Page 2 of Conail

Some place, Colin thought bitterly as he took a long look around. They were losing the battle of keeping the land. Over the last year or so, they had had to sell off parcels of land, precious land that was needed to plant the corn, cucumber and other vegetables that used to supply the local markets. Last year's horrific and crippling drought had made a bad situation even worse. The well had dried up and the earth was scorched. Yes, it had gotten rain come September, but then the brutal winter had descended, coating the earth with snow, making it hard as iron, not conducive to planting.

His mother had suggested they invest in a greenhouse, one where they would be able to control the temperature. It was a grand idea. But grand was the operative word. Too grand for their bank account, which had slowly dwindled to almost nothing. His father's bout of sickness had not helped. But there was no regret there. Losing him would have been devastating.

His sister. He smiled a little tightly as he reflected on his sibling. She had gone her own way, and he did not begrudge her the need to do so. She was successful in her own right. Illustrating children's books. She had helped out when she could, but it was still not enough. He would never dream of leaving. The land wasin his blood. Farming was as much a part of him as breathing. He loved to feel the dirt on his flesh and see the animals roaming about. The sounds of chickens clucking made him smile. They had a couple of horses too, nothing to write home about and they should probably be put down, but hell, they were not in anyone's way and were more part of the family than anything.

The levity faded and along with it came the worry. He had been forced to let go of the hired hand just a few weeks ago. Ralph had found something better, and he could not blame the man. But it meant that the work was on him alone. Not that he minded the work. He was not squeamish about getting his hands dirty or straining his muscles to labor over the earth. But it left little time for anything else. And forget having a social life.

His mother was on him to dress up and find himself some nice young woman to tangle with. Those were her words. Shaking his head, he hunched his shoulders as the wind picked up. Lifting his head, he watched the dance of lights, red -- a blazing eye-aching red, russet, a touch of yellow in the mix as the breathtaking spectacle of the rising of the sun started its slow ascent -- getting ready to bathe everything in its warmth. And reminding him it was time to get to work.

The sky was now ablaze with hues of orange and pink, the clouds painted like cotton candy streaks stretching across the horizon.Colin took one last deep breath, savoring the serenity of dawn before the toil of the day began. He turned and made his way to the barn, his boots crunching on the gravel path.

Inside, the familiar scent of hay and animals greeted him. The chickens clucked softly, and he could hear the low murmur of the cows. He grabbed a basket and headed to the chicken coop, collecting the still-warm eggs and placing them carefully in the basket. The chickens clucked their approval, and he smiled despite the heaviness in his heart.

Next, he moved to the pigs, who greeted him with eager snorts. He filled their trough with feed, watching as they scrambled to eat. The pigs were a hardy bunch, and their resilience gave him a small measure of hope.

The cows were next, their big brown eyes following him as he filled their mangers with hay. He patted each one on the nose, whispering words of encouragement as they began to munch contentedly.

The work was routine, but it grounded him, giving him a sense of purpose. He moved with efficiency, his mind drifting to theidea of the greenhouse. It was a distant dream, but he clung to it, hoping that one day, they might find a way to make it a reality.

As he finished his morning chores, he stepped outside once more, the sun now fully risen, casting its golden light over the farm. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked out over the fields. The land was struggling, but it was still theirs. And as long as he had breath in his body, he would fight to keep it.

Colin knew there were tough days ahead, but for now, he allowed himself a moment of peace. He listened to the sounds of the farm waking up and felt a small flicker of hope. They had survived this long, and he believed they could endure whatever came next.

*****

It was worse than he anticipated. As soon as he pried his eyes open, the vicious pain lanced through his temple like a sword piercing his skin. A very sharp sword. His mouth was cotton dry and he could feel the nausea bubbling inside his chest. His head was pounding like an aching tooth, and he was certain he could relate to a woman in labor. Getting up was a chore. He had to do it in degrees, one motion at a time as he tried his best to fool hisbody into thinking he was still motionless. It damn well didn't work.

His body or his brain was smarter than that. Even the slightest movement made him feel as if he was swimming through hellfire. And the sun was streaming through his treated floor-to-ceiling window. And making him wish that he did not have such an aversion to window coverings.

