[Darker Pastures Theme - Intro]

NARRATOR

When the endless prairie began its sudden and cataclysmic transition into farmland, oil fields, spreading agrochemical and industrial wasteland, a complex balance untold millennia in the making was first disrupted, then wholly overturned. This ecological devastation is by no means unique to the plains, but in a landscape so stark beneath the unbroken sky, it is perhaps singularly apparent: the lands torn and ravaged by humanity’s machinery, ancient aquifers drying up within a few lifetimes, the grasslands and fields desiccating and blowing away on the rising wind. The lessons afforded by the Dust Bowl are already all but forgotten, and now, the changes wrought by pollution and ubiquitous biocide use are still greater.

What form will the next lesson take, when those of the past have been so thoroughly disregarded? What fresh storms brew in the wrathful heavens above these darker pastures?

[Darker Pastures Theme - Intro - Continues]

NARRATOR

Episode Four: Locusts.

(Sounds of grasshoppers)

NARRATOR

Chanelle stands on the front porch, panting like a dog in the lingering summer heat. It’s far too late in the year for this weather, four days in a row of a hundred-plus degree temperatures when October is just around the corner. Her father, losing his sight, his hearing, and his ability to walk on his own, spits a contemptuous wad of chewing tobacco every time she mentions climate change, but even he cannot deny the strangeness of the weather or the severity of the drought. Chanelle wonders, with his failing eyes and ears, if he’s even noticed that there has been no sign of the seasonally migrating songbirds, waterbirds, or hawks, that the cicadas never sang this year, that the mule deer and the coyotes are ever scarcer and look starved and sickly when they do make an appearance.

She looks out over the fields of corn and soy that surround the country home the three of them share: she, her husband Gary, and her sullenly aging father, Don. The crops, though irrigated, have grown poorly. Chanelle doesn’t know enough about farming to know what is wrong with them—Don was an auto mechanic in town during his working years, and she never paid much attention to happenings in the agricultural sphere—but even to her unlearned eye, it’s plain that they are failing. She wonders if the farmers will even bother to harvest the fields, or if they will make a single half-hearted pass through only so that they can accurately report the yield as an insurance loss.

She looks down the road, waiting for Gary to come home. Don has become more and more difficult to tolerate in the last few months, always ill-tempered and aggrieved, and Chanelle is afraid that it’s more than the mere cantankerousness of an old man, that something is breaking down in his brain and his body. Lately she’s taken to reading about Alzheimer’s, dementia, and ministrokes in a kind of vicarious hypochondria, and that has only made it worse. She longs for Gary’s solidity, for the mingled smells of his sweat, the fabric of his work shirts, and the Old Spice he always wears.

A pair of fat flies ride the hot wind and hover around her face and shoulders, avoiding her swatting hand and yet somehow never retreating more than a few inches. She makes a strangled sound of annoyed disgust and turns to go back into the house, feeling defeated.

The flies, she reflects bitterly, are about the only thing that seem to be doing well this year. The flies, and the grasshoppers that have eaten everything she planted in her little garden.

Don looks up from the recliner that he has wholly taken over since they moved him from the little home of Chanelle’s childhood into the larger one that Gary’s accountant salary afforded them. The television is loudly blaring the self-righteous fury of a red-faced political pundit, who looks and sounds like an overgrown toddler. Chanelle has to stifle the sudden urge to throw something through the eternally glowing screen, the glass teat that oozes vitriol into their home all hours of the day and night. Even a few seconds of listening to it makes her think that maybe all that pointless, cynically marketed rage and resentment is enough to have poisoned and eaten away at Don’s mind.

Don looks up and tells her he’s hungry. She says that supper is in the oven and they’ll eat as soon as Gary is home, but Don’s face darkens and he says he’s hungry now. Sighing, Chanelle says she’ll bring him something, walks out into the kitchen and fetches a banana, one of Don’s favorite snacks. But when she comes back and offers it to him, he says he doesn’t want it, that he wants a beer and a sandwich.

