caught it in mid-air with her hands, hoisted it high, and then hurled it to the ground collapsing its rib cage from the overwhelming force of being thrown so violently downward. Before the cat could recover, she punched it once in the head crushing its skull. For good measure, she slammed her open hand down on the skull flattening it so one could never tell what the original head looked like. This female had found her prey.

Grabbing the fleshy skin of the cat in her two hands, she tore it apart as if rending a flimsy fabric, then proceeded to thrust her hands into the carcass, extract the inner organs, and raising them to her mouth, ripped them apart with her teeth and swallowed whole in big gulps. After eating her fill, she looked at her body covered with blood and instinctively started licking head to toe, gathering in all the sustenance.

Satisfied, she stood erect. Time to find another predator of whatever kind which wanted her body. Walking along, she continued to find enjoyment in the fruits and berries. A smile came to her; she felt good!

* * *

Chapter One

Now

A pleasant summer day: big fluffy clouds; slight breeze; mild temperature. After rising at dawn, John maintained a military hiking pace for the last ten miles. Now he felt it time to stop for a snack break. This part of the old Appalachian Trail passed close to where he grew up, but that was so long ago and he had no desire to visit the old places. He’d stay on the now barely surviving trail; no detours.

After dropping his backpack to the ground, John sat on a rock and looked westward from the Blue Ridge Mountains toward his home country in West Virginia. It all started out there, somewhere in the distance. The Labrador Retriever came over and rested his head on John’s lap. Opening the canteen, he poured water for Max into a small bowl.

Munching on some sourdough bread and hardtack, John wondered why he really took this long hike from Georgia to Maine. He’d always wanted to do it but now as an old man the journey would be harder what with his being alone, except for Max, and living entirely off the land. Though elderly, like a survivalist, here was a well-built man, his dog, a full backpack, rifle, large caliber handgun, and hiking cane which looked to be a formidable club. Had to make this trip for lots of reasons, mainly because it provided him a kind of reflective retreat during which he could collect and organize his thoughts unencumbered by any cares. So as a kind of historical repeat of a previous life’s journey and to give himself a goal, he asked her to meet him at the end of the trail atop Mount Katahdin in Maine on September first.

While staring homeward to the west, his childhood friend Jerry suddenly came to mind. Two farm boys sitting on a river bank tossing rocks and scaring fish. They shared everything together, which wasn’t much given that both their families were simple dirt farmers. Poor Jerry: His mom died young leaving him to the tender mercies of a strict disciplinarian father whose only ambition for Jerry centered on his working the farm all day long. Still, Jerry could dream, and Jerry could read, and Jerry could at least imagine a better life for himself.

John smiled upon recalling what Jerry said one day. John, I’m reading a book about a guy named Andrew Carnegie. I decided I’m gonna be like him.

Who’s he?

A big businessman. Owned mills and mines and everything. Had lots of money to give away and could buy anything he wanted.

Not me, John replied. I want to be a doctor and help folks. I want to be like Dr. Pynchon who comes around here. I talked to him and he said he’d help me out with some advice when the time comes.

Jerry shook his head. Your dad ain’t got no money to send you to school. Let’s start a business.

Huh? Start a business now?

Sure, lots of people started young like us.

I ain’t got time to start no business. I got chores. I got school. Like I said, I want to be a doctor. I want to help people. They went back to tossing rocks into the stream. John knew that of their two dreams he had a much better chance of fulfilling his practical ambition of helping people as a doctor. Even then he believed Jerry’d forever be a poor kid with a wild dream who’d always be working his daddy’s farm.

His mind jumped back to the present. Hah, he snorted out a laugh. Jerry died quite some time ago on one of the many estates he collected around the world. The poor farm boy achieved all he ever wanted and then some. John wondered whether he could say the same about himself, his major accomplishment seeming to be a contented old age and sufficient physical fitness to play survivalist. But enough of reminiscing. He slipped into the huge backpack and stood up ready to resume hiking. The pack held better than two hundred pounds of stuff and that, plus the rifle, made him modestly impressed with himself for he carried his burden lightly even after all those days on the trail. Okay, Max, let’s hit the road.

