1 - The Elphough Plantation

Chapter One

It was summer, and for the first time in years, it was hot. But despite the heat’s invigorating return, no one seemed to be happy about it. The locals bemoaned it like it was a plague sent to punish them for their revel in the coolness the past four years. But that was overreacting; the heat was merely heat, and it had to come eventually.

      In time, the heat had spawned a terrific drought, and the drought had spawned some very frustrated farmers. And those frustrated farmers had complained their heads off and got nowhere, which is where complaining usually gets a person. Anyhow, the complaining eventually made it to government ears, and though the government was completely unable to do anything about the heat, they were able to make everyone even more miserable.

Therefore, they imposed a set of “emergency drought condition” laws that prohibited use of excess water and thereby made it harder for everyone to get along with their day. This left the people with only one thing to do: complain some more.

To cut a long story short, the complaining got them just as deep into nowhere as the last time. Bored with complaining and the government, the people of Iowa just shut up and let it happen from then on. They stayed in their house like advised, turned on their air conditioners, and watched television, on which the weathermen constantly jabbered about the oppressive heat.

The farmers, being forced to regularly go outside because of their job, found this to be an excellent reason to complain with dignity. Which explains why tiny Milton County is considered to be the stain of Iowa, the Wart County, or another derogative name. Entering Milton County, though its sign often reads something far nicer and exaggerated, tends to mean entering the home of the biggest gossipers, complainers, and aggravators in the Midwest.

Milton County is by far the smallest county in the state of Iowa, perhaps in the entire Midwest. Consisting of only four towns (the Chippewa Lake Community, Roslin, Over-The-Pechor, and its meager county seat Clarksdale) and more cattle than people, any of the few souls traveling through the area hardly ever notice anything save for the public restrooms in the Over-The-Pechor grocery.

Forever overshadowed by the adjacent counties of Cherokee, Ida, and Buena Vista, it was long contemplated that Milton County should merge into one of the other counties or simply be divided up between them. Perhaps in another timespace this occurred, but stubborn farmers in the area refused to allow Milton to split. And so it remains, to this day, the most boring, insignificant county in one of the most boring, insignificant states in the Union.

And it was for this reason that it caught the eye of a government, a union, a league of scientists, which the Earth had never seen before.

But that story is for later. For now, it is important to look upon the farm plot of Mr. Alexander D. Elphough*. Mr. Elphough was with no doubt one of the local grumbling farmers who thought that their occupation was an excuse to complain. He had been a farmer from the day of his birth and had never ventured more than thirty miles out of Milton County. He only left his plot of land when groceries were absolutely necessary or when he felt like having a drink up in Roslin, on the outskirts of which he lived.

There was a time when Mr. Elphough was a good, proud farmer who would never dream of complaining about the heat. He took care of his children, and his wife, and his farm, and might have even been an active member of the community. However, those days were long gone and now his children and his farm were in a state of disrepair.

Approach it from the driveway, and one will find that there is the scent of lemons in the air, wafting out of the window of Mrs. Flagstaff’s old manor. To the east was a shabby-looking cornfield, and to the east was Mr. Elphough’s pasture of old, overworked cows. A few hundred feet away from the pasture was an old red barn, dilapidated and fading. Far off from the barn was an old, sky blue farmhouse, and nearby that was a rusted windmill.

Mr. Elphough obviously did a shoddy job of maintaining the farm, as the entire plot gave off the aura of a place that needed serious work done. The blue paint on the house was peeling badly, the windows were filthy, and the screen door was riddled with holes. The cows hadn’t been milked in quite a while. The corn was brown and dying, partly because of the terrible drought, and partly because of the sheer lack of effort put into keeping it alive.

Farmers are usually diligent workers who learn from their experiences. They are respectable, honorable men and women who know the value of hard work and sacrifice. Mr. Elphough, however, was never a very good farmer, and had been truly awful ever since his wife died two years ago.

On this day, which, for future reference, is July 14, 2011, Mr. Elphough was sitting in the kitchen, bleary eyes turned towards the old kitchen TV. His hair was a mottled mix of gray and brown, and his face was poorly shaven. He wore a pair of overalls over his plump stomach, and beneath that he wore a navy shirt sporting the logo of a local alcohol distributor. Perched on his tangled hair was a hat that bore the same logo.

