The Field

The Farmer was originally the Factory Worker, but he never considered himself to have that name. To him, he was always the Farmer. His father’s father had been a Farmer, one of the first to arrive to this now overpopulated country, and had had a once-proud homestead, which he had only seen once as a boy, before it were sold and divided into pieces among a dozen bickering relatives. The Farmer felt that his current situation was only a hiccup in a legacy, that as soon as he could, he would be the Farmer he knew he would be. Willing that want into existence, he never married, never made friends, never even drank or made merry, saving every ounce of strength and joy his life had to give him for when he could be the Farmer, and tell people he had that name. After ten years in the factory, the Factory Worker bought a plot of land on the other side of the country, drove his way there in a dilapidated truck, and became the Farmer.

He called his farm Newland Field, and he spent the first winter reading, talking to the neighbors, and buying supplies, he did not make the mistake of arriving in the spring, green and weak willed. He sought the attention of anyone that would give it to him, and then got second and third opinions on the answers to every question he asked, until he had a definite plan for his first year. He decided, with the help of his neighbors, to plant only one crop on his first year, and to make it a crop that would grow easily and sell well enough to pay for itself; the crop of choice was sunflower.

When the frosts of winter melted away, and birds began to return to the surrounding forest, the Farmer went into Newland field and reached into the dirt with a gloved hand. It readily came undone for him, and he inspected the soil. It was moist, warm even in the early spring, and black. It lay in clumps, writhing with living things, some too small to see with the eye, but the Farmer could tell they were there, from the texture and smell of it——that too, he had learned from his helpful neighbors.

He went to work tilling the fields, planting the sunflowers, and then waited anxiously for them to grow. The sunflowers barely had to work to grow out of the well tilled soil——so fertile that land was. They grew and grew and marveled at their size, their beauty, and at the smile on the Farmer’s face when he came to collect the fruit of his labor. The Sunflowers delighted themselves in the fineness of their production, decided that no other field in the country could have as pure and lively a stock as theirs. They waited as seeds in sacks, in the farmer’s red painted barn for their second year, and spoke softly to one another about how wonderful this farm was.

The second year came, and to the dismay of the Sunflowers, the Farmer had bought more seeds at the market. He had proved to himself that the labor was possible, and now was the time for real work——to make a profit. The Sunflowers felt that he could make a profit off of them alone, if only he allowed them to stretch across the whole field, or gave them the proper fertilizer, but they resolved to show this in action, and to outcompete the other plants, and thus win the Farmer’s favor.

The Farmer partitioned the land into parcels, and here planted root vegetables, there a plant for vined fruits, and over there what looked like half-grown weeds. The Sunflowers watched with horror as, the weeks going by, they realized those weeds were tobacco. And planted right next to them, no less. It was the opinion of the Sunflowers that there were no worse a plant than the tobacco plant. It was practically a weed itself, grew too eagerly, and was used for nefarious things in the world of the humans. Not like them, they brightened homes and meals, were a sign of summer, and a testament to the power of industry and independence of the Farmer. They wanted most of all to prove to the farmer that tobacco had no place here.

The season came to an end, and the Farmer inspected the results of his experiments. The Sunflowers, of course, grew just as well as they had the year before, and almost in the same number. The vine fruits were too finicky, and did not survive, either due to the duplicity of the climate, or the inexperienced hand of the Farmer. The root vegetables grew, but were too plentiful at the town market, and did not fetch money worth what the Farmer had spent on their seeds, considering the difference lost by not planting something better in their stead. The Tobacco was a great delight to the Farmer, they had grown over even into the unused land, without him planting it there, and fetched a fine price in town——he didn’t even need to dry it himself, the townsfolk, who did not have another farm planting tobacco in such number, greatly lauded the Farmer for this particular production and dried it in their own homes, over the fire, or chewed it in their cheeks.

The third year, the farmer decided again to work only off of empirical facts he had learned, and planted two crops: Sunflowers, and Tobacco. The Sunflowers did not like this development, but again decided they would show the Farmer by their actions that they were the superior plant, and that he could profit more off a full field of Sunflower than by making them share land with weeds.

The Tobacco tried speaking with the Sunflowers, once they were planted and it became clear that they would spend the year together, but the Sunflowers did not answer. The tobacco understood, they even felt they might react the same way were the positions reversed, it was not an easy thing to be forced to share one’s livelihood against one’s will, but they made every effort to begin this relationship on amiable terms, and were balked by the Sunflowers at each attempt.

