Seeing Buffalo

by David Rogers

Table of Contents, parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

part 5

My fingers soon turned black with old ink, and in half an hour, the most interesting things I learned were that there had been a contentious sheriff’s election, and two people had streaked at the county fair. Though the fair was in October, people were still talking about it in March, when one of the streakers was actually tried for indecent exposure, fined five hundred dollars and sentenced to a month in jail.

Then I came to a story in the issue for the second week of April — it was a weekly paper — and found there had indeed been ten days of rain, some of it quite heavy, that led to flooding. The story did say a little girl called Patty had drowned and that her family planned to move away. “We can’t stay here any longer,” the grief-stricken mother was quoted as saying. I looked ahead to the following weeks’ editions but found no more about the family. Rural and small-town journalism seemed no more immune than big corporate hacks to swooping in on a sensational story, then abandoning it when the excitement died away.

I still had questions. Hadn’t Aunt Will said Patty’s family were all dead? The news story seemed to indicate they had only moved. Was the story wrong? Or had something tragic happened later? Or was it even the same family? Maybe the mystery would turn out to be more intriguing than the answers.

I put a quarter in the machine out in the hall and made a copy of the story, taking care to write the date on the sheet of paper the copier spit out. Then I went to the reference section to look up the name Pasiphae, which Patty claimed as her real name. It sounded vaguely familiar.

A dictionary of mythology said Pasiphae was the daughter of Perse, a sea nymph, and Helios, the sun god. Ironic that a girl named after the daughter of a water spirit should die by drowning, if that was what happened. That line of reasoning led to the conclusion that I had talked to a ghost, so I resolved to follow it no further, at least for the moment.

But the mythological story got better. Apparently the original Pasiphae somehow managed to piss off Poseidon, the god of the oceans, though the nature of the offense was never made quite clear. To take revenge, as deities will do, Poseidon made her fall in love with a bull. As a result, she gave birth to the Minotaur, a half-man, half-bull creature that was locked away in the Labyrinth, a prison built specially to house such an unnatural monster.

The Minotaur was eventually killed by Theseus, who was considered a hero for this and other undertakings. His battle with the Minotaur was commemorated in an early 19th-century sculpture by one Antonio Canova, a picture of which was included in the book I looked at. The sculptor had covered an otherwise quite naked Theseus’s genitals with a charming little leaf. That leaf must have been super-glued in place to stay attached during Theseus and the Minotaur’s duel to the death.

It was fair to say the name Pasiphae carried a lot of baggage to lay on a kid. Or maybe the parents just liked the sound of the word. I had no way of knowing. But it was no wonder she preferred to go by Patty.

Of course, I eventually had to admit these mythological meanderings were a way of avoiding the big question. If Pasiphae died in a flood, whom had I met yesterday? It was an unusual enough name for one person, never mind two. Could more than one parent or set of parents have resented their offspring enough to christen them so?

* * *

The way back to the front of the library led past what had been my favorite place in the building when I was a kid: the fantasy fiction section. Passing it, I was again waylaid by Edgar Allan Poe. The name called to me from the well-worn spine of a thick, battered, clothbound volume. Possibly the very copy of a collection of his stories I had read when I was seven or eight, though there was no signature card.

The library had updated to a digital system for keeping track of borrower’s names. Signing cards tucked in pockets inside front or back covers must have been an old-fashioned method, even when I was a little kid. I opened the book and read: “We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.”

With that, I was hooked once more. Some stories are worth going back to, sentimental self-indulgent nostalgia notwithstanding. I had packed a box full of enough books to keep me reading all summer, and I knew I could read Poe on my phone, but why waste battery power? Especially when Horseshoe Farm’s antique generator might die any day. Right then, few prospects seemed more inviting than reading Poe from a real book by kerosene lamp, as long as I didn’t set the house on fire.

Something about a bright flame burning an inch or two above a reservoir of petroleum distillate made me nervous. But checking out the book would also give me another excuse to chat with Katie Winsome. That alone was reason enough. Edgar and I headed for the front desk.

