The Devil Has Many Faces

By Jamall Joseph D. Robinson

The air is crisp and light in the farm town of Malcom, Iowa
which is just about sixteen minutes outside of the university
village of Grinnell, but a world away from any of its action.
Part of Poweshiek County, Malcom farmers specifically, are
salt-of-the-earth kind of people. They don’t mince words.
There isn’t time. City slickers are welcome as long as they
don’t complicate things and farming, next to family, is the
central focus for most residents. Farming around these parts
is sacred. A short jaunt around this area with a population
of about 400 will reveal the wide open land and acreage. On a
Sunday drive you might pass the Christian day school. Further
down you’ll find the county courthouse which looks like a
tourist postcard with its white steeple and brick exterior.
And if you drive far enough, you may pass Mitchell Family
Farms, a staple in this county for over two hundred years.
The people are kind here, but weary of interlopers at first
and for good reason. Certain industrial processing plants
have come in of late, promising jobs and big production.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483556369

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PROLOGUE

The air is crisp and light in the farm town of Malcom, Iowa which is just about sixteen minutes outside of the university village of Grinnell, but a world away from any of its action. Part of Poweshiek County, Malcom farmers specifically, are salt-of-the-earth kind of people. They don’t mince words. There isn’t time. City slickers are welcome as long as they don’t complicate things and farming, next to family, is the central focus for most residents. Farming around these parts is sacred. A short jaunt around this area with a population of about 400 will reveal the wide open land and acreage. On a Sunday drive you might pass the Christian day school. Further down you’ll find the county courthouse which looks like a tourist postcard with its white steeple and brick exterior. And if you drive far enough, you may pass Mitchell Family Farms, a staple in this county for over two hundred years. The people are kind here, but weary of interlopers at first and for good reason. Certain industrial processing plants have come in of late, promising jobs and big production.

But they take income away from the local, organic farmers by instead offering residents more industrialized packaged goods. Pick up the local paper and you’ll see it’s saturated with vows of honest to goodness this and organic, we promise that. All adages from local grocers who double as the local farm owners. Malcom, most agree, is an American throwback to an earlier time, to a time when honest to goodness American values mattered and family came first. Folks here like it that way. Charles Mitchell is a third generation farmer in Malcom and one of the town’s most well known residents. He is the owner of Mitchell Family Farms, his pride and joy. A devoted Christian and a strong family man, he is well liked and he loves everyone. But interlopers, well they can cause a whole world of problems, isn’t that true? The kind of problems Charles Mitchell knows all too well.

THE SIMPLICITY OF RITUAL

The morning sun warms the chilly air as a simple and righteous farmer, fifty seven year old Charles Mitchell pumps natural fertilizer from a fenced off slurry pit into a slurry wagon. Except for a slight paunch from the occasional beer now and then at the Grindell pub on Friday nights, he is fit and trim in his worn out Levi’s. There are no treadmills within 50 miles. Charles is fit because he’s a hard working farmer. He has to stay healthy to keep up this 40 acre farm. His face is weather worn. The crinkles and wrinkles reveal more laughs than sorrow. Although he’ll be the first to tell a friend, Everyone gets their share of tragedy if you live long enough. The wheel of fortune turns round and round and it’ll find ya, for better or worse. That’s life.

Charles pulls up his waist band now, which has fallen below his small belly. He forgot his suspenders today as we was in such a hurry this morning. He inhales the crisp fall air on more time. As he looks to where the sun meets the trees, he stands still for a moment, near a break in the fence.

Charles’ tractor pulls the slurry wagon as he fertilizes and tills a barren stretch of farmland next to a cornfield with four-foot tall corn. After all, this county was founded by the Native Americans in the late 1800s - corn is the foundation of Powashiek. You want to survive in these parts, you best understand one thing, they take their corn seriously.