He chewed a glob of stale tobacco as he watched the analog TV. Though it was futile to try and make out distinct figures in the poor reception, he listened carefully to the words they were making. “Last Thursday’s national celebration was interrupted rather rudely by a pair of men, both dressed in vivid purple…”

He flicked through the channels, the oval converter box light flashing in and out as he did. He watched it for a moment, and then stood up, stretching. There was nothing on anymore. Then, as he was about to turn of the TV, something caught his ear.

“…why the government trusts this man. I think the public deserves to know the truth behind this decision.”

He turned off the TV, supposing that hearing something interesting had just been an accident. Trudging over to the refrigerator, he grabbed a beer and plopped back down in front of the blank TV. It was as he tipped the can to his lips that a teenage girl entered the room.

She was wearing the traditional style of the day: as little as possible whilst still being legal. She was in a dull gray tank top and insanely short shorts and was walking around barefoot. Her hair was lank and uninteresting, though in the light it shined a pretty auburn. Her hazel eyes were permanently tired-looking, though a small hint of desire shone in them.

“Dad, I was wondering if I could head over to Marc’s tonight,” she suddenly interjected. “He’s having one of his parties.”

“There any adults there?” grumbled Mr. Elphough.

“When have you ever cared?” said the girl acidly. Knowing that her attitude would never get her to the party, she continued, “Yeah, there’s probably gonna be a few.”

“Alcohol?”

An exasperated look crossed the drowsy hazel eyes. “Knowing Marc, probably. But it’s not like its my first time…”

This remark seemed to activate her father. “Dawn Evelyn,” he said, his voice ringing with a Southern accent, “you wanna end up like me? Booze ain’t no good for a person,” he said, and in a move oozing with hypocrisy, he took a drink out of his can.

“Come on, dad, stop being such a prick,” she muttered.

“Don’t you talk to me that way!” her father yelled. “There wasn’t no chance of you goin’ in the first place. Your sister’s NHS banquet is tonight, and we’re all goin’.”

“But-,”

“Don’t complain! Now get out and milk the cows, they look like they’re gonna bust!”

Infuriated, Dawn stormed out the kitchen door and into the front yard, which desperately needed mowing. She did not milk the cows, moving directly towards the decrepit barn, hoping her sister was not there.

Her father’s attitude, though it might seem concerned for her well-being, was not. It had been so ever since two years ago, when, in a tragic hostage situation and murder, Dawn’s mother had died. It was after that tragic event that Mr. Elphough had become a lazy, bad tempered man and that he had practically “lost interest” in his children and the farming business.

It was out of an unconditional kindness that he managed to maintain the farm enough to put food on the table and his precious beer in the fridge. Dawn’s sister, Janine, had accepted his new attitude and therefore moved into his favor. Dawn, however, had never been very fond of him and now was, perhaps, the unloved child in the family.

Despite the fact that it had been mere chance that his younger daughter was still alive, Mr. Elphough still treated her poorly. For he did not know the full details of her traumatic vacation with her mother those two years ago.

They had been in New York, enjoying a pleasant break from the farm atmosphere that Dawn so hated, when, on the last day, Dawn had suggested that they take the subway to the airport instead of a taxi. Once in the subway station, they had purchased their tickets and were about to board the underground train when a man entered the station.

Dawn remembered him vividly; he had dark brown hair, a sharp expression, and poor posture. Completely insane, he had drawn a firearm and opened fire on the first people he saw. Taking three shots to the chest, Dawn’s mother had fallen, and as Dawn stood there in shock, the man turned his gun on her.

However, something must have happened, as the next thing she remembered was waking up in a hospital bed, her morose father and sister beside her. That was the last moment of pity she saw in them. They were stern and cold at the funeral, and after that they simply became uncaring.

Though no one seemed to know why Dawn had managed to escape with her life, she had a few, albeit bizarre, clues. She had been found in the subway station, unconscious, clutching an apple. They had tested it for poisons and found that it was simply an apple that had not been tampered with. It became somewhat of a memorial for Dawn, who had kept it with her ever since. Strangely, though it was just a normal apple, it had never rotted or changed in any way.

