Art and original concept by Erin Harrison
After several days of aimlessly wandering the fields of nowhere, Amitai and Vera came across what must have been the remains of an ancient farm, one they could only assume was situated somewhere between Someplace and Someplace Else. What survived of the barn was made of marble, its walls lined with oxidised statues of gods neither Amitai nor Vera had ever seen before, many of them missing multiple limbs and heads. Some of these limbs and heads could be found in random spots on the farm – Amitai and Vera noticed at least three legs within the barn, and one arm was guarding the entrance. The barn was missing its roof, but Amitai and Vera stood in it anyway, saying they would go back to it if they needed protection.
From within the barn they further took in their surroundings: on either side of them were vast, symmetrical wheat fields, impossibly golden. They must have been maintained by someone.
‘Think there’s somebody around?’ Amitai asked Vera.
‘I wonder if they have something to eat.’
A large square of black soil was found near the barn, and within the square was a trapdoor made of shellacked wood. Amitai tried opening the door but found he was unable to do so.
‘Why don’t you knock on it?’ Vera suggested.
Amitai knocked three times. There was no answer.
‘That’s probably where all the food is,’ he said with obvious frustration.
‘Ah well.’
Vera sat on the trapdoor, smoothing her dress over her knees as she made herself comfortable. Amitai sat on the soil beside her and hugged his legs. A gentle wind rustled the wheat, the grass, his hair, her dress and disturbed the soil; Amitai enjoyed the way it kissed his sunburnt face.
‘How old do you think this place is?’ Vera asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Amitai admitted. ‘How old is the Arc de Triomphe?’
Vera thought about it a moment.
‘It must be older,’ she then said with authority. ‘Way older.’
‘Okay, let’s say it is older – as old as time itself. What of it? I don’t see how it would make any difference if it had been made yesterday, or if it had been made a thousand years ago. Or maybe it matters in terms of those statues – maybe this farm was made so long ago they actually got the gods right; they were able to see and meet and taste the gods. Maybe, maybe . . . But all we have is speculation.’
‘What’s wrong with speculation? Everything we do is based on speculation: we speculate chicken won’t hurt us if we cook it well enough. We speculate gods exist so we base religions around them, and society – right down to the government – is based on those religions, so . . .’
‘So let’s speculate how old this barn is?’
‘Of course! Jeez, Amitai, how boring can you get? You must’ve failed science like five times.’
‘At least I don’t obsess over war and old people.’
‘You mean history? You mean philosophy?’
‘I think I’m rolling my eyes right now.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
A cloud sailed past the sun, temporarily giving both Amitai and Vera goose bumps on their browned and reddened arms.
‘There probably is food down there,’ Vera said, rubbing the trapdoor with her fingers.
‘What if there are weapons instead? What if it’s a bunker, an arms dump for revolutionaries we’ve never heard of?’
‘Now you’re getting the hang of it. I doubt it, though. With all this wheat . . .’
‘It’s a farm,’ Amitai agreed. ‘But it could also be a cover for something.’
‘Speculate.’
‘Okay: consider that this is an ancient farm. Long abandoned. Or, perhaps, it’s only supposed to appear long abandoned. The opposing army drives by, sees the barn and thinks nothing of it. But what they’re actually driving on is a hidden tunnel filled with ammunition and soldiers.’
‘That’s . . . I appreciate the effort, Amitai, I really do, but I think that’s stupid. Your “opposing army” is going to see the huge wheat fields before they see anything else. The barn is just an afterthought. And . . .’
‘You asked me to speculate!’
‘And I appreciate the effort.’
In the distance an animal lowed, its inarticulate bass coming across as some quiet thunder. A bee buzzed by Amitai and he lifted his hand to protect his face. Vera blew on the bee as it flew past her nose.
‘You can almost make “Eve” out of “Vera”,’ Amitai noted.
‘You can almost make “Adam” out of “Amitai”,’ Vera added. ‘But not really.’
‘Did you know my name shows up as a typographical error in most spellcheckers?’
‘Maybe you just don’t know how to spell your own name.’
‘Touché.’
Vera felt a sudden succession of vibrations work the wood beneath her. She gazed into empty space, frozen by the shock. Amitai turned to her and questioned her silence with a Look.
‘Maybe there is someone down there,’ Vera whispered.
‘Could be. Could be your old men, your white-haired philosophers.’
Vera made a face.
‘No old people,’ she said with disgust. ‘I want nothing to do with old people and I want nothing to do with wars.’
‘But wars shape history. Without wars you wouldn’t even have your philosophers.’
‘Not all philosophers are old. Not all philosophers were old.’
‘Did I—’
‘Yes, you did say they were.’
‘My memory is only as good as the things you tell me.’
