Chapter 1: Something Scrumptious Part 2

  While farmer Jenkins may have been called an irritable old man. He was only in his thirties, but a widower with white hair and an irascible demeanor is seldom considered a shining beacon of friendship by most. None questioned his work ethic, though.

  He was very good at what he did for a living—prepping the land for his crops, maintaining his equipment and tools, prepping for planting, and prepping for harvest. Prep, prep, prep. It was tedious a majority of the time but he kept his farm prosperous.

  This included regular inventory and inspecting all of his crop storage. Farmer Jenkins would make two trips out to his storage warehouses and silos, once to start the day after milking.

  Then, a full inspection of his fields was done with the help of the other farmhands. Regardless of how much his workers would grumble about the hours spent inspecting the crop, they were grateful when they still had jobs in the spring after the regular, bountiful fall harvests.

  As Sam, Jack, and Fredrick inspected the other fields this morning, he took to the south lot. He found it an intelligent way to ensure no one got bored checking the same areas repeatedly. It wouldn’t do to have an easily treated disease spread through the crop or an infestation of pests start without notice.

  It wasn’t too regular on his farm for such things to occur, especially in his south field for some unknown reason, but it was still better to keep the routine.

  It might be luck the south field tends to better crops. But those damned, white rats are surely a threat.

  He was close to finding their nest, he thought. It didn’t seem that they were living inside his field yet, but they were being sighted more often. If the frequency kept up he’d have to talke to Lord Tom about getting an extermination squad sent out.

  For some reason, the little bastards seemed to prefer his property over his closest neighbors. Farmer Kvatch even accused him of turning holes into dungeons, as Kvatch hadn’t seen them on his property.

  Farmer Jenkins dismissed Kvatch out of hand. As that one routinely didn't tend his crop as closely. Kvatch’s smaller batches of inferior produce resulted from a man who didn’t pay as much attention as he should.

  The was constantly twiddling away on that guitar when he should be working his fields. Kvatch was smart; anybody who listened to him spin yarns while he played that blasted noise box could tell that, but he was shortsighted about the fruits of his labor and the vegetables too.

  It seemed it would be a decent crop this season; the silking of the corn in his southern field was coming along nicely. It would be another few weeks before they were ready for harvest, but thanks to the farmhand’s vigilance and his own, the few bug problems that were a threat were spotted and removed.

  The fence line had also been inspected to ensure that no damn raccoons had gotten into his fields. That didn't stop those white-furred nuisances from getting in, though.

  He needed to figure out how they kept getting into his fields. No burrows had been spotted in the areas, and the fences were over three feet tall.

  For the expense of putting that damn fence in, it didn't seem to be keeping anything out other than the raccoons. The new farmhands, Sam and Jack, seemed willing to do the work for the pay he offered but…

  If the fence isn’t doing anything why did we even make the damn thing?

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Jenkins would probably rehire them anyway. His fields were getting largewr every year and he needed the help. His regular help, Fredrick, was solid, if a bit slow of thought, and would be welcomed back warmly.

  Fred had been with him since before his wife had passed and Jenkins wouldn’t give the man’s quiet strength up if he could help it. He wasn’t much of a talker and Jenkins was okay with that. Jenkins enjoyed little conversation when work needed to be done.

  A little taller than average for the area, his ginger hair and clear complexion were attractive enough, even if his bushy eyebrows looked like bleached, angry, furry caterpillars. Grass-green eyes, strong hands, rather suspiciously gorgeous sculpted legs that were the talk of the younger girls at the harvest dances, and a wiry frame painted the picture of a man who was enjoyable to look at for some.

  Overall a desirable match and suitable husband material. Having a family, the nearby farm wives thought, would do his farm and the surrounding area good. In addition, they believed that more little hands to help with some of the endless chores would be cheaper than hiring new hands every year.

  While he was polite to the younger women that approached him at market day, and he would even take a turn or two with some of them at a festival dance. The eligible female population in the village suspected he was a confirmed bachelor, though some girls appeared determined not to accept this. How was such a man with a stable, prosperous, large property not interested in their feminine charms?

  Shaking his head at the games, some of the younger girls tried to entice him into playing; he continued to walk his southern field, checking for pests or damage.

  A pretty face and an exciting conversationalist were lovely but of little value compared to his first wife. Why bother trying to find another woman like her? Rukan had ruled his heart. She had broke it when the tragedy of her passing shattered his world.

  This event had moved him to appeal to the local lord of Adder County for a different piece of land to work. Usually, this request would be unacceptable, but the prosperity of their small farm at the time had encouraged the lord to agree. Mainly to see if this hard-working peasant could reproduce the results with some land from his less productive domains.

  Jenkins was paid up on his taxes. His father had done admirable service in Lord Tom’s last border skirmish with a neighboring domain. So, the lord had permitted him the eccentricity of trying somewhere else. It had been a minor scandal, but after a few weeks of the gossip mongers twittering about him putting on airs, Kvatch’s cousin had been caught doing unmentionable things to a sheep and Jenkins had been mostly forgotten.

  Farmer Jenkins, relieved he wouldn’t be reminded of his former family daily, had worked hard. The new sections of land came with new responsibilities and kept the darker thoughts away with toil. Determined not to suffer that loss again, he had kept his affections to himself and thrown himself into his work.

  The first few seasons had been lonely, but just what he had wanted. Not wanting sympathy or pity, he had been distant but polite with his neighbors.

  The new immediate neighbors guessed he had just been awarded the land in return for some service to Lord Tom and not pried into his past unduly. They hadn’t needed to ask him directly as it was a small community, and gossip was easy to find, so the truth came out tinged with lies.

  They were not unkind lies, considering his circumstances. But, once he had demonstrated he wasn’t a dangerous lunatic or taken to drink excessively, they had let the matter go.

  Thankful for that,

  He knelt to inspect a blemish on the base of one of the stalks. Picking the insect chewing at the stalk, he frowned slightly at the cutworm as he crushed it between his fingers.

  Where there was one, there was usually more, and he scoured the surrounding plants to ensure he didn't have an infestation that would take his crops and turn them into so much ruined silage.

  He would have to ask Jack if the man had noticed anything during yesterday’s inspection. Jack was as hardworking as any of the other hands, but Jack was a bit of a jackass. Jenkins didn’t want his jackassery to ruin his crops.

  Standing again after not spotting any more of the cutworms in the surrounding block of corn, Jenkins brushed his knees and hands off. He moved onto the next block, closer to the fence and the edge of his property. Looking down the fence line, he spotted movement of the earth near the fence line about twenty feet down from where he was standing.

  Swearing angrily, he rushed towards the moving earth. He had left his pitchfork near the barn in his northern field. The axe was near the woodshed. He’d have to handle this the way his dear old daddy had taught him, a good ol’ fashion shit kickin’.

  As he leaped into the air with his foot aimed toward the moving earth, he briefly wondered at the wisdom of applying his dear old daddy’s methods into the burrow of an unknown creature as his foot descended and broke through the earth. Then, something under the earth tried to start eating him.