Katie Winsome looked up from her computer and asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Enough to ponder for a while, anyway. And one thing I wasn’t looking for. Or didn’t know I was, anyway.” I pushed the Poe book across the desk. “May I check this out, please?”

“So you’re a fan of the weird stuff, huh?” she asked, smiling.

“The weirder, the better.”

“I’m partial to Lovecraft, myself. The stories, not his warped political views. Also Twain, especially Connecticut Yankee,” she added, typing for a few seconds before scanning the barcode on Poe. “Due back in two weeks. Or you can renew online.”

“Thanks very much,” I said. “Don’t I need a library card, or something?”

“I’ve just made you a digital borrower’s card. Give me your email address and I’ll send you the confirmation. All I needed for starters was your name and where you live. Which you already told me.”

“Do you know if the farm supply store is still open?”

“If you mean Ferguson’s Feed, they’re still there.”

“Same place, on Smithville Road?”

“The very one.”

“Thanks very much for your help with the newspapers,” I added, lingering in spite of having another stop to make.

“Do you want me to show you how to use the microfilm reader?” she asked.

“Next time. Meanwhile, I need a pair of boots. I have a feeling my Chucks were not made for farm work. And I should try to get back in time to play stable-hand a little,” I said. “At least count the horses and maybe throw some more hay out of the barn loft.”

“Listen to you, already sounding like you were born to tend livestock,” Katie Winsome said. Was she flirting with me? “Keep thinking that way, and you’ll never leave.” Then she winked. Definitely flirting.

“I’ll be back,” I said, “And I will certainly want to look at microfilm.” To a librarian, what could be more exciting? Maybe that’s what librarians did on their honeymoons.

* * *

I thought about Katie Winsome’s suggestion to look up old deeds and property records, but this was Saturday, so the courthouse was closed. Besides, I’d had enough history for the moment, and that project sounded like one for a day when nothing else was happening. Those records were probably a bigger mountain of old paper than the news archive, and the day was passing quickly. But maybe I could at least get a pair of boots.

A curmudgeonly gentleman, at least twice my age, stood behind the checkout counter of Ferguson’s Feed. He was attempting to do something to a chainsaw with a screwdriver and a good deal of swearing. He glanced my way, looked me up and down as if I were from another planet and finally said, “Help you find something?” His tone suggested he’d rather not.

“Boots,” I said. “Waterproof. Preferably rubber.”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Third aisle. Halfway down.”

I passed boxes of fence staples, tractor oil and seed corn on the way. The sign over the boot rack said “You try em, you buy em.” The missing apostrophes were the least confusing aspect of the rule. One was apparently expected to interpolate sizes based on the numbers and the outside of the boot, I guessed.

Nevertheless, feeling bold, I removed one of a pair of size elevens, the kind made all of rubber and without laces, from its box, pulled off my shoe and stuck my foot inside. Glancing around to see if the boot police were about to ticket me for my transgression, I stood and walked around a few steps. The chainsaw guy seemed to be the only one in the store, and he was still up front.

I took off the boot, put my shoe back on and took the box up to the counter. He inspected the outside, took the lid off, removed the boots one at a time and turned each upside down. Making sure I hadn’t stashed any fence staples or seed corn inside, I supposed. Satisfied, he put them back in the box and put the lid on.

“Cash or card,” he said. He pointed at a hand-lettered sign over the register. No checks.

I handed him my Visa. He looked at the card, front and back, before running it past the reader.

“Live around here?” he said, waiting for the machine to say yes or no on my purchasing power.

“Horseshoe Farm,” I said. Taciturnity was catching.

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “You the James boy?”

“My dad is Ernie James,” I said, after a pause I figured was just long enough to make him wonder if I would answer at all. If Chainsaw Man was bothered — any more than everything seemed to bother him — because I halfway side-stepped his question, he didn’t let it show. He nodded.

“Heard you’d be around for the summer. Seen anything strange, yet?” His hand still rested in a proprietary manner on the boot box.

“What kind of strange?” I asked, sidestepping again.