The morning passes fast on the farm. Charles loves his work so much that often, hours feel like minutes. Charles walks through his pear orchard now and marvels at the pears on the trees that are almost full size. He grabs a pear and smells it. There is nothing better. He looks back toward his farm and sees three silos and several livestock buildings for pigs, cows, sheep, and chickens. He smiles revealing once again, those deep laugh lines around his big blue eyes. Life is good. As he does every day, he goes over his plan in his head. No need for lists, no time. It’s all up here, he’ll tell you as he points to his right temple.

Well it’s time for some coffee to warm my belly, he mutters half out loud. Martha, I’m coming in, woman. Martha…

Charles calls her as he does everyday. She can’t hear him across the vast land, but he likes the ritual. It’s the simplicity of ritual that he likes. He whips off his cap and crumples it in his hand like a boy now. His hair while thinning, is curly and Auburn. He quickens almost to a skip.

Inside the house, Charles sips on some fresh, home percolated coffee. His wife Martha still uses a percolating pot that you put on the stove. He loves that she agrees with his coffee taste. Martha could often be caught saying, Charlie, you make me crazy sometimes. But on this point, you are right as a twelve-inch ruler. Coffee just doesn’t taste the same going down when it’s made any other way.

Martha Mitchell is slight and refined. Although she is fifty five years old, her perfect posture and delicate features don’t give her away. She is simple like Charles, a salt-of-the-earth woman, but more by circumstance than by birthright. There is, in her case, a refined sensibility that is evident right away, at first glance. Her dirty blonde hair is whipped into a bun.

She wears only moisturizer on her face and lip balm. But with her petite dancer frame, she looks more like the famed Soviet ballet dancer Isadora Duncan or even Joanne Woodward, rather than a farmer’s wife. Martha washes dishes. Charles watches her fondly as he does almost every day. Someone once said when a woman marries, she should marry a man who loves her just a little bit more to ensure lasting love and happiness. In the Mitchell’s case, Martha comes from a bit of privilege. She has more education than Charles and a more blue-blood upbringing. As a young girl, she traveled the world with her family because her dad was a decorated pilot in the Air Force. But because Charles’ love for her was and is still so pure, she made a choice. It was a real decision to be a part of the Mitchell family farm life in this small corner of the world, a serious commitment. One which she has never, not even for a day, taken lightly. It’s one of the reasons Charles adores this woman. Her initial commitment made him only love her more. Some days, it’s true, she longs for a little more culture, but through the years, her love for Charles has only grown more powerful, like the roots of an Oak she might often say to her female friends.

And the days of yearning for city life or more culture, haunt her only occasionally, if ever now. Maybe she’ll dream of a house in the city on a rare Christmas morning or on a Saturday trip to Iowa City. Choices, she’d say We all must make them. But the sturdy woman is more powerful when she stands by her decisions.

Martha lets the water run the egg platter. Her mind is off in a far away place now as she hand dries the smaller dishes on the rack.

It’s such a beautiful September morning, she thinks. Staring out of the kitchen window, the cold sun on her face, she is lost in thought. Then Charles interrupts her far-away dreaming.

Monsanto’s coming down hard on buyin’ their ‘terminator seeds.’

As she snaps out of it, she responds, Which ones are those again?

He laughs to himself because as often as she asks questions, the same questions over and over, he sometimes wonders if it’s a game or if she really simply never pays attention.

But you don’t get this far in a marriage by questioning every little mosquito bite so he answers politely. The ones that won’t yield fertile seeds after one generation. You gotta keep buying new seeds every year from them.

She smiles a crooked, closed-mouth affirmative. Luckily, we’re all natural. Have been since the beginning.

Suddenly Martha is jolted, mostly startled by a loud, sonic boom coming from outside. She whips back around to look out the kitchen window. Charles jumps up, a look of grave concern washes over his normally pleasant demeanor. As Charles starts to rush out, Martha follows behind him. She grabs his arms in a moment of panic.

Charles?!

