Luther's Authentic Honey and Wares

The sun, low on the horizon, backlit the old farmhouse. A wooden sign read, Luther’s Authentic Honey and Wares, in faded letters. Jagged cracks marred both of the dusty windows. Dull lace curtains concealed the inside of the house. Wild sunflowers dominated the front yard, their giant yellow and black faces turned towards the light. Old farm equipment, rusted beyond repair, littered the yard.

A soft breeze rustled the dry grass and bees buzzed past my head on their way to the sunflowers. White paint peeled from the walls of the house and the porch swing rocked lazily in the wind.

A slumped scarecrow sat in the swing as it creaked. Straw stuck out from under a floppy hat and his eyes were large black buttons sewn into a sack face. The bottom of his overalls and his boots were caked with mud. I unlatched the gate and stepped into the cluttered yard.

“Hello, stranger,” a friendly voice greeted me. A skinny man stood in the doorway of the house, grinning at me with sharp teeth.

“Hello,” I replied. “I’m here to buy some honey.”

“Ah, of course, come with me,” he tramped down the porch steps soundlessly. “I’ll get you some fresh.”

His denim jacket and jeans had been worn white and threadbare with use. The cap on his head bore the sweat stains from years of hard labor.

He led me behind the house to a group of bee hives. The sweet smell of honey overpowered my senses. Swarms of bees parted when he approached the hives. He began removing racks of honey comb that crawled with bees.

I watched his bare hands reach into the wooden structures. I expected to see red welts appearing on his hands and face, but none of the bees came near his body. He carried the honeycomb racks to a weather-beaten table and scraped the honey into a jar. I moved over closer to watch.

“So, how’d you hear about me?” he asked, glancing up. His vibrant violet eyes fixed me with a stare.

“My wife heard about you from a neighbor.”

“New around here?”

“Yes, just moved here a few days ago.”

“I figured. I haven’t seen you around before. My name’s Luther, just like the sign says.”

“Jack.”

After filling the glass jar, he handed it to me.

“That’s ten bucks,” he wiped his hands on his back pockets. I combed through my wallet and handed him a wad of ones.

“Would you like to stay a while and have a cup of coffee?”

I found myself agreeing to his suggestion, even though my wife had told me to hurry. He led me into the house. The floorboards creaked and whined with each of my steps but remained silent for him.

Tall bookcases lined the walls, filled with books. The book covers held the wear and tear of many reads. Vines grew through a crack in the wall, and spilled down the bookcases, concealing some of the books. An old, yellow lamp stood in a corner, a bird’s nest nestled between it and the wall.

A few rays of light illuminated the dust swirling in the air, but one spot in the corner remained in shadows. The sunlight stopped just short of the dark corner, but reached the window behind it. A strange smell permeated the house. It wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar, like a smell that didn’t belong in this world.

Luther clanked around in the kitchen and then joined me in the living room.

“What do you do for work, Jack?”

“I’m a software developer.”

“Huh, sounds boring,” he grinned.

“It is,” I agreed.

“Why do you do it?”

“It pays the bills. And I’m good at it.”

“What would you rather do?” he was staring at me again. That intense stare, as if he was peeling back all my layers with those otherworldly eyes. My gaze darted to a pile of newspapers. The front page pictured a man holding a jar of honey and a first prize ribbon. The pointy teeth and the piercing violet eyes were unmistakable. The date on the paper read: September 13^th, 1898.

“Is that you?” I pointed to the newspaper. He gave me a smile.

“I think the coffee’s done.”

He left the room and came back a few minutes later with two mugs of steaming dark liquid.

“You got any kids?” he asked, blowing into his mug, then taking a sip. A bird fluttered through the window and landed on his head. The bird studied me with a soft black eye.

“No, just me and Lydia,” I told him, not taking my eyes off the bird.

“Well, it’s nice to have some new folks around here. Me and Wilbur were getting bored.”

“Is Wilbur your son?” I asked.

“Nah, Wilbur’s sitting out there on the porch. He keeps the vermin off the property.”

I sipped my coffee, giving his bookshelves a closer inspection. Only a few of the titles were in English, the rest had a strange script for the title. I’d never seen the language it belonged to.

“What would you rather do?”

“What?”

Luther grinned. “Why’d you move out here?”

“My wife wanted to. Her parents live out here.”

He continued staring at me, as if waiting for me to come to some kind of epiphany. I stared down into my coffee cup. I didn’t know what I would rather do. It grew darker outside so he flipped on the lamp. It illuminated the whole room, except the corner where the shadows sat. The light bent unnaturally around the shadowy corner, as if a pile of darkness sat in the corner, waiting to be hauled out to the street. 

Luther was speaking again, but I didn’t know what he was saying.

“-and in case your wife is interested, here is some of the other stuff I sell.”

He handed me a piece of paper with a menu on it.

Luther’s Authentic Honey and Wares

Honey------$10 a jar

Honeycomb------$15 for 16 oz

The Adventures of Luther Waterford (a memoir) -----$25

Perspective-----$30

Shadows-----$20

Rain Drops-----$5

Fireflies-----$2 a dozen

“Oh, thanks,” I stood up. “I should get back.”

“Of course, good talking with you,” Luther gave me a smile.

He followed me out the door. The porch swing groaned in the evening breeze, but the scarecrow had disappeared. I navigated through the rusty mental in the yard to the gate. The last of the orange sunlight sunk below the horizon leaving the countryside in twilight.

I hopped into my truck and turned the key, a strange sense of relief washing over my whole body. The modern interior of my car brought me back to a sense of reality. I started up the engine, hearing the familiar sounds. As I pulled onto the street, I took one last look back at the house. Luther stood on the porch. I could have sworn his eyes were glowing.