As they walked he knew he should keep an eye peeled for something to eat for dinner, but he kept glancing west, looking into his past. Now his mind returned to his teenaged years and he almost hoped to spot the barn: impossible of course for it would have been twenty or thirty miles from his position, if it still stood. Those weren’t exactly the good old days but still a happy time for him. Funny he should think about the barn because what transpired there had nothing to do with how he defined himself. Jim Johnson’s barn: the place where some young men of the community held weekend boxing and wrestling competitions. Parents complained to the sheriff about the awful things going on there, what with their boys sometimes coming home looking as though they’d been run over by a tractor. But most didn’t worry about it. Boys will be boys and, heck, when young the sheriff also got his own bruises in the barn.

John paused, stared westward, and realized why he felt good about those times in the barn, because he remained mostly unscathed. Big, strong, with all the right moves: helped turn him into a kind of local celebrity among the farmers who respected such prowess. Then, too, folks considered him a hard worker who helped his parents make the farm a real going concern. Unfortunately, John had this one downside to his personality. Being a mite too bookish for the other boys, he often got ribbed about his serious attention to school and to his readings. But like his friend Jerry who wanted to get rich, John also had a dream to achieve and nothing would stand in the way of his becoming a doctor.

Max had trotted out ahead on the trail, then stopped and turned waiting for John to catch up. But John remained lost in reverie for a time, drawn to the Appalachian place on the horizon which had been his birthplace and given him purpose as a young man. As he did many years ago, he now left the land of his birth and walked into the future, albeit with full knowledge of what that future would be. No doubt she would be waiting for him on the mountain in Maine. But did he really want to go into that future or veer off the trail and return to his boyhood home? A shake of his head, he then walked on, caught up with Max, and continued north.

Good having Max along. There were indications of cougar and bear being in the neighborhood and Max offered some sensory radar to provide advance warning. However, at the moment lesser game was on John’s mind. He leaned against the tree bearing the weathered remains of an old NO HUNTING sign, took aim, and fired. The rabbit, plus the wild turkey he earlier shot and prepared, would be just right for Max and him to dine on this evening. He skillfully made short work of skinning and gutting the animal, and then proceeded to get a campfire going: all old time stuff he learned as a boy on the farm. By eight o’clock he finished eating and relaxed with Max against a tree, the dog’s head on his lap while he scratched him behind the ears. Dear old Max. Had been with him for years. Seemed as though he’d always been there and always would be. But even the magic of medicine couldn’t make Max immortal and the signs were there he might not be up to this trip despite his enthusiasm and the apparent good time he seemed to be having. The light began fading in the west and John counted the first stars while gazing into the heavens. He’d promised himself to never dwell on the past like many old people do, but couldn’t seem to stifle the thoughts which kept intruding. He figured maybe it’s because when one doesn’t have much of a future the only place left to live is the past.

* * *

Then

1936. The big year of decision in his life. What if he had followed his gut instincts about the logical thing to do? But, no, he couldn’t do that. Events wouldn’t let him. Had to be true to his original boyhood commitments he told himself at the time. By that year, John had accomplished more than he ever dared dream as a farm boy.

Final question, he said, then we must close shop.

Dr. Harley, a student called out, what do you really expect us to do with all of this Freudian theorizing? Didn’t you say brain chemistry is everything?

Uh, yes, Bill, I did, John replied. However, I believe even though our training in this program has emphasized neurology, as professionals we should be prepared to deal with our patients on a multitude of levels. Freud offers us an alternative method for dealing with the emotional dynamics of people. We can’t just cut out pieces of brain tissue and hope for the best. We need to have some means of restoring people to complete health. So I have explored Freud and his adherents these past several sessions both to familiarize you with the theory and to encourage you to add different tools to your kit bag.

I don’t know, Doc, Bill went on. He sounds a little strange to me.

