Der Grosse Mann (Part II of II)

Dusk arrived over the valley, and poppa and I had finished the graves. It was messy work. Messier still was getting the carcasses into their final resting places. The fields where their bloated bodies had fallen stained the grass a dull brown-red even after the rain.

We didn’t talk much through the work, but he did thank me as we walked to the house. Supper came and went, and night thereafter.

                                                                                                *

Agatha slept with my parents that night. I wanted to, but I thought poppa might disapprove. So in bed, I lay awake. I kept thinking about how tired I would be the next day without sleep.

Nearly a day had passed since I saw that creature, since I saw the slender man. I understood none of what I had seen, but I wanted to know its purpose. Friend or foe? Watcher or witch?

I dozed to the dazed symphony of my own finite mind. For this night it was the old man that saw the tall slender man. It was poppa that tried to kill it.

My poppa had been doing more than sleeping with an eye open. He had been restless and went to the porch with his rifle. When the cows began to get anxious poppa went to investigate.

There isn’t much that I can tell you that you wouldn’t have already assumed. Yes, poppa caught the tall man in the pasture, amongst the cows. My poppa hollered, cursed him (or it) and fired. Each bullet from the rifle flashed in the moonlight of the countryside. And each one made the sound of a lead ball hitting a pool of water. Sploosh. Sploosh. Sploosh. Not one had an effect on the tall man.

Poppa later told me as a much older man, about that night. Well into his eighties and dying from the abuses of a hard life, much of it spent toiling in unforgiving hard labor; my poppa pulled me close to his bedside...

That night Reinhart, that night the tall man might’ve killed me. Lord knows why he didn’t. If it had eyes to do so, it would’ve looked on me with disappointment. For the way he carried his body suggested no trace of fear, rather it was ashamed of me.

…He had never spoken of it before, and fate would make certain he never spoke of it thereafter. Not two days later he was dead.

Timing is everything. I didn’t know that as a ten year old. Life would teach me that much later. But I would come to know that the appearance of the tall man wasn’t coincidence, and his mystery larger than I could’ve guessed.

*

The last time I saw the tall man was not even a week later. The attacks on the livestock continued. Chicken coops were raided, even some crops were destroyed. The villagers thought that they were being stalked by the devil himself. That wasn’t untrue.

I kept thinking back to that night, the night I first saw the tall man out in the field of dead cows. It wasn’t surveying its destruction; it paid no mind to Agatha or me. But it did have the air of a creature that was searching for…something. The slender rope-like tendrils on its back were pulled nearly taught. Stretching, somehow looking for something in an alien way that I couldn’t comprehend.

Waking softly, there was no raucous that stirred me from my bed. I was raised by the most primitive urge of man and beast and wished to make my way to the outhouse. It was the first time that I had woke to use it in the night since the tall man had been sighted.

Petrification defined me. I took a lantern and with much unease headed towards the cottage’s front door. At the table, I lit the torch and held it aloft, hoping the flame wouldn’t burn out and leave me drowning in a sea of darkness. Approaching the door, my small hand took hold of the knob. It was then that the door rattled and shook on its hinges. Panicking, I doused the flame.  Slinking, I crept behind the table and looked through the window.

Though my view was partially obscured I saw something more gruesome than the tall man. A horned demon towered at the entrance to my family home. The malevolent looking being had eyes like that of roiling lava, black-orange pits of hell. Through an upturned nose the thing sniffed the air around him.

Its eyes then met mine.

As quickly as I could I ducked below the window’s sill, but the monster was on to me.

Several seconds of graveyard silence followed. I vowed not to look. Silence was a mountain outside. Stomach churning with terror, sweat dampened every part of my body. It couldn’t have seen me. I was too quick, or more likely was still in bed dreaming the entire episode. I must look! The absence of noise became a cacophony in my imagination. I resolved to freeze.

However, as with many ten year old boys, curiosity and stupidity grabbed me hand- and-hand and my eyes rose to the window.

This beast was there before me, closer than ever. Drool coated its lips, fangs poked out through great sagging jowls. Its eyes grew brighter with excitement, and if I hadn’t known better I would’ve sworn the damn thing smiled at me.  It reared back, taking aim at the window. I ducked, again and crawled away from the window.

No shattering of the glass came. As I again was lulled into the feeling that I had dreamt all this, I became brave enough to take in the view from the window. When I did so, I saw the hulking demon’s wrist entwined in a tangle of black-corded sinew.

The tall man yanked backwards sending the thing off balance. The demon roared with fury and soon after my mother, father and Agatha tumbled awake to bear witness as well.

The demon struggled and twisted to get loose, and just when it appeared it was gaining an advantage another dark tendril would close around an appendage. First the left leg, then the right knee. Soon thereafter, the right hand, elbow and massive bicep. Despite the demon’s girth, the tall man was actually pulling the demon towards it. With every whip of a tentacle the two adversaries became more closely entwined. 

My family watched this in disbelief. When I turned to survey them I saw my father had gone for his rifle. I looked at him, simply shaking my head. Poppa must’ve realized the futility, for he let the rifle clatter to the ground and returned to gawking with the rest of us.

By now, the tall man had what might’ve been hundreds of tendrils protruding from its back, all of which were now wrapped around some hunk of demon flesh. The two beings were face to face, they could’ve shared secrets had they wished.  The demon snarled, sending bile and flecks of spittle that spattered the window, and made us all flinch. The tall man had apparently been waiting for this, because at this mark, he flooded the demon’s mouth with more tendrils, the quick strands appeared and then danced around the struggling brute’s writhing body, and tunneled deep into the demon’s maw.

The tall man now seemed to be exerting less effort to keep the demon held fast. The more tendrils that spewed into the demon’s gullet, the less energy it seemed to be able to generate. Its eyes too began fading along with its strength. What once had been active pools of lava were now only embers of vanishing flame. The tall man held on, and continued holding until the light in the demon’s eyes ceased to be.

Quiet returned to the countryside. The night went on as if nothing had happened.

It was then he, or it, finally seemed to notice us. Gradually the tendrils uncoiled, slithering off and out of the corpse of the demon’s grisly body. As the tall man took note of us, he seemed to have a new regard for the demon’s lifeless body. Just behind him, a purple tear, like an unsewn seam in the night opened. Through it, the tall man was joined by more like him. These newcomers gathered the demon’s body and carried it into the portal. The original tall man turned to join them. And as its scrawny body slipped past its borders, the hole sealed behind him.

                                                                                               

-R. Schaf

January 21st 1967

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.”