An early Harrow encounter, five years after the Bridge Event.
Khyren carved out a circular patrol area within an earthen field of corn.
In the center of the circle he knelt.
He sent a prayer to the First Flower—
a melodic, drawn-out tone that rose and fell like breath.
He unsheathed a knife, broke up the soil, and pressed his long green fingers into the loosened earth.
Soon he reached into a large pocket sewn into the inside of his cloak—really a fold of his own plantlike body—and withdrew a small seed.
He held it between two fingers, touched it to the ground, and sang a second melody, sending the tone upward with both hands.
He buried the seed gently.
Then he stood above it and dropped the cloak.
Beneath the fabric was a ribbon-like torso, pale and fibrous, swaying softly as he dug his long toes into the dirt.
He continued to sing, the melody vibrating through the field in waves.
Interaction with humans was always a problem, and Khyren didn’t expect anything less as he watched a fleet of large vehicles roll up beside the field and park near a farmhouse.
The human owner had already made his feelings clear.
“The Harrow are NOT standing in my field,” he had said.
“I don’t care if they’re a beacon of horrible things nearby.
I honor the dead by raising my crops and cattle in the fields they last laid in—
and I don’t need a reminder of those horrible several days standing in my god-damn field.”
The old man pocketed his phone and stared across the corn at the tall, thin creature swaying among the stalks.
Khyren, whose eyes hid beneath upturned petals, felt for the man.
He sensed the sorrow.
The anger.
The weight of something unspoken.
It prompted a healing song, soft at first, meant to rise—a gentle offering.
After several bars the old man snapped:
“I don’t need your fuck’n song, outsider!
I don’t want whatever this is—from you of all creatures!
I just want to be left alone!”
Khyren froze.
Stopping a song mid-melody was unheard of for the Harrow.
To break the continuity was to invite a curse—an old truth whispered through roots and vines.
But this old, frail, furious man stood there, unaware of the danger, unaware of how close he was to a creature whose relationship with death was both peaceful and violent.
One wrong step could turn a prayer into a burial rite.
The man seemed to know enough to keep his distance.
He paced the boundary of his field, voice shaking.
“I know you understand me,” he said.
“I’m aware of why you’re here.
I know my share of the blame.
But listen here—
I paid for my sins.
I did my time.
You and your friends reminding me of that day five years ago is cruel.
I don’t want to remember them anymore—”
The wind stilled.
Khyren stood quiet, petals trembling, unsure whether the man was asking for mercy…
or begging for the past to stay buried.
Would you like more Harrow stories like this?
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Matthew R. Stitt // The Writer’s Archive 