The Other Side of Earth
By Michael Fontana
I stood on the back of the hay truck, tossing out the bales, bits of it clinging to my hair and clothes, whiff of horse manure sailing past as we rolled, when I swore I saw a child lying in the fields. Given that I knew this land like it was my own and the true owner had no children, and given that there were no other houses for miles, this was a confusing sight. I yelled at the driver to slow down. Then I blinked my eyes and the vision was gone. So I dropped my bale and instructed the driver to press on.
But then again the vision arose as passed another crest of a hill. The child became clearer to me: nothing more than three feet tall, clad completely in denim, hair the color of the very same straw I was tossing away, light complexion, freckles, slightly bucked teeth, a boy for sure. I again yelled for the driver to halt. We stopped with a lurch and I jumped down from the truck to inspect the sight more clearly. When I reached to pick the child’s body up, all I collected was fistfuls of earth. This buckled me to my knees for some reason and the driver climbed out from his perch as well. “Jimmy, what’s with you?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I thought I…lost something out here. I guess not.”
”You okay?”
“Yeah, let’s get back to work.”
So we did. The truck continued its maneuvers through the fields.
By nightfall our travels ended. The driver and I sat by a pool of water and drank from it, ignoring whatever creatures and dirt had gathered there. It was all alright, and would be processed properly inside our bodies. In this we had faith.
I was a man of faith, I told myself by morning and by time to sleep. I went to my knees so easily in those times, praying for prosperity as the pastor told us. People often said they were impressed because I was otherwise a tall man, and strong, dressed constantly in dungarees and flannel, work boots at the ready. Such a hard man didn’t often convert so readily or remain that way for long.
I did.
At the pool, as I spoke to the driver of the shapes the constellations seemed to form up in the heavens, I began to notice how the wind was stirring the water’s surface. I stood up quite abruptly and walked over to it. I had a sense that I would see the boy again and I did. He was swimming there, though beneath the surface rather than on top of it. I reached my hand down into the water, plunging it through that same surface, expecting to break the illusion as I had before.
This time it didn’t work.
This time a tiny hand clutched my wrist, and there was weight and pull behind it. I heard myself gasp and the driver immediately raced over. “What’s going on, Jimmy?”
“Help me with this,” I said as flatly as I could.
“With what?” he said, staring down into the very same water as I did.
“Can’t you see it?”
“See what?”
I began to shout. “Put your hand in the water.”
He went down to his knees and leaned into the water, reaching to the elbow in it, tongue pressing at the corner of his mouth with the exertion he put into it. “I got nothing,” he finally said, and retrieved his wet arm.
I continued to feel the weight pulling against me and so didn’t relent. I would have expected by this point to have pulled the boy out of the water entirely, what with my greater size and presumable strength, but the water seemed to lend force to his grip and keep me struggling to maintain my footing on the side of the pool. My heels dug into the dirt as I fought the dive into the water.
Mosquitoes began to tap at my face. A mossy smell climbed into my nostrils from whatever grew on water’s surface. Still I pulled and pulled. The driver by now, stood back, seemingly afraid of what he was witnessing but still mesmerized by it.
“Go for help,” I said to him.
“Help with what, Jimmy?”
“Just go!”
He bolted from the place and I could hear his footsteps slap against the dirt until they faded out completely. I didn’t want him witness there for what I was about to do. I spoke to the boy.
“Who are you?”
No voice returned but the water spread with ripples as if he were breathing down below there.
I tried again. “Who are you?”
It seemed that with this little question the pressure relented and the body began to surface, climbing up the sides of the pool, the pool suddenly seeming far deeper than was possible there, as if bottomless and reaching to the other side of earth. “I am Jonas,” the voice said once the mouth broke through the water’s surface.
Jonas arrived completely onto land, latched onto my hand, and I pulled him on top of me so that he might be cushioned from the dirt by my clothes and body. I breathed hard, tired from the effort to free him. “What do you want with me?”
“I want you to come with me,” he said. His voice was reedy, almost near the whine of a mosquito.
“I can’t do that,” I said. “I have work to do here.”
“Your work is done,” he said.
“Where are your parents,” I said, trying to turn the tide of conversation away from me, for he seemed to know far too much already.
“God is my Father,” he said. “That is all you need to know.”
“God is my Father, too,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean I need to leave here now.”
“He wants to call you home.”
“I am home.”
“No, you are visiting. It’s time to come home.”
At this the world seemed to spin quite visibly, the clouds thickening, the trees scratching at the sky. I lay back completely and closed my eyes, listening to his voice repeat, over and over, “Home.”
Soon another noise arose as well, the sound of human feet approaching, slapping hard over soil. I knew it was the driver and whomever he had brought to rescue or imprison me as mad, depending upon where he felt I lived just then. Jonas remained on top of me, drying quickly into my clothes, which soon were wringing wet. I breathed hard. Then I released Jonas.
It seemed a simple enough step to rise and turn and face the driver once again. He would surely understand my madness as fatigue at worst if I explained it all that way.
But I didn’t explain at all.
Instead I witnessed Jonas slip back into the water and I followed him, climbing into it like a beetle or a toad, not with a splash but with a slow turn into it, and then to disappear, and then to meet my maker.