Stifling a groan, he tried again and managed to rise an inch or two off the pillows. His head swam crazily and his stomach felt as if it was about to erupt. And he wanted to goddamn pee. What the hell had he been thinking? How could he have been so stupid to do this to himself? And for goddamn what? he thought savagely. Even the silent trajectory of his thoughts hurt. He just had to slide his feet off the bed and make it to the bathroom. An entire bottle of Tylenol would do the trick. Then several gallons of his South American coffee. It was strong enough to sober him up right quick. Then a shower -- yes! A shower and coffee would restore him to life.

He made it off the bed and stood there swaying like a cornstalk in mild wind. Clutching at the bedpost, he just stood there waiting for the nausea to settle and his head to stop revolving.

He could make it, he assured himself. He was a grown-ass man and was not going to let alcohol, loads of it, get the better of him. Tentatively letting go of the bedpost, he started forward, taking baby steps. By the time he got to the bathroom, he was coated with sweat, his head pounding more than ever. Stumbling towards the sink, he rummaged inside the medicine cabinet and almost whimpered in relief at the sight of the pill bottle. His relief quickly turned to tired frustrated anger when the childproof cap had him wrestling.

By the time he got the damn thing open he was sweating copiously, heart heaving. Dry swallowing four pills, he ducked his head beneath the tap and drank down enough water to sink a ship.

Grabbing a towel to wrap around his narrow hips, he gave in to the weakness and slid down on the cold tiles, his head hanging between his knees. He needed time, a few minutes, or possibly hours or even days. He just needed some time to get his head on straight and make certain it was not falling off his neck. Then he would move.

After what felt like an eternity, he forced himself to stand, the cold tiles now imprinted on his skin. The dull throb in his head matched the relentless beat of his heart. Conail staggered to the shower, held onto the wall for support, and let the hot watercascade over him. As the steam enveloped him, he began to feel a semblance of normalcy, the fog in his mind lifting ever so slightly. He focused on the rhythmic patter of water against the marble, grounding himself in the simplicity of the moment.

Slowly but surely, he felt the fire in his veins cool, the nausea ebbing. He was reminded of the resilience he'd cultivated -- in life. He had weathered worse storms and emerged stronger. This too, he told himself, would pass. The allure of the coffee waiting for him in the kitchen gave him the strength to push forward. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out, droplets of water trailing his path like breadcrumbs.

The kitchen was bathed in the morning light, a stark contrast to his throbbing headache. He moved with purpose, grinding the coffee beans and setting the pot to brew. He embraced the aroma, a scent synonymous with revival. As the dark liquid trickled into the pot, he allowed himself a moment of pride. He had made it this far. He poured a cup and took a tentative sip, the bitter warmth invigorating his senses.

With each sip, he felt more like himself. The weight of the previous night's indiscretions lessened, replaced by a firm resolve.

Christ! Cupping the thick porcelain between shaking fingers, he closed his eyes to steady himself. It was the weekend, and he always gave the housekeeper the time off. He hated people underfoot when all he wanted was to be left alone. His apartment was the height of luxury. At one time, he had been so excited at the prospect of starting a family, he had hit up his realtor and had her looking for a place. She had found one -- six bedrooms and eight baths. A frothy white manor that had belonged to a rock star sitting on top of a hill with the town spread out like a jewel -- near enough to admire and far enough for privacy. He had meant to surprise her -- the flush of excitement had sent his heart soaring.

Taking a gulp of the scalding brew had him yelping. Swearing loudly, he rose and went to pour some more in the cup. The headache was no longer whipping his ass, and the nausea had disappeared. Taking the cup with him, he went back upstairs to get dressed.

*****

Colin's brew was not a South American blend but was strong enough to carry him through. The sun was now high in the sky and the animals were making their usual noises.

His phone pinged just as he was about to get on the tractor. The earth was fertile enough and the rain they had thankfully gotten just a day ago was a welcome change and that meant he had some tilling to do.

Putting his go cup on the wheel, he squinted at the familiar number before sliding the icon.

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