Der Grosse Mann (Part I of II)

 The tall man stood in a clearing, dressed as a nobleman, all in black. Shadows lay over him, dark as a cloudy midnight. He had many arms, all long and boneless as snakes, all sharp as swords, and they writhed like worms on nails. He did not speak, but made his intentions known.

- Romanian Folk tale

 

I was a boy of eight when I first saw him- somewhere within the year of 1912 it would’ve been. It was I and my sister Agatha.

At the darkest part of the night just prior to the sun cresting over the hills of our parents’ dairy it loomed. In stature, it was a titan; to look it over from feet to bald, white head took moments innumerable. However, its body was thin, to the point of frailty. Long arms that traveled to its knees hung slack at its side.

He was alone in the field, surrounded by the bodies of slain cows. He, or it, was missing a face, clad in a black suit and a neatly pinned tie. Dressed like those that sat in the front row at our church. The sight was too much for my young mind to take in, perhaps too much for any mind. After I realized that my naivety, youth, and lack of experience had combined to overwhelm me, I noticed perhaps the most shocking thing about this creature; numerous extra arms like that of an octopus wriggled and darted from its back.  They seemed to writhe on their own, tentatively searching in the night air with senses unknown.  At any moment they could dart out and pluck us from the false safety of our home.

Thinking about what it was, what it was doing, what it wanted. All these secret things that I couldn’t know swirled in my brain. Was it only watching us? Did it even realize we were there? It certainly didn’t look friendly, but by my account, it didn’t appear outright evil either.

In fact, I felt a trace of pity enter my heart for the thing, this tall, slender man. I couldn’t understand why, as the thing had no face, nothing which to show emotion, but I felt it was miserable. 

                “Reinhart!” My little sister tugged hysterically upon my night gown.  Trying to take it all in, I had forgotten she was there. “We must tell Poppa!”

                I couldn’t break away. My gaze was locked. I was spellbound. It was as if the thing had hold of me, it was in my head. In meinem Kopf.

                “Reinhart please for the sake of God!” She was screaming; tears flowed like rivers from her swollen red eyes.

                I stood mouth slack, in awe.  My duty as an older brother overpowered my numbing fascination. As quickly as I could I scooped up Agatha and darted to my parents’ room, not bothering to knock on the closed door. Thank God my poppa had given his all to the farm the day prior.

                At a pitch that can only be produced by alarmed children, we screamed our parents awake. Agatha was blubbering, and so it was that poppa that turned to me to explain.  I did, my words came out with a focus and detail the old man hadn’t heard from me in my short life. I told him about the cows, the night, and the creature in the field. 

He backhanded me.  “There’s no need to fib Reinhart.” The old man slipped on his field clothes, grabbed his rifle and headed for the door. Before leaving he turned to my mother, “Get them back to bed,” pointing at my sister, “Make sure she’s shut up by the time I get back.”

We stood in the bedroom and listened as the old man’s boots clomped across the floor. Seconds passed, and the door was slammed tight behind him.  The force made Agatha jump.

*

Only hours later, my poppa sat at the table shaking his head.

He munched on a crust of bread, and drank his coffee while mumbling. I entered the room, my face still showing the red imprint of his anger. He gave me a look that was equal parts disdain and concern.

A knock at the door broke up that fine poppa-son moment.

Mother went to answer it, and returned quickly. “Karl, Gerhard Franz is here for you.”

Poppa, didn’t bother to wipe his face, but simply stood, and dragged himself from table to door. “Hallo, guten Morgen…” He stepped outside and shut the door.

Minutes passed, and when he came back outside his face was slack. “Gerhard says his sheep were slaughtered last night. Wanted to know if we might’ve seen anyone suspicious in the area.” The man’s expression said he knew nothing more than he did before he had the exchange with Gerhard.

I raised a hand to add to the topic.

“You do not even open your mouth.  We have a serious problem, and lies will not help solve it. Be heading over to the livestock yard today. You,-” he pointed at me with a finger that had seen too many days in the field. It was bent, the skin worn leather. “In the empty area behind the barn, start digging holes for the dead cows. See to it you are done by the time I get back.”  He rummaged inside an old coffee can on a high shelf, and removed a wad of money.

“Yes sir.”

Agatha stayed in with Mother, she had become like the girl at the school house; the cross eyed one that could only communicate with grunts. Praying that wouldn’t last, I hoped the fear of what we saw the night previous, would pass. I kissed her cheek, but she merely stared past me. Her eyes told me she was still seeing at the creature from last night. Her mind caught there somehow, not able to process it, so she was trapped.

Outside, I grabbed the shovel, and the wheelbarrow from the barn. When I began, it was a balmy 50 degrees, and within two hours the temperature had risen to around 75. The humidity rose just as steadily, accompanied by clouds that blotted out the summer sun. That meant rain.

The old man returned with a dozen cows. He was being helped by a viehtreiber on horseback in order to steer and control the cattle. I was covered in a thick cake of sweat, my shows slick with mud from the damp earth.

I overheard the viehtreiber say that sixteen farms were hit last night. All manner of livestock had been brutalized, butchered, destroyed.  He went on to say that even the ides were useless, what because they were so mangled after the attacks, the other farmers were afraid to try and salvage anything. So it was, that the livestock yard would have nothing left by day’s end. 

My poppa hopped down from his mount, opened the gate, while the viehtreiber drove the cows onto our pasture. “You be sure to get hold of me if you if you come into any more dairy cows. I’ll also need 2 males.” The old man sighed, “That will only put me at about half the capacity for this season.”

The viehtreiber nodded, tipped his hat and rode off on his horse.

The old man, now more sad than angry, approached me, silently surveying my work. I had dug only four graves. “Go take a break. Get some water. I’ll take over for a bit.”

He seemed to be coming around but I wasn’t about to test his disposition. “Thank you. Yes sir.”

Too tired to run, I jogged. I tried flailing my arms to get the sting out.

My poppa laughed and called to me, ““You’ve done good.  No need to hustle.”

This remark made my day.

*

Poppa was in from the fields soon after. The rain had let loose a torrent and it was impossible to dig anymore without the holes filling in with muddy water.

I watched him through the window, as I gulped down the last of five ladles of water. He was sitting on the covered porch, just outside the reach of the rain. The day was grey, and the cows stood in the deluge, too moronic to get out of the downpour.

He rolled a cigarette and lit it- like the old American cowboys did, by striking a match against his jeans.  He cupped his hands, and immediately smoke began to roll off the porch. As it wafted away from him, it seemed oddly warm and reassuring against the backdrop of the now cool, rainy day.

In the small living area, I can hear my mother singing to Agatha. Turning, I see my mother softly brushing her hair. She smiles, I return it.

I take this opportunity to hop down from the table; I head outside to talk to my poppa.

Still soaked in perspiration I shiver from the cold moist air. “Poppa?”

“Yes Reinhart?” the old man doesn’t look at me. Instead he takes a long drag on his cigarette.

My voice wavers, and when I finally do talk it cracks with uncertainty. “What do you think it was last night?”

“Marauder, lunatic, maybe a competing farmer.” His voice was heavy, his demeanor stern and tired.

“Are you sad about the cows poppa?”

He turned to me; he seemed to want to smile. I sensed that he was afraid it would loosen the tears he had stored in light blue eyes. “No, my boy. It might be hard to understand, but it’s not the cows. It’s starting over. To build something from scratch the first time is a marvel. To build that same thing from scratch again is repetition, for the newness of it; the thing that made it shine the most is gone.”