“Oh, nothing much. Person hears stories, that’s all. Can’t believe everything people say, though.” The card reader beeped approval of my credit, and he put the card on the box and pushed it toward me. “No returns once you wear ’em,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, took the box and exited, wondering if he’d tell me there were no returns on used horse feed, if I had to stock up on that before summer ended.

* * *

Chainsaw Man’s question continued to rattle around my brain as I drove back toward Horseshoe Farm. What happened there was none of his concern, but now it somehow seemed harder to minimize experiences that seemed strange.

Patty’s unexpected appearance and equally unexpected disappearance. The mystery of her origins. The weird sensation of not being alone I’d had the first time I went in the hayloft. Seeing a bull — or what I’d thought was a bull — where no bull should be. All of those thoughts kept running through my mind as I drove. Looking back on that afternoon, the beautiful blue spring sky, a few white clouds, perfect temperature and just a hint of breeze — I didn’t yet know what strange was.

On the way, for most of the seven or eight miles, especially as I got closer to the farm, I kept an eye out for where Patty might live. There were no likely-looking spots. A half-dozen gravel or dirt roads led off the paved highway, mostly to barns and hay fields or pastures.

In one instance, about a mile from where the driveway to Horseshoe Farm turned across the creek, the lonely stretch of road was wooded on both sides. A driveway led into the woods. I pulled the car over and got out to look around. Clearly no one had come this way for quite some time. Grass grew in ruts where tires had once rolled, and high spots were covered in layers of leaves.

I stood at the woods’ edge and stared. Past trunks and branches of trees, I could barely make out an old farmhouse. When tiny spring leaves reached their full growth of summer, the old house would not be visible at all from the road. From where I stood, I could see dark windows of a second story over the wide porch. Most of the glass was missing, and the windows reminded me of unseeing eyes of some crypt-dweller in a Poe story.

For a moment, I considered going closer to investigate. “Investigate what?” I said to the wind. “Your imagination is running faster than your logic, college boy.” If the wind had an opinion, it didn’t say so.

I got in the car and drove the rest of the way to the farm.

* * *

Patty was waiting when I pulled up in front of the house. This time, on the front porch.

“Oh good,” she said, noticing the box I carried under one arm, along with a grocery bag in each hand. “I see you got boots. You’re going to need them. It will start to rain soon.”

I looked at the blue sky. “Rain?”

“Things can change in a hurry,” she said.

“Speaking of hurrying, where did you disappear so suddenly the other day?”

“I went home, silly, where else?”

“Where did you say you lived?” I asked.

“Oh, around. So many questions!”

“Around where?” I was determined not to let the conversation get away so quickly this time.

“Like I said, up the road. Other side of the creek.”

“I didn’t see any houses on the way. Not ones anyone would live in, anyway.”

“He’s been here three days, and already he knows the whole countryside!” Patty exclaimed, laughing. She was very pretty when she laughed. Not that I judge young women, or anyone else, on their appearances, mind you. But, well, one notices, is all.

“No, not the whole country—” I said, wondering if I sounded defensive.

“Here, let me help you with those bags,” she said and noticed the book under my arm. “Oh, Poe,” she went on. “I read him, many, many years ago. What an imagination!”

“Many years?” I asked. “How old are you, anyhow?” but there the conversation went, where she took it, away from my questions, to where she wanted it to go.

“Two secrets a lady never reveals. Her age and...”

“And what?” I inquired dutifully.

“What the other secret is.” She set the grocery bags by the front door. “I would offer to come in and help you put stuff away, but it’s getting late. I should get home. I can come by and show you around the farm tomorrow, if you like. You’ve been away so long, I probably know this place better than you.”

“Your logic is impeccable!” I said.

“Im-pecc-a-bull,” she laughed, drawling the last syllable. “You must’ve gone to school to learn words like that.” She went down the steps and across the yard, waving as she went. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” I said, noticing how the brown coveralls she still wore blended quickly into evening shadows. I watched till she was out of sight and then put down my bags and walked the way she had gone. If she left footprints, I couldn’t see them. But the ground was hard. The weather had been dry lately. She was probably right; it was likely to rain soon.

* * *

Proceed to part 6...

Copyright © 2021 by David Rogers