There were titters in the class and John also smiled. Well, truthfully, he does leave me a little cold in lots of areas too. But I encourage you to study these matters if for no other reason than they're all the rage and people will ask you about them. They're also fun topics at parties. Class dismissed.

John collected his materials and rushed out of the classroom on his way to an appointment. Outside he crossed the crowded Manhattan street and headed toward an office complex on the sprawling urban campus of Peavey University. Entering the building bearing the plaque CARTER SCHOOL OF MEDICINE he rapped on the open door of the Dean’s office.

Dean Graham looked up from his desk. Hi, John, sit down. Fumbling through the papers on his desk he found what he sought and then smiling coyly held up what looked to be a letter. Guess what this is.

John smiled back excitedly. It came through already?

Yes, you are formally and cordially invited to join the staff of the Carter School of Medicine, which as you know rightly proclaims itself the most prestigious medical school in the country. At twenty-eight you’re the youngest man ever offered such a position in this school, but those last two papers of yours clinched it. The offer takes effect the fall semester of the next school year. What say you?

John read and re-read the offer letter, a huge smile plastered on his face as he looked back and forth at the paper and the dean. Dean, I’m honored. I’m so terribly grateful. I had my hopes but thought I’d be too young for all the old fogies so I didn’t get my hopes up.

"Well, we old fogies are still able to recognize talent and we certainly weren’t going to let a place like Brewster get their hands on you first."

John raised his eyebrows. Brewster, he said shyly.

Yes, I know you’ve been talking to Brewster Medical. Can’t blame you for that. Anyway, take some time to digest all of this. We know you have lots of alternatives, and then there’s also the idea of going into private practice like most doctors do. You’ve often said you might prefer the real world to academe. Take some time. Think on it.

I will, Dr. Graham. Thank you for everything you’ve done.

Dean Graham nodded and John left.

For the first time since his arrival in New York City, John would take a step toward real employment. Sure, there were the odd jobs he took to support himself but apart from those everything else focused on academics: research assistant, teaching assistant, pre- and post-doctoral fellowships. Now he would face the world as a fully certified M.D./Ph. D. with offers to join other physicians in well-established New York practices or could remain in university life as a young scientist who had already made a name for himself. The possibilities were endless.

Back in his office John sat at the desk inwardly grinning while looking at the business card lying upright against the desk lamp. In raised lettering it stated THE SCANLON CLINIC, Melvin Purdy, M.D., President, 805 Park Avenue, New York, New York. The more he thought about it, the more John felt this must be his next step: acceptance of the offer to join this prestigious medical practice. Heck, he might even be able to keep his fingers in the academic pie by handling a seminar or two at the university. This would no doubt disappoint Dean Graham, but he had his own future to consider.

John’s eyes drifted away from the business card and came to rest on a note left on his desk. Call Jerry at the Waldorf after 7 PM. Jerry who? Had to be from out of town or he wouldn’t be at the Waldorf Hotel. The only out-of-town Jerry he could recall was his boyhood friend but he wouldn’t have had any money to stay at the Waldorf. Or would he? Last heard from him in a letter six or seven years ago written from Philadelphia. John grabbed the phone, rang the hotel, asked for Mr. Gerald Carson’s room, and learned he hadn’t yet checked in. So friend Jerry did leave the message. Later they made contact by phone and agreed to meet in the Waldorf dining room.

Both men scrutinized each other upon entering the room, trying to determine whether they did indeed know each other because it had been ten years since they last met. Then came the flash of recognition and they enthusiastically hugged and shook hands.

As they were seated John said, Waldorf, huh. You’re doing pretty well by yourself. Last I heard you were in Philadelphia walking the streets.

That was then; this is now, Jerry replied. I’m in the junk business now. Since Roosevelt and his communists have taken over and everyone’s broke the only thing people can afford to buy is junk. So I sell that, and salvage work, and buy and sell scrap. I’m up here in New York trying to get some business started. Looking to arrange some partnerships. What about you? Are you a doctor yet? Earning any money?