Her next clue was in her dreams, which were frequently haunted by the murderous madman who had killed her mother. She had learned later on that his name was Hugo Verde, and that he had managed to scrape a life sentence by being incompetent to stand trial. But her dreams also consisted of another element, a mysterious red blur, and four words spoken in a language she did not understand. They were smooth, calm, and quiet, and they soothed her upon awakening.

She did not let the dreams get to her, though it was obvious that she had been depressed since her mother’s death, like any reasonable person would have been. So she had wallowed in her despair, trying to make her life meaningful in the ways depressed try to. However, it was her morals that suffered the most.

Nowadays she could be usually found at her childhood friend Marc’s house parties, as his parents suffered from an unfortunate mix of narcolepsy and epilepsy and were often away at the hospital. Through that she had become immersed in sex, and, a few times, drugs. She was oblivious to the comments others made about her raucous behavior and made friends with only the wildest of partygoers.

It was enormously unfortunate, especially for a girl who was once smart, immaculate, and largely good. Her father turned a blind eye, and her sister didn’t really care, so her vice continued. Already in her mind was a blooming plan to escape from the oddly timed midsummer NHS banquet and head off to Marc’s party.

This was not for the mere prospect of carnal opportunities that would present themselves at the party, but for a bigger purpose. Ever since the family tragedy, Dawn had felt a strange, but understandable, disillusionment from her lousy immediate family. During the few past summer weeks an idea had occurred in her head, a way to flee them and pursue a different life in a perfectly legal way. She only needed the chance to put it into action, and she could be out of her dreadful father’s hands, hopefully for good.

However, the chance had not showed itself, and therefore she could not escape her life just yet. But still she formulated, hoping for the one time that she might be able to get away. She smirked at the idea of it, wondering if perhaps the time was now, if she could creep away from the farm unnoticed at this very moment.

Standing up, (for she had been sitting on the barn’s straw floor) she moved towards the large pair of doors, plans coming together in her mind. But the doors creaked open and Dawn was dazzled by evening sunlight; she had been sitting there for far longer than she had thought.

In the doorway stood her sister Janine, her wavy blondish hair glowing in the sunset. Whereas her sister’s eyes were only glinting with the strange sense of desire, hers were large and blazing with it. While Dawn looked far more like her father, Janine was the spitting image of her mother, though with far lighter hair.

“Dad says get back to the house,” she said, her voice far more practical and less gaudy than Dawn’s.

“What if I want to stay out here?”

“He says that’s okay, but remember not to come back in.”

Dawn scowled and reluctantly followed her sister out of the barn. She did not hate her sister, but was ceaselessly filled with envy of her every aspect. Janine was filled with beauty, but would never use hers in the way Dawn used her lower amount. She was heavily honored in school, second in her class, and of high rank in the NHS.

Dawn, however, was more keen to use her scant amount of knowledge for sharp sarcasm. She was extremely unfocused in school, as she often was thinking about boys and how she could seduce them later on in the day. She was lucky to scrape a C or two and often lingered in the Ds. It had been a few weeks ago that she had finished eighth grade summer school for Science and Algebra while her sister held a recycling rally with the support of the fire department.

The community had been led to believe that Janine was flawless, and often referred to Dawn as “Janine’s sister,” and the name “Dawn” was hardly heard in Roslin anymore. At least “Janine’s sister” was more polite than some of the other names that were thrown around about her.

She traipsed morosely behind her sister. Her feeling of hopefulness had ebbed away, and it seemed as if she would never escape the farm. It was not that she desired a better life altogether " she reveled in her wrongdoings " but a way to get away from the family that were so resentful of her.

However, little did Dawn know, changing her life would be inevitable should she leave the depression that, though she did not understand, was fully linked with her father and sister. Her destiny was intertwined with far better things.

They entered through the aged screen door and found their father sitting at the table with the TV on again. The picture was coming in better now, but it was still obscured by snowy distortion. Dawn poured herself a bowl of stale cereal for dinner and sat down at the table, facing the TV. Her father was eating a single, buttered piece of bread and had a slightly drunken look on his face. Janine had went up to her room, most likely to spruce herself up for her precious banquet.