Angered at even the thought of speaking to the tobacco, the Sunflowers discussed what was to be done. Some realized that, being weeds, the tobacco plants had relatively shallow roots, unlike they, whose majestic roots went into the soil sometimes as deep as they grew tall. Understanding this, the frontline sunflowers willed their roots to grow somewhat sideways, and fed into the same soil where the nearby tobacco plants were rooted. The Farmer watered all the plants equally on the surface, unaware of what was happening underneath, and was perplexed when some tobacco, only those right next to the sunflowers, began to wither and die.

The Tobacco plants were shocked at the way the Sunflowers treated them, at the viciousness of the attacks, and resolved to do something about it. Most of the tobacco plants chose to work together, and focus on growing strong and proud——they would not be pushed off of Newland Field by petty jealousy. Some of the young plants, however, took matter into their own hands. They found the weeds that grew at the outskirts of the farm, and used their leaves to create a gentle breeze that directed the airborne seeds of those weeds into the Sunflower territory.

The Tobacco plants laughed when the sunflowers realized, and wondered to each other what was happening. The Tobacco plants knew this jest to be harmless, if ill done, knowing now that the sunflower roots were too deep and too strong to be overpowered by such weeds, especially since the Farmer was sure to see them among the distinctive sunflower stalks.

The Sunflowers did not find the pranks funny——they panicked, terrified of the little weeds among them, and certain that they would spread, steal their water, and eat at their roots. To stop the spread, some of the Sunflowers began working their roots up to the weeds to strangle them, and when that didn’t work, they began to strangle each other, to stop the spread of the wretched devils. The Tobacco plants watched in horror as sunflower stalks fell and went limp, hadn’t it just been a little dandelion? Some whispered to one another, and wondered aloud whom amongst them had gusted the weeds in the first place. no one seemed to remember, or else, none wanted to admit fault.

Once the frenzy was over, the Sunflowers talked among themselves, saw this tragic incident as proof, undeniable, that the Tobacco plants meant to kill them, meant to wipe them out entirely and make the whole field into a place to grow their wicked leaves, to lead the whole community of people in this town into addicts, chemically dependent on them. There was never even a stray thought about the Farmer, about whether he had any culpability in the presence of the Tobacco——it was only too bad that he didn’t realize how vile they were.

When the Farmer arrive to see the damage to the sunflower patch, he was stunned. He saw, here and there, breaks in the field, and found stalks of sunflowers bent and broken, brown against the now brown rather than black soil. Around these fallen he sees the weeds, and mistakes them for tobacco seedlings. The Sunflowers are elated at this favorable mistake—— when the Farmer goes back to his home for the night, they hurl insults at the Tobacco, telling them how it is only a matter of time before the Farmer cuts them from the ground, never to return again.

The tobacco are scared, they hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, and still, those among them who were at fault refused to acknowledge the harm they had done. A group of tobacco deputized themselves, and spent all their energy growing roots instead of leaves, inspecting their neighbors, looking for evidence of root systems grown in such a way as to easily send malicious gusts of wind onto their antagonistic neighbors. Where they believed themselves successful in finding such evidence, whether true or not, they mercilessly strangled the owner, and tobacco plants started to die and fall limp, just as the Sunflowers had. Seeing comrades and innocents alike being killed, the original Tobacco responsible for the gusts spoke up, revealed themselves, and refused to be killed by their siblings, their supposed kinfolk. The self-appointed militia refused to back down as well, and then the tobacco plants were at war.

When the Farmer returned a few weeks later, half the Tobacco patch lay in waste, and what remained was malnourished. Again, he misplaces the concern on insects, which there were no evidence of, and went out to buy pesticide. The Sunflowers snicker and laugh at the Tobacco plants hardship, sure that this is the end. When the Farmer returns, he puzzles for some time over the things he had rashly bought. The Farmer was in a panic over the health of his season’s produce, unsure he could make enough money to continue the life he had labored ten long years to ensure, and when usually he would have consulted multiple neighbors for help and advice, he told himself time was too short, and the doing had to be done now. He combined fertilizer with pesticides and weedkillers and all sorts of chemicals that fused together and fumed of death, he then sprayed the terrible concoction over the entire tobacco field in waves, not content until the entirety of what he had bought was used, and ever stalk, leave, and bud was wet with sickly dew.

