Milk-Fed

The town of Gourd’s Hollow was gaunt and undernourished in nearly every aspect. It’s rickety streets laid out like a soothsayer’s tangle of oracle bones and its bedraggled buildings stood lean and haggard, much like the people that lived in them. The whole of it was hunched at the edge of a seacliff and mist rising from the crashing waves below hung everything above with a constant pallor. But there, right on the cusp of world’s end—where the roar of the sea filled your ears—grew the only thing in Gourd’s Hollow that could be called hale and hearty: the gourd garden itself. 

It was this garden that made Gourd’s Hollow famous in our county. For generations, the emaciated people of the town had inexplicably produced gargantuan gourds that put all others to shame at the harvest festival. Their crooked-neck squash were taller than a man, their zucchinis large as coffins, but it was their pumpkins that drew so much envy. Huge and round and plump, it took two teams of oxen just to haul them. At the festival, the pumpkins loomed large over all the proceedings, so large it seemed they could swallow all other entries and have room left over to consume the judge as well. But their size itself was not the most striking element to their appearance, for the pumpkins were also of exceptional color. Their shells were a deep vibrant orange, so deep and so vibrant as to almost be red. And though no one who was not a citizen of Gourd’s Hollow had ever seen the pumpkins cracked open, it was rumored the flesh inside was the scarlet color of new blood.

It was an October day when I made my visit to Gourd’s Hollow. They had kept the secret of their pumpkins close for too long, and I was determined to discover their methods for growing them, by honest means or otherwise. 

Outsiders were uncommon in Gourd’s Hollow. My presence drew a searching eye from everyone in the streets. Nonetheless, I conducted myself straight to the garden’s fence—a spindly wrought iron affair—and gazed through the bars at the great mist-shrouded fruits inside.   

“They’re a sight to see eh, stranger?” a voice called over the drone of breaking waves.

The speaker was slim, as were all the townsfolk, but he wore a smile as he extended a bony hand.

“Indeed,” I replied, taking his hand, which I noticed felt almost as if it carried no flesh, “would it be possible to get a closer look? I am a botanist, and I have never seen such magnificent plants.”

“Apologies sir, but I don’t carry the key,” He nodded towards the chain wrapped about the gate and secured with a heavy lock. 

“Could you direct me to the person who does?”

“Again, my apologies, but the gourd’s are off limits to visitors.” The man smiled consolingly, and I noticed his gums were nearly the same pale color as his teeth.

“Could you perhaps answer questions about them then? I am very curious to know how you grow them to such prodigious size.”

“Folks that come here are always wondering about that,” he lifted his narrow shoulders, “but truth is, there’s no mystery to it. They’re just milk-fed, and tended to with lots of care.”

I knew about milk-fed pumpkins. It was a simple process. A small slit was made in the pumpkin’s vine and submerged in a dish of milk. Capillary action sucked up the nutrients and accelerated growth. Many gardeners in the county employed the technique, but none achieved sizes like those I saw before me.

“I am astonished to hear that. I have myself grown milk-fed pumpkins, but not to such a result.”

“Aye, aye, most folks aren’t dedicated to it the way we are here.” My interlocutor rubbed his arm as he spoke, “we tend to our pumpkins day and night like other folks aren’t inclined to do. It’s just good gardening—and the milk—that makes them grow.”

“But what about fertilizers? And seed selection? Do you plant them under the full moon?”

“Of course we do, of course we do,” the man laughed, “but so does everyone else. My name’s Jack, by the by. If you have designs on staying the night, my Inn is just there.” He pointed a skeletal finger towards a corner building with a sign board bearing his name. “You’d be most welcome for supper and to stay the night.”

I thanked him and accepted his offer. 

At dinner, two things surprised me. First, there was not a single dish served made from the bounty just outside the door. No butternut bisque, no fried eggplant, not even a slice of pumpkin pie. The second was the tremendous appetite of the locales. From people so lean and weedy, I would have expected reticence at table, but they ate with a gusto I could not contend against. Platters of steak and liver disappeared before I could stick a fork in, and where the thin men put it all I could not say. I spent the evening introducing myself and leading conversations to the topic of pumpkins, but the line I received from every man was well rehearsed. Milk-fed and careful labor. The villagers were ironclad in their conspiracy.

Jack was good enough to give me his finest room on the second floor with a window overlooking the garden. I had a spyglass in my valise and, unsuccessful at dinner, I hurried up stairs to see what might be seen before sundown. The mist made it difficult to gather much in detail, but I was able to confirm the diligent care provided by the townsfolk. Through my lens, I saw at least a dozen at work among the vines, some using shovels and hoes, as would be expected and others employing water cans, but my eye was drawn to some who carried crates of dark glass bottles. I noted that the umbilical vines of each gourd had an identical bottle attached. As I watched, the gardeners exchanged the attached bottles for fresh ones from their crates.

