On the Matter of M. Sherman and his Ranch, and the Strange Events that took place There, and what I Witnessed of Them
Michael Sherman was always a queer type, even before he bought the ranch. You see, Hotpan, Texas, was a small town- everyone, no matter which class they belonged to or which church they went - Baptist or Catholic, they all knew one another. Nobody knew the first thing about Sherman and his past, nor would they bother to speculate.
My father and Sherman had worked out an arrangement. Every Sunday, I would head down to the General Store, and pick up Sherman's mail and grocery orders from Mr. Feeny, on Sherman's tab. Sherman would provide the money to pay for the order, and he then gave me 10 dollars for the task - which I would split with my father.
Walking to his house wasn't very exciting - the trip from the General Store to Sherman's house being a mile's walk, but it kept me out of Mass, so I couldn't really complain. Whenever I got there, Sherman was always making something - painting, sculpting, or whatever he set his mind to. One day, I finally got the courage to ask him why he did so.
-"Why do you do this?"
-"What?"
- "Make all these things, that you leave lying around your house, sir."
He stayed quiet for a moment, and put his hands to his chin, as if deep in thought. Finally, he answered me.
-"Because the Prophets tell me so. They tell me things that I must do."
I decided to not press the issue any further. Two years later, Sherman did something quite unusual - strange enough to penetrate into the bubble of small-town gossip. He bought a ranch that had formerly belonged to an oil baron, who seeking larger lands to enjoy, sought to sold it off.
The arrangement remained in place, save that Sherman would occasionally take me aside to talk to me. Not being aware of the significance of these until much later, I ignored him - and to this day, this one in particular is the only one I remember.
-"You ever look at the sky, Thomas?"
-"Maybe, Mr. Sherman. Why?"
-"You ever wonder why some stars do not wink out, but instead get brighter?"
-"Not really, no, sir."
He just stared at me, and bid me to follow him out around the back of his house. He showed me three slate-black pieces of stone, jutting out from the ground. Each had a laughing face carved into them, by who I know not. Perhaps Sherman carved the design or somebody else did.
-"These are the Prophets, Thomas. They come from the sky. The Prophets have made me a promise. If I serve them, and if I carve their images into these pillars, they will take me to paradise."
I, slightly unsettled, excused myself.
I came back next Sunday, only to find no trace of Sherman. His ranch house was completely empty, save for a painting sitting on it's easel. A reproduction follows.
This picture is the last of Sherman's earthly possessions, and it hangs in my house to this day. If Sherman is still out there, I hope he is amongst his Prophets.
Michael Sherman was always a queer type, even before he bought the ranch. You see, Hotpan, Texas, was a small town- everyone, no matter which class they belonged to or which church they went - Baptist or Catholic, they all knew one another. Nobody knew the first thing about Sherman and his past, nor would they bother to speculate.
My father and Sherman had worked out an arrangement. Every Sunday, I would head down to the General Store, and pick up Sherman's mail and grocery orders from Mr. Feeny, on Sherman's tab. Sherman would provide the money to pay for the order, and he then gave me 10 dollars for the task - which I would split with my father.
Walking to his house wasn't very exciting - the trip from the General Store to Sherman's house being a mile's walk, but it kept me out of Mass, so I couldn't really complain. Whenever I got there, Sherman was always making something - painting, sculpting, or whatever he set his mind to. One day, I finally got the courage to ask him why he did so.
-"Why do you do this?"
-"What?"
- "Make all these things, that you leave lying around your house, sir."
He stayed quiet for a moment, and put his hands to his chin, as if deep in thought. Finally, he answered me.
-"Because the Prophets tell me so. They tell me things that I must do."
I decided to not press the issue any further. Two years later, Sherman did something quite unusual - strange enough to penetrate into the bubble of small-town gossip. He bought a ranch that had formerly belonged to an oil baron, who seeking larger lands to enjoy, sought to sold it off.
The arrangement remained in place, save that Sherman would occasionally take me aside to talk to me. Not being aware of the significance of these until much later, I ignored him - and to this day, this one in particular is the only one I remember.
-"You ever look at the sky, Thomas?"
-"Maybe, Mr. Sherman. Why?"
-"You ever wonder why some stars do not wink out, but instead get brighter?"
-"Not really, no, sir."
He just stared at me, and bid me to follow him out around the back of his house. He showed me three slate-black pieces of stone, jutting out from the ground. Each had a laughing face carved into them, by who I know not. Perhaps Sherman carved the design or somebody else did.
-"These are the Prophets, Thomas. They come from the sky. The Prophets have made me a promise. If I serve them, and if I carve their images into these pillars, they will take me to paradise."
I, slightly unsettled, excused myself.
I came back next Sunday, only to find no trace of Sherman. His ranch house was completely empty, save for a painting sitting on it's easel. A reproduction follows.
This picture is the last of Sherman's earthly possessions, and it hangs in my house to this day. If Sherman is still out there, I hope he is amongst his Prophets.
