The sun waits for no one

Hunter Whiteman - April 22, 2025

Photo: Leandro Alas

The morning rays of sunlight beckon me to the fields. I sigh and shift my creaking bones out of bed.

Early morning; early rise. The sun waits for no one.

My coveralls sag loosely around my thin body. Old sweat stains instantly graft themselves to my skin. The uniform of a tired workmen; a uniform I wear with pride. I take my watch from the mantle piece. It's hard leather softened by years of labor and long afternoons. The watch reads 7:15.

The stairs are the hardest part of my day. Descending from the upper floor is difficult with knobby knees and freshly scabbed hands, yet I have to manage. The sun waits for no one.

A straw hat rests upon a hook next to a ring of keys. It reeks dully of sweat and manure. In the gentle breeze, the rim begins to tear away. It's as pathetic as pathetic can be, but I keep it around. My wife wouldn't want me to get rid of it, she's had it since she was a little girl. I gingerly pluck it from its resting place, and affix it to my head. I take the keys, and fiddle with them until I find the right one, and jam it into the door, and step out in the golden fields of wheat.

Its rows of gold, only broken by a block of decaying brown where my tool shed lies. That's the first stop today. I must be quick. The sun is beginning to rise higher and higher, and I haven't even started.

I'm not quite sure how the shed hasn't fully succumbed to the rot that stems from underneath its base, or the frequent spring storms that have pounded out hole after hole in its roof, or the harsh winter snow that freezes the wood solid and makes it weak come summer. I don't even have to give the door more than a tap before it swings open on its rusted hinges. The things in the shed itself are old, very old. Older than me, and my dad, and his granddad, and his granddad before him. Golden light reflects off my tool of choice for harvest day. An old scythe, Its oak wood has darkened over time, specs of dirt stick to the curved blade. A second one sways softly in the breeze, in much nicer condition. Its long shaft is made of birch wood, and the blade is wrapped in a nice red bow that's slowly rotted over time. My wife deserved as much. Slowly, carefully, I walk towards my tool, making sure to not step on anything sharp or odd-looking.

Outside, I hear a faint call of an animal. Making it out is difficult, my ears are wrinkled and full of gray colored fuzz. I haven't any pets, or rather, they’re all dead and buried somewhere in the fields. I groaned. It's probably that Jackson boy out on his father’s horse again.

I wouldn't be surprised. He often rode out deep in the woods in a near delirious state, trying to distract himself from either his work or his father, or in another one of his vain attempts to quit whatever new vice he’d found himself abusing. Although, it was odd at this hour. Usually, he was on his way to the city for work. Maybe he’d quit? I ignored all other thoughts on the matter, they were only distracting me, and the golden sunlight was beginning to fade.

I shambled back out into the fields, the flat head of the scythe dragging behind me. I bring it in front of me, and wrap my long fingers around the wooden handles. It takes all of my strength to lift the tool and give it a hardy swing to cleave through the wheat.

The first of many loads fall; I tie it into a bundle, and move on to the next.

Swing, bundle, repeat. All under the radiance of the morning sun. Sweat falls from my nose; a pestilent odor emanates off me, tainting the morning dew and cool autumn air. The golden light dulls as the morning shifts to noon.

I'm not but half-way through the field when I notice the figure just beyond the distant treeline.

I only caught a glimpse of them, sitting atop a white stallion with a flowing gray maine underneath a great oak tree. It's hard to make out who it was, their face was covered by a dark hood, and concealed by the shadow cast by the oak. They were holding something long in both their hands. Where their gaze was placed was impossible to tell, but I could feel a hole burning in my chest. When had that Jackson boy gotten those clothes? I can’t remember him wearing anything like them before, but perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me. It could just be a baggy hoodie and black jeans, overblown under the sun. I thought I should shout at him, but I had given him a bit too much trouble the past few days, so I let him be.

He was probably just resting. Riding a horse takes a lot out of you, after all.

Watching the sunlight fade to orange must be nice when you're alone with your horse, in the middle of nowhere. I hadn't the time to, I always have work to do, and the sun waits for no one.

When I turned back, they were gone. I hadn’t even heard the whine of their horse.

The night was soon upon me, and the sun crested gently on the edge of the sky. I wiped the sweat from my brow, and shambled back to the shed. I placed the scythe next to my wife’s. My reflection staring back at me in her blade, the tired brown eyes, wisps of gray hair drap from my chin, wrinkles steam across my face.

I sigh.

“Dear, I really did try to keep myself together, but the sun doesn't let people grieve for very long. I have to reap, and sow, till the sun sets on my days. Then, and only then, will all my despair spill forth.”

I place my hand on the head of the blade.

“Until then.”

A trail of tears was left behind my every step.

The house was as dark as the night. The shadows suppressed my only guiding light, which was a porchlight I had been meaning to get fixed. Sharp cold winds whistled past my ears. I had to keep hold of my hat to keep it from blowing off my head. Every step I took felt sluggish, and my boots sank into the dirt.

When had it gotten so muddy?

The stems of the once opulent wheat swayed with the wind, and scraped at my ankles. Some of them almost wrapped themselves around my feet. My lungs felt heavy, they dragged me down from inside. The moonlight seemed to avoid me, cowering behind my home, like it was frightened. It cast an abrasive shadow over my ranch; my house faded from view as the shadow grew closer and closer to me. The wind picked up; the ground turned to mush. The stalks harshly scraped at my ankles; they felt like fingers. I tried to walk faster, but the ground became mushy and sticky, entrapping my boots with each step. The whine of a horse echoed all around me.

I kicked my boots out, and a stalk curled around my ankle.

My face fell into the mud. Surprisingly, it felt soft, like a chilled pillow.

A horse groaned not far behind me.

I pushed myself out of the mud, a newfound sense of strength rushed through me.

I gripped handfuls of mud, and thrust myself forward. I couldn't see my house, but I knew where it should be. I'd crawl there if I had to.

“It's simply a nightmare.” I muttered,

“The sun will wake you when it's over.”

The clomp of hooves echoed closely behind me.

I started to move faster, and soon my hands clawed at solid ground. I pulled myself from the sea of mud and stalks. I glanced around for my house, the black of the abyss might hide it from me, but soon the sun will be here. It will not wait for it to fade, and it will show me my house.

The only thing I saw was a white stallion. Its dull gray eyes staring deeply into my soul.

A figure in a black robe sat atop him, a birch wood scythe in his covered hands.

My heart nearly gave out.

Hands arose from the dirt, and held me down. They felt cold and hard. Too cold to be limber, and too solid to have skin.

The figure shifted off his horse, and landed silently on the ground. His scythe gleaned in the night.

My adrenaline faded, my struggling stopped. A skeletal hand caressed my face. A scream escaped my throat, and my strength returned.

Kicking and thrashing only tired me farther.

My eyes grew heavy.

Light crept out from behind the shadow of death as he raised his scythe.

It's blinding.

Words echo in my head:

“Days drag on and on.