He turns toward her, grips her shoulders squarely to assure her that he will protect them both, and leads the way.

THE INTERLOPER

Charles and Martha rush onto the front porch to witness a molten ball of fire erupting through the atmosphere.

Martha, grab the hose. Quick.

Martha rushes around to the back of the house. Charles watches as the ball of fire crash lands on the farm property a couple miles from his farmhouse and leaves behind a twenty-foot crater in a field of corn. The outer perimeter of corn is singed. Golden flames lick the short stalks. While he can’t really make out what or whom is the cause, he is momentarily spooked as he surveils the distant fire.

A Devil-like creature emerges from the flames although Charles is unaware of these details as the creature with wisps of flame flickering across his red and scaly skin, climbs out of the smoldering hole. His red eyes look toward Charles’ distant farmhouse hanging under an ominous, gray cloud. The Mitchell’s Cocker Spaniel, Jack, barks and scurries off with his tail between his legs, terrorized by the sight of the flaming man. Charles hears the barking and feels the prickly hair on the back of his neck raise up.

He knows that feeling even if he knows not why. He calls out to Martha.

Martha, Martha go on back in the house.

Martha emerges hose in hand. But George I have the hose.

Go on inside, now, Martha.

Just as Charles knows the feeling of hair standing up on the back of his neck, Martha knows that voice of admonition. She complies.

Charles decides he can’t stand by and let just anyone threaten his well-being, so he walks out further to his red Ford truck. He takes one more look back at the house for assurance. When he sees Martha peeking out of the window, he motions to her a gesture to lock the doors. He sees her face disappear from the window which means she’s done as he requested. As he puts one boot in the cabin of the truck, he notices the Devil walking up the long driveway dressed in a suit and felt fedora. The creature looks like a merchant now, the kind you might see in a black and white Gary Cooper film from the 1950s. He’s probably in his late fifties give or take a few years. His glasses are black and silver rimmed like a 1950s banker. Charles finds this odd.

He feels those prickly hairs again and notes to himself, the glasses. Something just doesn’t fit. Then Charles notices that the man wears expensive shoes, along with the tailored suit and hat. Charles stares intently. He doesn’t dare show his fear. He braces himself, chin cocked high as if to say, Don’t mess with me, stranger.

Then suddenly, in a deep voice with an eerily flat affect, the merchant blurts out, Hot day!

Charles doesn’t move as if he is in the presence of a King Cobra. He answers with two words, still as a rock, Seen worse.

The man extends his hand. George moves the rusty red car door now, in between him and the stranger. A clear refusal to extend any congenial gesture. The man drops his hand and smiles. Charles thinks to himself, There goes those prickly hairs on the back of my neck again.

The man speaks. The name’s George. George Chapman.

Charles politely replies, Charles Mitchell. Your car break down or something, George?

No! George smiles but it’s a cold grin.

Charles probes, Just out for a walk, ay?

George glances down briefly at his own shoes. He pulls out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, spits on it and shines a spot on his brown leather toe. He whips up and answers Charles, Something like that. You see that meteor that fell from the sky?

Seen it! Looks to be a big one.

George points in the distance.

It hit over there about a couple miles away. You going to go check it out?

Charles is playing this game with the creepy man but he feels no more comfortable than he did five minutes earlier.

He replies simply and then goes in for the kill, Thinkin’ about it. Why don’t you tell me what you’re sellin’? You with Monsanto?

George answers with an almost flirtatious wink and a nod. I like a man who gets to the point.

Charles bristles. This is getting more and more strange. He turns to get into his truck and drive away - although he will really circle the farm and return to Martha - but George stops him.

Here. Why don’t you take a gander at these? And with that, George hands Charles several glossy seed brochures.

As Charles glances down, George continues. Our company’s got some of the finest genetically modified seeds on the market. Charles, feeling very uneasy glances up at the window to see if Martha is there. He sees her peeking out and he quickly nods no