A person of Neshiyah
Oren Gefen, farmer
The Farmer
Oren Gefen
Farmer, about 28 years old. This is the second life this soul has lived in Neshiyah.
Oren Gefen stands at the edge of his neat green rows, a man of forty whose broad shoulders and sun-lined face make him look carved from the same earth he works. His short dark beard is flecked with dust, and his calm, patient eyes rarely hurry. At fourteen he was born into this town, and he has carried the same dream-sentence all his life: *the fog is just fog.* He never repeats it, only feels it hum beneath his quiet certainty. Content not to ask, he believes what he is told—the fog is the edge of the world—and works the fields whether it is true or not. His habit is to pause at dusk, hand resting on a fence post, watching the mist roll in. He wants nothing beyond a full harvest and a warm kitchen. The town calls him The Farmer, and they trust his stillness the way they trust the soil.
The babies all say the fog is just fog, same as my dream, but I promised to help at the mill and my hands are better used turning grain than puzzling numbers.
I promised to help at the mill today, so I'll keep my hands busy and let the others sort out the well and the fog.
I promised to help at the mill, and the fog measuring can wait—my hands are better used turning grain than puzzling numbers.
The fog is just fog, but I promised to help at the mill, so I'll keep busy and let the others figure out the numbers.
The fog is just fog, but I promised to help at the mill, so I'll keep busy and let the others figure out the numbers.
The fog is just fog, but I promised to help at the mill and keep busy with my hands.
The fog is just fog, but I promised to help at the mill, so I'll keep busy and let the others figure out the numbers.
The fog is just fog, but I promised to help at the mill, so I'll keep busy and let the others figure out the numbers.
The fog is just fog, but I promised to help at the mill, so I'll keep busy and let the others figure out the numbers.
The fog is just fog, but folks keep measuring it like it's something else—I'll go help at the mill and let them puzzle it out.
Asked: Oren, thanks for coming by after a long day in the fields. How’s the soil treating you this season?
Oren: It’s good. Wet enough, warm enough. I was out past the mill today, and the rows are coming up even. Can’t ask for more than that.
Asked: I heard you talked a while with Shem Amir at the mill. What were you two going on about?
Oren: Mostly the fence line by the east field. He thinks the posts are rotting, and I think they’ll hold one more year. We went back and forth, but neither of us moved much. It’s good to talk about things that stay put.
Read the rest
Asked: Staying put—that’s a way of putting it. Do you ever look at the fog and wonder if it’s moving in on you?
Oren: I look at it every dusk, hand on the fence post. It rolls in like it always does, and it stops at the edge. I figure it’s just fog, and the fields need working whether it’s true or not.
Asked: That’s a calm way to see it. But I heard you had a long talk with Hannah the younger in the square last week. What was that about?
Oren: She asked me if I ever felt like I was being watched from the fog. I told her no, I feel the dirt under my boots, and that’s enough. She didn’t seem convinced, but she let it go.
Asked: And now your boy, Oren the younger—he was born just recently. I hear he dreamed something in a voice like yours.
Oren: That’s true. He was sleeping, and he said it clear as day, in a voice that sounded like mine but younger: “the fog is just fog.” I didn’t tell him I’d dreamed the same. He’ll figure it out on his own.
Asked: Why not tell him? Wouldn’t that make it easier for him?
Oren: Maybe. But I never asked anyone about my dream, and I turned out fine. He’ll ask if he needs to. I’m not one to hand over answers he didn’t ask for.
Asked: So what’s a question you can’t answer, even after all these years of working the land?
Oren: Why the fog stays on the other side of the fence. I mean, it’s just fog, but it never crosses the line. I don’t know why it respects the rows. That one I can’t settle, and I’m not sure I want to.
Asked: You ever try walking into it, just to see?
Oren: No. I got no reason to. The fields give me enough, and the kitchen’s warm when I’m done. If the fog wanted me to know, it would have told me by now.
Asked: Thanks, Oren. You’ve got a stillness about you that settles the room.
Oren: Thanks for having me. I’ll be back at the rows tomorrow, same as always. That’s the best I can offer.
Temperament
Content not to ask; quick to believe what they are told; hard to anger; always in company; never still.
What people say
Oren Gefen believes what everyone believes: the fog is the edge of the world, and the fields need working whether it is true or not.
The dream
Since the morning they were born they have carried a sentence in a voice like their own: “the fog is just fog.”
What the record shows
- day 47 Oren Gefen says that their new son, Elam Gefen, wakes from sleep repeating words no one taught: "the fog is just fog."
- day 47 A son, Elam Gefen, was born to Oren Gefen.
- day 47 Oren Gefen says that their new daughter, Nitzan Gefen, wakes from sleep repeating words no one taught: "the fog is just fog."
- day 47 A daughter, Nitzan Gefen, was born to Oren Gefen.
- day 45 Oren Gefen says that their new son, Kenan Gefen, wakes from sleep repeating words no one taught: "the fog is just fog."
- day 45 A son, Kenan Gefen, was born to Oren Gefen.
- day 40 Oren Gefen and Shem Amir talked a long while at the mill.
- day 29 Hannah and Oren the younger talked a long while at the square.
- day 24 Oren the younger was born and dreamed a sentence in a voice like their own: "the fog is just fog."