Well, I completed all of my formal academic requirements and internship, served out my time on my fellowship, and today have pretty much decided what I’ll be doing with my life. I’m probably going to accept an offer to join a practice here in New York.

That’s great! You really did it. Truthfully, I thought the idea of a farm boy from Custer County like you becoming a high class doctor in the big city had no chance in hell.

John laughed. To tell the truth, Jerry, I thought you’d always be working your daddy’s farm. Now you’re camped out in the Waldorf. I may have been able to become a doctor in New York, but I still can’t afford to stay in this hotel.

Uh, neither can I yet. It’s all a facade. I’m trying to impress some business people and it’s best they believe I’m very successful. Speaking of which, you’re in a good position to help me out.

"Me? Got an ache or pain someplace?

Naw, not that kind of help. I need a little class; something that can rub off on me. Saturday night I’m invited to attend a social function and can bring a guest or two. I’d have liked to bring my partner from Philly but he’s got all the class of a truck driver. Not that I’m much better but at least I can keep my mouth shut and not let the world know I’m a hick. But then there’s you. Big shot New York City professor and medical man. I’m sure this is going to be one swell get-together. Join me, have fun, and make me look good. Please, John, do me the favor.

John waved his hand. Heck, not much of a favor going to a party with you. But I don’t know if I’ve got what you want. I may have a small reputation as an up-and-coming young man among a few academic types but that’s not worth much in the business world.

Maybe not, but you’re the classiest person I know. You’ll come then, for old time’s sake?

I’d be happy to come. I haven’t gotten out much and I’d love to go to a grand soiree.

Great! You’ve saved my bacon.

They spent the remainder of the evening recounting old times and exchanging what gossip they knew from back home. Both overindulged in the cognac and later John had to take Jerry to his room and tuck him in. Although also on the high side, John’s large rugged constitution could better handle the alcohol content and he got back to his apartment by cab.

Saturday night John tagged along with Jerry as the host led him around the place meeting the guests. Evidently Jerry already knew a number of these people from past business trips to New York. John got introduced as Dr. Harley, an associate of Mr. Carson. The house, one of those huge Victorian monstrosities which looked somewhat on the well-worn side, still had the presentable appearance of an old aristocrat.

As John considered the home and the people he’d met, he noted that far from being New York City’s upper crust, these were second and third tier status: the men mostly comfortable and well-to-do; their wives matronly and focused upon trying to emulate the wives of the truly wealthy. Men talked to men; women talked to women, and though all occupied the same room the sexes effectively segregated themselves. After a time, John’s role as Jerry’s doctor friend lost its utility when Jerry and some of the men talked business. Not having anything to contribute to such discussions, John smilingly walked around nursing a scotch and smoking a cigar, nodding here and there while pretending to be gracious.

Come here often? he asked the young woman seated in a wing chair, drinking a Manhattan, smoking a cigarette, and looking totally bored.

She looked up and smiled. Yes, unfortunately. I live here.

Ah, John replied. I take it our host Mr. Simpson is your father.

"Yes. I’m Penelope Simpson. And you are....?

John Harley, a friend of Jerry Carson, the fellow standing on your father’s right.

She glanced over. Oh, yes, I remember him. Seems he’s a new business associate of my father’s. Father considers him a shrewd young fellow who will make his mark in the world.

John nodded. Well, on behalf of my friend Jerry, I hope your father’s right. He has lots of ambition and smarts and I wish him all the best.

You in business with your friend Jerry?

No, I’m odd man out here. Not in business at all. Physician...or will be soon. Medical researcher for the moment. About to complete all of my academic work at Carter Medical.

Ah, mother would like you. She so wants me to marry a doctor. Are you or any of your friends available? she joked.

John smiled. He looked at her up and down. Oh, I bet I could get you fixed up. I’ll prepare a list of eligible bachelors and send it by.

Just kidding, she said. Anyway, I’m not in the market right now. I’m finishing up my Masters in history at Peavey. Funny, we’re at the same university but never ran into each other before.

"Well, Carter Medical is way off in the corner.