Chanelle closes her eyes and rubs at her temple. She goes back into the kitchen, fixes a very light turkey sandwich that is mostly lettuce and tomato, grabs a non-alcoholic beer from the refrigerator. As her hands settle over the cool metal can, she can already foresee the argument that it will bring. The doctor said years ago that Don needed to cut out drinking, and Gary, whose uncle was a severe alcoholic, refuses to keep any of the stuff in the house, but none of that will matter to Don.

With a smothering feeling of helplessness, she takes the can and the sandwich into the living room and sets them beside her father. Don looks at them with pinkish eyes, and asks her what the hell it is, why he can’t have any real goddamned food, if she wants him dead. Without answering, afraid of what will come bursting out of her if she does, Chanelle turns and walks out of the house, into the oppressive heat of the day and the repellent insects flourishing in it.

The thought that flashed through her head, as Don asked that last question, was that maybe she does want him dead. It’s an awful thought, and oily guilt churns in her stomach at having it, but the father she remembers and loves seems to have disappeared, replaced by a cruel stranger that wears his face and speaks in his voice.

Standing on the lawn that is mostly dry weeds and dust, she begins to cry, mutedly at first, but then losing her restraint and bending over with heavy sobs. She misses her mother, longs for the return of the Don that once was, wishes that the house that Gary bought could feel once more like her home and not like a prison, a mausoleum.

It is then that Gary’s black Lincoln Continental pulls into the graveled driveway. He climbs out and hurries over to her, obviously having seen her distress immediately, and his eyes are alarmed. He asks, in a gentle, concerned voice, what’s happening, if she’s okay. It takes Chanelle a moment to swallow her sobs and find her voice, and when she does, all she can manage to say is that it’s all too much.

He holds her, and she can feel the sweat that has soaked through his fine western shirt, smell the familiar smells of him. Gary says nothing, only holds her, and it is enough. After a while, Chanelle feels steadied enough to pull away from him, to wipe away the salty residue of the tears and sniff her nostrils clear.

She says, thickly, that she’s sorry, and he tells her it’s okay, everything’s okay, that they’ll figure it all out together.

Taking her hand, he leads her back into the house.

[Brief pause]

NARRATOR

Supper is a strained affair, with Don muttering darkly throughout the meal and eating only the pork chops and creamed potatoes, not touching any of the roasted vegetables. Chanelle chooses not to push that issue tonight, feeling drained by the day.

Gary talks about the latest financial news, tying it in with the troubles he’s seen from some of his clients without giving any names or identifying details. Though he never says it outright, Chanelle can tell from his talk that he is worried, that the future looks uncertain to him in both a communal and a personal sense. This makes her stomach tingle unpleasantly; Gary is not the sort to worry idly. Don snorts in grim triumph, saying that it’s about time that the wimpy younger generations go through some real hardship, that maybe it will teach them to show some backbone. Chanelle bites back the response that burns like acid on the tip of her tongue, that he is talking about her and her husband, and their children, if they’d had any.

Afterward, when Don has dozed off in the recliner and Chanelle has carefully turned off the television, Gary says to her that his parents have invited them over for dinner tomorrow, that it might be good to get out of the house. Chanelle demurs, feeling uncertain about leaving Don unattended, but Gary says that he can manage for a few hours, and she relents. She realizes that she’s relieved, that an evening out of the house, even with her in-laws, does in fact sound like a minor vacation.

Don wakes up and asks who the hell turned off the TV. He takes the remote and thumbs the screen awake, summoning up more angry faces from the glassy black void. Wanly, Chanelle says she’s going to bed, and climbs upstairs, ignoring Don’s final remark about her leaving a sink full of dirty dishes.

[Brief pause]

NARRATOR

Len and Lora, Gary’s parents, live halfway across the county, and it takes about a half hour to reach the modest but tasteful and tidy farmhouse, nestled under the shade of carefully tended red maples, bur oaks, and black walnuts. As they exit the car, though, Chanelle cannot help but notice that even here, the grass and the trees look less healthy than they did on the last visit.