}
~~~~~ <~
}
By Michael Fontana
I stood on the back of the hay truck, tossing out the bales, bits of it clinging to my hair and clothes, whiff of horse manure sailing past as we rolled, when I swore I saw a child lying in the fields. Given that I knew this land like it was my own and the true owner had no children, and given that there were no other houses for miles, this was a confusing sight. I yelled at the driver to slow down. Then I blinked my eyes and the vision was gone. So I dropped my bale and instructed the driver to press on.
But then again the vision arose as passed another crest of a hill. The child became clearer to me: nothing more than three feet tall, clad completely in denim, hair the color of the very same straw I was tossing away, light complexion, freckles, slightly bucked teeth, a boy for sure. I again yelled for the driver to halt. We stopped with a lurch and I jumped down from the truck to inspect the sight more clearly. When I reached to pick the child’s body up, all I collected was fistfuls of earth. This buckled me to my knees for some reason and the driver climbed out from his perch as well. “Jimmy, what’s with you?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I thought I…lost something out here. I guess not.”
”You okay?”
“Yeah, let’s get back to work.”
So we did. The truck continued its maneuvers through the fields.
By nightfall our travels ended. The driver and I sat by a pool of water and drank from it, ignoring whatever creatures and dirt had gathered there. It was all alright, and would be processed properly inside our bodies. In this we had faith.
I was a man of faith, I told myself by morning and by time to sleep. I went to my knees so easily in those times, praying for prosperity as the pastor told us. People often said they were impressed because I was otherwise a tall man, and strong, dressed constantly in dungarees and flannel, work boots at the ready. Such a hard man didn’t often convert so readily or remain that way for long.
I did.
At the pool, as I spoke to the driver of the shapes the constellations seemed to form up in the heavens, I began to notice how the wind was stirring the water’s surface. I stood up quite abruptly and walked over to it. I had a sense that I would see the boy again and I did. He was swimming there, though beneath the surface rather than on top of it. I reached my hand down into the water, plunging it through that same surface, expecting to break the illusion as I had before.
This time it didn’t work.
This time a tiny hand clutched my wrist, and there was weight and pull behind it. I heard myself gasp and the driver immediately raced over. “What’s going on, Jimmy?”
“Help me with this,” I said as flatly as I could.
“With what?” he said, staring down into the very same water as I did.
“Can’t you see it?”
“See what?”
I began to shout. “Put your hand in the water.”
He went down to his knees and leaned into the water, reaching to the elbow in it, tongue pressing at the corner of his mouth with the exertion he put into it. “I got nothing,” he finally said, and retrieved his wet arm.
I continued to feel the weight pulling against me and so didn’t relent. I would have expected by this point to have pulled the boy out of the water entirely, what with my greater size and presumable strength, but the water seemed to lend force to his grip and keep me struggling to maintain my footing on the side of the pool. My heels dug into the dirt as I fought the dive into the water.
Mosquitoes began to tap at my face. A mossy smell climbed into my nostrils from whatever grew on water’s surface. Still I pulled and pulled. The driver by now, stood back, seemingly afraid of what he was witnessing but still mesmerized by it.
“Go for help,” I said to him.
“Help with what, Jimmy?”
“Just go!”
He bolted from the place and I could hear his footsteps slap against the dirt until they faded out completely. I didn’t want him witness there for what I was about to do. I spoke to the boy.
“Who are you?”
No voice returned but the water spread with ripples as if he were breathing down below there.
I tried again. “Who are you?”
It seemed that with this little question the pressure relented and the body began to surface, climbing up the sides of the pool, the pool suddenly seeming far deeper than was possible there, as if bottomless and reaching to the other side of earth. “I am Jonas,” the voice said once the mouth broke through the water’s surface.
Jonas arrived completely onto land, latched onto my hand, and I pulled him on top of me so that he might be cushioned from the dirt by my clothes and body. I breathed hard, tired from the effort to free him. “What do you want with me?”
“I want you to come with me,” he said. His voice was reedy, almost near the whine of a mosquito.
“I can’t do that,” I said. “I have work to do here.”
“Your work is done,” he said.
“Where are your parents,” I said, trying to turn the tide of conversation away from me, for he seemed to know far too much already.
“God is my Father,” he said. “That is all you need to know.”
“God is my Father, too,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean I need to leave here now.”
“He wants to call you home.”
“I am home.”
“No, you are visiting. It’s time to come home.”
At this the world seemed to spin quite visibly, the clouds thickening, the trees scratching at the sky. I lay back completely and closed my eyes, listening to his voice repeat, over and over, “Home.”
Soon another noise arose as well, the sound of human feet approaching, slapping hard over soil. I knew it was the driver and whomever he had brought to rescue or imprison me as mad, depending upon where he felt I lived just then. Jonas remained on top of me, drying quickly into my clothes, which soon were wringing wet. I breathed hard. Then I released Jonas.
It seemed a simple enough step to rise and turn and face the driver once again. He would surely understand my madness as fatigue at worst if I explained it all that way.
But I didn’t explain at all.
Instead I witnessed Jonas slip back into the water and I followed him, climbing into it like a beetle or a toad, not with a splash but with a slow turn into it, and then to disappear, and then to meet my maker.
}
~~~~~ <~
}
Michael has had several short stories published in a number of both print and electronic publications; including Wanderings, SamizDada, and Cezanne’s Carrot as well as others. When he’s not writing he works for a community mental health center in northwest Arkansas.