“Ah, the milk.” I thought to myself.

There was a knock at the door, and I slid my glass away before opening it.

“Begging your pardon,” It was Jack, still rubbing his left arm, “word is there’s a storm blowing in off the ocean tonight. I’ll have to close your shutter.” He stepped across to the window before I could invite him in, closed and locked the heavy wooden blinds, and then was back down the hall.

As the night progressed, there was no storm. But through the cracks in the shutter, I could see lamp light moving about in the garden, enough to indicate a great deal of activity. I pressed my eye hard against the cracks, but could make out nothing. I threw on my coat and decided it was time for stealth.   

There was no light in the hallway. As I felt my way along, my feet encountered an unexpected obstacle and I found myself tumbling down the stairs. I lay in the dark moment, then a match struck, illuminating the proprietor's face, his sunken eye sockets cast in shadow as he descended the stair towards me.

“What do you mean tripping up your guests at the top of the stairs?” I said, a little sharp in my unsettlement.

“My apologies, it is my habit to wait on the landing in case my guests ring. I must have drifted off. Are you hurt?”

Upon examining myself I saw, though my pant leg was not torn and I felt no particular pain, a stain of fresh blood had formed on the fabric just below my knee.

“The town doctor is just a door over.” Jack said, seeing the blood.

“No need for that, it can’t be much.”

“I insist, I’ll not have my guests' injured and going untreated, not when the hurt is on my account.” He grasped my arm with surprising strength and pulled me to my feet. 

The doctor’s residence was indeed the next door over, and as I was somewhat forcibly escorted, I caught only a glimpse of the gourd patch. The gardeners were busy, their lamps glowing large in the mists, but I could not make out what duties they performed, though it seemed that some of them lay prone on the ground.

The doctor was a short man, though still gaunt and hollow-eyed the same as Jack. He did not seem to have been sleeping before we knocked, and the lamps in his examination room were already lit. As we entered, he stepped quickly to the store room door, which had been left slightly ajar. Before he closed it I saw its shelves were lined with dark glass bottles.

“A tumble down the stairs you say?” The doctor waved me towards a chair, “we’ll have you stitched up presently.”

I sat and allowed him to lift my bloodstained pant leg. I was surprised to see my shin revealed unscathed. 

The doctor and I both stared a moment, then I looked at Jack. His left arm, the one he was accustomed to rubbing as he spoke, was held close against his body. I had not noticed before in the dimness of the lamplight that his elbow was dripping wet. 

“It’s not my blood!” I exclaimed, feeling foolish to be in the doctor’s chair while another man stood injured, “it's yours!”  

Jack looked down at his elbow. The doctor moved swiftly to his cupboard, from which he extracted a tourniquet, and then to Jack’s arm, where he applied it with expert efficiency. As I watched the speed at which the doctor worked, I was first impressed by his talent, but secondly, I became impressed by Jack’s composure. He stood undisturbed by his treatment, as if it happened every day. Then I wondered that neither man had taken a moment to examine the source of the blood, but proceeded as if they already knew where the laceration lay. As I considered this, a horror needled into my brain.

“Milk-fed.” I whispered.

Both men turned, their deep-set eyes glinting in the lamplight.

“What was that?” Jack asked, his voice soft.

“It’s not milk, what you feed to the gourds, is it?”

Neither man replied.

“It’s a wickedness.” I said.

They seized me, one on either side.

“My apologies,” Jack said, “It would have been better if you’d not come to our town.”

With strength I could not resist, the two men pulled me outside. The doctor lit a lamp, and I was pushed towards the wrought iron garden gate.

The glow of worker's lights haloed the gourds as I was drug along. The crooked-necks stood taller than my head and the marrow squash were laid above the ground like unburied coffins. At the foot the great orange gourd, I was forced to my knees.

“This is what it takes to grow them to such magnificence,” Jack hissed as he bound me hand and foot.

I waited to feel the bite of a scalpel in my inner arm. Instead I was thrust face down, then it seemed, left alone. The lamplight faded and I heard nothing but the droning of the waves below the seacliffs. 

“Ha.” I laughed to myself, suddenly realizing what I had done. I’d come to Gourd’s Hollow to steal their Pumpkin growing secrets so I could beat them at the festival. But I had been seen through, and this was their prank to teach me a lesson. I raised my head to cry that I knew the game was up. But before my mouth could open I heard a quiet sound, subtler than the distant waves. It was a sound of movement like tiny curly vines worming over crumbly loam, a sound of searching, like a great umbilical stem yearning to be fed, and then with a prick of pain, a sound of gentle susurration, as of a baby’s mouth sucking fresh warm milk.