Vera paused, trying to think up something to tell him. She looked over at the statues. A light bulb popped above her head and she opened her mouth to speak, but a sudden loud knocking interrupted the sharp intake of her breath.
‘We wouldn’t have our great works of art,’ Amitai mumbled, not noticing Vera’s newfound shock.
‘Didn’t you hear that?’
Amitai tilted his head, aiming his ear to the sky.
‘I hear . . . the sound of your voice. I hear . . .’
‘No . . .’
Knock.
‘Okay, I heard that.’
Vera stood and made an about-face in front of the trapdoor, holding her dress close to her legs. The trapdoor shook. Amitai and Vera eyed it as if it were a hungry bear they had stumbled upon in the woods, something dangerous and unexpected.
The trapdoor slowly creaked open and Amitai stood with lightning swiftness. He stood with Vera and together they stepped carefully away from the lifting wood.
The trapdoor fell backwards onto the topsoil and a goggled head poked out of the hole.
‘’ullo,’ the goggled head greeted. ‘Wat all dis noise up ’ere?’
‘Um.’
‘We’re waiting for Godot,’ Vera said.
‘Godot? Ya missed ’im by a mile, ah’m afeared. He died o’ da cardiac arrest.’
Vera smiled at Amitai. Amitai shrugged.
‘Dat all, den?’ the goggled head inquired.
‘To be honest, we would like to know what you’re up to down there – if you don’t mind, that is,’ Amitai asked, a rush of adrenaline shooting up his throat. ‘And also if you have any food.’
‘Ah mite ’ave a bit o’ earf ta offer, if it vitamin yer affer,’ said the goggled head. ‘As ta wise ahm down ’ere, it ’cause o’ dem gods over dere.’
He forced a blackened hand out of the hole and pointed it towards the ruin of the barn.
‘Dey bin walkin’ da lan’, doin’ all sortsa god-nasty tings.’
‘Is there anybody else down there?’
‘Jes’ me and mah lonely.’
‘So it’s just you and the gods out here?’ Vera asked.
‘Yessum. An’ ahm plenny sick o’ dem, too.’
‘Will you please bring us some food now?’ Amitai’s stomach pleaded.
‘One moment, yer highness.’
The goggled head disappeared back into the hole. Amitai and Vera strained their ears to hear it as it rummaged around in its secret lair: there was much stomping, slamming, shuffling and dragging. Eventually the goggled head reappeared, producing a pair of dead hares.
‘Ya can cooks dese on a spit.’
‘Th . . . thank you,’ Amitai said, picking up the hares with great care and revulsion.
‘Wells, ah best be off now – tings ta do.’
The goggled head nodded in agreement with itself before disappearing back into the hole, bringing the trapdoor to a close above it.
Amitai held up the hares for inspection. Their fur, outside of the dry, brown caking of blood, was completely white, as pure as the clouds above. Amitai looked from the hares to Vera, who was looking at the hares with mild terror.
‘We probably should eat them,’ Amitai said.
Vera touched her lips.
‘Only if you’re the one who cooks them,’ she said.
Night had come by the time Amitai had managed to start a fire. Luckily the hares had somehow remained free of larvae during his many failed attempts at kindling.
Amitai and Vera sat across from each other in the barn, the fire crackling between them. The roof was a blanket of deep blue atmosphere and a glittering pattern of stars.
‘Are you going to put them in?’ asked Vera, referring to the hares Amitai had skinned and tied to a stick.
Amitai nodded.
‘Grab that end and we’ll hold it over the fire.’
Together they roasted the hares, working together to rotate the stick patiently and evenly over the flames.
‘Sometimes it feels like camping,’ Vera said.
‘On an ancient farm,’ Amitai added.
Vera looked across the licking flames, the dripping hares to gaze at Amitai’s face. He was focused on the fire of his creation, lost in the hypnotising dance of red, yellow and orange. She wondered what he saw there.
‘The world is as temporary as a flame,’ Amitai said eventually. ’One must find pleasure in their own boredom to survive the moral dilemma of simply living.’
He lifted the hares out of the fire and set them down on the collapsed torso of an immortal. Vera hoped the hares tasted as good as they smelled.
‘Does that go for the gods as well?’ she asked.
‘The gods know boredom better than anybody,’ Amitai said. ‘For gods, boredom is a form of cowardice, a way of escaping the pain and effort of creation and destruction.’
‘Is that so. And art?’
Amitai touched the red of a hare, its heat diluted by the dirt of his finger. He then cut through it with his knife.
‘And art?’ Vera repeated.
‘And art is a holy war,’ Amitai said. ‘Now, how much of this hare do you want?’
Vera touched different parts of the hare’s cooked flesh, not once taking her eyes off Amitai’s.
‘Every part that’s good for me,’ she said.