The Tobacco plants wailed in agony, and many died in the hours and days that followed, while some managed to stave off death, only losing a few leaves. But the damage had been done. the Sunflowers rejoiced, sure that they would not be seeing tobacco in the years to come, and relaxed, waiting for the season to come to a close.

To the Sunflower’s surprise, however, the small group of Tobacco plants that survived grew monstrously large, and their plumage of leaves was three or four times what it had been for individual plants the year before. When the farmer came at the end of the season to collect the produce, the sunflowers overheard him exclaiming to himself about the potent smell of the Tobacco plants, wondering if he should not have done such a thing earlier in the season, and had a whole crop of monster-plants. Tobacco, tortured, ignored, killed, but finally successful at something, screamed vows of retribution at the Sunflowers even as it was being plucked from the stem. The Sunflowers were silent, maybe this was the end for them after all, it was like they had always suspected: the Tobacco, and its evil, would replace them.

The farmer takes his tobacco to the town, and finds out to his dismay that the tobacco will not sell. It was invariable hit with his ineptly made concoction of chemicals, and the town’s health inspector deemed it unfit for consumption. The Farmer sheepishly apologized, citing his ignorance in the matter of pesticides, and promised that if he decides to grow tobacco again, he will be sure to keep it clear of any substances that could harm the people he sells it to.

The next year comes, and Sunflower and Tobacco do not antagonize each other, the soil they sit in is too weak to support them, and they do not grow to the heights they each had once known. the Farmer shakes his head when he sees their progress at the halfway mark between seed and harvest. He cuts down all the sunflowers that do grow, takes their seeds, and then, with a wayward glance at the tobacco plants, leaves them as they are, and departs from the field.

The Tobacco pity themselves, they had been a plant, just as the Sunflowers had, they had not meant to do harm, had not asked to be poisoned, had not asked to be planted at all. But they had been treated this way anyway, with no concern from the Farmer, or from their fellow crops. They pitied most of all the way they had turned on each other so readily. The ones who had gusted the dandelion seeds had been good kids, intelligent, kind, and ambitious. It was not their fault that the sunflowers were too frenzied to realize the weeds were harmless, it was not their fault that the Farmer was not seasoned enough to recognize the difference between the weed and the sapling. They made amends among their number, and agreed to meet their end with grace.

Weeds began to move in on the space the sunflowers had been, and the farmer did not come back to clean them away when spring rolled back around. Plants from the creek came then, berry bushes and wildflowers, and even some saplings of oak, cedar, and willow. The Tobacco plants remembered, suddenly that they used to be like these other plants, they hadn’t always been crops. Had not lived to be cut in their prime, dried out and put to market, had their seeds sold for the value of their parent crop, and removed at the root when they didn’t grow quickly enough. They had lived somewhere like this, in a valley or a on a hill, free, but not wild, at union with those around them, around plants that answered when spoken to, who said ‘good morning’ and ‘have a safe winter’. They remembered other people, who in their own way, were just like the Farmer, but whom at least allowed the plants to speak to each other. The Tobacco were happy to be back in a place like this, but saddened to know it was different than that older time. To the Farmer, or to other people of the town, this place may have looked untamed, but to them, they still saw the marks of man, felt the sting of the poison spray and knew they would never know again what this place had been like, before plants had been made to yield.

Another year went by, and Tobacco had begun to teach the wildflowers and sunchokes to speak, to say ‘good afternoon’ and ‘I hope it rains today’, when they saw a familiar shadow appear. The farmer had not disappeared for good, as they somedays wondered. He had made enough money in those early years to buy a second parcel of land, on which he was planting Sunflowers again, alone, but for the years that he had laid this land fallow, those Sunflowers, even without intervention, had begun to shorten year over year, to grow less readily.

“There you are” he said, seeing the tall tobacco plants, left to their own devices for nearly a half decade. “How about we make this your field, alone from now on.” The farmer smiled softly to them, and caressed a leave as big as his hand. He reached into the earth, and frowned when the dirt that came loose was not as wet or as black as, perhaps, he had hoped.

They were not sure they wanted that, but they could not speak in the way of people, and could not rebuke him when he left, and returned with a long wooden stick, a flaming rag swathed over it’s high end.