A Kernel of Wheat
A short story
By J. Cate Smith
For almost sixty of his seventy years, Jon Rolafe had turned ground in the early spring, on days just like this. Small leaves unfurling beneath fitful bursts of sun and cloud, the red and brown earth turning up with the invitation of generous return, and the sap of spring giving a will to the work at hand. But this year the labor was different, and his tears wet the handle of his spade.
Almost half the village was gone. The plague has started after the first January snowfall, felling the young and hale with the same ease as the old and frail. Alf and Anders, brother blacksmiths, had been first. At first, folk said it was because the pair liked their ale stronger than their smithy fire. There had been two or three other deaths, but they had been of old dames and fathers so the winter chill was blamed. But then came the news that Hedda Nilsen had died after only three days’ illness. Hedda stitched the straightest seam in all of Norway and was well-liked, both for her craft as a seamstress and her sharp wit. Her passing sent a small ripple of fear over the townspeople, and the unease had traveled as far as Jon and Martha’s farm.
But then the snow fell again, with a layer of sleet encasing the roads in glass. News was slow coming up to the higher farms, and it was weeks before Jon had word of the devastation. He had shared the names quietly with Martha. It was not a night that could bear much thinking on...nor were many of the days since.
Another and another, spadeful after spadeful...and grave after grave.
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, еxcept a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”
Much fruit. The bounty of the tree and field had always been Jon’s chief care. He was a farmer, the son of a farmer, and the grandson of a farmer. The quickening of seed-time and the weariness of harvest, the prayer for one more dry week and the grateful sleep when the grain bins were full...Jon knew these labors and joys and prayers.
This sowing was different. There were new labors and new prayers.
Martha had strengthened him for it, time and again, by opening the book and quavering through the valley of the shadow and the perishable clothed with imperishable. Then she would cough a little, stand up and they would both start looking for the next step forward.
No, not forward, but through.
When Olaf’s son, bewildered with grief, led his father’s seven milch cows past their gate, Martha had not stopped him from gathering in the cows and the boy. “Yes, man. Go. The only thing I fear more than contagion is leaving another of God’s creatures in distress when we have the strength to aid them,” she had said.
Now, Jon wiped his eyes to survey the shallow hollow in front of him. He meant to spare Hal Larsen this work if his back would let him. Back-ache was easier borne than heartache, and there were some things that age would spare youth, if flesh was able.
“Jon, would you come and eat the supper I’ve made you?”
Martha’s voice was carried on the wind, and Jon kicked aside a clump of sod to neaten the edges. Larsen’s hired hand had died in the night and Jon had chosen a peaceful resting place in the lower pasture.
He walked into the stone kitchen, and was surprised to see Martha in her cape and bonnet. “Where are you going, you old woman?”
A smile creased her face and she wagged her finger. “I’ve got work to do tonight that makes me grateful for every one of my years, you old gaffer. Hal’s come by and it’s Elinor...she’s set to have that babe tonight and she’ll be needing another pair of hands.”
A look passed between them, almost spilling to tears, but then Jon sat down to eat. Then he rose and got his coat. Martha was packing a basket, and when she turned, he was at the door. “I’ll walk you down.”
The afternoon was gone by the time they arrived, and then the evening passed in chores with Hal, while Elinor and Martha prepared and rested. Then Hal was called to his wife’s side, and Jon sat by the fireplace, dozing and aching in equal turns.
What a strange thing it was, the gift of life, given without earning or asking. And how could a mere man know its value? A seed planted, yielding thirty, sixty, even a hundred fold. Who but the Sower could see the coming profit, He being the One who had planted a specific measure of grain for a certain harvest?”
Jon’s thoughts drifted into prayer and then back into thought. So much life, now ended in death. How could a man make sense of such times?
A cry rang out, followed by Martha’s voice, equal parts crooning and command. Then, a shuddering laugh of pain and pleading that was a cry for all to be ended...and then a new sound, new to the world. A babe. And then the shaking laughter of a new mother’s love, disbelief the pain had given way to glory. Hal was almost shouting with relief, and Jon could hear Martha laughing too. “He’s a fine big fellow, Elinor, and has Hal’s long nose!”
Jon refilled the kettle, and got the spare linens from the barn where Martha had told him they were, and went back to dozing.
He awoke, with Martha handing him a cup of tea. She looked worn, but alight. Then Hal stepped in, a bundle in his arms and the new mantle of fatherhood resting nearly visible on his shoulders.
“It’s a boy, Jon. A lad. My son. I have a son.”
Jon stood, and stepped just close enough to see the soft curve of cheek and bow of lip.
“We’ve named him Johan Halvor Larsen, after my father.” And Hal’s tears fell like jewels on the mantle, and their worth and beauty was almost too much to bear. Jon gripped his cup and said, “He would be honored by the name and proud of you, Hal.”
And then Martha called for the babe, and Jon was left in the firelight again. Johan. An honest man and a good friend, now folded in the earth beneath the greening grass. Johan. A little babe in the crook of one arm, no bigger than a newborn lamb. The final parting with Johan and this first meeting of Johan mingled within him, and Jon closed his eyes as Martha’s favorite words from the book, quoted as often as she heard news of a new baby, came to his mind:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, that ye shall weep and lament, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy. A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come: but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.”
She was sitting beside him now, and he spoke the closing words aloud, the weight of the hope in them so heavy they were hard to say, “And ye now therefore have sorrow: but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.”
She leaned into him, both of them aching. “They named him Johan, Jon. Johan Halvor.”
“I know, Martha. It is a good name for him. And he’s going to carry it well.”
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