Gary’s parents have always been polite, even kindly, toward her, but nevertheless Chanelle always feels nervous in their presence, afraid that she will accidentally offend them somehow. Len is a quiet, reclusive man who seldom leaves his little farm, and Lora is a deeply religious woman. They are so very different from Chanelle’s parents, from her cheery and irreverent mother who passed away almost a decade ago from breast cancer, and from Don who, even at his best, was always blunt and a little crass.

Still, the older couple greet them warmly at the door. It strikes Chanelle that, though they’re about the same age as her own parents, they have always seemed younger and in better health.

They sit to a dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green salad, drinking iced tea and chatting lightly. A nagging worry of what her father might get up to in her absence paces like a starving hound at the edge of Chanelle’s thoughts, but after a while, she manages to mostly dispel that and enjoy Lora’s very capable cooking. Halfway through the meal, though, the talk grows graver, with Len discussing his own poor crop this year. Lurking under and behind his words, Chanelle thinks she hears what she always hears when Len speaks of the farm, a suppressed disappointment that Gary will never take over the farm and continue the family legacy. But there is something other than that yearning that will go forever unfulfilled, something more desperate. Len goes on to say that everyone in the county is having the same trouble, that no one will have a crop to speak of this year, and that many of the wells in the county have run dry. Gary agrees, repeating some of his professionally vague disclosures from the previous evening.

Surprising herself, Chanelle contributes to the conversation, mentioning her observations about the lack of the usual wildlife. Silence settles for a moment, and then, in a slightly unsettled voice, Len says that he’s noticed the same thing, and Gary agrees also, saying that he hadn’t really been conscious of it until now.

Lora says that they can only look to the Lord in times like these, and the table falls silent again. This time, the quiet stretches, a fifth entity in the little dining room that seems to suck in all the air and leave the room breathless.

As they are driving home, speech still seeming dead in their throats, Gary turns on the radio. After the last few lines of a song older than either of them, a brief local news report buzzes, and they mention vaguely an anomalous development in the regional insect population. Only half-listening at first, Chanelle only manages to catch the phrases insecticide resistance and population explosion before the report abruptly ends and the next song begins.

Sitting upright in the passenger seat, she glances over at Gary, asks him if he caught any of that. He says he did, but that it didn’t seem like they knew very much. She asks him for more details, and he repeats what he gleaned: that there seem to be more grasshoppers than ever before, and that their dietary habits seem to have suddenly changed. He says that maybe that’s why the fields have fared so poorly, being overeaten by a pest population that can’t be controlled, on top of the heat and the lack of rain.

Chanelle nods, turns to look out the window. She is simultaneously unsettled and a little bored by the conversation. She has only ever thought about insects slightly more often than she has about agriculture, and that is only because they repulse her somewhat. But as she looks out over the cornfield they are passing, she sees a blooming cloud of banded orange and black wings as thousands of fully matured grasshoppers take flight.

She asks, idly, what the difference between a locust and a grasshopper is. Gary scratches his chin the way he does when he’s trying to remember something, and says that locusts are a kind of grasshopper that forms huge swarms when certain conditions are right. Seeming to sense her thoughts, he follows that by saying that there aren’t any true locusts in America, that the closest things to them have gone extinct or are now well-controlled. He falls still then, as though he realizes how hollow those words sound after what they’ve heard on the radio. Chanelle debates whether or not she should point out what she is seeing in the field, decides to let the quiet reign.

When they reach the house, the front door is open, and Don is nowhere in sight.

(Threatening music)

[Long pause]

NARRATOR

They spend the whole evening searching, calling the neighbors, calling the sheriff’s department. The next morning, they go out and comb the fields with about a half dozen volunteers and with four deputies. Chanelle doesn’t bother to hide the grief that periodically wells up out of her insides. There is, mingled venomously with that grief, the guilt of having left him alone when she knew he wasn’t well.

She keeps thinking that she killed her own father. Somehow, she is certain that they will find him, but that he will be dead when they do. None of the comforting words and touches that Gary offers do anything to dispel that certainty.

As they walk through the drily rasping grass and cornstalks, Chanelle keeps having to swat away the unpleasant clinging and pricking sensation of little legs when grasshoppers land and crawl over her clothing, her skin. When she does, they leave behind that tobacco-spit substance they use as a defense, which she remembers being horrified by as a child. But it seems different to her now, under the harsh sun, smelling coppery and brighter than she remembered, more red than brown.