“The banquet thing’s in a half hour, Dawn” grunted her father from across the table. “Hustle up with supper, okay?”

She answered with a slight nod of her head. Her father constantly pressured her to “hurry up,” “shut up,” or “get out,” and it got old very quick. She tried to eat quickly and respect her father’s wishes, something that was an odd maneuver for her, but the TV distracted her.

“…Now, we switch to a topic that has been greatly distressing countless Americans since its announcement this morning at ten o’clock…”

This caught Dawn’s attention. Slowing down even further, she listened carefully to the announcement.

“…The president himself has pardoned convicted murderer Hugo Verde, imprisoned under a life sentence for killing over a dozen people in a crowded New York subway just two years ago. The president, nor the cabinet, nor any other government official has commented on this release, and it has been declared ‘simply spontaneous’…”

Dawn had dropped her spoon as wild thoughts ran through her head. Her father had heard the clatter and had turned around, looking at her with a strange mix of concern and the drunkenness that had been on his face earlier.

“Dawn? There something wrong? You okay?”

The fact that he had not recognized the name of his wife’s killer, though he had gone over it ceaselessly with the police, seemed to raise in her throat like a bubble of boiling vomit. She threw her bowl across the room, shattering it, and the man across from her, who she would never accede as her father, stood up.

“Dawn Evelyn!” he bellowed, and she was filled with loathing for everything about him, the awful way he said her name, his awful accent, the awful smell of booze about him. Loaded with rage, she found that tears were leaking out of her eyes that were turned upon him with contempt.

Suddenly, countless obscenities burst out of her, and, swearing profusely at him she ran out of the house. He followed close behind her and grabbed her, beating her heavily around the face. Then, afraid that the people in the Flagstaff house might hear her frantic screams, he backed off, glaring at her.

Staggering, she spat blood out of her mouth and clutched her bruising eye. Looking at him out of one teary eye, she could find no word that was enough to express her hatred, and turned and ran into the field.

“Fine!” she heard him cry, and she kept running, sobbing openly now. Her plan that she had planned to unfold so smoothly was now unfolding with grim despair, her face aching brutally as she heard his yells far behind her.

“Leave my damn house, then! The police’ll find you! And when they bring you back I’ll beat you so bad…”

The rest was lost as Dawn ran out of the range that his voice carried. She ran blindly, hoping to crash into the forest any minute now. She knew the forest like the back of her hand; she would be safe there.

The leaves of the corn slashed her as she ran, but she ignored it, the only pain she felt was that of the burning anger inside of her. The corn disappeared suddenly and she tripped, her head smashing into a tree.

She fell onto her back and swore furiously, managing to stand her weary body back up and enter the forest. Still sobbing, she spit out a large piece of her front tooth and felt her broken nose roaring with agony. She ignored it, her heart pounding and her legs pumping rapidly as she ran through the forest, desperately trying to find the place where she could hide.

Finally she found it, a small knoll with a large portion of its side carved away. Crawling under the leafy overhang, she lay down, exhausted and feeling badly beaten. For at least an hour she remained in the same position, a mingled mix of blood, sweat and tears running down her face. She felt dizzy and wondered if it was from the large amount of blood pouring out of her nose or the blow the tree had given her " both were likely options.

Laying there, tearful, she suddenly felt something tightly pressed against the right pocket of her short shorts. Reaching through a gaping rip in them, she pulled out the object, finding it to be the apple. The mysterious apple she took with her everywhere, though she had a strange feeling that she had not taken it with her today. However, it was there, and she supposed she had.

Hating her life and all it had led her to, she was tempted to throw the apple away, but an angry surge suddenly moved through her. Feeling fiercely angry towards it, she bit into it and nearly retched. It tasted like solid ash. Reminding herself not to taste any two-year-old apples in the future, a curious feeling suddenly swept over her.

Her dizziness reached an extreme point, and the pain that surged all over her body became numb. Watching the world go blurry, she felt her stomach churn queasily, and she blacked out.

---

* An odd name of unknown origin. Pronounced “el-FOE,” though it is perfectly normal to pronounce it “el-FOFF” or “el-FUFF.”

Author's Note

May have errors because of copy/paste from Word. Please excuse this.