Harvest Magic
“It’s ringing.”
The crickets and bullfrogs sang their duet with a boldness few would ever be able to muster, a pair of starlings diving back and forth across the nearly black sky. Dust still hung in the air, mixing with the faint scent of diesel exhaust, the heat of the day finally fading to a comforting warmth.
Tami kicked at a lopped off corn stalk, dried husks and stripped cobs rustling as the dirt clods scattered over them. Her bones felt strangely still after the rumble of machinery all day. “Can we have a snack when we get home?”
“Shhh.” Mom waved her quiet, but nodded quickly before staring out across the half harvested field again, her cell phone glowing a few inches from her face. Daddy’s voice came through, garbled and tinny, but Tami still recognized the familiar rhythms he always spoke with. Mom sighed. “It went to voicemail.”
“Dang it,” Daddy grumbled, hands panted firmly on his hips. “I was hoping it fell out when I stopped up here to grab lunch out of the truck.”
“You’re sure it’s not still in the combine?”
“Yes. Been through it three times already.” Daddy shook his head, the dark circles and stress lines that always filled his face during the harvest push softened in the faint moon glow.
“Did it fall out when we stopped down by the creek?” Tami asked, her eyes following the squiggly tree line, the rows mirroring the same, as if a massive comb was run through the dirt in some giant Midwest zen garden.
Daddy sighed again. “Well if it did, there’s no way it’ll ring. Got no reception down there.”
Mom stepped close, handing Tami a grubby black and yellow flashlight. “Why don’t you check? Randy, you make a loop back toward the drive. I’ll call it again.”
Tami started walking before she even flicked the switch, the light flickering off and on for a second, it’s beam dancing out ahead of her. Not that she needed it. She’d ridden this field more times than the trip to Grandma’s house, knew every curve.
The soft top soil of the row mushed under her tennis shoes, chopped corn debris hissing and shushing as she walked, a vein of cool air washing over her as she descended the sloping field toward the creek bottom.
She liked the way it made her shiver. Felt like magic.
The croaking dimmed, the frogs disturbed by her rustling steps, and she slowed a little so she wouldn’t stumble, the stars above hanging extra low.
The flashlight died. Tami thunked it against the heel of her hand, but it wouldn’t wake. She gave a tiny snort of exasperation. Daddy probably had extra batteries somewhere in the truck. But…
She stood, simply soaking in whatever was hanging in the air, call it magic or wonder or plain old nature, it didn’t matter. It made her feel calm, even as the hairs on her arms stood up. It was comfortable, yet a touch foreign with how the night changed the world.
Something moved in the grass.
She held her breath, suddenly wishing the flashlight hadn’t given up, her brain flipping through all the critters she had seen on this field before. Probably just a rabbit or…
A narrow head slipped out of the brome, black tipped ears turning toward her, reddish fur blurring it’s form in the dark.
A smile burned into Tami’s face at the sight of a fox so close, but quickly melted.
It wasn’t a fox.
It had the long, lean form of one, the dark feet, the poofy tail. But covering it’s legs were… feathers. Small glossy black feathers covering its legs. And long ones, starting at its ankles and knees and reaching up above its back, speckled a reddish-brown and white, like from a wild turkey or pheasant. More feathers mingled with the fur, peppering the scruff across it’s haunches, almost downy along its belly and sides.
The feathered fox stared back at Tami, glossy black eyes that swirled with tiny galaxies. She blinked. It tipped its head, one ear turning away and then back.
A white screen lit up in the dirt, buzzing and singing a muffled ditty.
The feathered fox jumped, dashing away into the grass, and Tami strained to search the dark, hunting through the shadows of the trees for the creature.
The phone buzzed again. She sighed, picking up Daddy’s phone and flipping it open.
“Found it,” she said, not really listening to Mom’s comment of relief, skimming the tree line once more.
Perhaps there was some kind of magic to these harvest nights.
American folk tale retelling, American cryptid tall tale, Midwest magic short story, American fantasy story, Nebraska harvest story, Midwest fantasy flash fiction author