It is past noon when one of the deputies calls in that he has found something. One of the other deputies goes to meet him, and then they are all involved, politely trying to calm the searchers without letting them near whatever they have found.

Chanelle pushes past one of them, running toward the site of discovery while they shout at her. She feels strong arms gently but firmly grasp her, even as she sees the yellow-white bones among the weeds at the edge of the field.

As the officer and Gary escort her away, struggling slightly, she keeps repeating over and over that it can’t be him, that they are just bones, they’re too old.

The men just keep telling her to stay calm, that they don’t know anything yet.

Other vehicles arrive, and tape is stretched around the site. Chanelle sits on the hood of a pickup truck, she’s not sure whose, and keeps rocking back and forth, crying loudly. It can’t be his bones, she keeps thinking, but she also keeps feeling sure that somehow they must be.

There is a shout from the cornfield, where another search crew is working its way back after being contacted by a deputy. It is, at first, merely a shout of surprise, but then it becomes something else: a piercing, long, wavering wail. And then there are more shouts, more screams. Chanelle, Gary, and the officer with them look in that direction, see thrashing among the cornstalks.

The dispatch radio in one of the deputy vehicles buzzes a frantic, distorted voice. Chanelle thinks she hears the words multiple events, but she can barely make it out and isn’t certain.

Then, something rises from the field. To her confused mind, it seems at first like a huge cloud of black smoke, and she wonders wildly if there has been an explosion of some kind. Then she realizes what it is, and she breathes no, a total rejection of the possibility of what she is seeing. The deputy swears half a question and begins to run toward it, but stops midway, not knowing what to do. Gary stands mutely at her side, and when she glances at him, an expression is on his face that she has never seen before: his eyes are wide, his skin completely bloodless, every facial muscle seeming to have instantly lost all tone.

She spares him only the briefest look, though, because then there are more screams, and people running in their direction. The dark cloud is moving toward them like a living tornado. One of the deputies near the place where the bones lie pulls out his sidearm and empties it into the approaching mass, an act of futile defiance, before he is swallowed completely into it.

A few of the searchers have almost reached them, and Chanelle can see now that they are bloodied, hemorrhaging from many small wounds all over their bodies. One of them yells hoarsely, blearily, at them to run, and galvanized by that one word, Gary grabs her arm and tugs her away from what is fast approaching. She doesn’t move, though, partly because she still cannot accept what she is seeing, but also because she knows that running is useless. The two people in the rear of the fleeing group disappear into the swarm now, and she cannot hear their cries over the buzzing of the insects. Gary hesitates only a second, and then he is gone, leaving her and fleeing stumblingly across the field, in a lethal race that he is destined to lose.

And, as Chanelle stands there, looking, she sees in her mind a vision of how things might have looked to past generations: to the Plains tribes, seeing wave upon wave of white soldiers and settlers moving ever westward, seizing whatever they wanted and leaving only scraps from which to carve the abject deprivation and degradation of the Indian reservations, to the ranchers and cowboys, seeing more and more of the open range dissected and ripped open to plant thirsty crops that will forever struggle under the unforgiving sun and wind of the open country. And in her mind each vision is, in essence, the same as the one that looms before her now: the image of a descending ravenous swarm, mindlessly devouring everything in sight until there is nothing left but barren earth and cleanly picked bones.

She laughs a laugh devoid of joy, full of bitterness and all-encompassing mockery. As the cloud envelops her, as a million spiny, clutching, chitinous legs score at her skin, the laughter turns into a series of high, piercing screams that continues for far too long, until at last it is drowned out entirely by the fluttering and chirring of the innumerable hungry horde. 

(Doomful music)

[Darker Pastures Theme - Outro]

NARRATOR

Story, narration, and arrangement by Lars Mollevand. If you enjoyed today’s story, please rate, review, and share. Thank you for listening. We’ll meet again… in darker pastures.

[Darker Pastures Theme - Outro - Continues]